Jareth's body tensed, instincts kicking in as his hand hovered near the baton clipped to his belt. That whistle wasn't random—it was a coded signal they had drilled during training. One long burst: possible threat, request for backup. His gaze snapped toward the source, where he caught sight of Mikel across the market square, one arm raised, waving urgently. The other clutched his baton, ready but restrained. Something was wrong.
Jareth didn't hesitate.
"Clear a path—official business," he called, weaving through the crowd as his boots pounded against the cobblestones. "Officers of the Law—move aside!"
The bustle of the market began to fade behind him, replaced by murmurs, widening eyes, and hurried whispers. Some vendors pulled their children close. Others simply watched in stunned silence. The image of an officer in a sharp, navy-blue uniform moving with such purpose—it was new. And deeply unsettling to some.
