A procession of wagons rattled along the muddy road, lanterns bobbing like fireflies in the dusk. Marin Ashveil sat inside a barred wooden cage at the rear of Elias's personal carriage, the toddlers tucked in blankets beside her. Rain-soaked banners snapped overhead, and the road ahead was lined with speared wolf skulls—grim warnings to wayward rebels.
Elias Bloodmoor rode alongside, one hand on the reins, the other absently drumming against the leather pommel. His crimson eyes flicked to Marin through the lattice bars.
“Are they still asleep?" he called over the splatter of wheels.
Marin leaned forward, voiceless throat flexing. She tapped first her throat, then her palm—they rest—and pointed at the small forms curled in blankets.
Elias exhaled. “Good. No need to wake them." He frowne
