Within a heartbeat's amount of time, Alaric sensed the presence of all the rogues who were near him, and with the precision of a hawk, he moved through the night, appearing like the angel of death behind them.
The cold night air brushed against his face, carrying the faint rustle of leaves and the sharp metallic scent of steel, heightening his senses.
He slashed the rogues before they could even feel him sneaking upon them, the edge of his sword catching the moonlight for a brief, brilliant flash. His men, just like him, were moving with the same lethal precision, the soft whisper of leather and steel against the forest floor blending with the distant cries of the surprised rogues.
Alaric looked at his men working among the shadows, up to his content, and nodded. "After all, their training is paying well. They are worthy of being called the guards under Veyre Dukedom," he mumbled, his eyes narrowing as he crept toward another rogue.
