The Stray Moon
The wolf in me wants to bare its own teeth, but I clamp down, show nothing but boredom.
Then, out of nowhere, Mira materializes at my side. She’s silent as a rumor, no tray this time, just her hands empty and held low in deference. She steps between us—not fully blocking, just enough to make the warrior shift his weight back a fraction.
“I’ve got it,” she says, eyes on the bowl, not the men. “Protocol says kitchen staff clears for containment cases.”
Scarface makes a show of considering it, then shrugs as if the whole thing bores him. “You hear that, Stray? Even the dish pigs are smarter than you.”
Bab Populer