The footsteps grew closer—measured, unhurried, the tread of someone on routine patrol rather than an urgent response. Two people, maybe three. Julian's hand froze mid-reach over the safe, his eyes snapping toward the sound.
Emma's head came up, the half-stuffed bag in her arms suddenly forgotten. Her flames flickered beneath her skin, ready to ignite.
Zoe shifted her weight, muscles coiling.
Fey's eyes narrowed, calculating the distance, the time, the angles.
Dori's breath caught. Her Conceal flickered—just for an instant, just enough for Julian to feel the strain—before she forced it steady again. Her hand tightened on his, knuckles white.
Julian made a decision.
He released Dori's hand—felt her momentary panic through the connection—and moved. Not toward the approaching patrol, but toward the nearest stack of crates. His hand extended, and shadows poured from his palm, thick and absolute, wrapping around Emma, Fey, Zoe, Dori in an instant.
