The firelight paints him in gold and shadow, but he looks like a corpse pretending to nap.
I settle beside him on the floor, legs curled under me, watching his chest rise and fall.
This man—this orc—has crossed realms for justice. Fought things that have haunted books older than my lineage. And now he’s dying on my couch while I try to remember whether garlic helps with blood rot or just makes it smell worse.
I don’t talk. I can’t. I just keep cleaning, rewrapping, dabbing, checking his pulse every ten minutes like a clock I’m terrified will stop ticking.
I hold his hand at some point. I don’t even realize I’ve done it until my fingers are wrapped around his, warm and trembling, and he stirs just enough to squeeze once before falling still again.
The world goes very, very quiet.
Hours pass.
The fire burns low. The wards hum faintly. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the wind chimes strung with bones and iron keys.
And that’s when I decide.
He’s not dying here.
Not on my couch. Not on my watch. Not inthisdamn town that’s always taken too much and given back nothing but ghosts.
He’s staying.
We’restaying.
I don’t care what ancient laws say. I don’t care if I have to break every damn magical contract written since Atlantis sank. I’ll barter. I’ll blackmail. I’ll bleed dry every last enchantment I’ve stored in mason jars and tea tins. I’ll rip open the veil if I have to.
He is not dying.
And I am not letting him go.
Even if I have to lie.
If I have to cheat. Even if I have tosteal magic straight from the gods.
He stirs in his sleep. Mumbles something in a language I don’t understand—something guttural and aching. His brow twitches. I stroke it gently, just once. Then I curl up on the floor next to the couch, still holding his hand, and stare into the dark until dawn starts leaking in through the shuttered windows.
But peace doesn’t last.
Not far away—maybe across town, maybe acrosseverytown—something else stirs.
Something worse.
CHAPTER 16
KURSK
The dawn air is sharp, bitter like cold steel against skin. I taste metal and smoke, the remnants of last night still clinging to olive bark tables and tattered curtains. Olivia moves beside me, silent, booted feet scraping gravel. Her eyes are red—no, not from crying, but from burning determination. I can almost see the resolve in the way she holds her shoulders, how her hand skirts her pack, ready.
Burnout and Booger lag behind, crouching in shadows, bottles of rockets and arms of Slayer riffs loaded on whatever blasted phones they could grab. Their breath mists in the morning air; the sky’s just pale, a bruised gray.
We’re at Calvin’s estate now: the Smarthome of the Future. Not a mansion—something slick, gleaming, completely soulless. Panels of glass reflect the rising sun but shift, ripple, grin with something twisted behind the mirrored surface. Steel beams melted into organic curves; balconies bulge like stretched skin; facade windows breathe, exhale steam that smells like ozone and burnt wires.
Over the gates, voices—HOA members, possessed, their skin pale, eyes blank. They patrol with perfect posture—BUT their smiles are wrong. Too wide. Too slow.
Olivia breathes low beside me. “That’s the front shift,” she murmurs. “You ready?”
“Always.” My spear feels heavy in my hand. Heavy with promise and threat.
