Mara
The first thing I notice is the weight. The armory door should drag a little on its hinges. Too much humidity in these mountains, the timber swells. But tonight it swings open without that familiar resistance.
My fingers hover on the iron latch a heartbeat too long before I push inside.
The familiar smell envelops me. Oil, steel, cold stone. Normally it’s clean, orderly, a space that reassures me the pack’s teeth are always sharp.
I step in, boots echoing against the planked floor. The torches on the wall flicker as I run my gaze over the racks. My gut goes cold.
Two long rifles are gone from the upper hooks. A set of silvered throwing knives are missing from the locked case at the back. I check the lock for signs of tampering, but it’s intact. Someone had the key.
I pull the
