The servant froze, his breath catching in his throat. He turned slowly to see three elite Blackfang sentries standing at the entrance, their swords drawn and their nostrils flaring as they locked onto his scent. Beside them stood one of Lucien's northern sorcerers, his fingers already glowing with a faint, threatening amethyst light.
"You smell of the Southern bogs, traitor," the lead shifter growled, his upper lip curling back to reveal elongated, white canine teeth. "The pack-scent on your clothes is a week old. Who paid you to cross the ridge?"
The disguised servant let out a wild, bubbling laugh—a laugh that carried the exact, horrifying cadence of the late Viper. "Paid me? You think this is about gold, you wretched curs? The seed is already planted! The South will never bow to a monster!"
With a frantic motion, the servant lunged forward, attempting to dump the entire contents of the vial into the open hatch of the mead barrel.
