Page 35 of The Midnight Death Match

I don’t turn. “Sometimes lines are all that keep things from falling apart.”

“Intelligent observation for one so inexperienced.” He steps closer, his voice quieter. “And yet this city is built on broken ones.” His expression is unreadable, the torchlight carving gold into the edges of his cheekbones, his eyes molten and still.

“What do you know about my experience?” I demand.

“Your father still lives. The nature of the hunter line won’t stand for two experienced hunters to coexist.”

That’s a point I can’t argue. “Why defend me back there?”

Lys lifts a cracked hunter insignia from the shelf, cradling it with surprising gentleness. “Because they see your name, your sword, and your fate.Isee your choice.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know what it’s like to stand between what you were born into and what you’re becoming.”

Tension in my chest, and I exhale slowly. “The scholars won’t all follow.”

“No,” he agrees. “But some will. The ones who matter.”

My heart pounds, louder than I want it to. “What about you?”

Lys tilts his head. “I follow potential. And you, huntress, are a living paradox. Half-wolf, half-blade. All edge.”

His words coil tightly around something I haven’t let myself feel in weeks—possibility.

“Do you always talk in riddles?” I step back.

He smiles faintly. “Only when truths are too dangerous to say aloud.”

Before I can reply, he walks away, leaving in his wake the scent of stone and rain and the echo of something I can’t quite name.

It takes me a moment to shake off the unease, then I find Harek seated near the edge of the hall’s inner chamber, where shadows stretch long and firelight doesn’t quite reach. His sword rests across his lap, fingers moving over the hilt like he’s memorizing every groove.

He doesn’t look up as I approach.

“You didn’t say much back there,” I offer.

“I said enough,” he replies, voice even.

I sink down across from him. “You think I’m wrong?”

Now he looks at me. His eyes are dark and unreadable. “I think you were heard.”

It’s not a compliment. But it’s not anger, either.

Still, it stings. “I didn’t ask Lys to speak for me.”

“You didn’t stop him.”

I frown. “He makes good points, and he could be useful.”

“So am I. But I don’t try to impress you with stupid riddles.”

Silence hangs between us, heavier than any curse. I shift, trying to lighten the mood. “You always said I was stubborn.”

“Because you are.”

“You’re not exactly the most flexible yourself.”