Viscount Montrose and the guards crept through the underbrush silently,The rebel camp lay just ahead with rebels in patrolling, unaware of the shadows closing in on them.
Viscount Montrose signaled with a flick of his fingers, and the group of guards fanned out, surrounding the rebel encampment from both flanks. The group split without a word. Viscount Montrose signaled sharply—his half would engage the rebels directly. Sam, jaw set and pulse hammering, led the second group in search of the missing lords.
On my mark," Montrose whispered, sword already drawn.
One beat. Two. Three.
They charged.
They hit the outer perimeter like a storm breaking, sudden, and unforgiving. The first rebel barely had time to turn before Montrose's blade cleaved into his throat, spilling hot blood onto the snow. Another was seized from behind, a dagger buried beneath his ribs. No cries, no alarm. Just the wet crunch of steel through flesh, and bodies folding like sacks of grain.
