The sun hadn't yet climbed far enough to matter, but the estate was already moving—quiet steps echoing across hallways and courtyards, servants brushing ash from the marble threshold where strategy had once been whispered too loudly. In the southern wing, the boys had gathered again, standing not as warriors prepared, but as survivors pretending to be.
Weapons rested where they had been placed the night before, gleaming faintly beneath low light that refused to settle. The chamber smelled of oil and polished steel, like readiness had a scent, and it followed them.
Milo pulled the last wrap across his forearm, gaze flicking toward Amari who stood near the open archway.
"So," he said, voice dry but expectant. "Do we have a target? Or are we improvising until someone screams?"
Amari didn't look back.
"I have someone."
He spoke without weight, almost conversational—like the name didn't carry consequence.
Maverick stepped in, strapping his tonfa across his back. "Who?"
