The footsteps grew louder, echoing through the dim corridor like the march of fate itself. Hamilton's heart pounded in sync with their rhythm, but he held his breath, sword raised, preparing for the inevitable.
Every muscle in his body was tense, coiled like a spring ready to strike. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He stood motionless, a shadow in the dark, hoping to catch the approaching men off guard.
But before Hamilton could make his move, a powerful hand clamped down on his wrist with a force that made his bones creak under the pressure. The grip was cold and unyielding, like iron forged in frost, and it sent a shiver down his spine.
His sword arm faltered, unable to move even an inch under the crushing weight of that hand. In an instant, the control he thought he had vanished, and his feet stumbled backward as the man stepped closer, pressing forward like an unstoppable tide.
