Page 68

“You think that’s why we’re here?”

He steps closer. Light catches the scars on his face—pale, uneven ridges carved deep. The same marks I’ve seen on Hollowborn. On zealots.

On the things they send.

“They sent men for you,” he says quietly. “Not monsters. Men. They knew who to take.”

My breath snags. My fingers curl toward my hatchet even though the woods are still. My body remembers yesterday too clearly—the way the world went narrow. The way fear burned out and left something colder behind.

“I handled it,” I say. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

His mouth curves. Not a smile. “You reacted. That’s different.”

Heat flares in my chest. Anger. Shame. Something like pride, tangled and sharp.

“You got lucky.”

“That wasn’t luck,” I snap. “That was⁠—”

“Instinct,” he cuts in. “And instinct burns out fast.” His eyes flick to my leg—not the wound, but how long I can keep lying about it.

The barn yawns behind him. Dark. Waiting.

My feet don’t move.

“Yesterday you chose to live. Today you chose who you’ll be when you do,” he says, stepping close enough that heat reaches me before his breath does.

My throat tightens because I did.

The stillness. The clarity. The moment fear disappeared and something else took over.

“You’re not fragile anymore,” he says. “And the Gospel knows it.”

Somewhere outside the barn, something scrapes—slow, deliberate—then stops, like it realized it was early. A chill slides down my spine.

“They’re coming for you,” he continues. “You don’t get to hide from that. But I can make damn sure you’re ready.”

He steps aside.

Leaves the space open.

Trusting me to choose.

My heart slams so hard it hurts. The barn smells like old fear and ghosts that don’t know how to leave. The cold digs into my bones like it wants to hollow me out.

I step forward anyway. I don’t ask what “ready” actually costs.

If the Iron Gospel wants me this badly—then I can’t afford to be small.

The air inside the barn is colder than outside. My breath clouds. Dust drifts through the light like ash over dark stains in the dirt.

I don’t look at the corner where I curled up after the Hollowborn shredded my leg.

I don’t look at the gouges in the wood where my boots scrabbled. My body remembers without permission.

Malek comes in behind me. The space tightens. He doesn’t shut the door all the way. Leaves it cracked. Air. Awareness.

“Stand where they can’t pull you apart.”