TALIA They hauled me into the yard at first light, and the first thing I noticed was the number. Thirty. I counted twice. It was the only thing I could do with my hands bound. Thirty wolves standing in rows in the churned snow. Not wolves, not really. Men in the shape of men. Arms at their sides. Not one of them spoke. Not one scratched at his beard or stamped his feet against the cold or looked up at the sky. They stood like cut timber waiting for the wagon. Their breath rose all at once. Thirty white threads in the freezing air, in and out together, like one chest was breathing for all of them. The yard stank of frost and pitch. And underneath it, the smell I had learned to hate — sour, sharp, wrong. Compulsion. Drago walked the line. He was built like a door, head shaved clean, a heavy grey wool coat buttoned to his throat. His hands were loose at his sides. Unhurried. At each man, he stopped and pressed his thumb hard into the inside of the wrist. Just one press. Like a bak
Huling Na-update : 2026-11-02
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