Chapter 13 - Shadows Over the Stronghold
Back at the Bloodmoon Stronghold, the heavy oak doors of the nursery were barred from the inside with reinforced iron beams.
Revna sat by the hearth, the warmth of the fire casting a soft glow over her face as she gently rocked one of the sleeping twins. Across the room, Fenrik was sharpening his hunting dagger, the rhythmic shing, shing of the whetstone the only sound breaking the midnight silence.
Despite the victory days prior, a heavy unease hung in the air. Revna’s intuition—honed by years of surviving alone in the bitter northern wilderness—was screaming.
"You haven't slept in two days, Fenrik," Revna said softly, not looking up from the bundle in her arms.
Fenrik paused his work, setting the dagger down on the wooden table. He walked over, kneeling beside her chair, and gently placed a warm hand over her shoulder. "Neither have you. Every time the wind hits the battlements, I keep waiting for the Kales to try something else."
"They will," Revna replied, her gaze shifting to the frosted window pane where the snow was beginning to swirl violently again. "Men like Vane Kale don't know how to accept defeat. They only know how to wait for an opening."
Suddenly, the small oil lamp on the bedside table flickered violently.
The bright, steady yellow flame turned an unnatural, sickly shade of violet for a fraction of a second before plunging the room into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
Fenrik was on his feet in a single, fluid motion, his body dropping into a defensive crouch, his golden eyes flaring in the dark. "Stay behind me," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as his beast surged forward beneath his skin.
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From the ceiling above them, a soft hiss of displaced air sounded.
Before either of them could react, a shadow detached itself from the rafters, dropping silently toward the cradle where the second twin lay sleeping. It was a Shadow-Weaver assassin—clad in liquid-black leather, wielding a dagger dripping with dark, necrotic venom.
