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Misty Stone, Holly West Pic(s)
The silence of the night was her only ally, broken by the soft rustle of her dark garments agat dew-kissed leaves as she moved with a predator’s grace. Her body, a symphony of honed muscle and fluid motion, flowed through the shadows like living smoke, every step a whisper agat the ancient stone floor of the fortress. The scent of night-blooming jasmine and distant rain clung to her skin, a stark contrast to the cold, metallic tang of fear emanating from her captive charge. She felt the cool hilt of her blade, a familiar weight agat her thigh, as her keen eyes, adjusted to the gloom, mapped the positions of the slumbering guards. A single, deliberate touch on the bound man’s shoulder conveyed a world of reassurance, her fingers speaking of safety and imminent freedom without a single uttered word. The tension in the air was a palpable thing, thick enough to taste, as she worked at his bonds with a swift, silent efficiency that spoke of years of discipline. A stray beam of moonlight, slicing through a high window, caught the elegant line of her jaw and the determined set of her lips, glinting off a stray drop of sweat tracing a path down her neck. With the final restraint falling away, she pulled him close, her body shielding his as they melted back into the protective embrace of the darkness from whence she came. The only evidence of her passing was the faint, lingering warmth where her hand had rested and the profound, liberating silence of a mission accomplished.
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