Page 3 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

Another sack tears loose. Crash. Another, then another.

Davrik. Of course, anything from the ground answers him, grain included.

Fuck.

I don’t stop. My left foot lands just as the sack jerks free before I can settle. My right foot scrapes the edge of the next one, as it’s already sliding out from under me. I push off before it disappears entirely.

Balance isn’t stillness. Balance is recovery. Mom’s voice echoes in my head, steadying me.

The window’s right there; it’s so close.

“Impressive,” Davrik says, sounding bored. “But it won’t be enough.”

The window ahead slams shut, and the wooden bolt slides into place on its own.

He thinks that’ll stop me. Adorable.

My hand finds the blade strapped to my thigh mid-stride, and I let it fly in answer. The bolt splinters under the impact, sending wood shards scattering.

There’s no slowing now. I drop my shoulder, and wood bursts around me, momentum carrying me through until there’s nothing under me but air.

A boom cracks overhead, and the force slams through me like a fist to the back.

What the⁠—

Grain pours down around me, kernels pelting my back like hail.

A sack. He threw a fucking sack at me.

I tuck a half-beat too late, and the stone hits hard. Pain lances through my leg as I roll through it, but I force it down and run.

Behind me, Davrik’s voice carries through the broken window, unhurried. “Find her.”

Boots scatter across the stone, and everything in me sharpens. I don’t think. I cut left into the narrow gap between buildings, one of three exits I mapped before the job.

I run shadow to shadow through the alleys. I don’t stop until the warehouse district fades behind me and the outskirts swallow me up.

Thank fuck for trial season. It’s the only time of year the streets are this packed with drunks, merchants, and fools singing about glory in the Weeping Woods. And tonight, I’m grateful for every one of them.

I slow to a walk and force my breath to steady, matching the rhythm of the crowd around me.

The familiar sign catches my eye, a barrel crusted with peeling green moss. The bell over the door chimes as I push inside The Mossy Barrel. The smell of ale and smoke is thick and hot. The place is packed from trial season in full force, with shouted bets on who walks out of the Woods alive.

Charming.

I cut through the press and slide into my corner spot at the bar. The wall is solid at my back, and I let my weight settle. The floor finally starts to feel steady again.

Fletcher’s behind the bar, pouring drinks for a pack of millers, with his charm on full blast. He looks up mid-pour, and his grin dies.

He abandons his customers and strides to me, with a bottle already in hand.

“They’re safe,” he says as he pours and slides a whiskey to me. “You okay?”

I down it in one go, relishing the burn.

I can’t help but think that they’re only safe, for now. That’s all we ever have in this realm.

“Gemma.”