The cold wind howled around the desolate courtyard of the old townhouse. The body on the steps lay still, the four arrows protruding from the chest like grim markers.
Four figures emerged from the shadows of the dilapidated house. They moved like wraiths, their steps silent on the cracked stone. They wore black from head to toe, their faces obscured by hoods and masks.
They gathered around the fallen man.
The leader, a tall man with a scar visible above his mask, nudged the body with his boot. It didn't move.
"It is done," the leader said, his voice a low, rough whisper. He turned to the man on his left. "Write the letter. Inform him the job is done. Tell him the Grand Duke is dead."
The subordinate nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
The leader looked down at his prize. He felt a surge of arrogant curiosity. He wanted to see the face of the man who needed four assassins to take him down, the man who had been a thorn in his master's side.
