The King stared ahead as they moved.
Not at anyone in particular. Not at anything visible. His gaze fixed on the space before him, unfocused yet intent, as though he were watching something only he could perceive.
"Oh," he said softly, almost to himself. "I think that will change"
The words crawled across Raphael's skin. They itched. They pressed.
Whatever the King meant, was not good and the pack felt it.
They didn't ask him to clarify.
They led him onward instead.
The path took them to the wing designated for vampires a structure deliberately set apart, its stone darker, its corridors narrower, built long ago with containment in mind rather than comfort.
Raphael made the assignments himself, his decisions precise and intentional.
The King would stay in the room farthest from Victor's.
As far away as architecture would allow.
