I frown. “I don’t need a key.”
I move toward him, kneel by his side, and wrap my fingers around the chain. It’s cold beneath my skin, but not for long. My magic answers instantly, green light threading up through my veins, pulsing just beneath the surface. The metal begins to shimmer, glow, then burn. I keep my hold even as the heat grows unbearable, until the chain melts away in a hiss of smoke and light, leaving only the cuff around his ankle.
And then it hits me. I didn’t do it for strategy or mercy. I did it to prove I could. That I wasn’t afraid.
Too late, I realize what that kind of pride invites.
He’s already on his feet, looming over me, chest heaving, fists clenched as if he’s fighting something inside himself. The room seems to shrink beneath his presence, the air pulling tight around us.
The fire still simmers at my fingertips, humming with warning. This isn’t what I wanted and I was a fool to ever believe this man could be anything but danger. My enemy.
But then, slowly, his hands ease open. He exhales through his nose, and lifts one toward me, not in anger, but in offering.
We don’t speak. We just look at each other, the moment stretching quiet and long between us. His eyes, usually so sharp, so cold, have gone still, their blue softening to a summer sky. As if they’re asking me to trust him. Just this once.
The fire fades. The light in my skin flickers and dies.
I place my hand in his.
His fingers close gently around mine, warm and sure, and he lifts me to my feet.
“So,” he says once I’m upright, voice light, “where’s the little bundle of joy?”
I nod toward the stairs, already moving. He follows without question, his footsteps trailing behind mine like a shadow I’ve willingly invited too close. I glance over my shoulder more than once, not out of fear, exactly, but disbelief. That I freed him. That I trusted him.
And yet… something deep within me whispers that no harm will come to her in his presence. He’s had a hundred chances to kill me. To leave me broken and bleeding in the name of Anethesis’ dream. But he didn’t. He chose otherwise.
We leave the brig and step into the gray light of day, crossing the deck toward the cabin. I pause at the door, pressing my palms flat against the wood. If I’m going to change my mind, return to reason, to safety, this is the moment. This is the last breath of sense before the descent.
But then I lift my gaze to Baev’kalath, shrouded in unnatural stillness. The silence of it sings louder than any scream. There’s no sign of Zyphoro. No flicker of Orios or Solena. No Reon. No husband.
I grip the handle and twist.
The door creaks open, and Ronin’s heavy steps follow me inside.
“It’s nice in here,” he comments, gaze sweeping the space. “Much drier than my quarters.”
I ignore him, walking straight to the crib where she sleeps, small and perfect and utterly unaware of the war outside her walls. My hand hovers above her chest for a moment, drawn by the rhythm of her breath. Then, I look back at him, standing just inside the threshold.
“If you harm her,” I say, my jaw tight, “I will do to your limbs what I did to that chain. Burn them off, one by one and I’ll make certain you stay conscious to watch every moment of it.”
His brows rise. “What a visceral image,” he murmurs. “But unnecessary, Jewel. You were right. I wish her no harm.”
He pauses. A flicker of curiosity crosses his face as his gaze shifts to the sleeping child.
“Her,” he says. “What is her name? I’d rather call her by that.”
My throat tightens. I glance down at the crib again. The truth, thick and bitter, rises in my chest.
“Youreallyhaven’t named her yet?”
I shoot him a look. “The last few weeks have not been generous. I’ve had other things occupying my mind.”
Ronin exhales, not unkindly. “Well, she needs a name.”
His eyes catch on the ribbon tied to the crib. A soft red, faded with time and memory.
“You used to wear that around your wrist,” he says, almost gently.
