They slipped through the broken fence like ghosts, feet brushing against damp earth and scattered leaves. The only sounds were the rustling of cloth and the occasional squeak from the slime—quickly hushed by Lucas's fingers.
The northern path led to the backside of the prison zone, as predicted. The building looked more like a storage shed from the outside, disguised to hide what truly lay beneath. Guard rotations were sloppy—most of them were drunk or asleep at their posts.
Sylmara signaled them to halt near a low stone wall. Peeking over it, they spotted two guards lounging near a metal hatch built into the ground. One leaned against a barrel, eyes half-closed. The other sat cross-legged, a bottle in hand and a smug grin as he watched something—or someone—inside a cage through the iron bars.
A faint whimper drifted through the air.
Lucas clenched his jaw. His eyes darted to Sylmara, who already had her dagger drawn. No hesitation. No mercy.
