Lucius moved through the corpse-strewn halls of the keep with the grace of a pride surveying conquered territory Behind him, his mercenaries fanned out like shadows given form—bloodied, breathless, but excited in their victory.
The trembling kitchen boy leading them skittered ahead like a startled hare, his wide eyes darting between every archway and alcove.
A rat knew its own maze best.
Yet even with their guide, the silence gnawed at Lucius.
No last desperate charge. No final rallying cry. Just the occasional corpse slumped against the wall, their lifeblood pooling in the grooves between stones. The absence of resistance was louder than any battle cry.
They've turtled, Lucius mused, his fingers drumming idly against the pommel of his sword. Hunkered down in some last choke point, betting everything on a bottleneck.
