“Future… Luna?"
The word ricochets off stone and ribs. The square splits into gasps, laughter, and the kind of silence that sharpens teeth.
Zephyr doesn't move at first. Then he does a small, ugly laugh. “You?" He wipes blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “You would marry *her*?"
Kaelen doesn't blink. “Yes."
“She's a laundress with better nerves than sense," Zephyr scoffs, too loud. “A humble wolf who—"
“Who saved your city," Kaelen says, mild and unmovable. “Who cured your beds. Who told you no without raising her voice."
Mabel's smile rattles. “So dramatic. A plague ladle and a title? What a fairy tale."
“It's logistics," Kaelen replies. “And respect."
Alexander slams into Zephyr's skull. *Stop. You sound like a boy who lost a coin and blamed the street.*
“I do not—" Z
