CHAPTER 82: SHADOWS BEFORE THE BORDER

Shadows Before the Border

The night was quiet. Too quiet.

Wind swept through the canyon like the slow breath of something ancient, gliding over the jagged cliffs and whispering down into the sleeping valley. The sky hung heavy with stars, silver dust scattered across an ocean of darkness. The moon was half-veiled by clouds, painting the stone ridges in fractured light.

This was the edge of the Lionheart Kingdom — a forgotten stretch of land, far from cities, far from walls or sentries. A place where silence reigned, and anything could hide beneath its cover.

A cold gust rolled through, carrying the dry scent of earth and pine. Then—

Tak... tak... tak... tak...

A rhythm broke the stillness.

Faint, steady, distant at first — like the heartbeat of the land itself. Then louder, sharper. The sound of hooves striking stone echoed through the canyon, reverberating off the walls.

From the horizon, a dark shape began to take form.

At first, it looked like a cloud drifting low against the stars. But as it drew closer, the shape split, multiplied—riders, not shadows. Dozens of them. Horses cloaked in dark fabric, their breath visible in the chill air.

The lead rider raised a hand. The rest slowed behind him, the thunder of hooves softening into silence.

Fifty men. No banners, no torches, only moonlight glinting off steel beneath their cloaks. Each wore a robe as black as the canyon’s void, and upon every chest, an insignia: a moon overshadowed by an eagle’s wings — carved in silver, gleaming faintly.

The mark of the Eclipsed Talon.

They reined in at the base of a cliff, where the wind howled between two jagged spires of rock. The lead rider dismounted first, boots crunching against gravel. He was tall, his movements deliberate, his presence calm but dangerous — the kind of man who’d long forgotten the sound of mercy.

He turned slightly, his hood tilting as he surveyed the canyon around them.

"Here," he said quietly. "This is the place."

A soldier beside him — younger, perhaps twenty at most — lowered his hood. A scar ran along his cheek. "We’ve finally reached our station, my lord. Should we wait or patrol the perimeter?"

The man didn’t answer right away. His gaze was fixed on the ridge above, where the shadows danced under the shifting moonlight.

His voice, when it came, was calm. "We wait."

The younger soldier nodded, but unease flickered across his face. "Yes, my lord."

They dismounted one by one. Horses were tied loosely to rocks. The men began their silent routine — checking blades, oiling crossbows, whispering brief commands. Every movement was quiet, practiced. No one raised their voice.

One soldier lit a small lantern, its flame no brighter than a candle. The light barely touched the faces around it — only glinted in their eyes.

The air thickened.

Somewhere far down the canyon, a wolf howled, the sound bouncing between the walls until it died into a whisper.

The younger soldier spoke again, his tone careful. "My lord... do you truly believe he’ll come through this way?"

The leader turned his head slightly. The hood shifted, revealing the faint outline of a jawline cut sharp by shadow.

"He will," he said. "No one crosses the Lionheart border without leaving a trace. And Victor Moonwalker..." He paused. "...is not the type to hide his shadow."

A murmur ran through the ranks — quiet but electric.

One of the older soldiers spat onto the ground, muttering, "If it’s him, we won’t last long."

The leader’s gaze snapped toward him. "Then you’d best not waste breath doubting, old man. Fear dulls your blade before you even draw it."

The man bowed his head immediately. "Understood."

A hush fell again.

The leader’s horse snorted, tossing its head. The air felt heavier now — as though the canyon itself was holding its breath.

The younger soldier tried again, his voice uncertain. "Forgive me, my lord, but... why here? There are easier paths into the kingdom. Why this one?"

The leader’s eyes lifted to the sky. The moon was sliding from behind the cloud, painting his face in silver as he spoke.

"Because this place is both forgotten... and watched. If Victor wants secrecy, he’ll walk the road no one dares remember. If he doesn’t—" his lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, "—then he’ll ride straight into our hands."

The younger soldier swallowed hard.

They waited.

Minutes bled into hours. The night deepened, stars shifting as the canyon cooled. Some of the horses began to stamp impatiently. Others stood still, ears twitching.

The leader stood apart from them, his posture unbroken, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He seemed carved from the same stone as the cliffs themselves — unmoving, patient, eternal.

Only when the wind changed did he stir.

A faint sound brushed the air — not hooves this time, not wind. A whisper of movement.

He raised his hand, and instantly, every man froze.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

They listened.

From somewhere beyond the ridge, faint and distant, came the echo of another rhythm. Softer, measured. The sound of a single rider approaching.

The leader’s lips curved again, though the expression didn’t reach his eyes. "So it begins."

The soldiers shifted, drawing their cloaks tighter, hands slipping to the hilts of their weapons. The flame in the lantern flickered, guttered, and went out — snuffed by the cold breath of wind that swept down from the ridge.

Darkness claimed them fully now.

The leader’s voice came low, almost a whisper. "Positions."

The sound of movement followed — fabric rustling, steel sliding free. They spread into formation, some crouched behind rocks, others vanishing into the shadows of the canyon wall. Fifty men, fifty silent shapes — invisible beneath the moon.

The younger soldier, crouched beside his horse, tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

"My lord," he whispered, "do you think it’s really him?"

The leader didn’t answer.

He stood in the open, facing the narrow road that cut through the canyon like a scar. His hand rested calmly on his blade, his expression unreadable.

The approaching rhythm grew louder.

Tak... tak... tak... tak...

Each beat echoed, closer, sharper, until it felt as though the sound itself carried weight.

The horses of the ambush began to snort, uneasy. One stamped the ground. Another let out a soft, nervous whine.

The younger soldier’s knuckles whitened. He couldn’t see the rider yet — only the faint glow of something pale ahead, like light reflecting off armor or eyes.

And then—