Chapter 77. The Thread-Cutters

We planned the raid with bread under our tongues.

“Salt first,” Mavienne said, stacking squat bottles corked with wax. “Then light. Then run until your feet remember why they were made.”

“Not heroics,” Syra added. “Not deaths that look good from a balcony. In and out.”

Neris rolled a length of black cloth between her palms, eyes like slits against the torchlight. “He posted needlemen on the ridge. They shoot to pin, then listen for the scream to measure distance. If you scream I will never forgive you.”

“I don’t scream,” I said.

“You do,” Kael murmured, not looking at me, fingers busy with a strap on his cuirass. “But you save it.”

He didn’t touch the last strap. He waited.

“Here,” I said, and stepped into his hands.

He drew the leather snug against my ribs, the pad of his thumb grazing the inside of my arm where the skin is thin and sweet. Heat licked under my skin, careful and certain. The brand warmed—not flare, not warning. Answer.