Liam stood in the dimly lit back room of Patrick's shop, the air thick with the scent of oiled steel and old leather. His fingers still ached from the earlier skirmish, but it was nothing compared to the knot of unease twisting in his gut. The girls—Ast and the others—hovered close, their faces pale but determined. He had dragged them into this mess, and the weight of that responsibility pressed on him like a physical thing. 'I won't let them get hurt again. Not after everything.'
He turned to Ast, voice low but steady. "What's the problem with this one?"
Ast lifted one of the knives from the bundle. Its edge gleamed with an unnatural violet hue, catching the lantern light like spilled poison. She met his eyes, her usual sharp confidence tempered by something darker. "This knife is very dangerous, you know."
