I step out of my room into the dim corridor, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. A guard stands at the far end, bored, leaning against the wall, hand on the hilt of his sword. He straightens when he sees me.

  “I need to check on my bears,” I say.

  He gives a long, reluctant sigh but jerks his head for me to follow. “Fine. Come on.”

  We walk through the quiet halls, our footsteps echoing off the stone. The keep feels different now, like it’s trying to pretend nothing is wrong. The night air is crisp. Dim lights flicker from the houses in the courtyard.

  When we reach the stables, both bears lift their heads. Charlie rises to his full height, claws scraping the wood, a deep huff rolling out of his chest. Grizz steps forward with a low rumble, head down, ears forward — the kind of posture that says he’s been waiting all day. They give off agitated moans.

  The guard hesitates, then unlatches the stall’s sliding door — a heavy, grated timber panel set on iron runners. He grips the handle with both hands and slides it sideways only a few inches, just enough to create a narrow gap.

  “Hurry,” he mutters. “Before they try to get out.”

  I turn sideways and slip through the opening. The moment I’m inside, he shoves the door closed again with a solid thunk, the latch snapping back into place. The bears don’t even look at the exit — their eyes are locked on me.

  Charlie reaches me first, pressing his forehead into my chest with a slow, deliberate push. Grizz leans his full weight against my hip, breath coming fast and uneven. Their relief is physical — heavy and grounding. The shove knocks me to the ground, and they huff a wounded sound as they nuzzle me with their noses.

  “I know,” I murmur. “I know. I didn’t want to leave you either.”

  Grizz growls as he lowers his head, ears flat, but he is not angry with me. He is angry at the walls, the gate. They are angry at being separated from the pack and angry about being treated like beasts.

  I kneel between them, running my hands through their fur. Their warmth presses in on me from both sides, grounding me in a way nothing else has today. They lean into me, heavy and solid, and the tension in their bodies slowly unwinds.

  “You’re safe,” I whisper. “I’m here now.”

  The guard hovers in the doorway. “How long is this going to take?”

  I shrug and shake my head. “I’ll just stay with them tonight.”

  He huffs, already annoyed. “Well, I’m locking the door. I’m not babysitting you out here all night.”

  “That’s fine,” I say, waving him off.

  The lock clicks, then, as he turns away, he mutters just loud enough for me to hear: “No surprise there for an orc to prefer the stables.” He clicks his tongue, then wanders off without looking back.

  I lay down in the straw between Charlie and Grizz. Their breathing steadies as they curl around me, warm and familiar. The sting of the guard’s words lingers, but it fades in the presence of my loyal bears.

  Then I notice it—perched on the fence outside the stall. A Direfang owl watching me, silent and unblinking. It flutters down and scratches at a closed door, trying to draw my attention to it, but I have no way of reaching it, locked inside the cage like this. It’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I close my eyes, trying to settle again.

  When the owl scratches more insistently, I get up and shake the bars to show I’m stuck for now. The owl gives a short, frustrated hoot, then flutters up to a higher beam and settles there, feathers ruffling as it finds its balance.

  With the owl finally quiet, I lie back down, letting the familiar sounds of Charlie and Grizz steady me. For a moment, the stable feels almost peaceful—horses shifting, straw rustling, the creak of old beams settling in the night.

  But the longer I listen, the more I start to hear the rest of the stable. And some of it… isn’t right.

  There’s something unnatural threaded through the quiet. Something twisted and strained.

  I hold my breath and listen harder.

  Faint sounds drift in, warped by distance and stone: a strained whine, the clank of chains pulled taut, a muffled howl that rises and cuts off too quickly. They seep through the cracks around the two doors at the far end of the stable—the narrow one meant for handlers, and the massive reinforced door built for creatures far larger than horses. The same door that the owl had been trying to draw my attention to.

  And beneath the straw and bear musk, a faint scent begins to creep in. Something foul, oily, and metallic, like rusted iron mixed with burnt herbs. A smell that doesn’t belong in any stable. A smell that feels… wrong. Like the air itself is bruised. Thin enough to try to ignore, but present and potent enough to sting the back of my throat.

  The bears sense it too. Charlie shifts, restless, his ear flicking toward the doors. Grizz presses closer to my side, a low rumble vibrating through his chest. Their unease bleeds into me.

  I try to settle anyway. I shift onto my back. Onto my side. Onto the other side. The straw digs into my ribs no matter how I lie. I close my eyes and try to focus on the warmth of their bodies, the steady rhythm of their breathing.

