The night was cold. Too cold for summer.
Daemon sat by the dying fire, hands still sticky with blood. He had washed them in the river until his skin burned raw, but the stink clung to him. It was in his nails. His hair. His teeth.
He could still hear Ryn laughing.
Even as the man bled into the dirt, even with half his shoulder split open, he had laughed like it was the best night of his life.
Daemon pressed his palms to his ears, but the sound wouldn't stop.
Selvara crouched across the flames, sharpening her knives with slow strokes. Sparks hissed. Her eyes flicked up, green and sharp, pinning him. "You hesitated," she said softly.
"I saved her," Daemon muttered. His voice cracked, thin as thread. "The girl. I saved her."
Selvara tilted her head, blade whispering against the whetstone. "Did you? Where is she now?"
Daemon's throat closed. He had no answer.
Kaelen sat apart, back against a tree, sword resting on his knees. He hadn't spoken since the fight. Not one word. His silence was heavier than Selvara's knives. He looked at Daemon like a judge waiting for the rope to tighten.
And Ryn—gods damn him—Ryn lay stretched out by the fire, bandages sloppy over his wound, grinning through the pain. "You've got it, boy. I saw it in your eyes. That snap. That hunger. Don't fight it. The first cut's always the hardest. After that..." He chuckled, coughing blood into the dirt. "After that it gets easy."
Daemon wanted to drive a blade through his throat right there. Wanted it so badly his hand shook. But when he gripped the hilt, Kaelen's eyes opened, calm and grey, stopping him cold.
The fire cracked. The forest pressed close, whispering with insects and night birds.
Selvara's voice cut the quiet. "Listen, Daemon. The Empire rots from the inside. Every noble that rides those wagons... every soldier that cuts down children in the street... they're part of it. You saw it with your own eyes. If you want to live, if you want revenge, you'll need to drown yourself in that same blood."
Daemon stared into the flames, chest heaving. "And if I don't?"
Selvara's smile was thin as a knife edge. "Then you'll die. And no one will even remember your name."
The words slid under his skin, cold and true.
Ryn laughed again, rolling to his side, eyes wild. "Ohhh, but if you do, lamb... if you do... the killing never stops. It becomes you. You'll wake up one morning and wonder when the line disappeared. When you stopped being a boy and became the blade."
The firelight danced on his teeth.
Daemon turned away, bile rising in his throat. He told himself he wasn't like them. That he never would be. But his hands still trembled. And no matter how hard he scrubbed, they still looked red.
Chains. Invisible. Tightening with every choice.
And deep inside, in the place he couldn't name, Daemon wondered if Selvara was right.
Maybe the chains were already locked.