“For when you can’t sleep,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
My throat tightens.
He saved me. Fought for me. Made music for me.
I reach out and take it, my fingers brushing his. There’s warmth in that touch. A slow, steady heat that pools in my chest.
And for the first time in years, I feel something I forgot I could.
Safe.
6
KRAGNA
Sleep doesn’t come easy after blood. Not for trolls. Not for me.
When it finally does, it comes in the shape of war.
I dream of the clang and scream of iron, the thunder of giants meeting on open fields. I dream of Derga’s laugh—low, wicked, sharp enough to cut—and the way her axe sang through elf flesh like music. I dream of the moment her chest split under a cursed blade, black fire eating her from the inside out while I tore the world apart around her and still couldn’t put her back together.
The dream ends in fire. Always does.
I wake with a growl locked in my throat, sweat cold on my skin. My claws have sunk into the earth beside me, carving deep furrows in the moss.
And she’s there.
River’s curled against my side, her breath steady, warm as embers. Somewhere in the night she stole most of my blanket, leaving me half-covered and shivering. But I don’t move. Don’t pull it back. I just watch her sleep, her dark hair loose across her cheek, lips parted, hands tucked close like she’s finally let go of the world.
It hits me harder than any axe swing.
This isn’t the battlefield. This is something else. Something I’m not ready for and maybe never will be.
Dawn comes bleeding through the canopy, soft and gray. When she stirs, I’m already up, packing the satchel. I keep my face blank, my voice casual. “Eat. Then we move.”
She doesn’t argue. That’s new. Less barbs, more silence. But the silence between us now isn’t cold. It’s heavy. Charged. Like we’re both listening to something neither of us dares name.
We travel in that silence, through mist-wrapped trees and gullies slick with moss. My hooves sink deep in the loam, her boots whispering over the ground like she’s part shadow. Every now and then, our eyes meet. She looks away first, always. But not before something sparks there. Something that lingers.
By midday, the mist thins, and I lead her up a narrow deer path that climbs higher, the forest thinning into a ridge. The air sharpens, carrying the tang of old stone, old iron.
And then we see it.
The bones.
White and broken, scattered across the field like discarded dice. Some tangled in vines, others piled where time and weather dropped them. Troll skulls big as barrels, ribs like sun-bleached sails rising from the wildflowers. The flowers have grown tall, purple and yellow, winding themselves lovingly through sockets and jaws. Life clinging to death like it refuses to let go.
River stops dead. Her voice is hushed. “Gods.”
I walk among them. Slow. Careful. My chest feels tight. My breath catches.
She follows, watching me, but doesn’t speak. She knows. Somehow, she knows this isn’t just a battlefield. It’s a grave.
I crouch beside a half-collapsed skeleton, fingers brushing the stone-cold curve of a horn. Derga’s horn. I remember itsnapping when she fell. I remember holding her, promising I’d find a way to bring her back, even though I knew better.
I don’t say her name. Don’t speak the memory aloud. Trolls don’t waste words on ghosts.
But River’s eyes are on me, and I can feel her question unasked.
