As Kael stood, he felt a weight in his chest—not dread, not pain, just the reluctant tug of peace. It had been a long time since he didn’t have to wear the mask, the ironclad face of competence, the burden of always knowing what to do, of always being the one others leaned on. Here, in the quiet, he could just be—no commands, no lies, no armor of words.

  But cities weren’t won through warmth. Districts weren’t secured through just friendship. And whatever affection simmered beneath it all, it wouldn’t stop what was coming.

  Runt wanted to come with him—he could see it in her eyes. And for a heartbeat, he almost said yes. But what lay ahead was suicidal even by his standards, and he couldn’t risk losing her. Not his anchor. Not the one still untouched by rot.

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  Yuri appeared at the door, gaze flicking from the rumpled sheets to the girl curled near them to Kael, shirtless and pulling on his shirt and coat. A flash of color rose in the younger man’s face, but—for once—he said nothing. Just nodded awkwardly and stepped back.

  Kael slipped his shirt on, then his long coat. Hood up. He grabbed a mage flare, a dagger, and a few carefully chosen odds and ends, tucking them into his belt with practiced ease.

  Runt trailed behind him like a shadow, full of questions she didn’t ask.

  “Runt,” he said gently, glancing back. “Why don’t you head to the Pit today?”

  Her ears perked. “The Pit?”

  “You’re strong—but remember Kavari? She had that Pridefang. Big, bone-forged sword.” He adjusted his coat. “You’ll have something like that soon. You should start training with something other than claws and teeth.”

  Her eyes lit up. “I can be stronger?”

  “Yeah.” He gave her a nod. “Okay!”

  She sprinted toward the left-hand window, the one that opened to the hidden rooftop scaffolding, but paused with one foot out.

  “Wait,” he added. “Don’t just pick something flashy or cool. Greatswords, claymores, zweihanders—big blades need more than brute strength. Have Frank help you. He’ll know what fits.”

  “Okay!” She beamed. “I’ll pick something awesome!”

  “And stop by the Tangled for food—ask Merry if Oliver’s busy.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him and vanished through the window in a blur of limbs and laughter.

  At least she was back to her usual self.

  Yuri raised an eyebrow. “So… she was in your—”

  Kael looked at him. A flat, quiet stare. Steel blue. Ice calm.

  Yuri cleared his throat. “Right. Anyway. You ready?”

  Kael stepped forward. “Always.”

  They walked out together, the wind picking up behind them, whispering of storms not yet seen.

  They walked fast through the Iron District, their boots crunching over worn stone and scattered gravel. Ahead loomed the great bridge—a hulking span carved from black stone and reinforced with glimmering amber glyphs. The runes shimmered faintly, drawing mana from the ley lines under the city and channeling it through the bridge like veins under skin. Solanir’s distant light filtered through the haze, turning the metalwork a dull gold.

  It stretched over the Cradlebrook River. Deceptively gentle name. Locals said the city had been “cradled” into growth by its waters. Kael knew better. The river pitched and rolled like a beast in battle. The drop might not kill you, but the current? That would drag a man under, bash his skull against rocks slick with moss and blood until nothing was left but foam.

  About halfway across, Kael slowed. They dodged a wooden wagon drawn by horses draped in red blankets as they stopped on the bridge. He glanced toward the two other bridges flanking them in the distance. The air smelled of salt from the sea beyond, heavy and sharp.

  “How are you doing?” he asked without looking.

  Yuri blew out a breath. “I’m great. Didn’t drink much at the festival. Lucy really enjoyed it.”

  Kael gave him a look. Just waited.

  Yuri scratched the back of his head and sighed. “I don’t know how you guys do it. I mean… I can fight. I had to, growing up on the street. And yeah, I’ve got the pit when times are slow. I like sabers. There’s that.” A small, sheepish smile. “But that last fight? That wasn’t a pit brawl. That was war. And when it hit… the idea of taking a coin just vanished. If I never have to fight like that again…” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t be upset.”

