The war room smelled of old parchment, smoke, and the faint metallic tang of blood that never quite left the stone.
Darius stood over the massive map table, shoulders rigid, left arm still cradled against his chest beneath the bandages. Torchlight flickered across the parchment—pins marking Damien's last known movements, red threads tracing paths through unclaimed wilds. The Alpha's face was carved from granite, but the lines around his eyes had deepened since the declaration. Every scout report chipped at the certainty he'd worn like armor.
The door opened without knock. A young scout—mud-streaked, breathless—dropped to one knee.
"Alpha. The narrow pass. The assassins… they're dead."
Darius didn't look up. "All of them?"
"Yes, sir. Six elite. Torn apart. Claws. Horns. Shadows like armor. The rogue prince—he arrived. Slaughtered them in minutes. The omega escaped. He… he protected her. Didn't touch her. Fled when she blasted him back with light."
