Panic moved before orders could.
Marcus shouted—
"Fall back!"
Too late.
Because the war pack was already moving.
Not at the diplomats.
Past them.
Around them.
A black tide pouring toward the roads leading east.
Toward Blackmoor.
Toward the kingdom's inner defenses.
Toward the heart.
Marcus stood frozen for one impossible second watching two thousand elite wolves surge into motion like a living weapon unleashed.
And understood, with the clarity of disaster finally arriving—
The negotiation had ended.
The hunt had resumed.
The hunt did not carry far before desperation overtook pride.
It came first as horns.
Not war horns.
Recall horns.
Urgent.
Repeated.
From the Virelian lines behind the ruined square.
Marcus heard them and turned sharply.
So did Thessian.
The war pack had already begun to pour toward the eastern road, ranks moving with terrifying purpose, when movement broke at the far end of the square.
A convoy.
Fast.
Too fast for diplomacy.
