The climb from the freezing flume was silent and merciless.
Aurelia found purchase on the slimy iron rungs of the sluice ladder, pulling herself upward with fluid precision. The river water cascaded from her woolen breeches and the dark leather of her tunic, pooling in the gaps of the wooden decking beneath the catwalk.
Above, the two Concord sentries stood with their backs to the water, leaning against the timber rail while sharing a flask of spiced wine. The aroma of cloves and cheap spirits masked the cold, metallic scent of the river mist.
"They won't find anything in the high pass," one mumbled, shivering into his sheepskin collar. "Vane had three hundred men. By now, he's dragged that witch's corpse down to the capital in an iron cage."
"Good riddance," the other spat, reaching for the flask. "The less we have to hear of the northern clans, the better."
Aurelia rose over the rim of the decking behind them like smoke from a dead pyre.
Her daggers cleared their sheaths without a sound. She crossed the five paces of damp timber in three silent breaths. Before the first sentry could register the splash of water on the boards behind him, her left hand clamped hard across his mouth, dragging his head back as her blade slid under his jaw into the throat.
The second soldier turned, his eyes widening in the dim torchlight as he reached frantically for the alarm horn at his belt.
He never touched the brass. Aurelia ripped her right blade across his windpipe in a vicious, backhanded arc.
Both men collapsed into the shadows of the timber wall with dull, wet thuds. Aurelia caught the fallen flask with her boot before it could rattle against the planks, nudging it quietly into the corner. She wiped her daggers on the wool of the dead man’s cloak, her breath coming in slow, even plumes of vapor in the bitter air.
Below, the heavy oak doors of the winch-house shuddered.
There was no battle cry—only the sickening crunch of oak splintering under terrifying, brute force. Malakor had breached the lower guardhouse.
Muffled shouts of panic erupted from within the stone tower, instantly choked off by the heavy, resonant thunk of his great sword cleaving through mail and bone. A body crashed through the tower's unglazed arrow slit, tumbling thirty feet into the churning foam of the river flume below. Two heartbeats later, the iron cogwheels inside the tower began to groan.
The massive winch turned. The iron chains groaned, dripping brown grease into the river as the submerged portcullis rose from the foam, its rusted teeth grinding open to clear the water gate.
Aurelia slipped down the narrow spiral stair of the tower, her blades drawn low.
Inside the guardhouse, the brazier cast flickering red light over four dead Concord guardsmen strewn across the flagged floor. Blood was already pooling between the stones, hissing as it met the hot coals scattered from a knocked-over brazier.
Malakor stood over the corpse of the garrison sergeant, his boot resting on the dead man's chest as he wrenched his broad dagger from the base of the throat. He was soaked to the skin, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, steam rolling off his shoulders like a beast emerging from a volcanic caldera.
When his eyes found hers at the base of the stair, the feral tension in his jaw relaxed by a fraction. His amber gaze swept over her frame, checking the red stains on her daggers before locking onto her mouth.
"The gate is up," he said, his voice a low, graveled growl that reverberated off the stone walls.
"And the alarm?" she asked, stepping over a fallen pikeman to stand before him.
"Dead," he replied.
He took a step forward, catching her by the nape of her neck with a wet, calloused hand, dragging her roughly against his chest. He kissed her hard, a brief, bruising collision of teeth and rain that tasted of copper and victory.
"Get the horses through the flume," Malakor murmured against her lips, his fingers tightening in her hair for one breathless second before releasing her. "We take the upper armory before the night watch changes."