Prince Tsewang sat on his bed, the dull haze of wine still clinging to his mind when instinct took over. His hand shot up, fingers closing around an incoming arrow just inches from his face.
A dozen figures draped in black robes emerged from the shadows, slipping through the tent's entrance like wraiths. One of them stepped forward: the archer who had fired the shot. He pulled down his mask, revealing a familiar, sharp-featured face.
"No one is coming to save you, Prince," the man sneered. "We are here to claim your head. Now, die obediently."
Tsewang's jaw clenched as recognition dawned. It was Rigzin Gyalpo, the ruthless Ladakhi field commander renowned for assassinations. He had never been known to fail a mission.
Outside, a commotion erupted as explosions, shouts, the rush of men dousing flames. Tsewang's mind alarmed 'A diversion... A well-planned one... These bastards wanted to ensure no one would hear the fight to interrupt. It's going to be tough.'
