There’s a beat of silence. Rizzo doesn’t even flinch. He just watches me, like he already knew.
Skeela’s brow twitches. “You’re sure?”
“I’m not a leader,” I tell them. “I’m a gun.”
Rizzo snorts. A dry, proud sound. “Hell of a gun,” he mutters.
The council looks uncomfortable. They don’t get it. Don’t have to.
Skeela nods once. “Then what will you do?”
I don’t answer right away. I glance past her—through the broken archway where the breeze cuts cold across my cheek—and I see him.
Kragna.
Sitting on a stone pillar like it’s a throne, shirt half ripped, eyes still bright even in the daylight. He looks out of place in this marble ruin full of polished speeches and desperate rebuilding. But he’s here. Waiting. For me.
I turn back to the council. “I’m going home.”
Rizzo raises an eyebrow. “And where exactly is that, soldier?”
I smile. Not the kind with teeth. The real kind. The rare kind.
I nod toward Kragna. “Wherever he is.”
We don’t leave right away.I want one last thing before we go.
We take the long way through Kyrdonis, past the market ruins, past the old watchtowers and shattered statues. The city’s healing, maybe. But I don’t want to watch it happen.
The inn is still standing. Somehow. The sign hangs crooked. Half the windows are boarded. But the door opens when I knock, and the old innkeeper stares like he’s seen a ghost—and maybe he has. I don’t say much. Just slide a few coins across the counter and point to the same room.
It’s still there.
Room Seven.
The walls still smell like dust and lilac wax. The bed creaks like it remembers us—soft in the middle, worn and warm with ghosts we both carry. It’s the same crooked curtain over the narrow window. The same stubborn draft slipping under the door. Everything is the same.
Except me.
He lights the candles—slow, deliberate. One by one. The flame glints off his curling golden horns, paints his iron-hued skin in amber light. I watch the shadows flicker across his chest, the carved muscles, the scars. His silhouette is still a beast’s, but his hands tremble.
So do mine.
When he turns, I’m already waiting for him. Heart pounding in my throat.
“Come here,” I say.
He does.
He crosses the room like it’s sacred ground. Every step heavier than the last. He doesn’t reach for me. Not yet. He waits, like I’m something holy, and he’s not sure he deserves to touch.
But I reach first.
I press my hand to his chest. Feel the heat under his skin. His heart, thunderous and real. I slide my palms up, cup his face—his wide, rough jaw, the gold strands tangled behind his ear.
His eyes—like lava—search mine.
And then he kisses me.
