Page 25 of Orc’s Gallows

“The Gallows Quarter.” I meet his gaze without flinching. “There are people there who might know more about what’s living under the scaffold. Other death witches, practitioners who’ve been feeding on executions for decades. If anyone understands what we’re dealing with, it’s them.”

“You want to walk into the most dangerous district in Blackhook during a riot.” Still flat. Still waiting.

“I want to find out what’s trying to kill us before it succeeds.” I cross my arms, aware that the posture is defensive and not caring. “You can come with me or you can stay here and review guard rotations. But I’m not going to hide in this Hall waiting for that thing to wake up again.”

A long pause. I watch thoughts move behind those amber irises, watch him weigh risks and options with the same ruthless calculation he brings to everything.

“Two hours.” His words carry the authority that has commanded this city for two decades. “Halvard accompanies us. We stay close, and we leave at the first sign of trouble.”

Us. We.

I should argue. Should insist that I can handle myself, that I don’t need a bodyguard, that his presence will only draw more attention. Instead, the concession comes out before I’ve decided to give it.

“Fine. Two hours. Then we come back and continue hiding like trapped rats.”

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but close enough to count.

“Get dressed.” He turns toward the door. “Clothes that don’t scream ‘condemned death witch.’ We’re trying to blend in.”

“I’ll do my best to look like a completely different condemned death-witch.”

This time, he does smile. A small expression, barely visible, gone almost before I register it.

But I saw it.

Don’t. Don’t let yourself feel this. Don’t let yourself want this.

Too late.

The Gallows Quarter is exactly as bad as I remembered.

Narrow streets perpetually shadowed by the Grand Gallows looming overhead. Buildings that lean against each other like exhausted mourners, their foundations rotted by centuries of blood runoff. The smell of death is strongest here—bodies awaiting burial, fear sweated into every wall, the accumulated weight of endings pressing down on everything.

I’ve walked these streets a hundred times. Attended executions, fed on ending magic, disappeared into the crowd before anyone could notice what I was. The Quarter has always felt like a second home—the one place in Blackhook where being touched by death wasn’t automatically a death sentence.

Today, it feels different.

So much for blending in.

Halvard trails three paces behind, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. His presence is both reassuring and suffocating. Every eye in the Quarter is tracking us. Every whisper follows in our wake.

The Gallows Warden and his witch. Come to see how the other half lives.

I ignore the stares and focus on our destination. The tavern called The Last Drop sits at the corner of two particularly narrow streets, its sign depicting a noose with a single drop of blood falling from the rope. Gallows humor. The Quarter is full of it.

Inside, the common room is half-empty. A few dockworkers nurse ales in the corner. A woman with gray-streaked hair deals cards to herself at a table by the hearth. The barkeep—a heavyset man with scars that speak of a violent past—looks up as we enter and immediately goes still.

“Warden.” The word is flat. Unwelcoming.

“We’re not here for trouble.” Brannok’s words carry quiet authority. “Looking for information.”

“Information about what?”

“The gallows.” I step forward, drawing the barkeep’s attention to me. His eyes flicker over my face, my clothes, the collar of my shirt where the claiming brand is barely visible. “About what’s growing underneath them.”

A long pause. The card-dealing woman has stopped her game, though she doesn’t look up. The dockworkers have gone quiet.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” The barkeep reaches for a glass, begins polishing it with a cloth that’s seen better decades. “Nothing growing under the gallows except dirt and old bones.”