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No one made a sound the cold, empty corridors could echo. Their good fortune since waylaying the Count's baggage train continued. Amongst the jewelry and coins, a crude map had fallen from a gold-inlayed book. It had shown the hidden entrance, the maze-like caverns, the rickety stairs leading to a door unable to withstand four experienced thieves. And ahead, the fireplace in a corridor leading to a vault. They stopped. Metal scratching against the stone floor announced someone's approach.
A man turned to fill the doorway. With slow, deliberate ease a gloved hand lifted his helm. Smooth, fluid motion hinted at the musculature powering the arm. An aged, wizened face emerged. Eyes darkened by a thousand deaths, stared lifeless.
Hearts pumped. Lungs strained for air. His message left no doubt. Templars became old because their opponents died young.
