When the Night Listens Too Closely
The world was asleep.
Not peacefully—no, nothing about this part of the border ever slept peacefully—but it slept in that uneasy, breathing way a wounded animal does. The wind skimmed low across the dry grass, thin and restless, carrying the cold bite of the night deeper into the forest that marked the Lionheart Kingdom's far edge.
And in that forest, tucked between shadowed trees and broken stone, a campfire burned far too brightly for a group that called themselves assassins.
Fifty men sat around the roaring flames, sprawled across old roots, half-broken logs, and smooth boulders that had been dragged closer for comfort. The fire cracked and sent sparks spinning upward, tiny stars dying before they touched the branches above.
This was the Moon Eagle assassination unit—elite by reputation, crude by behavior, and notoriously arrogant even among killers.
Their clothes were dark, stitched with the symbol they carried like religion:
