Marcus POV
Marcus slowed without signaling, letting the convoy behind him compress naturally. No sharp gestures. No commands. He had learned a long time ago that sudden authority spooked people faster than danger ever did.
His hand drifted to the hilt at his side, not drawing, not tightening. Just resting.
"Something's wrong," one of the younger scouts murmured behind him.
Marcus didn't answer immediately.
He crouched instead, pressing his palm to the dirt at the road's edge.
The ground was cold, colder than it should have been and faintly damp in a way that had nothing to do with weather.
Blood magic doesn't always announce itself.
Sometimes it settles.
He straightened slowly.
"Spread out," he said. "Quiet spacing. No flares."
That alone was already a deviation from Catherine's directive.
She had ordered consolidation. Tight formation. Visible authority.
But authority draws eyes.
