The sound of iron clashing against marble echoed through the corridors. Duke Paraphal's hall was now a field of rubble—torn tapestries, broken chairs, and fresh blood staining the floor. The attack had been swift and cowardly. Arrows, coming from within the walls themselves, had cut through the air seconds after the herald announced their entry.
Ester advanced through the rubble, her sword still dripping with the blood of the last guard who had tried to stab her in the back. The cold gleam in her eyes said it all—she wasn't surprised. She was irritated.
Damon walked beside her, hands in his pockets, his expression curiously serene.
"So... I assume this wasn't part of the reception?"
"No." Ester's answer came sharply, almost a growl. She kicked the still-groaning body of a soldier, flipping him over onto his stomach. The symbol embroidered on his cloak was torn but visible—Paraphal's silver falcon. "The Duke knew we were coming."
