“Yes, but he’s a dangerous man,” the guard insists.
“And luckily, I have the two of you right outside in case I need you. That is your job, isn’t it?”
Again, the guards exchange a look before hesitantly stepping aside and opening the door for me. I slip past them into the brig, immediately hit by a cloud of stale air and the tang of fresh blood. Like yesterday, S?ren is slumped against the far wall, chains around his ankles and wrists. The healing Heron did yesterday has already been undone, with fresh cuts and bruises covering much of his skin. Unlike yesterday, though, he looks up when I approach. Though his mouth is too bloody to say for sure, I think he attempts a smile.
“You came back,” he says, the words more breath than voice.
“I told you I would,” I say, trying to inject some p
