It’s the first time I’ve seen him—really seen him—without the grinning menace, without the amusement or crude jokes or veiled threats. Just Kragna and his voice. And something about the quiet reverence of it knots my chest in a way I don’t like.
I curl deeper into the blanket they gave me. Smells like smoke and moss and something coppery. My ribs ache. Every joint throbs like I’ve been tumbled down a mountain. I probably have. Still, I close my eyes again. Let the sound cradle me.
It’s not safe. It can’t be safe. I’m surrounded by things that laugh about dismemberment.
But for a minute, I believe it is.
Then I hear the faintest twitch above my head. A sound like silk scraping bark.
My eyes snap open.
Charen’s perched on the limb of a nearby tree, tiny spidery body backlit by moonlight, spinnerets twitching furiously. Herweb glints between the branches, thin threads catching the light just right.
She’s spelled out something.
“Still think he won’t eat you, dumbass?”
I groan. Loudly. “Seriously?”
Her eight eyes blink in sync. “I’m just sayin’. Beautiful lullabies don’t mean you’re not food later.”
“Go to hell.”
“Ilivein the trees above it,” she chirps, then vanishes up into the foliage, muttering to herself.
I bury my face in the blanket and swear quietly. It doesn't make me feel better.
Kragna’s still singing. Unbothered. Unaware.
I lie there in the cold and the quiet, heart doing weird flippy shit in my chest, and I wonder—not for the first time—what kind of story I’ve stumbled into. And how the hell it ends.
But I don’t think I’ll get any answers tonight.
So I let the lullaby wrap around me like armor, and drift back into sleep, dreaming of lava-eyed trolls and spider-written insults.
And for once, no one’s chasing me.
Not even my memories.
4
KRAGNA
Sun’s not even above the mist yet, and I’m already elbow-deep in breakfast prep, cracking eggs the size of my fist and slicing up smoked root-bacon with a blade so sharp it hums. The coals sizzle and spit when the fat hits. I breathe it in deep—earth, smoke, grease, and that faint sweetness of crabapple mash still clinging to the air from yesterday’s distill batch. Damn fine way to start the day.
Veeto's snoring like a diseased billy goat by the firepit, limbs splayed like he’s been nailed to a drunken god. I toss a cooked mushroom cap at him. “You gonna help or you just gonna fart in your sleep until dusk?”
He snorts awake, wipes drool on his forearm, then blinks at me. “I was helpin’. Dreamed of a recipe. Requires a whole human thigh and a touch of rosemary.”
“Your obsession with stewing people is startin’ to feel less theoretical.”
Veeto scratches at his woolly belly. “Ain’t obsession. It’s tradition. Humans bring bad luck, Krag. Always have.” He jabs a stubby finger toward the slope. “You bring ‘er in, now what? Sheheals, she runs. Or worse, she don’t run. Starts wantin’ things. Like safety. Shelter. Gods forbid—conversation.”
I grunt, flipping the bacon. “And?”
“And then what? You lettin’ her build a nest under your ribs already?” Veeto narrows his eyes. “You’re softenin’, mate.”
I don’t answer. Not cause he’s wrong, but because I don’t fuckin’ know yet.
