She knows it before it happens.
Can smell it, even.
That sick, cloying wrongness.
The taste of rot on the air—like mold blooming in the walls, just out of reach behind the scent of blood and sweat and damp stone.
Something’s wrong with the pack.
No—someone.
Someone’s cracking.
No—rotting.
Three failed patrols in one week.
An eastern gate left open for thirty seconds longer than protocol.
One sentry found disemboweled in a supply tunnel—with no signs of struggle.
Nothing was stolen. No enemy prints.
Only the smell of silver and betrayal.
And Kade?
Kade just shrugged.
“Must’ve been rogue scavengers.”
But Vera saw the lie in his eyes. Not fear. Not concern.
Smugness.
The kind that comes when a man thinks he’s already won.
Rael doesn’t want to hear it.
Not the first time.
