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“No,” I say softly. “It is what I can promise.”

His jaw works, but he nods.

I turn before I do something unforgivably foolish, like reach for his hand in public. Each step away from him stretches the bond through my chest, but the pain is less vicious than before, steadied by the knowledge that distance is temporary rather than absolute.

At the edge of the courtyard, I glance back.

Corin remains by the fountain, hood shadowing his face, posture controlled despite the power still simmering beneath his skin. He looks dangerous. He looks frightened. He looks like a question the world would rather answer with a blade.

I continue toward the registry, my folio heavy against my side and my pulse still carrying the echo of his restraint.

By the time I reach the clerk’s desk, I know one thing with enough certainty to write it in my private ledger later: Corin’s hunger is not activated by proximity alone. It sharpens around threat, insult, coercion, and any perceived danger to me.

That does not make him harmless, and it does not make the bond safe.

It does, however, make him understandable.

That is enough to keep me moving. Barely.

5

CORIN

Talen is not difficult to find.

Men like him think humiliation has a smell, and maybe they are right, because I track his sour little mood through the streets behind the registry without needing to ask a soul where he went. The courtyard noise falls behind me in layers: the clerks barking over slates, the vendors selling hot cakes, the wheels grinding over damp stone, and Isolde’s voice still caught somewhere beneath my ribs, precise and calm as she tells me not to come to the window tonight.

I should listen to her.

That would be the sensible thing, the civilized thing, the thing a man does when he has just discovered his hunger responds to threats like a blade drawn in the dark. Unfortunately, I am not feeling especially civilized.

I keep to the narrow lane behind the registry, where the buildings lean close enough to make the sky feel stingy. Rainwater drips from broken gutters, carrying soot down the walls in long black streaks. The air smells of wet plaster, old piss, and roasted nuts from the courtyard, with Talen’s presence layered over it like cheap oil and sweat. He walks fast at first, shoulders high and posture stiff with bruised pride, then slows once he thinks no one important can see him.

That tells me plenty.

He turns into a side passage between a shuttered scribe’s office and a storage yard stacked with empty crates. I follow, silent enough that his first warning is my voice behind him.

“You and I should talk.”

Talen spins with one hand dropping toward the short club at his belt. His eyes widen when he sees me, and then his expression gathers itself into a sneer so quickly it almost looks practiced.

“You stupid bastard,” he says, trying for contempt even though his voice comes out too sharp. “You really followed me?”

“Apparently.”

“Do you know who I serve?”

“Yes. That’s part of the problem.”

His fingers close around the club. “Walk away.”

“That would’ve been a stronger line if I hadn’t just watched you run from a clerk with ink on his thumb.”

His nostrils flare, and a flush creeps up the sides of his neck. “You think you’re funny?”

“I think I’m nervous, and funny comes out when nervous has nowhere useful to go.”

“You should be nervous.”