He twists the head, ivory bone gleaming. “The vampires choose a side,” he says. “For now. War is profitable. But peace… peace has better markets.”
Rattles of unease drift through the gathered. Elves shut their mouths. Humans tighten grips on ribbons. River’s fists clench by her side. Her jaw moves in silent prayer.
“We need wounds,” he continues, voice soft. “To bargain. But gold comes easier when everyone’s softened by bread.”
I sip the ale, letting its sour comfort anchor me. This… this is dangerous. A warning painted in severed flesh and markets.
Skeela stands then, ruby-eyed. “This won’t break me,” she says. “It might bend our enemies. But it won’t break me.”
Rizzo spits indignation: “We won’t be blackmailed, not by corpses or cunning.”
River steps forward, voice measured but fierce. “That blade was meant for her,” she says, pointing at Skeela, “not for spectacle. This is no alliance unless we protect each other.”
I watch her—River, the girl who walked from the ash-walls of a slave pen to stand in hallways where nations bend and snap. I taste pride and fear. She is fire shaped into power.
The room erupts in discourse—elves cry over ruined trust, humans demand guarantees, Rizzo calls for patrols, supplies, orders. Words slam like shields turned steel.
I stay quiet, watching. My jaw unclenches. River parries, bends steel with speech. She is better than contract or blade.
Cervantes leans near Skeela. Blood still drips from his fingers. “The vampires”—he pinches his hand as if dropping coin—“will profit from whichever side pays.” He glances at me, voice amused. “I watch markets, dear predator.”
I tune him out—his promises snake through air, beautiful lies.
Rizzo’s turned red. “You can’t profit from war and peace—that’s not loyalty.”
River strikes through the tension word by word. “We can’t afford war. Not here. Not anymore.”
Debate fractures the hall. I sip more ale. I taste sweat, fear, and resolve. I taste River.
When the meeting fractures, I follow River to the courtyard lit by rare moon and lamp. Conversation trickles behind us. Guards shift, weary. The air tastes of smoke and grit.
I step close. “You changed that room,” I say quietly.
She exhales slow smoke. “We nearly lost her.”
“So that’s… worth something.” I feel strange, more predator than prince.
River rests her head on my chest. “You know what you are—protector, not diplomat.”
I let my hand rest on her back. “Someone needs to keep feeding the peace.”
She laughs—a fragile sound lost in the courtyard night. “Don’t worry. I’ll take repair instructions from the predator you are.”
We stand, bodies pressed together, and I realize I’m afraid in that ache where love lives.
We move inside. Lanterns flicker. Peace still feels perilous.
But River stands fierce and untamed—a flame shaped into promise.
And I, predator or prince, would follow her always.
I slipthrough the cadenced corridors of the enclave, lantern glow flickering along ridged stone and painted banners. The air hums with the clink of steel and the hush of half-truths waitingto erupt. My footsteps trace faint cracks in the floor—like scars on a body that refuses to heal. I carry one thought on a blade-edge: tonight, I must speak with Rizzo.
I find him alone in the small war room—maps scattered, candles burnt to stubs, amber shadows dancing. He’s leaning over the map of border routes, jaw tight, eyes hollow with the weight of victory that costs more than gold. His face is drawn by age and war, lit by the soft yellow promise of candlelight.
I step in quietly—no armor, only the hum of muscle beneath bruised skin.
“Rizzo,” I say, voice low and steady.
