The moon hung low over the Stormborn stronghold, casting long silver streaks over the towering walls. The night was quiet, deceptively so. Ronan stood near the outer watchtower, his keen eyes scanning the treeline. His instincts had been restless all evening, an unshakable sense of something lurking just beyond sight. The crisp night air carried a faint scent of something foreign, something wrong.
Then, he saw it.
A lone figure staggered from the darkness, breath ragged, body trembling. Even from a distance, Ronan could smell the scent of blood, sharp and fresh. The figure collapsed just before reaching the border, his hands digging weakly into the dirt. A rogue.
Ronan rushed forward, his warriors following close behind. As he neared, he saw the rogue’s wounds, deep claw marks running a
