He turns—surprise in his eyes, then resignation. “Kragna.”
Between us sits a glass etched with hope—empty now—but memories are heavy. I pour some wine into it—dark as blood, rough as a bear’s breath—and hold it out to him. He takes it, hand shaking.
“This is about River,” I say. The word lifts warm between us.
Rizzo sets the glass between us. “She’s better than what we made her.”
I nod. “Exactly. But she’s not yours to claim.”
He raises an eyebrow. “If she’s not mine?—”
“She’s no longer yours,” I interrupt. “And not mine either.”
Silence swells. Candle flames dance in the heat of promise.
“She chose where she belongs,” I continue, voice rough. “Not you. Not me.”
Rizzo studies my face—a predator reluctantly trusted, arms strung with war's tattoos. He breathes deep, voice quiet. “I figured that out the day she stood still when that satyr called her ‘meat,’ staring like he was the joke.”
I recall it—River, lithe and fierce, bone still gold beneath her skin, voice cool as ice: “Try again, if you think you’ll eat more than words.”
She was blood and backbone, and I saw in her storm-starved eyes that she would test flesh, not just fear it. I'd loved—I'd protected something better than my peace.
Rizzo sighs. “You’re right.”
I let that stand—the truce between a predator and a man both shaped by ruin.
“You okay with this?” I ask.
He nods. “She scared me… first time she stayed when destruction would’ve been easy. Seeing her hold peace when she could’ve pulled the world down—I knew. She’s not mine to tether.”
I smile—smirk, really. It feels brittle and warm at once like first light on frost.
“That’s my girl,” I say.
He allows a small grin—more relief than laughter.
We stand together in quiet alliance, watching candle drops fill the darkness.
25
RIVER
Ibreathe in the hush of dawn that lingers around the Council Hall like fog—soft, expectant, ready to be shaped into something new. The courtyard is cold underfoot; frost has laid tiny lace patterns on shattered stone, and despite the chill, I feel flame under my skin. Tonight, I’m not a soldier, not a refugee, not a shadow. I’m the voice of hope draped in Ranger green, with a rifle resting on my back and my troll’s tooth at my collar catching the pale light like an ember.
I step into the hall and feel eyes—dozens of them—breathe me in: hopeful humans in armor, elves in silks that shimmer like moonbeams, their faces as still as statues. The torchlight flickers in their eyes, half curiosity, half caution. I set my boots in place on the dais, heart pounding stars against my ribs. This is ceremonial. Symbolic. But I am here to tell them it’s real.
I begin, voice steady and strong despite the tremor. “I speak not as one born to power, but as one who carried it through blood and ash.” I pause, letting that settle. The air tastes like cold wine and new beginnings. “I carried my brother, Alaric, wounded beyond words, with death on his heel and hope on hisbreath.” I gesture toward the flickering flame. “So that others could live.”
I see a tear in an elf diplomat’s sleeve—something alive, gentle, tearing through centuries of mistrust. I feel it burn in my palms. I keep going. “I’ve tasted broken promises as acrid as bile. I’ve slept with nightmares pressed to my skin. But I stand here because I believe: peace costs us more than courage—it demands it.”
The hall goes still as the forest after a storm. I take breath, leaning into the weight of the moment. “This alliance isn’t written in ink—it’s forged in sweat, in grit, in the will to rebuild what we almost tore apart. If we fail tonight, we starve our own children’s futures.”
I step back. That’s it. No frills. Just truth.
Then they vote. Hands rise—elves, humans, noses tight, eyes locked. The vote is unanimous. “Let it be,” Skeela says, voice a soft crown. The alliance holds. At least for now.
I step off the dais, knees trembling. My boots echo in empty hall, but I don’t care. I breathe in hope turned solid.
