In the narrow, open backyard of some random civilians, splashes of water drawn from a creaking well echoed through the night air.
One by one, the captured hooligans were awakened, rudely and without ceremony.
Sela had already taken on an authoritative position, perched atop a low ledge like a roosting hawk.
Her legs were crossed, and from above, she looked down on the trembling figures of those they had just captured.
To the newly-awakened, still groggy and drenched, the only thing visible was the imposing silhouette of the woman above.
The moonlight filtering from above cast sharp shadows across her form, shrouding her features in mystery.
Her face was completely obscured by the gloom, nothing more than an outline against pale silver light. Standing beside her was another figure—similarly feminine, similarly still.
The last of the trio was the one manning the well, muscles taut as he pulled on the dripping cord, water sloshing noisily into a wooden bucket.
