The capital smelled different.
Every man in the squadron carried it — that particular quality of city-born arrogance that clung to pressed cloaks and polished boots the way perfume clings to imported silk.
They'd been riding since dawn and they still looked like they'd descended from somewhere elevated, their horses well-bred, their formation tight, their eyes moving across Millbrook's main street with the specific sliding assessment of people evaluating something they hadn't expected to find.
Seven of them.
Division agents of the crown prince's intelligence arm, officially designated as 'hunters' — tracker-specialists, the kind that didn't appear on official rosters and answered questions about their unit assignment with polite deflection. The kind sent when the crown prince Leo wanted information gathered without the information knowing it was being gathered.
Their leader rode slightly ahead.
