The challenge didn't come politely.
Mercenaries never bothered with polite when pride was on the line.
They gathered at the edge of the training yard in a loose, predatory knot of muscle and scavenged armor, weapons hanging easy in hands that had killed often enough to stop thinking about it. Their eyes didn't linger on Victor. Didn't linger on Voss. Didn't linger on Damien.
They kept sliding back to the woman standing at the yard's edge like she belonged there.
Victor noticed first.
He always did.
"Say it," he said calmly, stepping forward before the silence could curdle into something uglier.
The leader of the group rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and spat into the dirt. "We heard the stories," he said easily. "Figured we'd see for ourselves."
Voss tilted his head, expression mild. "See what?"
The man's gaze slid, unmistakably, to Felicity.
That was when Victor smiled.
Not friendly.
Not amused.
The kind of smile that came before bodies hit the ground.