  But the noises keep coming.

  A faint clank.

  A strained whine.

  A soft scrape, too deliberate to be the wind.

  Every time I start to drift, another sound snaps me awake again. My jaw tightens. My shoulders knot. The darkness feels heavier with each passing hour.

  Charlie huffs, irritated. Grizz lifts his head, ears twitching, then settles again with a frustrated groan.

  “I know,” I whisper. “I hear it too.”

  But the sounds don’t stop.

  And neither does the tension crawling up my spine.

  By the time the first pale light creeps through the cracks in the stable roof, I’ve barely slept at all—just short, broken moments between the cries and rattles. My body aches. My eyes burn. And there’s a slow, simmering anger sitting under my ribs, waiting for something to push it loose.

  The scrape of the lock jolts me from my half-sleep. I push myself upright, stiff and sore, straw clinging to my clothes. Charlie lifts his head with a low grunt; Grizz rises more slowly, but both of them are already watching the door.

  The guard cracks the stall open the same narrow amount as last night — just a sliver. When I stand, he rolls his eyes. He clearly wishes I would just stay put.

  “Let’s go,” he mutters, like he’s being forced to haul out a sack of grain.

  I angle my shoulders and squeeze sideways through the gap. Both bears are right behind me, crowding the opening with a deep, offended huff. Charlie’s muzzle pushes against the wood; Grizz’s claws scrape the floor as he tries to wedge his head through beside him.

  The guard startles and shoves the door shut hard, driving their heads back inside. He slams it into place. The latch snaps with a sharp metallic bite.

  “Stay in there,” he snaps at them, voice cracking just a little. Then, to me: “Control your animals.”

  Behind the bars, Charlie lets out a low, wounded moan. Grizz rumbles deep in his chest, pacing once before pressing his shoulder against the door as if he could follow me through sheer will.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I tell them.

  They don’t settle. They don’t even blink. They just stare at me, betrayed and restless, as the guard turns away and jerks his head for me to follow.

  The guard walks beside me the whole way to the banquet hall, close enough to feel like a handler shadowing a dangerous animal. He stops at the threshold and jerks his chin toward the room.

  “There. Go eat.”

  Then he leaves me standing there.

  I step inside.

  Knights and royal officials fill the long tables, most of them already halfway through their meals. A few glance up as I enter — some curious, some wary, some pretending not to stare. One knight near the far end catches my eye: his armor is a patchwork of overlapping plates, each one a dull, iridescent green. Dragon hide. The real thing. It’s the kind of armor you earn.

  His gaze flicks toward me, then away again.

  I scan the room for my people.

  Shineah is the first I spot — her braid neat, her posture straight, her hands wrapped around a warm bowl. She’s seated with Garrun and the others at a long table near the center of the hall. Garrun is mid?sentence, gesturing with a piece of bread, but he stops when he notices me.

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  Shineah’s face brightens for a heartbeat — relief, warmth — but the expression falters as soon as she takes in my posture. The stiffness in my shoulders. The exhaustion in my eyes. The tension still coiled under my skin.

  She misreads it instantly.

  “Tormack,” she calls softly, concern threading through her voice. “Over here.”

  I make my way toward them, the weight of too many eyes following me across the hall. The scrape of benches, the clatter of dishes, the hum of conversation — all of it feels distant, muffled, like I’m walking underwater.

  By the time I reach the table, Shineah is already shifting to make space for me. Garrun leans back in his seat, watching me with that familiar, assessing smirk.

  “Rough night?” he says, voice light but eyes sharp.

  I lower myself onto the bench beside Shineah. The wood creaks under my weight. My hands feel heavy. My jaw is still tight.

  “You could say that,” I mutter.

  Shineah studies me, worry tightening her features. “You look like you barely slept.”

  I don’t answer.

  Because she’s right.

  And because I don’t know how to explain the wrongness still clinging to me from the stables.

  She hesitates, her eyes flicking over my face, then to my hair. A small piece of straw is caught just above my temple. Before I can react, she reaches up and plucks it free with careful fingers.

  The touch is light — barely there — but her breath stirs, shallow and uneven. She finds another bit tangled near my ear and brushes it away, her movements slow, almost tentative, as if she’s afraid I might pull back.

  Her expression softens and tightens all at once.

  Guilt.

  Worry.

  Something like regret.

