The beast did not speak in words.
It never had.
It moved through Kaelen in currents of sensation and certainty, older than language, older than the palace stone pressing against his boots. As he left the prince's chamber, the corridors of the royal palace stretching cold and torch-lit around him, the presence inside him uncoiled with deliberate, predatory awareness.
'Threat.'
The recognition was immediate and absolute. Theron's scent still clung to the air in Kaelen's memory, polished silk, expensive oils, and beneath it something sour and hungry. The beast catalogued it the way a wolf catalogues a rival: posture, strength, intent. Not the strongest predator in the room. Not even close. But clever. Patient. The kind that waited for larger hunters to lower their heads before it struck.
