Persico was back on his throne—metaphorically speaking, at least. The crime lord persona had slipped back over him like a second skin. He'd offered Roone a position as a lieutenant, with a pledge to curb some of the violence in Fange City which Roone had accepted with a solemn nod and what looked like genuine respect in his eyes.
I could hope for a kinder, gentler Persico. I could hope that what I'd seen today meant something deeper than just posturing.
But I doubted it.
Still, it seemed like a step in the right direction. Baby steps, maybe, but steps nonetheless.
Back in his crime lord persona, Persico couldn't make too much of a fuss over healing Ahrick. But he had done the bare minimum to keep Ahrick alive—a medi-kit tossed our way with a gruff order to "get that patched up before you bleed all over my floor," and a pointed look that saidget him out of here before I have to pretend I don't care if he dies.
Starfield had carried us faithfully through chaos and violence, her iridescent coat now streaked with dust and sweat, her sides heaving from the hard ride.
We dismounted carefully, Ahrick moving stiffly as I helped him down. His wounds were stabilized but still fresh, and every movement made him wince despite his attempts to hide it.
I reached for Starfield's saddle, my fingers working at the buckles. "Come on, girl," I murmured. "Let's get you cleaned up and back in the pen. You've more than earned your rest."
"Wait."
Ahrick's hand closed over mine, stopping me mid-motion. His touch was gentle but firm.
I looked up at him, confused. "What is it?"
He was staring at Starfield with an expression I couldn't quite read—something between gratitude and sorrow, pride and loss all mixed together. His other hand came up to rest on the mare's neck, his fingers tangling in her mane.
"She deserves better than a pen," he said quietly. "Better than being just another mount in a stable, waiting for the next rider who needs her."
I frowned, my hands falling away from the saddle. "What are you saying?"
Ahrick's jaw tightened, and I saw the decision settle over him like a weight. "I'm saying she's earned her freedom. Or at least something close to it."
A Welati warrior approached, materializing from the shadows—a woman with intricate braids woven with copper light and eyes that held the kind of wisdom that came from a lifetime spent understanding animals better than people.
"The kuda," Ahrick said, his voice rough but respectful. He placed a hand on Starfield's neck, and the mare nickered softly, pressing her nose against his shoulder. "She needs proper care. A place where she'll be valued. I've asked the Welati to look after her."
The warrior's expression softened as she looked at Starfield. "She is beautiful," she said quietly, running her hand along the mare's flank with reverence. "Strong heart. Brave spirit."
"She saved our lives," I added, my throat tight. I meant it. Starfield got as much credit as anyone else today. If she hadn't carried me to the Welati in record speed, Ahrick would be dead.
The warrior nodded slowly. "We will care for her as she deserves," she promised, accepting Starfield's reins with both hands. "She will run with our herds, be honored among our people. When her time comes to bear foals, they will carry her strength forward."
Ahrick's hand lingered on Starfield's neck for a moment longer, and I felt the ache of goodbye—sharp and bittersweet.
"Thank you," he said simply.
The warrior inclined her head, then led Starfield away toward the mountains.
I watched until they disappeared into the shadows.
"She'll be happy there," I said softly.
"I know." Ahrick's hand found mine, our fingers threading together with easy familiarity as we turned toward his shack.
We stumbled through the door, exhausted and aching, and I caught sight of us in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall.
We looked like we'd walked through hell and barely made it out the other side.
Blood covered us both—dark streaks across Ahrick's chest, splattered across my face and arms. His shirt was torn where the blaster had caught his shoulder and chest, the fabric stiff with dried blood. My borrowed Welati armor was scratched and dented.
We were a mess—bruised and battered and marked by violence.
