Midnight. The moon was shrouded by thick clouds, with only occasional slivers of pale light piercing through the gaps. The Elite District glowed brightly with crystal lamps, but in the narrow alleys that marked the boundary between the wealthy and the destitute, darkness still reigned supreme.
Dayat and Dola stood at a corner, concealed behind a stack of weathered wooden crates. From their vantage point, they could see the iron gates of Alaric's mansion. Two guards stood tall and alert.
"Patrols pass every fifteen minutes," Dola whispered, her eyes tracking the movements of the guards along the road. "Small groups. Three to four men each. But they have sentry posts at every corner."
Dayat observed the iron fence surrounding the mansion. It was high—at least three meters—topped with jagged spikes. "You sure we can get over that?"
