My hackles rose.
Dane swallowed. “Understood.”
The radio clicked off.
I backed into the trees without a sound, heart hammering. I needed to get back to the others.
They needed to know this too.
I turned and ran, cutting a straight line through the forest back toward the outpost.
CHAPTER 8
Three years ago…
London
Bishop Hale
I learned how to mask my thoughts with a smile at a young age.
The son of a Minister of Parliament doesn’t get the luxury of honesty, not in public anyway. I learned the shape of approval early: how wide the smile should be, how long eye contact should be to be polite but not challenging, how to nod like I agree even when I didn’t understand the question. I learned how to hold a glass I didn’t intend to drink from and how to laugh at jokes that weren’t funny because the wrong reaction could cost a manhis career.
Or his life.
The gala was being held in what used to be the Royal Conservatory, its glass dome still intact, reinforced with steel ribs that gleamed under the lights like a cage dressed up as a crown. White banners hung from the balcony rails, emblazoned with London’s city crest on the ends.
Music drifted through the air, a string quartet playing something old and soothing, the kind of piece chosen specifically to make people believe that civilization was not only alive but thriving. The scent of polished wood, expensive cologne, and rationed wine blended together, making my head spin just a little.
I stood at my father’s side, immaculate in a tailored suit that cost more than most families earned in a year, my posture perfect, my expression composed. I nodded when he spoke. I shook hands when he gestured. I saidyes, Ministerandof courseandit’s an honor, the words chalk dust in my mouth.
“You’re quiet tonight,” my father murmured without turning his head.
“I’m just listening,” I replied.
That earned me a faint smile. It always made me feel good to earn his approval.
Across the room, the men and women who shaped London’s policies clustered in small groups, their conversations carried in low, confident tones. These were the architects of the city as it was now. They spoke of trade routes and containment zones, of population stability and resource management. And of wolves in the same way one might speak of a disease.
I had heard it all before.
Then the room shifted. It was subtle—just a ripple, really—but it was obvious to someone like me. Conversations paused. Spines straightened. A few heads turned toward the entrance.
Lord Marcus Ashcroft had arrived.
He didn’t need to announce himself. He never did.
Ashcroft moved through the room like he had his own sense of gravity. He was tall and silver-haired, his presence bending attention toward him without effort. He wore no uniform, no insignia beyond a simple pin on his lapel of London’s crest, understated and unmistakable.
My father leaned slightly toward me. “Watch him,” he said quietly. “That is what real power looks like.”
I did. I always did.
Ashcroft spoke to a woman near the entrance first, Lady Renshaw, head of internal security, then moved on, collecting nods and murmured greetings like trophies. He didn’t linger. He didn’t waste time.
He passed close enough that I caught his voice as he spoke to my father.
“Minister Hale,” Ashcroft said smoothly. “A pleasure, as always.”
