Serena turned slowly, her expression unreadable, eyes steady rather than defiant, and she said, “I don’t want trouble,” not as a plea, but as a statement of fact.
The first shove came without warning, a hard hand to her shoulder that knocked her back half a step, and in that instant something shifted in the space between them, not dramatically, not loudly, but in a way that made the laughter nearby falter and the music feel suddenly too loud.
Vex froze.
Not in fear.
In readiness.
“Control your mutt,” one of the soldiers sneered, his bravado rising as he noticed the dog’s focus, misinterpreting it as threat rather than discipline, “before it gets hurt.”
Serena didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t reach for the leash. She simply said, “Step away. Now.”
Instead, the same soldier swung again, his hand catching her across the face, the sound sharp and unmistakable, and this time the crowd reacted, not with intervention, but with distance, people instinctively pulling back as if they sensed that whatever came next would not be safe to stand near.
“Die now,” he hissed, close enough that she could smell the alcohol on his breath.
Vex lunged.
