(Damien POV)
The first sign was the silence.
Not the peaceful quiet that had settled over Blackspire these past weeks — the kind that came from children laughing in the bailey, hammers striking new timber, wolves speaking in low voices instead of snarling. This silence was wrong. Too sharp. Too deliberate.
I felt it the moment I stepped out of the council chamber in the east wing.
The corridor ahead — usually busy with trainees carrying herbs, healers moving between rooms, young wolves practicing forms in the open gallery — was empty.
No footsteps.
No murmured conversation.
Just the soft hiss of torches and the distant clatter of the kitchens far below.
My shadows stirred instinctively — thin ribbons curling at my boots, tasting the air.
They tasted fear.
And blood.
I moved — fast, silent — hand already reaching for the short blade at my hip.