  Kael listened. Took a few extra seconds before responding.

  “Do you know why I brought you today? Why not Lucien, or Frank, or Oliver? One of the other toughs?”

  Yuri shook his head. “No idea.”

  Kael pointed toward the bridge checkpoint ahead—the ironclad gate into the middle districts. “If I brought Lucien and told him to deal with those pikeys? He wouldn’t ask questions. He’d draw that sword like a lumberjack going after a tree. Chop, chop. No hesitation.”

  He turned to face Yuri. “But you’ve got something he doesn’t.”

  He tapped Yuri’s chest, over the heart. “That.”

  Yuri flushed. “Come on, Kael…”

  “You trust people. You see them. If I brought Frank, we’d barrel through those guards and break bones ‘til the path was clear. Effective, yeah. But loud. Messy. Not what we need right now.”

  He paused, eyes steady.

  “You were iron before you were Ironbound.”

  Kael tilted his chin toward the checkpoint. “Now look over there and tell me something. Which one of them’s going to talk? Which one’s gonna tell us why they’ve been hassling our people again?”

  Yuri studied the line of guards. Blue uniforms. Stiff postures. One stood a little straighter than the rest—helmet polished, expression tight, jaw clenched like he’d just stepped out of a training hall and into real authority.

  “That one,” Yuri said, pointing.

  Kael clapped him on the shoulder. “Exactly.”

  Yuri rubbed under his nose, a little smile creeping up despite himself.

  Kael smirked. “Now it’s my turn.”

  As they neared the checkpoint, Kael noticed it immediately.

  The pikeys were being far too aggressive—shaking down passersby, emptying carts, barking questions. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t routine. It reeked of a message being sent.

  And then they saw him.

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  Kael watched the flicker of recognition ripple across their faces. Not fear exactly—but a wary tension. A primal awareness. The way prey animals stiffen when a predator steps into the field. A shift in stance. A drop in tone. The kind of silence only real danger could summon.

  Good. Let them feel it.

  The next few travelers passed with barely a nod from the guards, the bravado draining fast. Kael slowed his steps, gave a subtle hand sign to Yuri without looking.

  “Stay back. Watch for shadows.”

  Then he moved.

  The torrent inside him surged forward—quiet, violent, absolute. In one brutal motion, he grabbed the youngest pikey by the front of his immaculate blue coat and slammed him against the iron railing of the bridge. Metal screamed. The guard gasped, half-lifted off his feet, the river crashing below.

  The other pikeys started reaching for their weapons—Kael turned his head, gaze sharp as a blade.

  “Don’t.”

  It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

  The young guard dangled over the drop now, the river roaring beneath like it was hungry.

  Kael leaned in, voice calm as snowfall.

  “Bad day?”

  The boy stammered, his hands in a death grip on Kael’s forearm. Sweat broke across his brow like a fever.

  “W–What?! I—what are you—hey, that’s really high—”

  Kael tilted him further out, just enough for his boots to lose their grip on the stone.

  “I asked why you’re harassing my people. Is this a tantrum, or did someone order you to act like idiots?”

  The young man whimpered, eyes darting to his comrades for help. None came.

  Kael smiled. Cold. Patient. Inevitable.

  “Bad days can always get worse.”

  “The Captain!” the pikey blurted, panicking. “He—he wants to raise the tolls! Said it’s time to ‘tighten the noose!’”

  A few of the other guards stiffened, looks of surprise—or shame—on their faces.

  Corruption. Both kinds. Orders from above, and greed at the street level.

  Kael pulled the guard back from the edge and set him down with surprising gentleness. Smoothed the collar of his uniform. Straightened the silver-spiked helmet on his head like a doting uncle.

  “See? Not so hard.”

  Then he turned to the rest of the pikeys.

  “This goes one of two ways. One: you take the payment I give you. It’s not a pittance. You go back to looking bored at your posts. No trouble. Business as usual.”

