Gasps broke from the Valerian line. Several guards reacted on instinct, hands moving toward weapons, feet shifting into combat stances—
Then froze.
Because the wolves had moved.
Not forward. Not attacking. But enough. A unified shift of weight, a ripple of muscle beneath fur and leather. A low growl rolled through the square—not loud, but deep enough to feel in the chest, a warning that did not need translation.
Every hand stilled. Every motion halted.
The woman lay where she had fallen, breath fractured, mind struggling to catch up with what had happened. Blood trickled from her lip. Her cloak was twisted beneath her. She stared up at the sky with the wide, empty eyes of someone who had just been unmade.
Marcus stared.
