Kasteil tapped his fingers lightly against his folded elbows, the motion rhythmic and restless. A thin stream of smoke curled from the cigarette between his lips, dissolving into the warm, heavy evening air outside the pack's private security compound. The parking lot was quiet—only a handful of matte-black cars and the distant hum of the city beyond the high perimeter wall. Sodium streetlights cast long, orange-tinted shadows across the concrete.
"I want you to look into Holland," he said.
The words landed like a dropped blade.
"What?" Elian and Nicholas turned to him in unison, surprise sharpening both their expressions.
Kasteil exhaled another slow plume of smoke. "You heard me."
Elian blinked twice, as if trying to reboot. "Because it's Holland."
