Zakhar clacked his jaws together with anxious joy as the explosion from the causeway reached his ears, and shook his body. That was the signal. The attack had begun.

The white werewolf rose up, the Wraithcloth cloak cascading around him as he stood. The Reddick brothers rose with him wordlessly, and the trio scaled their way from the water’s edge to the root of the castle’s rear wall. 

Zakhar paused there, his large clawed hands poised over the stone. He licked at his fangs, before at last pressing his hands firmly against the wall. When he was not immediately thrown backwards into the Thames, or instantly disintegrated, Zakhar let out a relieved breath. The hundreds of magical wards that had been meticulously placed upon them were working. At least for now.

His jaw clacked once more, and the wolf began to scale the rough-hewn stone blocks of the wall. The Reddick brothers, now confident in their own magical protection, followed suit. Above them, the keep rose. Its large and dominating half-circular window glowed like a welcoming beacon in the fog, and Zakhar could not repress a grim smile as his claws propelled him ever higher.

This was where the heretics and their undeserved prize resided. Zakhar could sense that much. The tooth of Fenris called out to him like a lost lamb, waiting to be plucked from the clutches of the sullied vermin that had claimed it as their own for thousands of years.

For several minutes the trio of wolves climbed. The sounds of battle and the quaking of the castle walls at their hands and feet sped their ascent, until they slipped unnoticed over the battlements. 

Hidden by their powerful cloaks, Zakhar and the two brothers looked inward from their position at the giant window of the keep tower. Inside they could see the lackeys of Bain and Hoyle, the lot of them just now reacting to the chaos rippling from the front gate. In the midst of the great hall, Zakhar’s eyes landed upon the unmistakable figure of Aislinn Hoyle.

From beneath his cloak, Zakhar drew a menacing blade: a Cossack of Russian origin. The Reddick brothers drew their own weapons, and with a nod from Zakhar, they moved off towards the wings of the keep that housed the bedchambers and the private residences of Bain and Hoyle.

Zakhar, on the other hand, remained at the window. His intent was much more directly focused, and his desire for stealth was now ancillary to his purpose. Silently, he drew back his sword, directing the thick pommel towards a large pane of the window before him. With a final intake of breath, Zakhar swung mightily, striking the sword into the glass.

With a horrific crash the window exploded into millions of shards that cascaded like crystal rain into the great room. For those inside the keep that experienced the crash, there was no way for them to notice that among the flying shards that entered the room was a dealer of death bathed in a cape of magic, and wielding a conviction that was just as lethal.