CHAPTER 79

The first sign was silence.

Not the natural quiet of night settling over a tired city, but the wrong kind—the absence of expected noise. No late tavern laughter drifting up the streets. No clatter of carts returning home. No distant arguments bleeding through thin walls. Even the guards’ boots along the outer walls sounded muted, swallowed by stone and fog, as if the city itself were afraid to make a sound.

It was the kind of quiet that came before something broke.

Draven felt it long before anyone spoke of it.

He stood at the eastern watchtower, one hand resting on the cold stone parapet, eyes fixed on the dark horizon beyond the city walls. His wolf paced beneath his skin, restless, hackles raised, senses stretched thin. The wind carried too little—no rot, no fire, no living movement. No birds stirred in the trees. No insects sang. Only the faint, metallic tang of disturbed magic clung to the air, sharp enough to scrape the inside of his lungs when he breathed.

Predators knew this s