Waking was the worst part.

  The memories tore through him like razors—jagged, insistent, unforgiving.

  He had known pain—pain that warped both mind and body. But waking?

  Waking meant remembering.

  It always greeted him first.

  Kael gasped as consciousness clawed its way back in. He was tangled in a storm of breath and sweat and pain that refused to leave quietly.

  Beside him, a strong, feminine form held him like a dam against the flood.

  Kavari didn’t speak at first. Her hands moved over him—not to seduce, but to search. Gentle, desperate motions, like she could locate the wound with her touch and draw it out by force. But some hurts weren’t of the flesh. Some were buried so deep they punched like daggers into the abyss of the soul.

  She was warmth against his cold, a furnace beside him in the dark.

  And like all warmth, it began to fade. It always did.

  Her voice came soft, brushing away damp strands of black hair stuck to his face.

  “When you said bad…” she began, the sentence unfinished—lost in the futility of trying to name something unspeakable.

  But he was already calming, breath by breath.

  His mind was working—packing the trauma back into its tight little boxes, slamming them shut and locking the vaults.

  He’d done it before.

  He’d do it again.

  Maybe forever.

  He looked at her. At the way Solanir’s light softened the edges of her red hair, now tangled and wild.

  At the way her blue eyes searched his face, not in judgment—but with a quiet, aching concern.

  “What does this to a man?” she whispered.

  Not to pry.

  To understand.

  To fix something that could never be fixed.

  Kael sighed, the weight of everything folding into a bitter truth.

  “The operation’s tonight,” he said instead, reaching for purpose like a lifeline. He needed to move. To act.

  But gods, he didn’t want to.

  He looked back at her, his voice rough.

  “I don’t know. It’s just me. Always has been.”

  She leaned in, stroking his arm softly. “Is there anything… anything I can do?”

  His answer came quiet, gentle.

  “Nothing you haven’t already done. It left faster today.”

  “That feeling…” he trailed off, reaching for words that didn’t exist.

  “It’s like being torn apart. Piece by piece. I don’t think there’s a word in any tongue that captures it.”

  She pulled him into her arms, holding him close, like the embrace alone could hold him together.

  Then—finally—he laughed. Low and cracked and full of tired irony.

  “Gods, I’m getting soft. That’s two nights in a row now, being looked after.”

  She studied him, serious and intent.

  “Kael… if you saw what I saw, you’d understand. I think I know why your scent fills this room.”

  She touched the long, silvery scars that traced his body—wounds that never faded.

  “When you were asleep, you were in pain. Constant battle. Your body thrashed, but your scars… they pulsed with silver. They moved. Like something alive.” She paused. “Maybe the High Shaman can help you.”

  Kael looked at her and smiled, quiet and tired. “Maybe.”

  She tilted her head. “You’re really okay?”

  Another quiet smile. “If you’re planning on staying here… you’ll have to get used to it. This happens almost every night.”

  She didn’t flinch.

  “Okay,” she said. Just that.

  And with the ease of someone who had faced a thousand mornings after battle, Kavari stood—unapologetic in her nudity—greeting Solanir’s rising light without shame. She stretched, feline and limber, her red hair cascading down her back, claws flexing, tail twitching. Every motion spoke of strength. Of readiness. Of the next fight.

  Kael watched her in silence.

  And for one fleeting moment… the day didn’t seem quite so heavy.

  Nudity never really bothered him.

  He’d grown up in the border wars—where modesty didn’t survive long.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Men and women had eaten together, bathed together, bled together. Died together.

  The Pride lands were even more liberal, especially among the battle born.

  There, nudity was woven into life between battles.

  Moments of warmth. Laughter. Scars compared like trophies. Bodies not seen as something to hide, but to bear—with pride, with pain, with history.

  Because there was always another battle coming.

  And sometimes, the only way to survive it was to live freely in the space between.

  Before the border wars, the battle-born mostly fought each other. Why? He never got a clear answer.

  “It’s just the way it is.”

  “It’s who we are.”

  “What is a battle-born without battle?”

  “Ask the ancestors.”

  All common replies. None satisfying. But maybe that was the point.

  They dressed quickly and efficiently—no wasted motion, just the rhythm of those who had trained for war their whole lives.

  Kael adjusted the strap on his shoulder, as Kavari slipped into his spare clothes with a grace honed by ritual and repetition. They didn’t quite fit, but she didn’t seem to care.

  Then—

  The door slammed open.

  Runt barreled in with a wild grin, grabbing Kavari’s wrist and tugging hard toward the hallway.

  Kael didn’t even try to stop the laugh that escaped him.

  The look on Kavari’s face—half outrage, half disbelief—as she was dragged toward the stairs by someone half her size, was priceless.

  A full-blooded battle-born, hauled off like a sack of grain by a determined runt.

  Yeah. He could use moments like this.

  Moments between the battles.

  He knew the operation would begin tonight.

  So he did everything a man could do in a single day—if that day might be his last.

  He visited Wendy’s rooftop garden, where the air smelled of green things and hope. She showed him blossoms that opened only in full sun, petals kissed with mana. She spoke of healing roots and rare pollens, and he listened—not as a warrior, but as a student. His hands, once trained to crush and poison, now touched leaves that could mend and soothe. He recognized some from his old training—agents of death, now shown in a new light. It made him quiet. Thoughtful.

