They went over the back wall in the gray three-minutes-to-dawn hush, five wolves moving like one wolf, and the strike began. Davyn had taught them the order. Branwen first, lightest, fastest, drop and clear. Then Davyn himself. Then the two larger wolves, Torrhen and Garrett. Theo last, the rear guard who would cover any retreat. The back wall was waist-high stone, easy. The space beyond it was the small kitchen yard of Senna’s compound, lit only by the dim gray of the dawn that had not quite arrived. Branwen dropped. Two breaths. Silence. The signal hand-twitch came back over the wall, clear. Davyn followed. Torrhen vaulted the stone and landed in a crouch, and the cold familiar focus of combat dropped over him the way it always had, a shutting-out of everything that was not the next thirty seconds. The kitchen yard. The door into the main building, ten paces. The smaller door into the outer hut, fifteen paces to his left. The single guard at the bench, who had just looked up from
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