Chapter 17 · What a Father Would Trade

"Midnight. West gate, unbarred, unwatched. Or they send the boy back in pieces, one at a time, starting with—"

"Say it again." Rhys twists the courier's arm higher. "Slower."

"That's—that's all of it." The courier's voice cracks. "Please—"

Rhys lets go. The courier hits the floor, cradling his arm like it's broken. It's not. Not yet.

"Who gave you this."

"A man in a gray cloak. Third watchtower. No name."

"Of course not." Rhys pulls the ledger out before he even decides to. His hand does it on its own now, nine loops deep. The book's more honest than he is.

The entry wasn't there this morning.

It's there now.

*Vittal Ograne — countdown: 6.*

No skull mark. No red ink. Just a number, ticking.

"That's new," Sona says.

He didn't hear her come in. She's got her boot on the courier's collarbone, sword sheathed but her hand resting on the hilt.

"You following me now?"

"I'm following the screaming." She nods at the courier. "What's the six."

"Nothing."

"Rhys." She says his name like a blade coming half out. "Last time you said *nothing*, I ended up dying in a snowbank with your name in my mouth. So.