Chapter 11. Unsheathed Hope

The old fort was gloomy than ever. Once upon a time, it was a stronghold for the kings of Apharoth whenever their main camp in the flatlands was wiped out. The place served as their last resort, hence the name, Bezelius or Last Bronze in ancient Apharoth language.

It had walls that soared fifty feet high. Plus, it stood on top of a hill and so the four towers touched the clouds during the wet season. It was one of the reasons why it was abandoned. During the seven years of the Great Cold, it was rendered useless because it froze its own soldiers. Shrouded in fog, heavy clouds, and continuous rain, the country began to slowly forget Bezelius that once acted as a shield of the people but of course, people always forget. Only the shadows stay.

Now, it was a perfect hideout for the Mahan people.

“It’s been three days,” a bearded man wrapped in a thick purple scarf started. He sat cross-legged on the small plain throne “Why haven’t the assassins returned?”

“Maybe they encountered something