“Before we get into that…” Aimee nodded at the blood. “Do me a favor, will you?”
Mira blinked. “A favor?”
Aimee lowered the blood-soaked shirt from where she’d been holding it against her cheek and flung it down beside the smear. She knew the wound had closed by now.
“Burn it.” She didn’t look away. “Burn it all.”
She felt lighter.
Mira knew everything now. Or…everything Aimee could remember. And somehow—Gods knew why—the woman had believed her. Or maybe she’d just decided not to reduce her to ash on general principle.
Either way, Aimee had walked away with her skin intact and the promise of no immediate execution. Which, by village standards, felt like a miracle.
She climbed the ladder slowly, one hand gripping the worn rope rung, the other steadying the sloshing bottle at her hip. Wind stirred around her, sweeping loose strands of hair across her cheeks as she crested the final platform.
It had been over four weeks since she’d arrived in the Hearth.
Over four weeks without battle or war.
Not quiet, exactly—there were always chores, drills, obligations—but peace. A steadiness she couldn’t remember ever having. And certainly not deserving.
Maybe…
Maybe there was a life for her here. A home.
The thought was absurd. Borderline reckless. But it settled heavily in her chest. Stubborn.
She tugged aside the flap at the top of the ladder.
“Kaz!” Her voice rang out into the dim interior. “I got a bottle of last year’s sake. Want to share?”
The word tasted strange.Home.
But she’d thought it. And now it echoed through her like a stone tossed down a well, disappearing deep into a place she rarely let herself touch.
Of course, the man would revel in the excuse to get her tipsy. He probably already had some smug comment lined up.
But the room stayed quiet.
There were no herbs scattered across the table, or clatter of mortar, or rush of water from the basin. No sarcastic jibe about her hair or absence of a shirt.
“Kazuma?”
She stepped farther in, eyes adjusting to the dark.
Nothing.
The blankets were undisturbed, and the small shelf of jars untouched. Even the air felt still.
Her shoulders sank as her grip on the flap loosened.
She already knew.
He was gone.
Chapter six
“Dammit,Kazuma.”
