Vrok’s beside me, arms crossed, stance rigid. He doesn’t make a move to disembark yet. Doesn’t say anything. Just watches the crowd with that unblinking gaze of his — the one that always feels like a measurement.
I take a breath — deep enough that I can taste the grit and sweat in my lungs — and step down first.
The ground here is loose gravel and dust, crunching under my boots like brittle bones. The lighting is harsh and unkind, casting long shadows that seem to move of their own accord.
“Wait,” Vrok says.
But I don’t. Not yet.
Because the first person to approach is not a guard… not a militia… but themayor.
He’s a tall man with a voice that’s gone hoarse from shouting orders he knew might never be obeyed. His clothes are patched together like the town itself — sturdy fabric, reinforced edges, and a face lined by a thousand difficult mornings.
He stops three paces away from me, hands raised in a gesture that’s more supplication than welcome.
“You are… she?” he asks, voice winding and hopeful.
“Yes,” I say before I can swallow the words down the hollow in my throat.
He pauses, eyes dropping to my chest, then right back up to my face — like he’s trying to verify that I am flesh and blood and not a legend summoned by prayer.
“The Butcher,” he breathes. “We never thought?—”
He breaks off. His eyes brim with weight I don’t have words for yet.
“You heard the reports?” I ask, scanning the armed townsfolk who edge closer, cautious but reverent.
“Everyone heard,” the mayor says. “They say you ended a massacre without a single life lost. They say you stopped a boarding crew with nothing but phantoms. They say youaredeath made manifest.”
The words land like blunt instruments.
I glance over my shoulder and see Vrok just standing there — quiet, observant — letting the weight of what I did hang in the air a little longer than anyone should be allowed.
The mayor’s voice cracks.
“Please,” he says. “Our people… Large Marj’s forces have taken our kin. Public executions. Taken them before our eyes. Made us watch. Said it was justice. Said it wasperformance.But you… maybe you can?—”
He doesn’t finish.
Because he doesn’t need to.
I understand.
I feel it like a burn beneath my ribs — a sharp, hot ache that’s not fear. Not exactly.
It’s responsibility.
Heavy. Immediate.
The expectation here doesn’t feel like hope. It feels like ademand— and demands have consequences.
I swallow. Hard.
I look at Vrok.
His jaw is tight. His eyes are—calculating, but something in them softens ever so slightly when they land on me.
“You want help,” I say to the mayor.
