He lifted a pair of field shears from the kit—swift, practiced—and in a single motion snipped the braid. Hair fell like a dark ribbon onto dust.

Gasps rippled—then vanished into the same rigid silence that swallowed every misstep on this ground.

Alara didn’t flinch. “Understood, sir.”

Marcus dropped the braid. “Next time, remember what respect looks like.”

He turned to move on—then froze.

Chapter 3 — The Badge That Shouldn’t Exist

Half-hidden within her collar, worn thin by time, was an emblem: a black hawk over a crimson sun.