“I still don’t like that it came from Luna,” he muttered.
Knowledge was leveraged. And Luna collected leverage like other people collected jewelry—openly, proudly, and with intent. The idea that Essie had been vulnerable in someone else's hands gnawed at him.
Essie startled. “I thought you were watching the street.”
“I am,” he said. “And you. And the door. I’m very efficient.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “You’re sulking. Again.”
“I’m not sulking,” he lied. “I’m assessing risk.”
“You’re sulking,” she repeated, fastening the bracelet. The metal pulsed once in time with her heartbeat. No sparks. No lanterns flared. “And risk has already been assessed. Luna said my mother left it with her.”
“That’s the part I don’t like,” he muttered.
So far, that was the only truth he had heard from Essie. Luna knew her mother, and the bracelet was made by her. But she still refused to give any information about herself. Actions made it obvious, but he wanted to hear it from her lips.
He didn’t like that Luna knew more about Essie’s past than he did. He didn’t like that Essie had cried in another person’s arms. And he definitely didn’t like that Luna had been the one to give her a gift that made her feel safer in her own skin.
Essie flexed her fingers experimentally. Gold light glowed beneath her skin, then smoothed out—as if the bracelet itself was smoothing it.
“It works,” she whispered, awe softening her features. “I can… breathe. Inside.”
“You’re perfect with or without it,” Nythir said.
“You mean it?” Her eyes were wide with confusion, hope, and something he couldn’t quite name.
“Come on,” Lyssara called from the door, interrupting the moment. Nythir cursed. She was already dressed in travel leathers, her braid looped into a crown to keep it off her neck, a recently sharpened sword at her hip. “Job board opens in ten. If we’re late, Sable will give our caravan to someone boring.”
Vorrik lumbered in behind her, strapping an axe across his back. “And we can’t let that happen. I’m emotionally attached to that route.”
“You’re emotionally attached to food,” Lyssara said. “The caravan happens to go through our hometown.”
“Attached regardless,” he said proudly.
Essie perked up, bracelet forgotten. “We’re really taking the escort job?”
“Yes,” Nythir said, pushing off the window. “You wanted to see more of the world. This is the safest way—doesn’t involve teleporting into a bandit nest.”
He had wanted to show her the world gently. Slowly. Not like this—through threat assessment and kill zones. But the world rarely waited for permission.
“I told you, that was only once.”
“Once is enough,” he said. “Let’s not add to your explosive death count.”
Her smile faltered. Guilt flickered in her gaze. He regretted the words immediately.
“That’s not what I—”
“It’s fine,” she said too quickly. “You’re right. Caravan. Job. No more accidental killing.”
He wanted to hold her. Whisper apologies into her ears. Take away all the pain his idiotic words caused. He had never cared if his words hurt someone. But not Essie. Never her.
Lyssara’s gaze lingered on him longer than necessary.
She had fought beside him long enough to recognize the signs—jaw too tight, magic held too carefully, attention split in ways that got people killed.
“You’re compromised,” she said quietly.