  She smooths a stray lock of my hair back into place, her fingertips lingering a heartbeat too long before she drops her hand to her lap. She swallows hard, and the silence between us grows heavy — not angry, not cold, just… aching.

  “Let me get you some food,” she says as she looks away. Her voice is steady, but her hands tremble just slightly as she reaches for a spare bowl.

  Garrun snorts under his breath.

  “New clothes and they’re already filthy,” he mutters, eyeing the straw still clinging to my shoulders. “And you smell like you slept in a barn.”

  Shineah stops mid?stride. Her back goes rigid, shoulders tightening beneath her cloak. She doesn’t turn around, but the line of her spine says enough.

  A low growl rumbles out of me before I can stop it.

  Garrun’s smirk fades. He straightens, puffing up his chest, meeting my glare with one of his own. His hand drifts toward the table, fingers curling like he’s ready to shove me if I move.

  He leans in, voice low and sharp. “They’ve been nothing but kind to us. Don’t ruin this for us.”

  The heat hits my palm.

  My fist tightens, and the flame answers — a sharp, rising burn that coils around my knuckles. A thin band of fire crawls up my fingers, bright enough that the nearest diners go still. Benches scrape. Someone whispers a curse as people stare wide-eyed at my hands.

  Garrun squares his shoulders, jaw set, ready to take the hit.

  I lean forward, the fire flaring—

  And a hand touches my collar.

  Light. Careful. Cool against the heat.

  Shineah.

  She doesn’t pull me back. She doesn’t speak. Her fingers rest there, steady but tense, her face composed in a way that makes the coldness in her eyes stand out even more.

  The flame pulses once, hard.

  Her grip tightens just slightly.

  The room holds its breath.

  I let out a long, slow exhale, the fire dimming as I shake my head. The tension bleeds out of my shoulders by inches. I lower myself onto the bench, the wood creaking under my weight.

  Shineah turns away again, going for the food she meant to fetch in the first place. Her hands still trembling.

  I lower myself onto the bench, the last of the heat fading from my fist. Quickly, Shineah sets the bowl in front of me — porridge thick with steam, berries bleeding purple into the grain, then she goes and returns again with toast glistening with melted butter and honey.

  I take a bite of the toast first. The sweetness hits my tongue, warm and grounding. My shoulders ease a fraction. The porridge is even better — soft, rich, the berries bursting tart against the warmth. For a moment, the hall feels quieter. The tension in my chest loosens. I eat slowly, savoring each bite more than I mean to.

  Shineah sits beside me, hands folded in her lap, watching me from the corner of her eye. Every time I lift the spoon, her gaze flicks to my face, then away again.

  I’m halfway through the bowl when a shadow falls across the table.

  The steward.

  “Master Tormack,” he says, bowing his head just enough to be polite. “His Majesty requests your presence.”

  My spoon pauses mid?air. I set it down and rise.

  That’s when Shineah’s expression changes.

  The moment I stand — the moment my posture shifts, the tension settling back into my face and shoulders — she bites her lip and her eyes go wide with an unmistakable flicker of worry that wasn’t there a heartbeat ago. Her hand twitches like she means to reach for me.

  She rises too, instinctive, ready to follow.

  The steward lifts a hand.

  “Only him.”

  Shineah stops. Her fingers curl at her sides. She doesn’t argue, but her eyes stay on me, tracking every movement as if she’s trying to read something in the way I hold myself.

  I push back from the bench, the unfinished bowl still steaming on the table. The hall watches as I stand, and I follow the steward toward the doors, the taste of porridge still lingering on my tongue.

  The steward leads me through the keep’s inner corridors, each hallway quieter than the last. When we reach the throne room, the doors stand open just enough for him to slip through. I follow, the guards on either side watching me with stiff, unreadable faces.

  Inside, the King sits on his throne — a tall, carved seat of dark wood and gold, raised on a short platform. The royal physician stands below the platform, wringing his hands, eyes darting nervously between the King and me.

  The King’s gaze sharpens the moment I enter.

  “Tormack, I am told that is your name, correct? Forgive me for not asking your name the other day,” he says, his voice carrying easily through the hall. “Please, step forward.”

  As I do, the King rises from his throne with slow, deliberate grace. He descends the steps one at a time, his cape whispering across the stone. When he reaches the physician, he stops.

  “Dorgun,” he says calmly, “your hand.”

  The physician blinks. “Your Majesty?”

  “Your hand.”

  The man extends it, trembling.

