Night Sentinel at the Iron Catch

The dark pane turned mirror-black against the night. I marched to the farthest corner of the cedar sill where the casement catch mounts deep into the frame. There, an ancient iron teardrop latch hung suspended from its pivot pin, swaying slightly in the faint seam draft. I planted my boots wide upon the timber, seated the spiked ferrule of my staff against the wood, and gripped the cold metal finial with my left gauntlet. With deliberate downward weight, I drove the arm home into its notched strike plate. The iron engaged with a heavy, deadened snap that sealed the frame rigid against the dark. I held position, watching the glass.