The sun was starting to dip low, painting the sky in bleeding orange and ash. The air was too still. Marcel paced by the tree, hands trembling. He looked pale. Sweaty.
Then—
"Where is he?"
Silas's voice cut through the field like a blade. His footsteps were fast, unrelenting. His eyes were glowing with raw panic. Even from a distance, his pheromones hit like a crashing tide—thick, feral, charged with desperation.
Marcel spun around, nearly tripping. "My grace! I—He—My lord—"
"Where. Is. Lucein." Silas's tone dropped to a deadly growl.
Marcel swallowed hard, his throat clicking. "He was right here. After we checked the burnt warehouse, he said he needed something to eat. He sat down under this tree. This very tree. I told him to stay put. I told him not to move. I—he looked tired, and now—now he's just—he's gone, my grace, he's just—"
Marcel choked, eyes wide. "He promised he wouldn't go anywhere."
Silas's body went rigid.
Then, a low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest.
