The heavy iron portcullis slammed into the stone grooves with a final, echoing boom, sealing the caravan within the courtyard of South-Point Outpost. The sudden transition from the howling winds of the wasteland to the stagnant, torch-lit air of the garrison was jarring. The smell of horse sweat, old grease, and charred pine wood filled the space, pressing in on the weary mercenaries.
Aden didn't climb down immediately. He remained on the bench of the lead wagon, his hands still loosely gripping the reins, his sapphire eyes scanning the battlements. Dozens of guards stood atop the walls, their crossbows notched but lowered, their faces pale in the flickering orange light. They looked less like soldiers and more like men who had just seen a ghost walk through their front door.
"Stable the horses," Aden commanded, his voice slicing through the nervous murmurs of the garrison. "And get these men some water. If I see a single hand move toward a weapon, I'll take the hand."
