Rancour’s right behind me, shrugging off his coat, then his shirt, looking like he’d rather fight a pack of wolves than deal with this damn heat. I watch as he bundles up his gear with that mini arsenal he insists on lugging around, gritting his teeth as he rolls his shoulders, trying—and failing—to hide the wince from all that metal digging into his back. In this swelter? The bastard’s probably roasting like a pig on a spit. Those weapons are bound to brand him before the sun’s done with us.
But I’ll be damned if we’re slogging deeper into this infernal jungle without enough blades between us. Sure, I’ve got my pistols and daggers, but a solid blade could make all the difference out here.
“Hand over some of your gear,” I say, holding out my hand. “We’ll split the load.”
Rancour shoots me a glare, one eyebrow raised like I’ve just offered him a pair of knitting needles. “Save the pity, Cagney. I’m fine.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Pity?” I roll my eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s called practicality. Now hand me the damn sword before your back lights up on fire.”
We stare each other down; his eyes narrowed, refusing to give an inch. But finally, after what feels like a lifetime, he pulls one of his swords and offers it, hilt-first, his fingers clinging to it a second too long.
“Does this mean you’re watching my back, Cagney?” he asks, his tone thorny as always.
“Do you actually doubt it?” I shoot back, gripping the hilt hard. “Of course, I’ve got your back, motherfucker.”
He smirks—one of those ugly smirks of his, of course—and we head further inland, the sand grinding under our boots. Each step cranks up the heat until my head’s swimming, sweat stinging my eyes.
“Hold up a sec,” I mutter, mostly to myself. Doubt he’s even listening. But something gnaws at me, twisting in my gut, and it’s getting harder to ignore with each damn step.
“Rancour,” I call, louder this time, that edge of irritation sneaking in. He doesn’t stop right away, and I half wonder if he’s testing me, but then he glances back, one brow raised, face flushed and slick like he’s sprinted across half the island. Honestly, he looks worse than I feel, and I feel like shit.
“Keep walking, Cagney,” he mutters, voice all gravel. “Whatever it is, it can wait.” He turns back, ready to keep marching.
But I shake my head, jaw tight. “What time is it?”
That stops him. He twists around fully, giving me a look like I’ve lost my mind.
Does he feel the same thing I do?
“What the hell are you talking about?” he scoffs, a crease forming between his brows, a hint ofsomethingflickering there.
“I asked what time it is,” I tell him, though my voice wavers slightly. My heart hammers in my chest, and I don’t even know why. Or maybe I do… I just can’t remember it. “So answer me.”
He just stares. “Losing it already, Cagney? We just got here, and you want me to guess the damn time?”
Guess…? No. I don’t want him to guess anything. He’s supposed toknowthe time.
There’s a handful of trees around us, if you can call them that. Twisted, pale things, branches brittle as bones bleached in the sun. Not a palm or a leafy island giant among them. They look dried out, like they’ve been baking here since the dawn of time—and somehow, they’re still clinging on.
Fabien’s about to topple over from the heat, and I’m not much better off. It’s like we’re drunk, stumbling around with our brains half-fried.
Which means that prickle in the back of my skull? I’d be a fool not to pay attention.
“So what time was it when we got here?” I press, not letting it go.
His stare goes from annoyed to... unsettled, maybe. And I know he doesn’t handle this kind of shit well—anything that seems like the Lady’s taunt at him, anything unknown. He lets out this annoyed scoff, glances around at the trees like they’ll give him an answer, then finally squints up at the sky.
“Shut up, will you?” he snaps, voice like a growl. “We just got here. What timecouldit be?”
“Just answer, Rancour. Humor me,” I say, jaw tight.
I know I sound ridiculous, but there’s this gap in my memory—a blank spot gnawing at me, pressing down like a dull knife lodged somewhere in my skull.
Come on, Zayan. Think. What’s missing?
But there’s nothing. Just a void. I keep my eyes on Fabien, hoping he’s got some spark of genius buried in that grimacing face of his.
