The Night That Should've Stayed Quiet
"Looks like we're not very welcome."
Ronan's voice floated through the firelight, calm and almost amused.
Ego didn't blink.
Didn't take a breath for a heartbeat.
He just stared at the two men standing in front of his campfire as if the night itself had decided to walk in wearing boots.
Around him, fifty Moon Eagle assassins shifted. Uncertain. Restless. Hands hovered near blades, sleeves twitched, shoulders tightened. Even the fire seemed to quiet down, cracking softer, almost respectful.
Recognition hit the camp like a dropped boulder.
Ego stepped closer, boots scraping against gravel, jaw locking tight.
"…Ronan Ironcold."
His voice thinned, scraping low.
"And Loret Blackcrow."
Both men smiled—small, private smiles that never reached their eyes.
Ronan tilted his head slightly, like an older wolf appraising a younger one.
Loret just exhaled softly through his nose, amused at the tension thickening the air.
