On the leafy horizon, wrought iron gates rise.
All nine of us ride fiercely, Kelan's cape billows wildly behind him.
Figures before the gate appear, growing as we advance.
"Halt!" one of them yells.
My legs squeeze the sides of the stallion. I pull on the reins until the Arabian slows and tramples on one spot, stomping until it calms itself to a standstill. Bumlot's estate has a concerning vulnerability, an easy point of entry that can be accessed by the same thing that lends them strategic cover from prying eyes. The woods. There are soaring trees as high as the gates that encroach the iron border. One can easily climb up one and spring right over the gate.
"Who goes there?" the same one asks.
All four guards are dressed in a brassy leather andracor sheathing, with matching leather greaves and tassets.
