“This is what they killed Zakulo’s people over?” Lorenzo said.
ThisRohesia’s ears stood.
A pair of steps approached the armoury.
“Cover, now,” Lorenzo said, ducking behind a rack.
Rohesia ducked under a table in the corner, readying her dagger and training her eyes on the door. Lorenzo skulked in the darkness opposite her, sword down by his side and gaze focused on the entry point. Neither spoke as the steps grew louder and louder, drawing ever closer to the armoury, as two voices rose in volume.
The door creaked open.
Two Tseontaeg, one wearing the bronze mask of the Fahdi Mogushchestvo Janissaries, walked in. The soldier immediately noticed the open crate of mead and scoffed, crouching down to investigate which drunkard had snuck out a bottle. The janissary glanced in the soldier’s
