Elsewhere, far from the registration hall, in the inner district, a man sat alone.
The room was quiet, built high above the city, its windows open to the morning air. No guards stood inside. None were needed.
The man leaned back in his chair, one hand pressed against his forehead. His fingers lingered there, rubbing slowly, as if easing a familiar tension.
A dark patch covered his left eye, the leather worn smooth from years of use. The strap disappeared into short, unstyled hair threaded with silver. His remaining eye was sharp and steady, missing nothing as it watched the city below.
"Again," he muttered.
Across from him, an attendant stood rigid, hands clasped behind his back. He had already delivered the report once. He knew better than to repeat himself unless asked.
"A high-grade core," the man said at last, eyes still closed. "Born in the Shrouded. Of all places."
He exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a quiet laugh.
"One brother leaves the city to sharpen his blade," he continued. "The other leaves to stand watch over a Scar."
He shifted slightly, the patch catching the light as he turned his head.
"Both of them gone," he said quietly. "And the moment they step away, the balance slips."
He rose and walked to the window, resting one hand against the stone frame.
"Where is the boy now?" he asked.
"At the registration building," the attendant replied. "No handler assigned yet. Lord Cilian and Lord Maelor are both outside the city."
"Of course not," the man said. "Timing was never their strength."
"If Cilian moves openly, Maelor will respond," he said. "If Maelor moves first, the Council fractures. Either way, blood spills where it shouldn't."
He paused.
"And the boy becomes the excuse."
The attendant hesitated. "Lord Remus… should we intervene?"
The man's fingers tightened briefly on the window frame.
"Yes," he said. "And no."
He turned back slowly.
"The child must live," he continued. "That much is non-negotiable. If he dies now, we gain nothing. Only problems."
The attendant nodded.
"But," the man added, his tone unchanged, "we can't anger Cilian either, so the boy cannot remain where he is."
Silence followed.
The attendant shifted slightly. "You mean—"
The man met his gaze.
He did not answer with words.
He only gave a small, deliberate nod.
Understanding flickered across the attendant's face.
"I'll make the arrangements," the attendant said. "Discreetly."
"Good," the man replied. "Enough supplies to survive, not enough to be comfortable."
He turned back toward the window.
"And make sure the information reaches the right ears at the wrong time," he added. "If they believe the boy is already lost, they'll hesitate. If they hesitate, he has time. Also, make sure the boy knows who helped him."
The attendant bowed and left without another word.
The man remained where he was, watching the city flicker with shadows.
"Survive," he said quietly, to no one in particular.
*******
Ivor remained seated inside the building, counting seconds without moving his lips. Nearly three hours had passed.
The people who had been present when he first arrived were long gone, replaced by others who lingered briefly before leaving as well. The space never emptied, but it never stayed the same either. Faces changed. Footsteps shifted. The rhythm of the hall continued without pause.
So he did what he always did.
He watched.
He noticed several unawakened among those who passed through and wondered why they were allowed within the inner district rather than confined to the Shrouded. They moved differently from the laborers he knew, cleaner, more composed, their presence accepted without question.
He saw children close to his age wearing armor sized for their frames, weapons strapped across their backs or held at their sides. Their bodies were trained, their posture straight. Even without understanding how, he could feel strength in them when they passed.
One pattern stood out more clearly than the rest.
People of the Vladiric family rarely spoke unless necessary. When they did, their voices were low and brief. Most wore black or dark brown, layered and functional, blending into the city's muted palette as if the clan and the streets had been shaped together.
But it was the woman behind the desk who drew his attention again.
At some point, she had quietly dismissed Oren. Ivor had seen it clearly. The man had paused, turned his head just enough to look back at him, and then left without a word.
Since then, the woman had not looked at Ivor even once.
She continued her work. She spoke to others. She moved papers and marked ledgers. But her gaze passed around him every time, as if he were no longer meant to exist in the room.
Ivor noticed all of it.
For much of that time, his hand remained inside his bag, fingers wrapped tightly around the dagger his father had given him. He didn't draw it. He didn't loosen his grip either.
He weighed his options in silence.
Stay and wait, as instructed.
Or leave.
The longer he sat there, the more the pressure behind his eyes began to stir, faint at first, then slowly tightening as his thoughts circled back to the same conclusion.
His instincts were muttering something was wrong.
And the building, for all its order and quiet, no longer felt like a place meant to keep him safe.
Ivor became aware of the thinning crowd slowly.
People weren't leaving all at once. They were being redirected, one by one. A word spoken low. A hand gesture. A subtle shift in movement that guided them away from the benches near him and toward the exits. The space around him widened without anyone acknowledging it.
He adjusted his posture, straightening slightly, his gaze lifting just enough to track the change.
Then the doors at the far end of the hall opened.
A young hybrid wolf stepped inside.
Lean build. Hairs falling to his nape. A collar rested around his neck, thin but reinforced, its surface etched with suppression runes.
He walked with quick, uneven steps, eyes sharp and unfocused at the same time.
He went straight to the desk.
"This isn't what we agreed on," the hybrid snapped, his voice tight. "You said transfer. You said inspection only."
The woman behind the desk didn't look up at first. She continued writing, her pen moving steadily across the page.
"Your assignment was changed," she said calmly. "You were notified."
"I wasn't," the hybrid growled. "You're lying."
Ivor felt the pressure behind his eyes stir.
The hybrid's breathing had changed. Too fast. Too deep. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers twitching as if struggling to stay still.
Ivor shifted his weight.
His hand slipped fully into his bag, fingers closing around the dagger. With his other hand, he loosened the strap, letting it slide free from his shoulder.
"You need to calm down," the woman said, finally lifting her gaze. Her voice remained level, unhurried. "You're still inside city limits."
The hybrid laughed sharply.
"Then you shouldn't have brought me here."
The collar flared.
His aura surged violently around his body, wild and unshaped. His spine arched as his bones cracked and lengthened, muscles swelling beneath tearing fabric. His face twisted, jaw extending, teeth lengthening into a snarl as fur burst through his skin.
The transformation was fast. Violent. Wrong.
The woman pushed back from the desk just as claws slammed into the stone surface, splintering wood and sending shards flying. The wolf reared back and roared, the sound ripping through the hall and bouncing off the walls.
Its eyes swept the room.
Not in panic.
In selection.
They locked onto Ivor.
The wolf snarled and lunged, crossing the distance in a blur of motion, claws scraping stone as it rushed straight toward him.
Ivor rose from the bench as the dagger came free in his hand.
The decision to leave or stay was made for him. He was too late.