I follow him through the wreckage of what was once a dining room. The walls bow inward, blackened beams creak overhead. Moonlight spills through holes in the roof, silvering the dust that hangs thick in the air. My boots crunch over broken crockery and glass. The stench of smoke, mildew, and unwashed bodies sticks to the back of my throat.
He stops by what used to be a window. The shutters are long gone, just jagged wood framing a view of the mist-thick fields beyond. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. His shoulders rise and fall, each breath heavy like he’s hauling a mountain with his ribs.
Then his voice comes low, rough. “We can’t hold.”
The words stab deeper than a blade. I knew it already. We all knew it. But hearing him admit it makes the ground tilt.
“Laertiez is pressing harder than we thought,” Rizzo goes on. His eyes fix on the fog outside, as if he can see the enemy moving through it. “He’s got numbers, weapons, sorcery, supply lines tighter than a drum. He can afford to bleed. We can’t.” He shakes his head, lines carved deep around his mouth. “We’ve got scraps and dying men.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Then what?”
“We cut him off at the knees before he crushes us,” he says. “Not here. Not in the field. Inside Kyrdonis itself. Strike where he thinks he’s untouchable.”
“Infiltration.” My throat is dry.
Rizzo finally looks at me. His eyes are sharp, too sharp, but there’s something trembling under the steel. “You’ve walked their streets. You know their ways. The language, the mannerisms. You blend in where the rest of my boys would stick out like bonfires.”
My gut twists. Kyrdonis. The city that caged me, paraded me, tried to sell me like meat. Going back feels like shoving my face into the fire that nearly burned me alive.
And yet…
“I’ll do it,” I say.
The words are out before I can second-guess them.
Rizzo studies me, his gaze heavy, searching for cracks. He doesn’t find any. He nods, once, short and sharp, like it’s settled.
“You’ll need backup,” he says.
The way he says it—it’s not concern. It’s a warning. His voice is sharp with implication. He already has someone in mind. One of his. Someone he can control.
But the thought of walking into Kyrdonis with one of them—these men who look at me like I’m a ghost or a prize—it curdles my stomach.
The silence grows ancient between us. And then I hear myself say it.
“Kragna.”
The air goes tight.
Even the boards beneath our boots seem to groan at it.
Rizzo blinks. His face goes still, carved into disbelief. “What did you just say?”
I lift my chin. My voice is steadier than I feel. “He comes with me.”
The words ripple through the farmhouse. Men stir from where they sit, rifles clutched tighter, eyes widening. Whispersignite—She’s mad. She’s compromised. A troll? With her?The sound swells, ugly and sharp.
And Kragna—Kragna is sitting near the back, still as stone, a whetstone in one hand, the broad curve of a blade in the other. His eyes flick up when my words reach him.
For a heartbeat, the world holds its breath.
Then his mouth curves. Slow. Dangerous. Amused.
“Trolls clean up well,” he says.
The words slide through the farmhouse like oil over water, slick and impossible to grasp. Some men bark laughter, sharp and disbelieving. Others spit into the dirt, muttering curses.
Rizzo’s jaw locks so hard I hear the grind of his teeth. His eyes cut to me like blades. “Do you understand what you’re saying?”
