Darius's men broke into whispers. Some thanked the gods. Others cursed. A few trembled so badly they dropped their weapons.
The mutants hissed. Dozens of them, restless now, uncertain. Their hunger warred with their fear, and Darius prayed silently that fear would win.
Maeven, however, only watched. The pale-haired man tilted his head slightly, lips curling in the faintest of smiles. He studied the hooded one with the patience of a collector deciding whether the specimen in front of him was genuine or counterfeit.
"You carry something," Maeven said at last, voice soft, lilting. "Something not yours."
The words tightened the air. Darius's skin prickled. His men looked at one another, lost, shaken.
The hooded figure gave no answer. Only the steady glow of those red eyes beneath shadow.
Maeven's smile widened by a hair. "How curious."
