The scent of spilled vein-blood didn't travel up the grand stone staircases; it was carried by panic.
Silas was in the middle of a third toast to the northern scouts when the frantic, stuttering omega boy burst through the double doors of the Grand Hall.
The boy didn't walk; he slid onto his knees across the polished obsidian floor, his hands slick with dishwater and his face the color of winter curd. “Garm,” the child had gasped out, his chest heaving against his ribs. “The southern princess... in the scullery... she’s torn him open, Alpha.”
The laughter in the hall had died instantly, replaced by the sudden, metallic clicking of forty vanguard swords clearing their leather sheaths.
Silas hadn't drawn his blade. He had simply set his silver-rimmed horn down on the high table, a slow,
