The sea wind hissed through the cracks in the cave walls, carrying the damp chill of the coming storm. Ethan crouched over the makeshift map—a stretch of sailcloth stained with salt and blood, its edges weighted with stones. Dain's charcoal scratches marked the manor's bones: walls, gates, the serpentine path of the drainage tunnel. Serra knelt beside him, her fingers tracing the courtyard's outline, while Hacksaw loomed behind them, his shadow swallowing the lantern light.
"Guards here," Dain muttered, stabbing the cloth with a rusted nail. "Six on the walls after sundown. Four in the yard. Cedric's personal rats stay indoors—Valmari steel-for-hire. They'll cluster near his chambers."
Serra's fingertip paused over the kitchen well. "The hound?"
"Muzzled at night. But it's no lapdog. Trained to hunt by scent, not sound. You bleed, it finds you."
Hacksaw spat into the dark. "Let it taste blackpowder."
Ethan ignored him. "Distraction first. Draw the outer guards away."
Hacksaw's grin split his beard. "Burn the gates. They'll come running."
"Too obvious," Serra signed, her hands sharp in the flickering light. "They'll lock down. Trap us inside."
Dain scratched his jaw. "The storerooms. Cedar oil casks stacked by the eastern wall. Light those, and the whole wing goes up. Mercenaries'll scramble to save their payday."
Ethan nodded. "Hacksaw handles the fire. Serra, the hound—keep it silent."
She lifted a vial of murky liquid. "Sleep or death?"
"Sleep. We leave no trail. Not yet."
Dain snorted. "Sentimental."
"Practical," Ethan said. "Cedric dies *knowing* it's us. Let him taste the fear first."
———
The plan tightened like a garrote.
Hacksaw would plant charges among the oil casks, rigged to ignite the eastern wing. When the flames erupted, Dain and Ethan would scale the cliffs, using the drainage tunnel to slip into the kitchens. Serra would follow, silencing the hound, then vanish into the servants' passages to reach Liora's chambers.
"And when Cedric's men come running?" Dain asked.
"Let them," Ethan said. "We'll be at his throat before they smell the smoke."
Hacksaw leaned in, his breath reeking of salt and rot. "And the wife? You want her alive?"
The question hung, thick as the cave's damp.
Ethan's thumb smudged the charcoal marking Liora's balcony. "She dies when I say. Not before."
———
They rehearsed it in the dark, voices low, hands carving the air like blades.
Dain mimed cutting a guard's throat. "Two in the courtyard. Two on the stairs. They'll bottleneck here."
Serra's fingers flickered. "I'll take the stairs. Quiet."
Hacksaw scoffed. "Quiet's a waste of time. Blow the damn doors."
"And bring the whole cliff down on us?" Dain snapped.
Ethan silenced them with a look. "Stick to the plan. Or die here."
———
When the tide turned, they rose.
Dain scrounged rope and grappling hooks from the cave's debris. Hacksaw packed his satchel with blackpowder and flint. Serra sharpened her needles, her face a mask of ice.
Ethan stood at the mouth of the cave, the wind clawing his hair. Below, the manor's lights flickered like false stars.
"We move at moonfall," he said. "Kill only who you must. This is the beginning, not the end."
Hacksaw shouldered his explosives. "Aye. And what a pretty beginning it'll be."
The sea roared its approval. Somewhere in the dark, a gull screamed.
The hunt was on.
On the other side...
The manor's study smelled of beeswax and iron. Cedric stood at the window, his fingers drumming against the cold glass as he watched the sea thrash against the cliffs below. Torchlight flickered along the walls, glinting off the blades of a dozen Valmari daggers mounted like trophies. Behind him, the mercenary captain—a hulking brute with a scarred lip—waited in silence, his breath rattling faintly through a broken nose.
"He'll come through the tunnel," Cedric said, not turning. "The kitchens. The cliffs. He thinks himself clever, but he's predictable."
The captain grunted. "We'll line the drain with spikes. Let the rats feast on his guts."
"No." Cedric's voice was a whip. "Let him *in*. Let him think he's won."
He crossed to the oak table, its surface cluttered with maps and schematics. A decoy layout of the manor lay sprawled beneath a paperweight shaped like a serpent. Cedric slid it aside, revealing the true blueprint beneath—a labyrinth of hidden passages, trapdoors, and chambers rigged to collapse.
"Post your men here," he said, tapping the western hall. "False walls. Crossbows loaded with barbed tips. When he passes, seal the corridor. Fill it with smoke."
The captain leaned in, his shadow swallowing the parchment. "And the woman?"
Cedric's jaw tightened. "Liora stays in her chambers. Double the guards. No—triple. Draycott will come for her. He'll *need* to."
A knock echoed at the door. A servant entered, trembling, bearing a silver tray of wine and figs. Cedric ignored him, his gaze fixed on the captain.
"The hound?"
"Muzzled. But the antidote's been administered. It'll scent blood, but not his."
"Good." Cedric plucked a fig from the tray, crushing it in his palm. "Let the beast hunt his pack instead."
———
By midnight, the manor bristled with silent preparations.
In the eastern wing, mercenaries wove poison into the rushes scattered across the floor—thorns dipped in nightshade, invisible in the dark. In the courtyard, archers took positions behind false hedges, their arrows tipped with iron barbs designed to splinter on impact. The kitchens were left *almost* untouched: a loaf of bread abandoned on a cutting board, a door slightly ajar, a trail of wine dripped carelessly toward the cellar stairs. A trail meant to lead to a dead end.
Cedric paced his chambers, a blade in hand. He paused before a gilded mirror, its edges carved with serpents, and studied his reflection—the sharp cut of his jaw, the cold gleam of his eyes. He had not slept in days.
*Let him come*, he thought. *Let him see what his vengeance has bought him.*
A knock. The captain stepped in, his face grim.
"The cliffs are watched. The tunnel's ready. And the woman…"
"What of her?"
"She asks for you."
Cedric's laugh was brittle. "Tell her to pray. It's the only comfort she'll get tonight."
———
In the cellar, a boy no older than fourteen crouched in the dark, his hands bound, a gag stifling his sobs. Cedric's final gambit—a peasant lad plucked from the village, dressed in stolen armor, his face bloodied to pass for Ethan's squire. When the time came, they'd parade him through the halls, draw the wolves into the kill box.
The captain eyed the boy with disdain. "He'll break. Scream."
Cedric crouched, gripping the boy's chin. "Oh, he'll scream. But not before Draycott does."
———
As the moon vanished behind storm clouds, Cedric stood on the manor's highest balcony, the wind tearing at his cloak. Below, the sea roared. Somewhere in the dark, a shadow moved.
He smiled.
*Come, wolf. The serpent's fangs are waiting.*