Shatir―A Narrow Pass
Shatir tucked herself deep into the crevice, wedged in among thorns and jagged-edged rocks, not moving, barely breathing. She heard them coming up the narrow pass, their whispers carried by dry winds. There were four of them—two Sykoran guards and two caravan mercenaries—all experienced fighters.
She let the first two pass, taking slow, measured breaths to fill her lungs, calm her body. Each hand clutched the hilt of a slender blade, almost as long as the Wolfen long-knife, the steel sharpened on both sides, narrowing to a fine, stabbing point. The making of the steel was a secret, folded a thousand times from the finest metal and hammered to perfection by artists trained since childhood.
All Ligarn weapons were custom fitted to the one who would wield it, and durin
