---
The first thing that changed was the smell.
Not the smell of spilled wine or crushed dust or sweat from earlier violence. This was different. This was old. The air itself tasted like iron and winter, like a throat remembering what it had swallowed.
Alex's gaze did not leave Sekhmet. He took another step forward, slow enough to look polite, heavy enough to feel like a wall sliding into place. Sofia's silver hair caught the lantern light as she rolled her shoulders once, and Natasha's black eyes remained flat, the kind of flat that came from having killed too many things to care about one more.
Elena did not retreat. She did not raise her voice. "Last warning," Elena said, tone calm. "Leave…"
Sofia smiled as if she had been offered dessert. "You are brave," she murmured. "Or foolish. We will only leave with him."
Natasha's voice stayed cold. "Give him to us."