  The King takes the physician’s hand in one steady grip. With the other, he draws the dagger from his belt — a small blade, polished, almost ceremonial.

  Then he slices a clean, practiced line across the man’s palm.

  The physician gasps — then cries a sharp, involuntary sound, like the air has been punched out of him. Blood wells instantly as he jerks back on instinct, clutching his hand to his chest. The cut splits wider under the pressure, and a thin ribbon of blood runs down his wrist, dripping onto the stone floor.

  “Your Majesty—!” His voice cracks. He’s shaking, breath coming fast, eyes wide with disbelief and pain.

  The King doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look at him. He simply turns to me, as if he’d cut a piece of fruit instead of flesh. “I would like to see how your stone works. Heal him.”

  My breath catches. “It doesn’t work like—”

  “Heal him,” he repeats, sharper this time. “I want to see this power of yours. Dorgun, you are the one who said he was bluffing. Let’s find out here and now.”

  My hands grow warm. My fist curls, and the flame answers — rising fast, coiling around my knuckles. A thin band of fire crawls up my arms, bright enough to cast a glow across the King’s face.

  His jaw drops open.

  The physician stumbles back, eyes wide.

  Guards shift, hands going to their weapons.

  The King steps closer, fascinated. “Remarkable…”

  I pull my hand back, the flame flaring hotter.

  “Healing,” I say, voice low and shaking with fury, “is a gift from God. Not some cheap parlor trick for your amusement.”

  The King blinks, startled.

  I shift my gaze as I turn and storm toward the doors. The guards, confused and frightened, scramble out of my way as I rip the doors open and march through without a dismissal.

  Outside, the Direfangs are gathered, waiting with tense, worried faces.

  Shineah’s eyes search mine, but I don’t look at her; I don’t stop. I don’t speak. I just push past them, the heat still burning under my skin.

  Shineah’s mother glances back to the throne room, then gathers her skirts and hurries in, her voice already smoothing into something calm and diplomatic.

  Garrun stares at me, disbelief twisting his face. “What did you do, you blockhead!”

  I snap my gaze toward him.

  He winces, immediately losing his breath, and without another word, he jerks his eyes to Shineah’s mother and hurries after her before the doors close behind them.

  The moment I clear the steps to the central keep, I don’t slow. I cut across the courtyard, my pulse is still hammering from the audience with the King, heat crawling under my skin like something trying to get out.

  The stables are bright and loud with daytime work — horses stamping, stablehands shouting, the stink of hay and sweat thick in the air. Charlie and Grizz lift their heads when I pass, but I barely glance at them. My attention goes straight to the far wall.

  The door.

  The one the owl scratched at.

  The iron bands are cold as I try the handle, but it is locked tight. No give. Just a pressure in the air that makes the back of my neck prickle.

  I step away, scanning the stable.

  That’s when I hear a sudden, violent slam against metal.

  I turn to find a large, canvas?covered wagon that sits near the wall, its wheels sunk into the packed dirt. No one is near it. The tarp jumps as something inside hurls itself forward again, hard enough to rock the whole frame.

  A snarl rips out from under the canvas — deep and furious — the animals in the stalls jerk and snort.

  Curiosity pulls me closer.

  The wagon rocks again, the metal clanging as the creature inside throws its weight forward, snarling at the air, at anything it can sense. The tarp dips outward for a heartbeat, like something pressed against it.

  I crouch, lifting the edge of the canvas just enough to see the rear hitch. A wooden trunk is strapped there — scuffed, empty, the kind of thing used for tools or feed. The tarp drapes over it, hiding the whole back end of the cart.

  I then hear the clank of armor and footsteps approaching from the courtyard, accompanied by voices.

  Guards.

  My pulse jumps as I quickly lift the trunk lid and climb inside. It’s a tight fit, but I manage to curl my knees in and pull the lid down just as the creature slams the bars again, snarling directly at my scent.

  The cartge rocks violently.

  Bootsteps stop right beside it.

  “What is wrong with that thing?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Get it inside before people start snooping.”

  Metal clacks as multiple guards grab the handles and groan with effort as they push the cart forward.

  I go with it, hidden in the trunk. The creature’s snarls and the clatter of the cage make it hard to hear anything outside, but eventually the wheels grind to a halt. A heavy gate groans open, and the cart rolls forward again.

  Soon enough, it stops for good. I lie still, waiting for the doors to close and the guards’ footsteps to fade. My heart drums in my chest as I ease the trunk lid open a peek, but see nothing but darkness.