But as we leave, I glance back and see her watching us through the crack in the curtain. Eyes sharp. Jaw set. Like she’s already waiting for the knock at the door that’ll never ask questions—only take.
And I know.
I just painted a target on her back.
We don’t talk much on the way back.
The streets curl in on themselves the closer we get to the inn, like even the stones know better than to listen. The sky hangs low and heavy, dusk smearing the alleys with bruised light. My shoulders ache from more than just walking.
Kragna’s quiet—but not the good kind. He’s coiled, jaw tight under that hood. I catch the edge of his glare in a puddle we pass, stormcloud eyes burning holes in the reflection like he could erase the whole damn city just by scowling hard enough.
By the time we hit the inn’s rotting steps, his silence feels like a scream.
He shuts the door behind us with more force than necessary. The latch clatters. Dust shivers from the rafters. I drop my satchel by the chair, unstrap the knives at my hips, and stretch my neck until something pops.
He still hasn’t said a word.
“You gonna explode or keep brooding like a moody cathedral statue?” I ask, peeling off my coat.
Kragna turns slowly. There’s a tightness in his eyes I’ve only seen once or twice—right before he kills something. But he’s not looking at a threat. He’s looking at me.
“You didn’t tell me,” he says.
I blink. “Didn’t tell you what?”
“Everything.” His voice is rough, low, like gravel soaked in old blood. “The danger. How bad it really is. You walked me through Lowtown like it was a tour, River. Like we were sightseeing while your ghost bled in the corners.”
I scoff. “And what? You want me to spell it all out for you? Would that make you feel better?”
“Yes.”
That stops me.
He steps forward, shrugging off his hood. His hair’s a mess, face shadowed from the dim lamplight. But those eyes—fuck, those eyes burn.
“Because every time you keep me in the dark, it means you’re planning to go down alone.”
I stare at him. “Maybe I am.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?”
“You think I followed you here to watch youdie?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting copper. My fists ball at my sides. “You think this is about dying? This is about not dragging you down with me.”
He laughs—harsh and bitter. “Too late for that, love.”
The word shouldn’t hit the way it does.
I don’t move. Can’t.
He’s in front of me now, chest rising hard, breath warm where it hits my cheek. I smell the city on him—ash and sweat and something deep beneath, something that smells like the forests we slept under weeks ago. Freedom and war.
“You think I don’t see it?” he growls. “The way you flinch when someone looks too long. The way you freeze when a brand shows up. You live every second like a trap’s about to spring.”
“Because it is!” I snap.
