The Following Morning in the Market District, Southern Wing
The streets of the capital buzzed with life. Hawkers cried out their wares, clattering carts rolled over cobblestones, and the scent of bread, smoke, and damp wool tangled in the early morning air. But beneath the noise, something shifted. The people spoke in quieter tones today. Of the rumors. Of the Blackthorne name returning to court lips. Of a girl who was unknown, silent-eyed at Lucien's side.
And someone was listening.
A figure leaned against a shaded column in a narrow alley, wrapped in a faded cloak, face partly obscured beneath the hood. He watched the movement of guards along the perimeter of the outer market, not the royal guard, but private security. Noticed the seal sewn discreetly into their sleeves.
Blackthorne.
The figure smirked.
So the wolf had begun to stretch its limbs again.