  He stepped forward slowly, voice low and steady.

  “Two: I come back later today, and I cut down everyone here. Not a threat. Just logistics. You’ve seen what happens when I make time for logistics.”

  He let that sit.

  “I’m already paying your captain two gold a month.”

  They flinched. Eyes widened. Two gold was more than their whole collective take.

  Kael tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “So… he’s undercutting you. Hmm. Wonder what would happen if someone reported him? That’s betrayal, isn’t it? Can’t imagine the guard appreciates side hustles.”

  He gestured lazily.

  “Two gold. Six of you. Do the math.”

  And just like that, he waved to Yuri and walked through the gate into the middle districts—cloak trailing behind him, a storm that passed without ever needing to rain.

  They walked through the middle district, heading toward the Weeping Market.

  Here, the cobbled streets had stones inlaid with soft-burning amber glyms that pulsed faintly beneath their boots—mana lines drawn like veins through the heart of the city. The buildings rose taller than in the Iron District—not wealthy, but wealthier. Tunics were of finer weave, robes held richer dyes. A flash of a ring on a finger. A thin gold band around a lizard kin’s tail. The quiet symbols of comfort, of someone who didn’t have to fight for every meal.

  Kael glanced at Yuri, who was keeping sharp. The kid was watching everything—faces, exits, rhythms.

  Four marks, Kael caught the subtle tap of Yuri’s fingers.

  Three behind. One ahead.

  Kael signed back. Good.

  They were being followed. Expected. Even needed. That was fine—for this part, Kael wanted to be seen.

  The Weeping Market loomed before them, chaotic and alive. Stalls overflowed with silks, spices, leathers, and steel. The air was thick with the mingling scents of grilled meat, incense, and sea salt. Beast kin, dwarves, humans—even a few elves—flowed around each other like a living river. Hawkers shouted. Coins clinked. Somewhere, a street performer sang with a cracked but earnest voice.

  And in the center, almost impossibly large, stood a statue. No—not just a statue. It was power. It was status. A message carved in stone and magic for all to see.

  A tribute to Princess Velia Vel Orien.

  Clad in her striking blue armor—warrior, hunter, tactician. Dead.

  Behind her, towering just a bit taller—because of course his own daughter’s memorial wouldn’t be enough on its own—stood High Warlord Adrast Vel Orien, the Throne of War himself. The Steelfather.

  The mage cores embedded throughout the monument shimmered faintly, bringing uncanny realism to the stone. Eyes that almost blinked. Breaths that almost stirred cloth and metal. It pulsed with life—and power. A silent declaration of dominance over death itself.

  Kael’s jaw tightened. How many homes could be warmed with the mana burning through that thing? How many cold nights traded for this shrine to ego?

  His gaze swept up.

  At least they got her eyes right—those fierce, battlefield eyes that burned like twin moons. A Bound Warden to her core.

  He exhaled, low and bitter.

  Adrast hadn’t changed much. A little more gray now. Still looked a bit like a beast.

  Kael let his gaze sweep across the space. Just ahead, the start of Coin Street, where the buildings grew cleaner, the windows wider, and the guards wore polished boots instead of patched ones.

  Not yet. He clenched his jaw. Don’t tip your hand.

  The Weeping Market—named not for grief, but for sound. A quirk of layout. Zigzagging alleys and uneven architecture meant that at night, when the wind came off the Sea of Sorrows, the air itself wept. A high, hollow moan echoing through the stone. People said it sounded like a grieving woman. Others swore it was a man. No one agreed. But everyone called it the same thing.

  Then—movement. A flicker of green in the crowd. Emerald-threaded. Just a glimpse, but enough.

  Sooner than expected.

  Kael turned his head slightly. “You know what we’re looking for?”

  Yuri pretended to admire a stall of jewelry—thin silver rings, chipped sapphires.

  “Yeah,” he murmured. “Spots for the distraction.”

  Kael nodded. Good. He signed quickly.

