As the group crossed into the Iron District, the wind carried the briny stench of the Sea of Sorrows—a bitter tang that clung to the throat. The streets, though battered and cracked, came alive. People leaned from windows and doorways, cheering the returning toughs. A bloody victory—but a victory all the same.

  Wendy stood at the edge of the dockyard like a bright flame in the gloom—sharp-eyed, focused, her long ponytail swaying with each brisk movement. A small team of helpers flanked her, carts and stretchers ready, all trained to move fast and quiet. Her usual brightness was dimmed by a professional frown—eyes scanning the approaching group with the quick calculation of someone who’d seen too many returns like this.

  She didn’t ask questions. She just stepped forward and started directing triage.

  Lucien and Frank broke off from the group, already moving toward their next burdens. Frank said nothing, but Lucien offered a half-grin over his shoulder.

  “I’ll bring the Sly Fox case to the meeting,” he called before vanishing into the alleys.

  Behind Kael, Runt had finally begun to settle—her aura less sharp, her gait lighter. But her attention had shifted. Now, she shadowed Kavari with quiet fascination, nose twitching, eyes wide.

  Kavari looked… uncomfortable.

  Centuries of culture and tradition warred behind her stoic eyes. A battle-born lion-type beast kin Velk was meant to serve a pride.

  And yet here was Runt—treating a mostly human district as her own hunting ground, and Kael as its First Fang.

  She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask. She simply acted as if it were true.

  Kavari said nothing. Her posture said enough.

  As they neared the boathouse, Oliver kept sneaking glances at Kael—worry etched behind the amber glow of his yellow-orange mage lenses. Light-gathering glass, standard for trained casters. He looked like a man still trying to decide whether he was walking beside a miracle… or a problem.

  Yuri peeled off without a word, a silent wave his only farewell. Uncertainty clung to him like smoke. He hadn’t spoken since they returned. His face was a mask of doubt, his steps weighed down by questions he wasn’t ready to ask.

  Kael watched him go, then turned to Oliver. Ever merciful, he offered the standard version—the lie polished by repetition.

  Let’s see if it sticks.

  “The mage was mid-cast. The golem threw me into him. I got lucky, landed on him, took him out before he finished. The priest must’ve caught the residual mana as it dissipated and used it to trigger a fast heal.”

  Oliver didn’t bite.

  He slowed, brows furrowed, adjusting his glasses with the kind of care that said I’m about to ruin your excuse.

  “I felt that spell from nearly a klick away, Kael,” he said quietly. “It was high-tier fire magic. That mage was going to erase the battlefield—golem, caravan, his own men, all of you. Scorched earth. One big fiery cleanse.”

  He paused, voice dropping.

  “I get that you don’t want to talk about it. I do. But please—don’t lie to me.”

  Kael didn’t flinch. Just placed a steady hand on Oliver’s shoulder.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Absolutely,” Oliver said, voice quiet but firm.

  “Then let it be. I can’t explain it. Not yet. Maybe one day.”

  Oliver frowned, uneasy. And couldn’t help but quietly voice his churning thoughts. “You took that mana into yourself. Not just resisted it. You kept it. I’ve studied everything—Arcanum tomes, sealed notes, fringe theories. You’re not a mage, Kael. But after that? You had that dead man’s mana boiling inside you, and then you…”

  Another pause.

  “You took the priest’s healing spell matrix and—what? Bent it? Claimed it? You used it like it was your own spell matrix. That’s not magic. That’s a myth.”

  Kael gave a small, tired smile. A flicker of something ancient and dangerous in his eyes.

  “One day,” Kael said quietly. “But I’ll need you to talk to the priests for me.”

  Oliver didn’t hesitate. His eyes, normally softened by books and curiosity, sharpened with that familiar steel—the beater look Kael knew too well. The look of a man who’d cracked skulls before he cracked spines of books.

  “Consider it done.”

  Oliver stared for a beat longer, then nodded once and looked away, already filing theories.

  Runt was trying her absolute best to recruit Kavari into what she clearly considered the most important thing in the world. The Pride, the ironbound.

  She practically bounced beside her as they walked, tail flicking, voice tumbling out in a breathless rush of excitement.

  “It’s so great here! You can sleep pretty much anywhere, but Kael will probably put you in the boathouse. That’s our house, and it’s great! It smells like the sea but not the gross part. Wendy painted it a really pretty color—it’s like sea-glass and sun at the same time! And she put these little yellow flowers in the window boxes today. I forget the name but they’re happy flowers, I think.”

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  She barely paused for breath, her words flowing like water over stone.

  “And there’s the Tangled! That’s Merry’s place—it’s on the edge of the docks and right over the water. You can sit on the deck and your feet dangle above the tide! And the food! The red sauce stew is so good, it makes you feel warm in your bones. And…”

  She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “…the beer there is really good too. Just—don’t tell Kael I’ve tried it. Please. He does this whole ‘stare’ thing.”

  She gave a guilty grin, then bounded ahead a few steps before spinning to walk backward in front of Kavari.

  “Oh! And Dora and Marge—they run the bakery! They’re really old and really scary but they make amazing pastries. Marge makes this sticky honey bread that’s like biting into a hug. Dora once threw a rolling pin at Frank and he ducked!”

  Kavari was still quiet, and Runt slowed a little, peering at her curiously. The enthusiasm dimmed for a heartbeat, something thoughtful flickering in her bright green eyes.

  “You smell like Kael,” she said quietly, brows furrowed. “Merry did too… just a little. You smell like him, too.”

  She lowered her head and sniffed again, her nose wrinkling with fierce concentration, ears twitching slightly as if trying to decipher a code written in scent.

