The forest broke at the cliffside, and the bandits slowed as the trees gave way to stone. Garruk One-Eye raised his scarred muzzle, lifting a hand for silence. Fifty men fell quiet.
They stared.
Instead of the grim crypt they expected, an estate garden sprawled before them — fountains spilling clear water, neat rows of flowers, benches polished as if nobles might sit there for tea. At the cliff wall, set seamlessly into the stone, loomed a massive slab of gray.
A frogkin snorted. "What in the hells is this? Looks like we stumbled into some lord's summer house."
Another spat. "Where's the rot, the bones, the stink of death? I thought this was an undead's lair."
Garruk smirked, scar twitching with the motion. "No mistake. This is it. People said the Market was too rich to be true. But look." He spread his arms toward the fountains and flowers. "Rumors didn't do it justice. The bastards are living like kings."
The bandits muttered, some laughing, others whistling low.
