8. Finn
Finn
Heat presses in from all sides, but I don’t feel it until the yard starts to blur at the edges.
Hayes presses Rye back, controlled and efficient. Rye compensates with his right side still lagging. I should call it out, but the words sit heavy and formless behind my teeth, and by the time I reach for them, the moment has already slipped past.
A month. It’s been a month.
I feel my hand working open and closed, the yard fading, and I’m eight again, shaking in the corner behind the woodstove with a fear too big for my body. Mom took my face in her hands and pressed her forehead to mine.
“Finny,” she said, pulling me into her.
“What if we can’t keep them safe, Mama?” I asked through sobs.
“We’ll be all together, always.” She said it like a vow.
“Finn.”
I blink. Rye is standing in front of me, sweat streaking down his face, concern written all over it.
“You all right?”
“Fine,” I say automatically, but the word tastes wrong.
He studies me like he’s deciding whether to push. Hayes calls him back, and Rye goes.
I don’t follow.
We’ve run out of clean options, not officially; no one’s said it out loud.
But I know this feeling, the one where you’ve burned through every lead and start circling the same ground.
Grier’s rotated guards through the dungeons.
Rosie’s pressed the noble houses until the smiles wore thin.
We’ve checked routes, corridors, every place we can justify being, and nothing.
Tommin brushes past, close enough that his voice stays low.
His eyes don’t meet mine as he murmurs. “The first-floor servant access on the western corridor is still locked down.” He shifts his weight. “And they doubled the patrol after dusk near the King’s suites.”
That’s the last clean option we had without being seen.
Grier’s hand lands on my shoulder, subtle and steady. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to, because we both know there’s nowhere left to look.
“The swordmaster is useless,” Rye says.
I look up. Rye’s scowling, and Hayes is beside him, clearly entertained.
“He runs the same drills, the same angles, over and over. There’s no adaptation,” Rye continues. “I need someone who can actually fight.”
The words cut through the fog and hit something solid.
“Where does the swordmaster stay?” I ask.
All three of them look at me.
“In the castle,” Hayes says slowly. “Near the servants’ wing in the western corridor. Why?”
My pulse spikes.
Grier doesn’t miss a beat. “Finn mentioned knowing someone,” he says easily. “A better option.”
Rye’s grin is instant. “Perfect, bring them in.”
The next hour bleeds together. When the yard finally clears out, Grier turns to me fully.
“That gives us access to the servants’ quarters, storage corridors, to the places we can’t justify being otherwise.”
I nod. My throat’s too tight to speak. This would bring our risk inside the King’s walls and put eyes where we can’t afford them.
“Who?” he asks.
“Gemma.”
The name lands between us.
Grier doesn’t answer right away. His jaw goes rigid, gaze shifting toward the castle, toward everything this would put at risk.
“She’s not going to stop,” I say. “At least this way, we know where she is.”
The words sit ugly in my mouth. I know this will shorten the distance danger has to travel, and it will put all of us inside these walls.
“I know.” His hand tightens on my shoulder. It doesn’t feel like reassurance. It feels like weight.
I know this isn’t a good option. But careful ran out a month ago, and it’s the only move left.