The world had changed its scent.
Bason knew it before the people did.
It clung to the air long before voices sharpened, before steel settled closer to hands, before movement became something faster and more deliberate. It moved through stone and cloth and skin alike, subtle at first—then impossible to ignore.
Wrong.
Not the sharp wrong of blood freshly spilled.
Not the clean wrong of a hunt gone bad.
Something deeper.
Something that lingered.
He paced the edge of the chamber where he had been left, nails clicking softly against stone worn smooth by years of use. The place carried familiar scents—Aya, strongest of all, woven into everything, steady and unmistakable. Killan, sharper, grounded, anchored. Others layered beneath them—Nolle's restless trace, Vignir's steadiness, Harlan's quiet.
All known.
All trusted.
And yet—
Something had crept in between them.
Bason paused, lifting his head slightly.
