Logan's POV
We step out of the Selvorum Keep into late afternoon sun. It's warm and bright and so so glorious in the sky, the origin of a perfect day out, but it still feels like we're underwater. Like the throne room's chill clung to our skin and followed us out.
The light is harsh on the polished white stone of the grounds, making everything and everyone look like stains against it's clearness. Selvorum doesn't soften. Not even in the light. Lycans march in lines across the training field to our left, all in uniform—black combat fatigues. Their movements are so perfectly in sync it makes the skin on my arms crawl.
Farther down, a group of children—maybe eight, nine years old—are being drilled by a sharp-eyed instructor. Their feet slap the tile unevenly, their wooden practice rifles clacking against their shoulders with every misstep. One of the cubs, a boy with mousy hair and wide eyes, keeps glancing at us.
At me.
His eyes widen with something between awe and wariness.
