Ronan
My men stand stiff in the cold, the scent of agitation hanging heavier than the smoke from the torches. I don’t need Jace to tell me something is off.
The supplies are gone. Not misplaced, vanished. And the patrol routes are a mess. Routes overlap where they never should. Areas are left unprotected. Precise, deliberate lies are being circulated.
My gut says sabotage. My wolf says blood. But my head? My head reminds me that if I name it aloud without proof, I’ll split Blackthorn from within. That’s exactly the fracture our enemies would gorge themselves on.
I dismiss the patrol with clipped orders and carry the scent of deceit back into the heart of the keep.
Snow melts against stone and skin as I push into the hall, past wolves who look at me too long, then away too quickly. By
