“Bring them in."
The Ironfang leader lounged on his throne of scavenged antlers, fingers tapping against a skull goblet. The room smelled of sweat, smoke, and old blood.
Sepharine entered first, back straight despite the guards at her sides.
Draven followed—unmasked now, cloak damp with rain, sword at his hip.
Murmurs rippled through the rogues.
“That's the Walfson heir."
“Didn't he fall?"
“He's the one looking for her."
Draven stepped forward and dropped to one knee.
Gasps spread like wildfire.
Sepharine blinked, stunned.
He unsheathed his dagger—Moonlight ribbon tied near the hilt—and laid it on the ground between them.
“I failed you," he said, voice low but unwavering. “I let others mock you, use you, lie to your face. I stood while you bled, and when you vanished, I was too
