“Aye. Once you’ve earned your keep and our trust, lad,” he grumbles.
“Wonderful,” Ronyn declares with an exaggerated flourish. “A moment to part from my companion?”
The man grunts his agreement and turns his back, returning to a warehouse with large hessian bags of…something.
But Jax wastes no time. “You’re going to work for this piece of shit? And then, what? Raise a glass together at the tavern?” She drags a hand down her face in exasperation. She pitches her voice low. “We’re finding the dragons, Ronyn. We’re not here for a fucking tankard of ale.”
Ronyn’s patience snaps.
“Lips loosen with ale, Jax. Have you ever thought about that? People let secrets and stories slip with people they trust. Now, go to the tavern and see what you can overhear. Try not to insult anyone or start a fucking fight. I’ll be here—completing our mission.” His words come out clipped and harsh.
Jax stares at him for a heartbeat too long. This isn’t Ronyn joking his way out of trouble. This is Ronyn surviving.
Because Ronyn Holt is good for more than a laugh. He’s a master of manipulation, too.A tactician.And he knows: being likeable is a covert strategy he’s deployed since he was left alone on the streets of Virellin when his family were hung for stealing apples. The problem is, sometimes he forgets where the act ends and he begins.
But he’ll complete his mission, no matter the method. If it costs him a little more of himself, so be it.
He learned long ago that survival always charges interest.
And he’s learned to pay it in pieces no one else notices are missing.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Blood remembers, blood may claim
The Widow cares for neither name
“Welcome to The Perils, child.”
The words cut through her relief like a blade.
Seren’s spine stiffens against the stone. Her pulse spikes, sharp and fast, pain roaring back to the forefront as her body remembers it is broken. She twists her head toward the sound, breath hitching as the movement drags salt and blood across her torn cheek.
She hadn’t heard anyone approach.
That, more than anything else, sends a cold thread of unease through her gut.
A woman stands just inside the cavern’s shadow.
Not framed by lightning, or crowned by storm. Justthere.
Her boots are planted wide on the stone, dark leather slick with rain. Layers of fabric hang from her shoulders, heavy and worn, stitched and restitched until they look more like armor than clothing. A bodice of worn leather smooths over her torsoand breasts like a second skin. Bone glints pale at her throat, unpolished and undecorated—not an offering, not a warning, not even something sacred. Simply a fact.
Seren drags herself up onto one elbow, jaw tight as pain flares hot and blinding through her palms.
“I’m a witch,” Seren rasps, voice strained and raw, as if that should mean something here. But her words feel feeble, inadequate. As if being a witch is not enough. Her intuition roars:it isn’t.
The woman’s mouth does not curve. There is no amusement there, no anger. But her head tilts to the side at a curious angle.
“You may be a witch, child, but you’ll need more than blood to claim a place in The Dreaded,” she drawls, unbothered and without pretense.
“The Dreaded?” Seren asks through shallow breaths, eyes fixed on the woman.
She’s beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—terrifyingly precise, honed for purpose rather than admiration. Her features are sharp without being angular, all clean lines and quiet symmetry, as if the storm itself has shaped her and then stepped back to admire its work. Dark hair is braided close to her skull, threaded with pale bone and metal charms that catch the low light like teeth, deliberate rather than decorative. It trails down her back in obsidian rivers, curling around her hips like it’s following worn terrain. Her amethyst eyes are the most dangerous thing about her—too steady, too knowing, their depth suggesting not cruelty, but certainty. She wears her beauty without softness, without invitation, and the effect is unsettling: a reminder that loveliness and mercy are not the same thing. Her skin of rich mahogany glints bronze in the flicker of torch light from the cavern. Deep as midnight, rich as honey. Standing there, calm and unflinching, she looks like someone who has learned exactly how much fear she neededfrom the world—never more, never less—and demanded it without apology.
“Weare The Dreaded,” she says, as other women step from the shadows to flank her. “Witches tested for loyalty and will. Accepted by The Widow because we endured.”
Her gaze drops to Seren, sharp and dismissive.
