Midnight. No moon.
Sythek chose the darkest hour because drakes didn't need light. Their vertical-slit pupils dilated to coin-size in darkness, turning starlight into navigation. The Lizardmen riding them had worse night vision but they didn't need to see — the drakes did the climbing.
Sixty-two riders at the base of the cliff. The southern face of The Stamp — sixty feet of vertical stone that Thyrak's minotaurs had never bothered to watch because nothing with hooves could climb it and nothing without hooves had ever challenged them.
Sythek pressed his palm against the cliff face. Cold stone. Dry — no rain in three days, which was good. Wet stone meant slipping claws. Dry stone meant grip.
