The beast pens were a wound in the earth stretched along the eastern edge of the Bloodfang camp. The natural ravine was enhanced with barriers of bone and hide, creating a prison for natural born war machines. Inside, dozens of shapes lay still in unnatural sleep - dire wolves piled together for warmth, their sides rising and falling with drugged breath. Three frost bears, each massive enough to tear through a wall, slumped against the walls like mountains of dirty snow.

  The four raiders descended the final approach in stolen skins that reeked of decay. They'd stripped the furs from Bloodfang dead in Thornhaven, blood-stiff and decorated with the bone fetishes they wore like trophies. The disguises held and in the darkness they moved with the confidence of those who belonged.

  Six guards, lazy and arrogant, lounged at their posts. They passed a wineskin while the harsh laughter of the drunk sailed along the night air. Why stand ready when the enemy cowered behind wooden walls? Why stay sharp when tomorrow's slaughter was assured?

  Lyraleth moved first, gliding across the trampled snow with the grace of a hunting cat. Her target leaned against a fence post, head tilted back as he drained the last drops from the skin. He never saw her coming. Her curved blade slipped between his third and fourth vertebrae, severing the spine instantly. His body dropped straight down, wine dribbling from slack lips to mix with the blood pooling beneath him.

  Across the pen, Seraphine mirrored her twin's sly movement. Her guard was turning to pass the wineskin when steel sliced through the air. The blade took him just below the ear, angling up into the brain. He toppled forward, the wine skin hitting the ground with a soft thud, its contents gurgling out to stain the snow dark.

  Magnus played the part of a drunken fool with unexpected skill. For a splendid moment, he was as drunk as they were, stumbling toward a guard with his fur cap sat askew and dirt rubbed into his face to obscure his features. The irritated guard turned to curse at the interruption.

  “Watch where you're-”

  The words died as Kaelen's blade punched through him from behind. The knight's free hand covered the guard's mouth, muffling the scream that tried to escape. Together, they lowered the body to the ground, Magnus already moving to the next position while Kaelen wiped his blade clean on the dead man's furs.

  Three down. Three to go. The assassin’s choreography performed in silence and shadow.

  They converged on the pens where the drugged beasts lay in their forced slumber. The smell hit like a physical blow - wet fur, old blood, the sharp ammonia of predator waste. These weren't animals anymore, they were contortions, twisted by dark alchemy and brutal training into something that lived only to kill.

  Kaelen knelt beside the nearest dire wolf, studying the rise and fall of its chest. The beast's lips were pulled back in sleep, revealing fangs that gleamed dully in the starlight. Even in this state, it radiated menace, muscles twitching with dreams of violence.

  His blade found the eye socket, driving through to the brain with a wet crunch. The wolf's legs kicked once, a reflexive neural firing, then went still. One less horror to face tomorrow. He moved to the next, and the next, each thrust precise and economical. This wasn't battle, it was butchery, necessary and brutal.

  The twins worked their way through the pack with terrible efficiency. They'd developed a rhythm - Lyraleth would position the head while Seraphine's heavier blade severed the spine at the base of the skull. Quick, clean, quiet. The pile of corpses grew, blood pooling and freezing in the bitter air.

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  Magnus proved his worth in unexpected ways. When a wounded wolf began to thrash, threatening to wake others with its death throes, he was there. His dagger found the sweet spot under the chin, ending the movement before it could cascade into discovery.

  They'd killed over half the penned beasts when fortune turned.

  The young Bloodfang couldn't have been more than sixteen winters, his beard still patchy, his swagger that of someone trying to prove himself to older, harder men. He stumbled from the latrine tent, still adjusting his furs. His path took him directly past the beast pens, where he should have seen guards at posts, rough laughter and the clink of wine skins.

  Instead, he saw four figures in bloodstained furs standing amid slaughtered beasts. His eyes went wide, taking in the corpses. For a heartbeat, he stood frozen, his mind trying to process the impossible.

  “BLOODFANGS!” The scream tore from his throat with all the power of young lungs and mortal terror. “ENEMIES IN THE CAMP! THE BEASTS ARE DEAD!”

  The night exploded. Kaelen snatched a nearby torch from its holder and hurled it in a high arc. It trailed sparks like a falling star before crashing into a supply tent. The dried hides caught instantly, hungry flames racing up the sides, finding the cached food and oil stored within.

  The explosion of light and heat sent shadows dancing madly across the camp. Fire leaped from tent to tent with terrifying speed, the wind fanning flames into an inferno. What had been organized rows of shelters became a maze of burning obstacles and smoke.

  War horns sounded and warriors poured from tents, some still naked, grabbing weapons as they ran. The camp transformed from sleeping beast to writhing hydra in seconds.

  “Run!” Kaelen's command cut through the chaos.

  They sprinted for the mountain paths, leaving behind the systematic slaughter for desperate flight. Behind them, dire wolves howled - the survivors, awakened by fire and the scent of their packmates' blood. Their cries promised vengeance and death for those who'd dared strike at the Bloodfang's heart.

  Magnus ran with surprising speed for his age, fear and adrenaline lending wings to his feet. The twins flanked them, weapons still drawn, ready to turn and fight if cornered. Thessamon had already vanished into shadow, using routes and methods known only to him.

  The first of the pursuit rounded a burning tent - warriors who'd grabbed weapons but not armor, rage making them fast but reckless. Seraphine spun without breaking stride, her greatsword sweeping in a flat arc that opened the lead pursuer from hip to shoulder. He went down in a spray of blood, tripping those behind him, buying precious seconds.

  They reached the base of the mountain path as the full weight of the pursuit organized behind them. Dozens of warriors, their faces painted orange by their burning camp, weapons raised, voices calling for blood. The night that had hidden their approach now worked against them.The path was treacherous enough in daylight but potentially lethal in darkness while fleeing enemies who knew these mountains well.

  Magnus stumbled on loose stone, catching himself against the cliff face. Blood ran from a gash on his palm where the rock had torn through his glove, yet he continued at a blistering pace. Anything less meant death, even worse, a wasted one that failed to make a difference.

  Behind them, the Bloodfang camp burned like a vision of hell. Tents collapsed in showers of sparks, supplies meant to sustain the siege turning to ash and smoke. The beast pens were a crimson lake with dozens of corpses cooling in their own blood.

  Lyraleth took point as they entered the narrow paths, her superior night vision finding the way. The others followed in single file, the sound of pursuit growing closer every second as the angry horde blitzed a familiar path. It would be a race now - speed against knowledge, desperation against fury.

  An arrow sparked off the stone inches from Magnus's head, sending chips flying. He flinched but kept moving, following the bobbing forms ahead of him, trusting that they knew where they were going, that salvation lay somewhere in the darkness above.

  The first part of their mission was complete. They'd bled the enemy, diminished their strength, and shown them that Thornhaven’s heart was still beating. The cost of that victory would be settled on this mountain. And it would all come down to the difference between how fast they could climb and how quickly death could close.