The moon was a sliver of ice in the black sky, offering scant light to the sprawling complex of the Royal Palace. The air was cold, biting through the thin layers of Derek's black attire.
He adjusted the mask over his face, leaving only his eyes exposed—dark, focused, and deadly.
Behind him, four shadows moved in perfect sync with his breathing.
The Elite Shadows.
They were masters of stealth, trained to walk on dry leaves without making a sound, to blend into the darkness until they were nothing more than a trick of the light.
Derek signaled with a sharp, silent hand gesture.
Move.
They scaled the outer wall. It was fifty feet of smooth stone, guarded by archers on the battlements. Derek threw a grappling hook, the padded claws catching the stone silently. He pulled himself up, hand over hand, his muscles burning. He reached the top and rolled over the parapet, landing in a crouch.
