The Shadowfang stronghold was carved into the living rock of Thornwall Ridge, its entrance hidden behind a waterfall that cascaded down the cliff face in sheets of silver moonlight. Ancient runes covered the stone archway, their meanings lost to all but the most dedicated scholars of pre-Unification history. This wasn't just a hideout—it was a shrine to a way of life that the modern world had left behind.
I crouched in the shadows fifty yards from the entrance, watching the guards pace their predetermined patterns. They moved with the confidence of wolves who knew every stone, every hiding place, every defensive advantage their stronghold offered. But confidence could be a weakness when it led to predictability.
"Two guards visible," I whispered to Vera, who lay pressed against the rock
