The bolts hit the floor.
Not halfway to their targets, not even close. They dropped at the feet of the men who had fired them, iron heads dragging the shafts down before they had gone three feet. The impacts came in a ragged series against the wood, uneven because the shots had come from different directions and each bolt had fallen on its own path.
Then the men followed.
Those in the doorways went sideways first, their bodies catching and twisting them before they could strike the floor. The ones who had stepped farther into the room slammed down at broken ankles. One took the blow on a shoulder, one on a knee.
The weight of the fall pressed through them unevenly, and what came next was the same in every case. The sound of air forced out of lungs that had no room left to breathe.
The lamps were still burning on the low table.
Aestrith reached up and threw back her hood in one motion.
