"Shit!" Crow snarled, slamming his fist into the alley wall with a sharp crack. Dust drifted down from the impact as he leaned forward, seething.
"If that damn Bandit Lord hadn't been there, I would've had her!"
He gritted his teeth, pacing in tight circles. This was supposed to be a message—his message. Proof that he wasn't just some expendable pawn, that he could carry out a kill that mattered. Something Amara couldn't laugh off. Something that would wipe that smug look off her face while she kept wasting time chasing Larkin like a dog after its tail.
Instead? "I got fucking stabbed and sliced to shit!" he growled.
He looked down at himself—his coat shredded, the gaping hole in his chest still slick and dark, his thigh wound stiff and deep. The fabric was torn straight through, soaked with blood. He clenched his fists again and forced himself to calm. It'd heal. Eventually. But not fast enough. Not before she saw him.
"I need to eat," he muttered, voice low and cold.
A sound echoed from deeper in the alley. A soft scrape. Crow turned, already moving toward it—silent, sharp-eyed. His footfalls made no noise on the stone as he rounded a corner and found the source.
A box, weather-worn and damp. Inside, a curled-up cat and four tiny kittens, their eyes barely open. The mother lifted her head, fur bristling as she hissed low in her throat, shielding her young with her body.
Crow crouched in front of the box, his face unreadable.
Then he scoffed, reaching out.
"You'll do."
---
Amara drummed her fingers against the worn tabletop, chin resting in her free hand. Her eyes were distant, sharp with irritation.
"Just where the fuck did that useless wight go?" she muttered.
Across from her, Wolf had decided—uninvited—to share the table. He sat calmly, legs stretched out, polishing his sword with practiced focus.
"It's a shame neither of you have tickets," he said, not looking up. "Tomorrow's matches—at least one of them—is something I'm very much looking forward to."
Amara glared at him, her eye twitching. "I don't care what you're interested in."
A pause stretched. Then, with a sharp breath, she rolled her eyes. "Let me guess—Zeva Blossom? Because she's a swordswoman and you're a sword freak?"
"You'd guess right," Wolf said without missing a beat. "That little lady's family is supposed to be all about the blade. I want to see if she lives up to it."
Amara's face twisted in disgust. "Ugh. Don't call a woman a 'little lady.' Especially one you don't know."
Wolf shrugged, running a cloth down the edge of his blade. "I do know her. She just doesn't know me."
Amara blinked. Then glared.
"That's worse."
Suddenly, the door to the inn creaked open, the light from outside spilling across the wooden floor—and in walked Crow. The blood was gone, scoured clean with necromancy, it was undead blood after all, and whatever wounds he'd sustained were now sealed shut, mended by the meals he'd eaten. But his clothes were still in tatters—slashes and punctures torn clean through his coat, shirt hanging loose where blades had torn.
"Took you long enough to come back from your little walk," Amara said dryly, barely glancing up at first. But when she did, her gaze swept over him, brow tightening. "What happened?"
Crow didn't answer immediately. He stalked up to the table with a grunt, eyes hard.
"We need to talk," he said, then turned his eyes to Wolf. "Privately."
Without another word, he turned and headed up the stairs.
Amara clicked her tongue, her gaze narrowing on his back as he disappeared above. "What problem has he created for us now?"
Across from her, Wolf didn't look up. He ran the cloth down the edge of his blade with slow, deliberate strokes.
"You know," he said casually, "for two people who travel together and work together, you two really seem to hate each other."
Amara gave a bitter chuckle and waved him off. "That's because I do. I didn't ask and I sure as hell don't need to travel or work with him. I'm forced to."
She pushed back from the table and stood, casting one last glance down at Wolf.
"Try not to cut anything, freak."
"Try not to burn the place down," Wolf called lazily after her. "Angry, suspicious woman who mutters to herself."
Amara felt a vein twitch in her forehead. She didn't dignify it with a response—just stomped up the stairs, jaw tight. She reached Crow's door and shoved it open without knocking.
Inside, Crow was half-turned away, shirt in hand mid-change. He jolted.
"Fucking knock!" he snapped, eyes flaring.
"As if I care about seeing your pathetic sorry thing," Amara shot back coldly. "Now talk. What happened?"
Crow exhaled through his nose, frustrated. He turned to face her fully, voice low.
"I tried killing the Princess of Veridiania."