“The walls…” she murmurs. “They’re a prison.”
Kael grunts in disgust. “But most of them will tell you it’s freedom. Maireth is nothing if not convincing.”
His gut roils at the thought. The gross over-extension of power. The tyranny dressed up as service.
“They just accept this?” Elyssara scoffs in disbelief. “Why?”
The question hangs in the air between them.Why?
“Because people with voices gain more from staying silent than speaking up here,” he murmurs, and the Decay rears its head, waking at the promise of violence.
The veins in his corded forearms flare black, serpents crawling up his arms like predators on the hunt.
His gaze lifts to the city again—the outskirts, the city proper hidden behind stone. The walls rise high enough to challenge the sky.
But Kael has never believed stone can keep out destiny.
“We need to change that,” Elyssara growls through gritted teeth, jaw set with defiance.
“We need to break into the fucking city,” Kael says, and for the first time since the Decay fell in Kryntar, he feels like himself.
“But first, I need to see someone.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Beware the man who makes you grin
He learned to hide his teeth within
Ronyn Holt is verygood at being liked.
He learned early that charm opens doors faster than force—and keeps them open longer.That people will tell you almost anything if you make them feel clever for doing it.
In Vyrhal, where the air tastes like ash and sweat and desperation, he lets his smile soften just enough to seem harmless. Lets his voice sound relaxed and unfazed. Lets people underestimate him.
It’s a familiar dance. One he learned because the alternative got people killed.
He’s danced it in alleyways and marketplaces, in cells and taverns, in rooms where a wrong word meant a shallow grave.
He steps into Vyrhal’s lower forge quarter with a smile already half-formed, posture loose, hands empty and visible—harmless, if you’re not paying attention. Which most people aren’t. They never look closely at men who laugh easily.
The stone beneath his boots radiates heat like a living thing.
He lets the heat roll over him, lets the noise and iron and forge-smoke swallow his presence, and catalogs the environment without ever turning his head.
Who shouts the orders.
Who begrudges their role.
Who gossips on the job.
By the time anyone notices him, Ronyn already knowsexactlywho he needs to become.
Ginger Beard strides toward Ronyn, one hand wrapped around a hammer, and the other wrapped around the hilt of the blade at his belt—two fingers on that hand fused together from a bad pour.
“You here to gawk or prove yourself, outsider?” the man growls, lip lifted in a snarl.
Ronyn huffs an easy laugh. “Prove myself—though I’ll admit, watching you smithies is distracting. Puts the ones in Virellin to shame.”
