Thessian's eyes flicked back to him. For a brief moment, something unreadable passed there—not warmth, not recognition. Something older. Something that might have been, in another life, acknowledgment.
Then it was gone.
"You should run."
The words came quietly. Almost gently. Not as a threat. As fact. The way one might tell a stranger that the bridge ahead was out.
Then he turned.
And began to walk.
Not quickly. Not with urgency. Without looking back. As though what needed to be decided already had been, and the movement was merely formality.
---
Marcus stood there, watching him move away, the shape of understanding locking into place piece by piece.
If he left this square now—he would not return to wait. He would not reopen negotiation. He would not offer another chance. He would move. Toward the city. Toward where he believed she was held. Toward the center. Toward the heart. Toward everything they had tried to protect by hiding her.
And the wolves—
