Dusk bled down the canyon walls, swallowing the light in slow, suffocating gulps.
The strike team moved like shadows — twenty of them, cloaked in gray and silence, breathing in rhythm with the wind. Imar led from the front, his sword drawn but low, every motion sharp with purpose.
Behind him, Rian crouched near the tunnel entrance, checking the runes one last time before they entered.
"Stay close," he murmured. "If the wards flare, we've got about ten seconds before the alarms scream."
Yara adjusted the bandages under her armor, biting back a hiss when the fabric brushed her ribs.
Her side still ached from the last fight with Kellan, the wound not fully mended. Imar's eyes flicked toward her — brief, worried, and quickly hidden behind the stoic mask he wore when he didn't want her to notice he cared.
"You shouldn't be here," he muttered as they ducked into the narrow passage.
