"You cannot fight the end of the world if you smell like a swamp and last night's regret. Hygiene is the first defense against existential dread."
MARCUS POV
The strategy hall could wait. The Alpha King, Silas, and even the unsettlingly calm Seer Niko could wait. Because even a Beta who had just fought Team Hell spawn deserved not to smell like an old sock soaked in demon cologne, and we definitely needed clothes.
We made a detour, not to the servants' quarters, but to the rarely used private bathroom attached to the old guard barracks. It was functional, forgotten, and blessedly far from the main administrative halls. The room smelled like chlorine, damp stone, and desperation.
"Find anything that vaguely resembles clothing," I ordered, tossing a shoulder-stained shirt I had snatched from a laundry pile onto a nearby bench. "Gavriel, you grab the soap. Rell, stand guard and make sure no one wanders in to critique my war wounds."
