Ryker's POV
I moved through the packhouse passageway like though time had stretched itself around me. The echo of my boots on the cold floor sounded too loud. Every footstep was purposeful, a march toward penance.
Descending the hidden staircase to my secret basement, the air grew heavier. Moist walls pressed inward, strewn with old banners that people believed burned with fire long ago. Now their fabric hung limp, silent witnesses to what came next.
At the bottom, I saw Raccoon standing alone. He looked up without surprise, just that unblinking calm that always unnerved me.
I approached and caught sight of the iron spike on the table beside him. Silver-coated, cruelly pointed. It gleamed dully in the half-dark, a weapon shaped for violence.
I picked it up and laid it in Raccoon’s han
