Xavier's hand moved instinctively toward his dagger as the figure's head completed its turn. The grinding sound of ice against bone echoed across the square like breaking glass. Those empty sockets held his gaze with an intelligence that made his skin crawl—this wasn't some mindless beast driven by hunger or territorial instinct. This thing was thinking.
"Nobody move," he whispered, though his voice carried further than intended in the dead air. "Back behind the nearest wagon. Slowly."
The caravan retreated, boots crunching softly on the ice-slicked cobblestones. Xavier kept his eyes locked on the figure while Smoke sidled toward the frozen market stall that would provide the most cover. The horse's muscles trembled beneath the saddle, ready to bolt at the first sign of violence.
Dalen appeared at Xavier's shoulder, his weathered face pale but steady. The caravan master had survived three decades of winter roads by knowing when to fight and when to run.
