Chapter 13 · Four Days Before the Blade

"Stand still." Halrik's hand caught my shoulder before I could step past him.

I froze. Every muscle in my body wanted to pivot, drive my elbow into his ribs, follow through with a knee. Four loops of dying in the Pits had rewired my brain. Touch meant threat. Threat meant violence.

"Your cloak's caught," he said.

I forced myself to breathe. "Where?"

"On your pauldron clasp. Hold on." His fingers moved to my collar, working the fabric free from the buckle. He was close enough that I could smell the leather oil on his uniform, see the thin scar along his jaw I'd never noticed before. Back when I still thought he was on my side.

"There," he said, smoothing the cloak back into place. "Can't have the prince's guard looking sloppy."

"Appreciated, sir."

He stepped back, eyes scanning the corridor behind me. "You're early for rotation."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Bad dreams?"

"Something like that."

Halrik's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "You've been jumpy all week, Dane. Something I should know about?"

Yes. That in four days you're going to frame me for treason, strip my rank, and sell me to an underground death ring you secretly own.