I don’t move.
I watch her a long time, firelight painting her in gold and shadow. My chest tightens, not with hunger, not with lust. With something colder, heavier.
Fear.
Not of her. Not of what she is.
Fear that I’m already too deep.
9
RIVER
At first, it feels good. Too good. The farmhouse buzzes with the hum of voices, boots scuffing across the floor, rifles cleaned by hands moving on instinct. My people—what’s left of them—call out greetings, slap my back, tug me into half-hugs that smell of sweat and cordite.
“You’re back,” one man says, grin cracked but wide. “Hell, we thought you were gone.”
“River fucking Majors,” another laughs, shaking his head. “Unkillable.”
They talk like they mean it, like it’s joy and relief. But underneath, I hear the note that grates—the way they say my name like it’s become a legend, like I’m a relic dragged out of a grave. Not a soldier standing in front of them. Not a woman still breathing.
I smile back anyway. My cheeks ache from it.
It’s better than their pity.
The fire burns low in the hearth, casting long shadows against the walls. Men pass bottles, cracked jokes, whispers too low for me to catch. It should feel like home, like slipping backinto the skin I shed when the mountains tried to eat me alive. But it doesn’t. Not quite.
They don’t touch me the way they used to. They touch me like I’m breakable. Like I might shatter if they press too hard.
I take a seat near the corner, rifle across my knees, and watch them. It feels like I’m outside looking in, pressed against the glass of something I used to belong to.
Kragna keeps to the edges, looming like a storm cloud no one dares test. His presence gnaws at them—they glance at him and look away, fingers tightening on rifles. But it’s not just him. It’s me too. The way they look at me, like I’m half ghost.
Rizzo drifts from man to man, muttering orders, offering claps on shoulders. When he passes me, I catch his sleeve.
“We found scouts,” I tell him. “Elves. Four dead.”
His eyes flicker. He doesn’t ask how. Doesn’t ask what it cost me. Just nods, once, quick and sharp. “Good.”
Then he moves on.
Like it doesn’t matter. Like they weren’t the same bastards who tore my squad to pieces.
I sit there, throat tight.
The laughter around me feels hollow, tinny, like someone banging spoons on a pot. I sip from a flask passed my way, the burn harsh, the warmth empty. The men joke about Veeto’s horns, about Kragna’s size, about River the unkillable. All of it clangs false in my ears.
There’s something here. A shadow under the words. Plans whispered when I’m not listening. Glances traded over my shoulder.
Secrets.
I can feel them like grit in my teeth, sharp and bitter.
I want to ask. I want to stand and shout until they tell me. But I don’t. Because I already know how it’ll go. They’ll pat my shoulder, call me girl, tell me not to worry.
And that would hurt worse than silence.
So I sit there, jaw clenched, forcing the burn of liquor down my throat. My eyes stray to Kragna, who watches me with that bold stare that sees too much. He doesn’t ask either. He doesn’t have to.
