He moved first.
That was always how it started.
Not because rushing was his preference—but because the window between arriving unseen and being discovered was never as wide as it looked, and every second spent waiting inside a perimeter he had already breached was a second that could close it.
Damien stepped out of the staging area and into the interior of the stronghold without announcement.
Fenrir moved with him on his right, its body low, presence still suppressed from the flight in. Cerbe fanned left, all three heads oriented forward, flames held close and dark—the hellhound's version of quiet, which was never entirely quiet, but was controlled enough to serve.
Aquila lifted off from its landing position and climbed, finding the ceiling of the demonic canopy cover and moving along its inner surface—above the action, below visibility from outside.
Luton drifted just behind Damien.
Watching.
Waiting.
The first demons they encountered were foot soldiers.
