The first mercenary dropped from the ventilation shaft with silent precision, the taut cable whispering against his harness as he descended. His boots hit the stone floor with barely a sound, knees bent to absorb the impact. In one fluid motion, he brought his crossbow up, scanning the chamber with the cold efficiency of a veteran killer.
The room was dim, lit only by the weak, flickering light of aged wall sconces, their fire guttering in the stale air. Ancient murals stretched across the chamber walls, depicting long-forgotten rites and rituals—men kneeling before an inhuman figure whose face had been scratched out of the stone. Dust and the sickly-sweet scent of mildew hung in the air, mingling with something far older, something that tugged at the edges of instinct. He panned the weapon in a slow arc toward the center of the room. "Targets acqui—"
Then, impossibly, the Sleeper moved.
