What lay behind the bushes made, Isabella's skin crawl.
Two dozen armed men—all powerful, tense, and far too organized to be mere wanderers—lay crouched in the underbrush. Their dark eyes scanned the clearing beyond, weapons tight in hand, breath held. They were waiting.
From Fangridge City.
Isabella's heart stuttered. She took an instinctive step back, her mind already racing. What did I do? she thought wildly, pulse thudding in her ears.
"Eh... it can't be that serious," she muttered, a shaky laugh slipping from her lips as she turned to the others behind her. Maybe it was a misunderstanding, a coincidence—maybe—
But they weren't moving.
Not Kian. Not Luca. Not the guards. Not the five men.
Not even the wind.
Every figure stood frozen—like statues caught mid-breath, their expressions still and glassy, their limbs unmoving. Even the leaves overhead no longer swayed.
Isabella's breath caught in her throat.
No.
No—this wasn't fear anymore. This was wrong.
