I felt the eyes on the back of my neck as we made our way toward the keep.
Around us, the blood-red cloaks of the Sentinels moved like shadows through the wreckage, working silently, grimly—loading the bodies of soldiers and civilians alike. Those who’d just been in the wrong place. The wrong moment.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something. It all came down to that moment by the docks.
Who was watching me from the shadows? And why did it feel like those blood red eyes were something I had seen before?
A knot twisted low in my gut. I cursed the void in my mind where my secrets were kept.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Slade. He rode with his jaw clenched and his shoulders locked, gripping the reins with sheer will. Blood still seeped through the makeshift bandage at his side. He didn’t complain. He never did.
But I saw the strain in every line of him.
So did Leo.
He rode a little closer to Slade’s flank, just enough to catch him if he slipped—but not close enough to insult his pride. The quiet understanding between the two of them was strangely comforting.
I exhaled and turned forward again, but the tension stayed, humming just beneath my skin.
When we reached the gates, they opened automatically.
Slade refused help the whole way back to the apartment.
Every step was painful to watch. Blood dripped steadily down his side, but his jaw was clenched, and his eyes locked forward like he could will the pain away. Leo and I exchanged glances, but no one dared touch him unless absolutely necessary. He wouldn’t tolerate pity. Especially not in front of the waiting Sentinels.
Leo stayed close, pacing like a lion barely leashed. His golden eyes kept flicking to Slade’s side.
“I’m fine,” Slade muttered when we reached the heavy door to the apartment.
Leo snorted. “And I’m a unicorn.”
He pushed the door open, and we helped Slade inside despite his quiet curses. His bedroom wasn’t large, but it was solid—reinforced stone walls, minimal furniture, a forge-worn scent clinging faintly to the air. The shadows of his craft lived here, embedded into the space like the veins of iron.
A workbench stood against one wall, scattered with metal scraps and half-built constructs—tools of his trade. Blades, wires, and darksteel rings sat like quiet sentries. The bed was low and firm, the sheets plain.
Leo and I guided him there carefully, even as he resisted with every step.
“You’re going to make it worse if you keep being stubborn,” Leo warned. “Let us help.”
“I said I’ve got it.”
“Youdon’tgot it,” I snapped, stepping in to grab his arm as he stumbled sideways. “Now shut up and sit.”
He blinked at me, a flicker of something like surprise flashing behind his tired scowl, but he finally let himself drop onto the bed with a grunt.
Leo rolled up his sleeves. “We need to sew it. Unless you want to bleed out on your mattress like a dramatic bastard.”
“I’ll live.”
“Not the point.”
Slade glared, but didn’t argue. I fetched the needle and thread while Leo tore open the ruined shirt to expose the wound—it ran jagged across his ribs, already crusting at the edges. The metal that normally shimmered beneath his skin was dull and motionless, like even it was conserving strength.
Leo met my eyes. “Hold him steady. He moves, he’ll feel every damn stitch.”
I nodded, pressing my hand gently against Slade’s shoulder. He tensed under the contact, like he wasn’t used to being touched, but didn’t shove me off. Leo started to work, each pull of the thread neat and practiced.
“I thought metal slingers were supposed to be tougher than this,” Leo teased, just to break the tension.
