The lead assassin took a single soundless stride forward, his dark shadow-silk clinging to his wet shins.
His obsidian blade was raised at a forty-five degree angle, aimed directly at the throat of the sleeping young master.
Behind him, five more killers fanned out in a tight crescent across the mossy stone patio.
Every movement was measured, practiced, and executed with cold, mechanical precision.
Their boots left damp smears on the flagstones, but not a single pebble rolled.
Not a single breath stirred the cool midnight air.
To Commander Shadow-One, the mission appeared laughably simple.
The great rebel sovereign who had crushed the imperial lock pillars and slain Royal Uncle Vermilion-Hound was lying in a common hemp hammock like a drunken farmhand.
