As Kael and Runt stood in the blood-slicked street—one body whole, the other in scattered pieces—Kael felt it. the faintest tremor in his knees. Just a flicker. The nerves and adrenaline leaving his system all at once, hollowing him out in the aftermath.

  He looked at her—Runt, covered in gore, radiant with battle fever—and felt a pang. A sharp, quiet sadness.

  One day, he thought, I’ll fulfill your dream.

  The flicker of that promise passed like smoke through his mind.

  He looked down at his right hand—bloodied, still holding the punch dagger, blood wet in dark streaks along the blade to the hilt. Without ceremony, he buried the blade into the chest of the more intact corpse, then reached into his jacket for a handkerchief, clean and neatly folded.

  Runt was still riding the high. Her breathing quick, eyes gleaming with the last embers of the kill. Battle fervor. Beast kin rage. Aura. She hadn’t tapped her aura fully, not yet—but he saw the signs. Traces of something old. Something wild. That near-mystical force that had once ruled the world, before humans and elves shaped it to their will with spell craft.

  She caught sight of the handkerchief in his hand and stepped forward, slower now, something tentative in her movements. She’d cooled just enough to remember.

  “I… I did good, right?” she asked softly. Hesitant. The edge of doubt creeping in. Blood still streaked her chin, her neck.

  Kael waited until she was close enough. Then he reached out, gently touching the cloth to her skin, wiping the worst of the gore away.

  His left hand came up slowly, deliberately, and began to rub behind her left ear—soft, careful strokes.

  “You did great,” he murmured. “I’m proud of you. You protected the pride.”

  Her ears twitched. Her tail flicked once, then again.

  And then the purring started.

  It wasn’t soft.

  It was deep—resonant—like the growl of a mountain cat curled into safety. It rumbled through her chest, down her spine, and into him through the press of their closeness.

  He could feel it.

  Heat radiated off her in waves, and the sound—warm, steady, unguarded—settled into his bones like a living heartbeat.

  He didn’t stop her.

  But gods, did it make the ache inside worse.

  “I protected our pride.”

  The way she said it—instinctive, territorial—hit Kael harder than he expected.

  Damn.

  He was going to have to read that book.

  He’d fought beast kin for over a decade. Thought he understood them better than most humans. Their rhythms. Their instincts. But that phrase… it carried weight he couldn’t quite grasp. Not fully. And the book Oliver had given him—that book—was starting to make him doubt just how much he really knew about what her Name Day would bring.

  Beside him, Runt’s purring deepened. Louder. Steadier. The glow of her fading red aura shimmered faintly before retreating into her skin.

  Then she looked up, innocent and hungry.

  “Can we get something to eat? Red sauce stew?”

  Kael flinched—just a flicker of discomfort.

  They were still standing in the aftermath. Blood slicked the stones. One man was whole. The other… less so.

  But she was already past it. He wasn’t.

  His mind flashed forward—interrogations, long hours, the bound man awaiting him in the dark.

  Bootsteps approached fast. More toughs spilled onto the street—blades drawn, eyes sharp. And at their head. Lucien.

  The Painted Prince.

  The Silver Sin.

  Ladykiller.

  Long golden hair framed a face carved by angels, but the eyes were a killer’s—icy blue and unblinking. Steel hugged his frame like it belonged there, gleaming and immaculate. Beauty on the edge of a blade.

  Kael remembered recruiting him—back when the pleasure dens and the dice pits were still warm. Lucien had stepped forward then, unasked. Now, he led the Ironbound’s enforcers like he’d been born for it.

  “Sir,” Lucien called, voice calm and even. “Apologies for the delay. We had a breach.”

  Kael glanced his way, but Runt was already bounding toward him, pride lighting her face.

  “Lucien, look!” she beamed. “I stopped one! Kael said I did good!”

  Her tail swayed. Her ears perked and twitched. She practically glowed.

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  Lucien gave her a soft nod, but his tone stayed measured.

  “Yes. You did.”

  Then, after a pause.

  “But if I’d been more vigilant, you wouldn’t have needed to.”

  He turned to Kael, his voice dropping.

  “We found four of ours. Throats slit. Punch daggers, by the look of it.”

  His gaze dipped. And he saw the bodies more clearly.

  “My apologies again,” Lucien said, firm but composed. “We intercepted six more across key intersections. Two wagons were tipped to block routes—they knew our patrol schedules and when the guard shifts rotated.”

  Kael’s eyes narrowed.

  “They fought to the death,” Lucien continued, jaw tight. “The last three bit down on something—capsules, likely. Suicide rather than capture. All of them wore Sly Fox pins on their collars.”

  Kael said nothing.

  He just walked over to the bound man on the ground and kicked him—hard—in the ribs.

  The man grunted, breath knocked out of him, eyes wide.

  Kael crouched low and reached into his mouth, fingers quick and practiced. A second later, he found what he was looking for—a false tooth.

  He yanked it out with a hard twist.

  The man screamed.

  Kael stood, voice like iron dragged across stone.

  “Tell me what they were doing in my district,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the meeting.”

  Then he turned, clapped Lucien on the shoulder, and gave him a sharp, approving nod.

  “Good work tonight.”

  Without waiting for a response, Kael started walking, guiding Runt with him. She followed at his side, still sticky with gore and happiness.

  They headed for The Tangled—the only place he knew in the quarter that never closed. Not for night. Not for blood. Not even for the Fadefall.

  As they made their way toward The Tangled, Runt bounced with each step, practically glowing with excitement at the promise of red sauce stew and basking in the afterglow of Kael’s rare praise. Her tail swayed high, her ears twitching with every new scent or sound.

