“Let me know how it goes,” Tarlak said before banging the door shut. Harruq turned and shoved, but could not make it budge.

“I hate this place,” he said. He joined his brother’s side. Other than the bed and the thick curtains over the window, there appeared no place for the man to hide.

“You sure he’s here?” Harruq yelled.

“I’m sure,” came Tarlak’s muffled reply.

“He hones his skills at all times to remain ready,” Qurrah said, methodically searching the room with his eyes. “This is a test. Draw your blades, brother. If he does not obtain the kill with his first strike, he will have failed.”

“You certain?” the half-orc asked as he drew Condemnation and Salvation.

“Very.”

They slowly left the door. Shadows blanketed the walls, but none looked deep enough to hide a man. Harruq knelt and checked under the bed. Nothing.

“Hate to have to let this guy know breakfast is ready,” he grumbled. He looked back to his brother, and then paused. Something was wrong. He could see the door closed behind Qurrah, could see the blank walls, but his gut knew different.

“Brother,” he said, and that was all it took. Qurrah spun as Haern charged. A few words dashed off his tongue as he completed the turn. A saber lashed out, resting on his throat in the blink of an eye.

“You could be dead,” Haern whispered, all but his mouth and chin hidden behind the low cowl of his cloak.

“As could you,” Qurrah said, drawing the man’s attention to a piece of bone hovering in the air an inch from his chest. “Stalemate.”

The saber slipped beneath the multitude of cloaks as the bone dropped into Qurrah’s hand. Haern abandoned his battle posture and stood erect. The cowl remained low, but his eyes shone through its shadow, a piercing blue color that reminded Qurrah of deep waters.

“I welcome you to the Eschaton,” Haern said, his voice never above a whisper. His gaze shifted to Harruq. “I have fought you in battle, and I find you lacking.”