“She means no harm,” Mrs. Erickson said, her voice soft, even soothing. “She’s the person I told you about—she’s the partner. She works for the Halls of Law. Look, you can see the tabard she’s wearing. It’s the Hawk. You might see similar tabards on other officers—usually Swords. It’s only the Wolf you might want to avoid.”

It bothered Kaylin that Mrs. Erickson was, in her gentle way, bad-mouthing the Wolves. If she’d been answering a question the young woman asked, it would be different.

Severn wouldn’t have cared. He certainly wouldn’t have corrected a harmless old woman. Given it was Severn, if his opinion had been sought at all, he might have agreed, or offered that friendly smile that never appeared to be the wall it actually was.

From Severn’s point of view, the Wolves being bogeymen was probably for the best; they were the Emperor’s final resort in dealing with dangerous criminals—criminals beyond the abilities of the Hawks and the Swords to safely and legally handle. The patina of fear or distrust the Wolves often engendered underlined their role: they were the last expedient of an angry Emperor. His executioners.

Except they were called his assassins. They were part of the reason people distrusted the Emperor. Well, that and if the Emperor truly lost his temper, he could set half the city ablaze without breaking a sweat. She considered the latter to be far more of a threat. The Wolves were the option before the Emperor really lost it. As such, they were the thin wall between Draconic fury and the people who, mostly mortal, occupied the city streets. They were valuable.

You didn’t like them either, that I recall. Severn had always been like this.

What, people aren’t allowed to change their minds? Kaylin did care about respect or, more pertinent, lack of respect. She had struggled most of her life to change that, to become more like Severn. So far, the attempts hadn’t been a raging success.

They are. You’re right about everything else. I know what we are and what we do—or did—and I see no reason to demand respect from people who don’t know.

Mrs. Erickson had, in the meantime, turned to Kaylin, a frown changing the contours of the lines time had etched in her face. The frown inched up her face as her silver brows drew together. “What is your pet doing?”

Kaylin lifted a hand to cover Hope’s mouth before the stream of squawking invective started. “He’s not exactly a pet,” she told Mrs. Erickson. “He’s a companion. A partner.” The squawking lowered in volume.

Mrs. Erickson’s expression changed to one of concern, which was ironic, given how often the old woman was on the receiving end of exactly that look. “Why is he holding his wing across your face?”