  Kael walked beside her in silence, his expression unreadable.

  People moved out of their way long before they got close—some crossing the street, others turning down side alleys without a second glance. A few faces Kael recognized, at least vaguely, but none dared meet his gaze.

  Good.

  Let them steer clear. It gave him space to think.

  He considered the bound man waiting and the fake silver fox pins. Telling Lucien now would only taint the interrogation—push him toward confirmation, not truth. No, Kael needed him clear-eyed and ruthless, not chasing shadows Kael had already seen.

  He had suspicions. Ugly ones.

  But until they became facts, he’d keep them locked down tight.

  One thing at a time.

  The twin moons painted the street in ghost light, silver cutting through amber haze. Kael walked in silence, his mind grinding through the list—tasks, threats, wounds still bleeding. Some could be solved. Some would take blood. Some would take kings. All for a dream that would kill him—again.

  When they neared The Tangled, the sound of the crowd hit them before the warmth of its lanterns did. Voices loud, music louder. A pulse of life, wild and messy.

  The big double doors swung open, releasing a wave of sea air mingled with the smell of red stew, fresh bread, and cheap beer. The place was packed—workers shoulder to shoulder, mercs with dust still on their boots, locals crammed into booths. It was loud. Alive.

  Kael guided Runt toward an empty table—but the shift in the room was immediate.

  People noticed him.

  A hush fell, brief and heavy.

  Then came the cheer.

  It wasn’t planned or polite—it broke loose like pressure from a pipe, raucous and real. A wave of noise and welcome. Toughs clapped his back. Regulars raised mugs. Someone handed Kael a pint, and someone else offered one to Runt.

  She took it, beaming—until Kael snatched it out of her hands.

  She pouted, arms crossed, blood still drying in the creases of her elbows. It was ridiculous. It was adorable.

  “It’ll stunt your growth,” he said over the roar.

  She bared her teeth in an exaggerated scowl, then stuck out her tongue at him like a defiant cub.

  A table cleared near the patio, overlooking the moonlit black of the Sea of Sorrows. Kael led her to it, the noise dimming slightly behind them, replaced by the crash of waves and the distant thrum of the city.

  He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  For a moment—just a moment—there was peace.

  Merry was weaving her way through the crowd, a tray in hand, when she spotted them.

  Her steps faltered. Her eyes swept over the bloodstains—Kael’s coat, Runt’s boots, the drying red along their arms and collars.

  “You hurt anywhere?” she asked, her voice flat and direct.

  “Not us,” Kael replied, already easing into the seat. Runt plopped down beside him, swinging her legs beneath the table like a child high on adrenaline.

  “Hi, Merry!” she beamed. “Kael finally let me come with him! We did really good!”

  Merry exhaled—slow, deliberate.

  Then the smile came. Not the real one. The work smile.

  Still radiant, still warm—but the edges were sharper, and the sapphire of her eyes held a glassy hardness Kael recognized.

  “Wash up,” she said, tone clipped but even. “I don’t want blood on my tables.”

  Kael rose to head to the washroom—but paused.

  A group near the back caught his eye. half-shadowed, fully loud.

  A cluster of adventurers, clearly fresh off a job. Three men, a woman. Armor still dusty with road grit, the two robed ones likely clerics or temple-blessed. Their table overflowed with empty mugs and loud bravado. The ego bled off them like cheap cologne.

  Just as he started toward the corridor, Kael’s ear caught a snippet behind him.

  “Why do you smell like Kael?” Runt asked, loud and blunt, turning toward Merry with a tilted head.

  Kael glanced back just in time to see Merry freeze.

  The mask slipped—just for a second.

  A flush climbed her ears, fast and hot, and she snapped back into motion. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she muttered, nudging Runt toward the staff washroom.

  Kael hid a small smile but didn’t linger on it.

  But the tension hadn’t left his shoulders as he continued toward the back—and that’s when he heard it.

  One of the adventurers, drunk and grinning, spoke just loud enough.

  “Careful,” the man drawled, lifting his mug. “That one’s got the look of a dock rat who thinks he’s a wolf.”

  Kael stopped cold.

  Flat-footed.

  The words floated behind him like bait on bloodied water. It wasn’t the joke—it was the laugh behind it.

  He slowly turned, eyes locking on the man who said it.

  The mood at the table shifted—barely—but Kael saw it. The woman froze mid-sip. Another man stopped chewing. The cleric’s fingers curled around his prayer beads.

  Kael said nothing.

  He didn’t need to.

  The silence did it for him.

  Kael walked toward the table.

  One of the armored men started to rise—some reflexive show of posturing—but Kael placed a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back down.

  The man sat like a sack of bricks. Hard.

  “Hey there,” Kael said pleasantly, eyes sweeping the table. “You lot must be new. Can I get you something? A round for the table? Maybe some fresh bread? Perhaps?”

  Another armored man chuckled, not noticing the growing silence or the panic blooming across his companion’s face.

  “A round would be swell, old man,” he grinned. “Bread too, since you’re buying.”

  He didn’t see the subtle tremor in the man Kael still held seated with one hand. Didn’t clock the way the priest and priestess across from him had gone pale.

  The male cleric wore the sunburst tabard of the Sanctum of Solanir, sweat already darkening the fabric at his collar.

  The woman beside him bore the dark silks of the Sisters of the Moonmarch—tight, revealing, and utterly impractical for battle. But she wasn’t preening now. Her eyes were locked on Kael like prey spotting a predator in the grass.

  Kael smiled then.

  Not wide. Not cruel.

  Just enough to show teeth.

  A wolf’s teeth.