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Vol.4, Ch.3, P.4

“Hah. Dog’s ballocks, wot I say, eh? More empty than a tavern on Lententide fast, that were,” whispered Sig as he stared ahead with a smirk. In his view was the viscount’s manor, a monolith of a shadow looming just beyond the hem of the wood where we were. And he had the right of it: not another soul had we crossed in our secret incursion through the vales. Having gone the trail unchallenged, we now found ourselves as hunters prowling the nest of our long-expected and unsuspecting prey.

“We wait here a while,” I reminded Sig. “When night falls, we move.”

“Aye, that,” he acknowledged.

And there we melted back into the mirk of the wood, sitting ourselves between shrub and bush. The second time this was for me, breaking into a noble’s abode. Trouble