  Kavari stared down at her, mouth opening, then closing again. Whatever words she thought to say tangled in her throat. The proud battle-born stood completely still, a lioness frozen by a young woman’s kindness and confusion. Centuries of culture, duty, and ritual clashed violently with the innocent expectations of this tiny creature who had already claimed her as part of the pack.

  She didn’t know what to do with her.

  And Runt, still crouched in thought, suddenly smiled up at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You’ll get it.”

  And then, just like that, she was off again—tail swaying, voice lifting as she pointed out another building with a roof she liked. As if nothing strange or awkward had happened at all.

  Kavari remained a few steps behind, her gaze lingering not on the buildings, but on the strange, stubborn, fiercely loyal creature already calling her family.

  And just like that, they arrived back at the boathouse—all three stories of it rising like a weathered jewel against the harbor, painted in shades of sea-foam and sun-bleached driftwood. The scent of salt hung thick in the air, mingling with the faintest trace of fresh flowers from Wendy’s garden boxes clinging to the balconies.

  Runt’s voice was still going, though her rapid-fire pitch was winding down.

  “—and if you join the Pride, we can even make you your own corner on the second floor! I’ll help you decorate it. And we do stew nights, and story nights, and Kael hates when people track mud but Wendy says it’s good for the soul—so you’ll fit right in!”

  Kavari gave a tight smile and murmured something polite. It was clear she was overwhelmed, still holding herself like a guest among ghosts.

  Oliver excused himself with a brisk nod. “I’ll prep the notes for the meeting.”

  Runt immediately pivoted to Kael, tugging at his hand, her voice urgent now. “Come inside. You need rest. You were dead, remember? You need food, your bed, something warm…”

  Kael almost flinched at the word bed. His bones ached at the thought—but his mind refused to settle. There was too much yet to do. Too many masks to wear before the day was done.

  He crouched a little, leveling with her bright green eyes.

  “Sorry, Runt. I gotta talk to Kavari first,” he said gently. “And then… I have to deal with a little rat before the meeting.”

  Runt’s ears drooped immediately. “Can I come?”

  He hesitated longer than he should’ve. Thought of what that rat represented. Thought of the things he might have to say. The things she might see.

  “Not this time.”

  She didn’t argue, didn’t whine—just gave a tiny nod, biting her lip.

  There were parts of him he couldn’t show her—edges too sharp, truths too ugly. He couldn’t risk shattering the fragile lens she looked at him through—the one where he was still good. Still worth following. It was a weakness, he knew that. But the tattered threads of his humanity couldn’t bear the weight of losing it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  He wasn’t a good man. Not today. Maybe never—not in any way that counted.

  Runt lingered for a breath, then padded inside with a slow, defeated gait. The screen door creaked behind her.

  Kael let out a slow breath and turned.

  Kavari had kept her distance throughout the exchange, standing just off the path like a sentinel unsure of her orders. But Kael saw it—the slight lift of her shoulders, the subtle unclenching of her jaw. Relief. She hadn’t wanted to be part of that goodbye.

  He approached her quietly, boots crunching on weathered wood.

  “She exhausts everyone,” he said dryly, “but she’s honest. You know where you stand with her.”

  Kavari’s eyes flicked to the door, then back to him.

  “She thinks you’re something you’re not.”

  Kael’s mouth twitched into a tired, almost-smile. “I know.”

  “She thinks you’re whole.”

  He didn’t answer that.

  Didn’t have to.

  Because they both knew the truth.

  They stood in silence outside the boathouse, the sea wind stirring Kavari’s red braid and Kael’s tattered shirt alike. Solanir was beginning to sink, casting long shadows across the cracked stones of the street.

  “It was a good fight,” Kavari said finally, voice steady but low. “Thank you for letting me come.”

  Kael glanced sideways at her, one brow lifting just slightly.

  “It was,” he said, then added, “But that’s not what you really want to say.”

  Kavari’s gaze sharpened. Her posture shifted—spine straightening, arms folding across her chest. And when she spoke again, it wasn’t in the common tongue. Her voice took on the rough cadence of the southern Pride lands—beast kin tongue, sharp-edged and old.

  “I didn’t see it right away,” Kavari said, her voice low, but steady. “When the golem hit you, I figured you were gone. Just another name on the list. Another body left behind. Then I saw the mage, saw the way he was building that spell—too big, too fast. We were all going to die, and honestly? I made my peace with it. Could’ve been worse ways to go.”

  Her eyes narrowed, tone sharpening.

  “But then Frank said something. Said you gambled. And it clicked. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to dodge. You moved into it—like a man who knew what was coming. You lined yourself up to hit the mage with your own body, like a weapon. Not desperation. Not instinct. It was cold. Controlled. Suicidal, sure—but calculated. Like it wasn’t your first time using pain to gain an advantage.”

  Kavari looked at him fully now.

  “You’re not just a soldier who fought in the Southern Border Wars.”

  She turned slightly, face unreadable.

  Kael’s mouth tugged into a faint smile—tight, thin. No joy behind it.

  “I never said I was only a soldier. I am and was. Among other things.” he replied. The words from their first meeting.

  People passed nearby on the street—hawkers, beggars, tradesmen. None paid them more than a glance. That was good. Because this wasn’t a conversation they could afford to have overheard.

  This wasn’t meant for city ears.

  Kael’s body stayed loose, calm—but inside, the torrent howled. Blue fire clashed with red avalanche, raging for dominance. Begging to be unleashed. Waiting.

  Because depending on how his next words landed, one of them might not walk away.

  And Kael didn’t intend to die today.

  Kael spoke the words that could end in death. They had to be said. Kavari was too sharp—already stitching the pieces together.

  “You’re a spy,” He said. “For the Pridelands.”

  SKRITCH—the claws burst free, bone sliding over bone, a sound like violence promised.