This place does not welcome visitors. It is a machine built on the blood and sweat of Vyrhalians. This place demands output.And Ronyn knows places like this don’t ask who you are—they decide what you’re worth.
A man stumbles near a crucible, skin blistered and red where sparks caught him. No one rushes to help. Someone hooks an arm under his shoulder and drags him clear, work resuming before the scream fades.
Jax swears behind him, sharp and reverent. “Fucking Stars,” she breathes.
Ronyn straightens, heat licking at his skin, something deep in his chest answering the rhythm of the forges whether he wants it to or not. Instinct tells him this place doesn’t tolerate hesitation.
His pulse falls into step with the hammer blows. Not comfort—recognition. But not his.Tarrakai’s. As if this place is not something he can name, but something he remembers in the body. And that unsettles him far more than the heat ever could.
Yeah. This is going to hurt.
No one stops working. No one even notices their presence, or the Gateway that snaps shut behind them.
A lumbering man with a long beard of ginger peppered with gray, and a tattoo carved into his neck shoves into Ronyn.
Ronyn quirks a smile. “Evenin’, good sir,” he says jovially.
But the man only sneers.
“Sir? Titles don’t mean shit here, outsider. Can you lift? Swing a hammer?” The man’s words come out an intolerant grunt.
“Okay, no titles. Got it. I can lift… things. Prefer not to. Quite handy with a bow, though,” Ronyn offers, though he knows he’s scrambling.
Jax thumps him in the ribs with her elbow.
Not that it helps.
A brutal, humorless laugh tears from the man’s throat. “Everyone here can wield a bow, lad. We hunt our own foodhere. You must be from the city—and what makes you special there, makes you barely more than acceptable here. You’re used to street merchants preparing your dinner, eh, outsider?”
The hairs on Ronyn’s arms stand on end. Because it doesn’t feel like a question. It feels like a threat.
A low, dark growl rumbles through Ronyn’s mind.I hunt my own food too, human.
Tarrakai’s words are all threat and theatrics.
Ronyn grins at Ginger Beard on the outside.
Yeah, I have to hunt for my food too, but you can’t just eat everyone that annoys you, Tarrakai. Persuasion is an art form. Watch and learn.He sends the words to Tarrakai, who huffs an ignorant snort.
But Ronyn means it: persuasion comes first, and violence is the version he saves for when it fails.
Ginger Beard is still staring at Ronyn. Still sneering at him.
A hammer stops mid-swing nearby. Another man looks up from a crucible. Not curious—measuring. Ronyn suddenly becomes very aware that every tool within reach could cave a skull.
But before he can speak?—
“Why the fuck does it matter where we’re from? Weapons and coin are the same no matter where you’re from,” Jax snaps, stepping forward and pinning her shoulders back. But she barely reaches the man’s shoulder.
Not that it would stop her.
Ronyn rolls his shoulders, muscles loosening instead of tightening, as if his body recognizes the rules of this place before his mind does. But before Ronyn moves, the man closes the gap between him and Jax. “Whorehouse is behind the tavern, woman. Best not get your pretty little head concerned with the dealings of men.”
He peers down at her, daring her to speak. But her mouth twists into a snarl, and Ronyn knows what’s next. He’s seen that look before when she’s itching to start a fight.
Yeah, he’s seen that look a lot.Fucking Stars.
“Men? I don’t see any men,” Jax quips sarcastically, looking around like she’s searching. “Perhaps you’d like to see the kind ofskillsI have to offer that don’t include spreading my legs. Fair warning, though: it’ll end with my blade ripping you from throat to ball sack.”