  He stopped by the orphanage next. Ms. Thatcher gave him a tired smile, the kind only those who’ve seen too many hungry winters can manage. He reassured her that the vaults would be stocked, the children safe. Then, from his coat, he pulled the book he’d taken from Roman—what felt like a lifetime ago. Sitting in a circle of wide-eyed children, he spun a tale not from the pages, but from memory—his own childhood fantasy, buried deep. He tapped the dragon embossed on the leather cover, and mimed a fire blast with his hand. The kids gasped, delighted, and for a moment, he wasn’t the Ironbound commander. He was just a man with a story.

  He visited the hospital next, walking the quiet halls where the sick whispered and the dying clung to breath. He sat beside an old soldier missing most of his jaw, and just listened—no rank, no orders. Just silence and presence. Stories poured out of shaking hands and clouded eyes, and Kael bore witness to all of it.

  Down by the harbor, the fishermen called out his name. He rolled up his sleeves and helped them haul nets thick with the day's catch. It was backbreaking work under the blazing rays of Solanir, but it felt real. The salt spray, the ache in his arms, the laughter of men who’d never seen him bleed—it grounded him.

  At the pit, he watched Runt sparring with Frank and Kavari. Frank bellowed about fundamentals, his stance square and solid; Kavari mocked him, moving like a flame, dancing with the big sword in wide arcs. Runt beamed, caught between them, her aura flaring with excitement. Kael smiled quietly, unseen, unseen.

  Later, he found Lucien.

  They didn’t speak at first. Just picked up spears and began. Then axes. Then, for the thrill of it—daggers. Close, fast, lethal. Cuts were made. Blood was drawn. And through the pain came the old rhythm—trust in every blow, laughter in every clash. No fear. Just two blades testing their edge.

  Runt found him first—bounding up with energy that never seemed to run out—and insisted they all go to Dora’s.

  So he, Kavari, and Runt ended up in the little corner shop with the cracked windows and sweet-smelling air, where Dora’s pastries were stacked like treasures behind glass. Runt declared she’d already picked out the best ones. “The real best ones,” she said proudly, pointing to a tray near the back. Kavari raised a skeptical brow, clearly amused.

  Then she tried one.

  Her expression shifted the moment the flaky crust and molten filling hit her tongue—eyes widening with genuine delight.

  “Okay,” she admitted, mouth full, “they’re that good.”

  Kael just smirked.

  Afterward, they walked the district together. Not to patrol, not to plan—just to be.

  Runt took on the role of tour guide with theatrical enthusiasm, dragging them to her favorite alley shortcut, her favorite broken street lamp (“It flickers like a ghost!”), and the little wall she once jumped off and sprained her tail (“Totally worth it,” she insisted). Kavari remained cool and composed—at first.

  But Kael saw it.

  The softening around her eyes. The corners of her mouth twitching into reluctant smiles. The way her steps slowed when Runt got excited, letting her lead. The light in her gaze when Runt mimicked a drunk old tough trying to sing on market day.

  She was amused. But more than that—she was enjoying herself.

  It was subtle, but Kael saw it clearly. Runt’s antics were getting to her. In a good way.

  And for once, for just a while, the weight of war and duty and blood could hang somewhere else. The Iron District, loud and cracked and alive around them, felt a little brighter.

  Because for this moment—they were just people. Not soldiers. Not killers. Just three souls walking the streets.

  And that mattered. More than any of them could say.

  Their steps, as they often did, carried them back to the Tangled.

  Warm light spilled from the windows. The sound of clinking mugs, low laughter, and the sizzle of something frying filled the air like a balm. Inside, the usual chaos greeted them—but it felt like home.

  Merry’s smile was back, sharp and mischievous as ever.

  Over dinner, with the table crowded and the food better than it had any right to be, Merry leaned across the table toward Kavari with a glint in her eye. “You know,” she said casually, “we could bottle Kael’s scent.”

  Kael froze mid-bite. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Think about it,” Merry went on, undeterred. “We sell it to the Pride lands—'Iron Scent.’ We’d make a fortune.”

  Kavari blinked. Then, slowly, her expression shifted into something dangerously amused. “Actually… that’s not a terrible idea.”

  “No, right?!” Merry was practically bouncing. “They’d pay out the nose. We could market it as ‘Smell like a First Fang.’”

  Kael stared at them, horrified. “This is a joke. You’re both joking.”

  They weren’t.

  “Oh! But wait,” Merry said with a wicked grin. “We skipped a step. How do we get the scent off of him?”

  Kavari’s eyes gleamed.

  Together, they turned to look at Kael like predators who had just spotted a wounded deer in the brush.

  “Nope,” Kael muttered.

  He grabbed Runt—who was happily licking stew off her fingers and utterly unaware of the ambush—and bolted from the table.

  Behind him, laughter followed.

  So did a terrifying idea.

  Because the worst part?

  They might actually do it.

  Kael walked Runt back to the boathouse, not in any real hurry. Solanir had dipped below the rooftops, casting long amber shadows that stretched like reaching fingers across the cobblestone.

  He wasn’t rushing. There was no need.

  Because for today—just for today—he had done everything a man should do.

  Everything a man could do.

  He’d walked the district. Spoke to the living. Listened to the dying. Held laughter in one hand and regret in the other. He’d planted roots in the places that mattered, even if he knew he’d never see them grow.

  The day was full. Not peaceful—but full.

  And all the while, he could feel it.

  The quiet, constant pressure.

  The noose around his neck.

  Tightening.

  It didn’t yank or snap. It didn’t need to.

  It just waited.

  Like Solanir going down.

  Like the Fadefall coming closer.

  And Kael—Kael kept walking, because there was no point in fighting the pull.

  But still, his hand never left Runt’s shoulder.

  Not tonight.

  Not yet.

  Last chapter of the week! Any guesses which one ended up being one of my favorites? Let me know!