One whispers, half-pulse, “Freya?”
I don’t answer. I hold up the damaged security card — blackened edges, scorch marks faint — the one I stole from Trebuchet. Their faces change slow, shock morphing to guarded caution.
A woman in soft leather — robe trimmed with forest moss and lantern-green stitching — steps forward. Her face is soft-set, gentle lines carved by age and peace instead of bone-spurs. She doesn’t say much. Just nods once.
“Inside,” she murmurs. Her voice is low and careful.
I stumble after her, through corridors scenting of wood polish and damp earth. The recessed lamps cast soft halos. I taste water on the air — not stale cell-air, but life-breath water. I swallow, steadying myself.
Door shuts behind me. I draw in air like I’ve been underwater. Relief blossoms — sharp, brittle, fragile. I close my eyes for a second.
“Parfi?” I whisper, unsure if I’m safe or blinking illusions.
The woman — Parfi — crouches beside me. She presses a hand to my shoulder, steady. The fabric of her robe smells faint of incense, herbs, and pine wood — comforting, grounding.
“You made it,” she says. Her voice carries calm. “We heard. We feared. We prepared.”
I dip my head, touch lips together like I’m tasting scars. “I need?—”
She cuts me off with a rough hand. “No words. Sit.”
She leads me to a low table lit by lanterns. The wood warm under my palms. I slide onto a bench — legs trembling. Parfi sets down a basin of warm broth — rich, earthy smell, deep spices,heat that hits my stomach like a welcome strike. There’s thick flatbread next to it, soft and warm with butter-fat richness.
I eat slow. Each bite tastes like life. The broth rolls down warm, washes away the cold dread, leaves a hum of comfort I’d almost forgotten.
“You did good,” Parfi says, watching me eat. Her eyes flick to slimed leather uniform, to the burns, to the cuts. She doesn’t wince. She only nods.
I close my eyes, chew. “They’ll come for me,” I say. “They’ll come for all of you.”
She doesn’t flinch. “Maybe. But you brought the proof. And the will. That may be stronger than their weapons.”
I swallow, set the bowl down. The water tastes of wood polish and hope. I lift my gaze to her. “I’m going back in.”
Parfi’s face registers surprise — just for a moment. Then it steels itself. “When the time is right.”
“When’s the time right if not now?” I counter. “They’ve already punched the seal. They’ll sweep, hunt, purge. Innocents will burn.”
She touches my arm — light, firm. The contact grounds me. I smell pine-smoke, incense, and faint sweat on her skin. The sound of distant bells from the compound’s outer ring trembles through the walls — alarm, fear, the distant roar of transport craft launching.
“You’ll need gear,” she says.
I nod. I don’t argue. I haven’t got breath for it.
Parfi rises. She moves into a side-room — temple-store, refurbished — and returns with rough-sewn leather armor: patched, spliced, thick enough to deflect a blade but light enough for movement. She hands me a short knife — crude, sharpened from scrap metal. The edge glows faint under lantern light. It smells of oil and metal sawdust.
“You ready this?” Parfi asks, voice low. “This can?—?”
I hook leather straps around my waist, cinch the belt tight. The scraps of cloth rub against bruised ribs, but I don’t wince. I slip the knife into a sheath strapped to thigh — cold metal, warm leather. The scent of raw steel bites at my nostrils.
“I don’t wait for rescue,” I say. Soft but steady.
Parfi exhales slow. She touches my shoulder once more. “Then go with the wind. Go with fire. But promise me — come back alive.”
I meet her eyes — warm moss-green under soft lamplight. “I promise nothing,” I say, “but I swear — by every orphan I once tried to sleep past in the dark — I’ll come back with truth. And hell.”
She nods. Fade. Acceptance.
I stand. Leather settles against bruised skin like cold arms wrapping bone. Knife weight swings at my thigh — promise I can use.
