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Hollowborn were simple in the worst way. You heard the shriek, saw the body split wrong, and ran before the dark learned your name.

Raiders were worse because men could think. Black Harvest. Deserters. Killers with hunger where their souls used to be.

But Iron Gospel was different.

The Iron Gospel didn’t just kill. They made it holy.

Fanatics who carve scripture into their ribs and call it divine. Priests who drown sinners in ash and claim it is cleansing. Men and women who build a blood altar from bone and rusted metal, pouring sacrifice over them like it might coax their dead God to look their way. They twist faith into a blade and use it to carve the world into obedience.

But even zealots like them have a fear they won’t preach about.

Even saints have a devil they whisper around.

“You know what scares men like that?” Cass asks.

Scarlett’s smile disappears. “Cass.”

“Not monsters. Not hunger. Not God.” Cass keeps her eyes on the window, like she can see something moving beyond the glass.

“Him.”

The word lands too heavy for being so small.

“They say if you’re quiet enough, if you keep your head down and don’t shine too bright, you can pass beneath his notice.”

“Don’t,” Scarlett says.

Cass finally looks at me. “They’re wrong.”

Something cold crawls up my spine.

“The Crownless Wrath.”

Shadow lets out a low whine from the foot of the bed. My skin crawls.

Scarlett’s hand waves dismissively as she stands. “We’re fine,” she says, too quickly. “We’re off the main road.”

“Yeah,” Cass says. “But that doesn’t make us invisible and it damn sure doesn’t make us safe.”

The argument hangs there like wet clothes on the line. Heavy. Sour.

I shove Shadow off me and stand. “What do you need?”

“I need you to do what I’ve told you every damn day for the last six years. Stay inside the fence. Stay where they can’t get a clear look at you. Don’t give them a reason.”

Her eyes flick over my face—my eyes—and then away. “Some people don’t need to do anything wrong to be noticed.”

She never tells Scarlett that. Only me.

“Got it,” I say. “No heroics. Just acorns and chicken shit.”

Her jaw twitches, like she wants to say more but doesn’t. Instead, she turns away.

“Happy Birthday, sis,” she throws over her shoulder. It sounds like an apology and a warning—and I don’t know yet which one I’ll need.

II

Rot Wearing a Crown