toward the diplomats. Not toward the fallen. Past them. Around them. Through them. A black tide of muscle and fur and coordinated violence pouring into the streets leading east. Toward Blackmoor. Toward the inner defenses. Toward everything that had believed itself secure.
Their passage was not chaotic. It was surgical. Each wolf knew its place, its direction, its target. They did not collide. Did not hesitate. Did not slow.
Marcus stood still for one impossible second, watching it happen. Watching two thousand elite wolves move as one living weapon unleashed into a city that was not prepared to receive them.
The sound of their advance filled the square—the thunder of paws on stone, the scrape of claws, the low, vibrating growl that seemed to come from the earth itself.
And in that moment—clarity arrived.
Cold. Absolute.
The negotiation had not failed.
It had ended.
And the hunt had begun again.
The hunt did not carry far before desperation overtook pride.
