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... was asleep.

Not peacefully—no, nothing about this part of the border ever slept peacefully—but it slept in that uneasy, breathing way a wounded animal does. The wind skimmed low across the dry grass, thin and restless, carrying the cold bite of the night deeper into the forest that marked the Lionheart Kingdom’s far edge.

And in that forest, tucked between shadowed trees and broken stone, a campfire burned far too brightly for a group that called themselves assassins.

Fif ...

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“Now… where should I put you both?” he asked casually, not expecting a reply. “It’s regretful that I only have one chandelier.”

“Underneath my bed? No, no, too dirty. My dust bunnies don’t deserve this,” Atticus mused to himself. “The mantlepiece? How about the vanity table? I suppose if I lop off one of your heads I could mount it over… Wife, which head do you want to stare at while you do your hair?”

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