Everything was organized.
That was the first thing Ryn noticed.
They passed rows and rows of weapon racks, well-maintained and standardized, not the mismatched scavenger gear that Ryn was expecting from the patrols.
This hadn't felt like a ragtag group—it was an army.
Bloodmane soldiers moved through the space with ease, some sharpened blades while others sat on low benches, passing around dark glass vials to each other.
Ryn slowed.
One of the soldiers popped the cork with his teeth and downed the contents in a single swallow. He grimaced, shook it off, then flexed his fingers.
Veins darkened beneath fur.
Muscle tightened.
The change wasn't dramatic, but it was visible.
"…That's not alcohol," Fritz muttered.
"No," Ryn said quietly.
They kept walking.
Crates were stacked along the inner wall, all stamped with simple markings such as batch lines and dates.
