The Rangers snarl.
The elves lean back.
Skeela smiles. Bared teeth. “Then prove it,” she says.
That’s when the sconces flicker and the racket of conflict drifts from the streets—reminders that outside these walls, war hasn’t drowned yet.
I taste smoke again.
The tension crackles around us. To be an envoy here is to walk on ice over a chasm. One wrong breath and we fracture the fragile peace.
I grip Kragna’s hand through the wooden table. I taste grit and trust and silent vows.
Skeela’s voice leads us from trade to border terms, from neutrality in magic laws to shared patrols. The gap between hope and ruin is still narrow. Our steps across it feel like dragging a storm behind us.
When the meeting breaks, candles gutter, shadows stretch and fold. I step outside into the enclave courtyard. Human soldiers cluster around crates of rice and blankets, bored and still trembling from the thunder of diplomacy. A few elven guards slip past with silent grace, eyes tracking us.
I breathe deep. The night presses against my lungs. I hold onto a sliver of breath, fragile as spun glass.
Kragna rounds the wing of the chamber, cloth bandage dipped in blood but face calm. I step to him.
“We’re not safe,” I murmur.
“No,” he says, thumb tracing my hand. “But we’re needed.”
I lean into his side, feeling the tremor in his shoulder.
The enclave sleeps in guarded silence, but my heart hums with the clashing edges of truce. Diplomacy is prettier than war—but war’s shadow drips onto the silk nights, slick and insistent.
I swallow.
This is the beginning of cracks.
But I’ve known cracks before. And I marched through them with claw and bullet.
I’ll walk alongside this one until the peace holds or breaks—not shirking with souvenir medals, but roaring with every breath I’ve earned.
And after today’s meeting, I’m still breathing.
Still fighting.
Still a soldier, just in softer armor.
The feast is litby candlelight that flickers warm as blood, softening the edges of fear and brokenness. Skeela’s table—intricate tapestries of elven silk stitched around war maps—groans under roasted meats, spiced stews, honey wine in goblets that catch the light like embers.
I spoon a savory broth, spices lingering on my tongue like memories of healing. The scent of roasting game is rich, heady—rosemary, charred onion, garlic. It’s a luxury after months of stealth and survival, reminding me what we’re fighting to protect.
Across from me, Kragna sits straighter than I’ve seen in ages. His bandages are clean, but the tension still radiates from his shoulders. His eyes flick to me in the lamplight. Steady. After the meeting’s tremor, this quiet meal feels like a moment stolen from fate.
The air hums with polite conversation. Skeela and Rizzo broker alliances—words dipped in courtesy over cracked stone floors. Yet I am calm. Beside me, Kragna rests a hand on my thigh, thumb probing gently. I draw comfort from that touch—rock in the river, simple and real.
The food hits me like a prayer. Salted meat, charcoal fat, stewed berries. The taste of home. My ribs ache, not from injury, but from gratitude. I lean into Kragna just a fraction.
He brushes my hair back, lips soft at my ear. “You look like you’re finally breathing.”
“I am,” I whisper. “For the first time in months.”
We eat in silence. Not awkward—comfortable. The war clangs on in the halls, but here, there’s peace on our tongues.