  Don’t worry about the rats. I’ll take them.

  Yuri's eyes asked How? but he said nothing. Kael just smiled, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes.

  As they continued walking, Kael let his eyes linger on Yuri for a moment.

  The kid was doing better.

  He’d been quiet after the looter fight—too quiet. That kind of silence didn’t come from fatigue; it came from doubt, the kind that nested deep and didn’t leave without a fight.

  Now, though, Yuri was walking with purpose. Eyes scanning the rooftops, noting the small signs of movement, of tension. Reading the district like a living map. Picking up on things Kael didn’t have to point out.

  Good.

  “You’re thinking hard again,” he said, casting Yuri a sidelong glance. “About the statue?”

  He gave Yuri a slight nod as they turned onto a narrower lane.

  Yuri rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  “Man, that statue is unreal,” Yuri said, voice hushed with awe. “A Bound Warden and a princess… and the Throne of War himself. The Bound Wardens are like something out of a storybook. I heard they’re sent to the worst places—always fighting, always winning.”

  He paused, eyes lingering on the monument as they turned down a side street.

  “But… why build it here? In the middle district?”

  Kael glanced at him, then forward again as they walked. His voice came quiet, deliberate.

  “Adrast Vel Orien is a man of harsh realism—and unapologetic violence. He doesn’t believe in peace through treaties. He believes peace is bought with deterrence. Overwhelming force. The will to act when others hesitate.”

  Yuri walked in silence, taking in the words.

  “He’s respected by soldiers,” Kael continued, “feared by politicians, and admired—even in whispers—by some battle born beast kin. Not because they like him, but because they respect strength… and a man who says what he means.”

  They passed beneath a rusted overhang, the city noise dulling for a moment.

  “Under his rule? The southern border was militarized. Conscription doubled. Combat rankings introduced across the provinces. He doesn’t play court games—he threatens to march on cities that delay his supply trains. And people listen.”

  Kael’s jaw clenched slightly.

  “He had a daughter for the rest of it. Princess Velia. A face the realm could love. And when she died on campaign, he used it.”

  Yuri looked over, brows furrowing.

  “Used it?”

  “He had those statues built all across the realm,” Kael said, nodding toward the one behind them. “Not for grief. For power. To remind everyone that not even he is above the fight. That his own daughter bled for the realm. And now the people whisper about sacrifice and strength and duty.”

  Kael’s voice cooled.

  “It’s image control. Legacy. A tool to keep his grip tight.”

  Yuri didn’t reply—just walked beside him, quiet now, absorbing the harsh truth behind the monument.

  Kael didn’t pretend to understand all the realm’s politics. But he knew enough to recognize the shape of a war machine when it moved—and the people it crushed beneath its wheels.

  How many friends had he lost in the border wars?

  Pick a number.

  Then look around.

  The crowd bustling through the market, the merchants shouting, the children chasing each other through alleyways. It wouldn’t fit in a burial pit.

  Not even close.

  All those deaths—for what?

  A few miles of fertile land.

  A unified enemy to rally the realm.

  A banner to bleed beneath.

  He kept walking.

  As they wove deeper into the crowd on the side street, Kael caught the sound before he saw it the voice of a beater guard, aggressive, dismissive. Then he saw her—a scale kin mother, struggling to shield her young litter of hatchlings. One of the guards shoved her back with his baton.

  We don’t need your kind here. The gesture said more than words ever could.

  Kael’s jaw locked.

  Soon.

  Then he felt it—

  Hands.

  Rough. Strong. Too deliberate to be an accident.

  They slammed into his back, shoving him forward with enough force to knock the wind out of him. His shoulder clipped the blue-hued wall, sending a jolt of pain up his spine. The mana-lit stone flared faintly at the contact.

  He braced. Every muscle locked.

  Instinct screamed, Dagger’s next.

  He waited for the cold kiss of steel in his lower back. The gut-shot. The kill-point.