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“Good for you. You’ll die brave then.” Frinna’s laugh was bitter scorn wrapped in fatigue and far too knowing. “The Fist loves brave men. They keep them around to make examples of them.” She turned toward the mouth of the alley. “Nice to have met you.”

“Wait.” He pushed off the barrel. “I know they’re a threat. What do you want?”

“Wanted to warn you. See if you’d take the chance to run.” She didn’t turn around. “So? Will you?”

He could barely see her face beneath the hood—wrinkles pinched in a glower meant for him. She was waiting with the weary frustration of someone resigned to the answer before it was given.

He thought of the people he’d be leaving behind.

Wren, hollow and resigned when he told her the truth—as if she’d already made peace with being disappointed by him. Brunna’s fierce promise that she’d make him regret hurting anyone here. Marda’s quiet confidence that he was better than he believed. And Tavrin’s steady faith. His conviction that good men didn’t always start that way.

Maybe Tavrin was right. Maybe it wasn’t something you were born with. Maybe you had to choose it.

“I’m staying,” he said. The steadiness in his voice even surprised him.

“Good.” Frinna crossed her arms and nodded toward the barrel. Then her gaze flicked to the edge of the alley. When she was satisfied that they were alone, she whispered, “You’re not the only one in danger. He’s targeting her too. Thought you might care about that part.”

“Wren,” he said, every muscle going still. “What do you know?” He leaned against the barrel again, eyes straining to read her expression in the dark.

“I overhear things,” Frinna said. “That man wouldn’t last a day without me. I’m always around, and because I am, he’s stopped seeing me. Treats me like a chair—useful but invisible. I listen.”

“What did you hear? Get to it, woman.”

She yanked her hood down and glared at him, eyes sharp as glass. “Don’t make me regret trusting you. You seem capable, and you’re not scared of her, which I respect. But if you breathe a word of this—against me or otherwise—I’ll find you.”

Orzen let his chin drop, raising his palms in surrender.

“I’m sorry. But isn’t this urgent?”

“I’m getting to it.” She tugged the hood back up, enough to shadow her face but not hide it from him. “Theordrin’s been meeting with someone. Never seen his face—always cloaked. Thin. Tall. Moves like someone used to being obeyed.”

“You didn’t recognize his voice?”

“Didn’t get close enough before tonight. He barely spoke, but when he did…” She hesitated. “It was low. Odd. And he smelled like rotting fruit.”

“Like the decay in the walls,” Orzen muttered.

“Could be.” She glanced toward the street again. “Never seen a Witherborn myself. Always thought they were only a story. But if they’re real…” She shook her head like she didn’t want to think about the possibility. “All I’m saying is that man, whoever he really is, could be one of them. Theordrin told him, ‘Have your men ready for the signal.’”

“What signal?”

“Didn’t say. Wish I knew.” Frinna pulled the cloak tighter. “But one thing was clear—Wren had to be off the stage.”

“So they don’t want her dead, then?”

“Worse,” Frinna hissed. “He’s trading her for whatever this man’s offering. Her life for soldiers. To what end, I don’t know, but it can’t be good. Theordrin expects the Fist to sweep in and ‘clean up’ whatever mess he’s making. Have us bowing down to him afterward in thanks.” She spat once on the dirt, the motion small and bitter. “Last thing I’ll ever do.”

“Was there anything else?” Orzen’s voice was rough and desperate. “Nothing to help identify him?”

Frinna closed her eyes for a second, chewing on the memory like a scrap of gristle. “Yes. There was one thing. A clacking sound.”

“Clacking?”

She nodded. “It was strange. Quiet—like stones tapping together. It had a rhythm, like some kind of habit. It stuck with me.” She opened her eyes, slow and serious. “Whatever they’re planning, Wren’s at the center of it.”

Heat flooded his vision; every muscle coiled toward motion. His hand closed on the barrel rim until his knuckles ached, pressure rising in his chest like steam trapped in a pot. His boots moved before he realized what he was doing.

“I’m going to kill him.”