Chapter 4 Kragna
KRAGNA
Sun’s not even above the mist yet, and I’m already elbow-deep in breakfast prep, cracking eggs the size of my fist and slicing up smoked root-bacon with a blade so sharp it hums. The coals sizzle and spit when the fat hits.
I breathe it in deep—earth, smoke, grease, and that faint sweetness of crabapple mash still clinging to the air from yesterday’s distill batch. Damn fine way to start the day.
Veeto's snoring like a diseased billy goat by the firepit, limbs splayed like he’s been nailed to a drunken god. I toss a cooked mushroom cap at him. “You gonna help or you just gonna fart in your sleep until dusk?”
He snorts awake, wipes drool on his forearm, then blinks at me. “I was helpin’. Dreamed of a recipe. Requires a whole human thigh and a touch of rosemary.”
“Your obsession with stewing people is startin’ to feel less theoretical.”
Veeto scratches at his woolly belly. “Ain’t obsession.
It’s tradition. Humans bring bad luck, Krag.
Always have.” He jabs a stubby finger toward the slope.
“You bring ‘er in, now what? She heals, she runs. Or worse, she don’t run. Starts wantin’ things.
Like safety. Shelter. Gods forbid—conversation. ”
I grunt, flipping the bacon. “And?”
“And then what? You lettin’ her build a nest under your ribs already?” Veeto narrows his eyes. “You’re softenin’, mate.”
I don’t answer. Not cause he’s wrong, but because I don’t fuckin’ know yet.
River steps into the clearing like a ghost crawled in from last night’s fire. Limp’s better, but her shoulders are wound tight. She’s wrapped in one of my blankets, hair tangled, blood crusted on one cheek. But her eyes—damn if those things ain’t fire and fog, burnin’ and unreadable.
“You makin’ food or boiling corpses?” she asks, voice sandpapered from sleep.
“Bit’a both,” Veeto mutters.
I hand her a slab of root-bacon and a wooden cup of brewed herb tonic. “Try not to bite the cup.”
She stares at it like it might bite back, but takes it anyway. “Thanks.”
Small word. Bigger impact than it should have.
We eat in silence. She picks apart the bacon with careful fingers, eyes always darting around like she’s tracking exits. I don’t blame her. Place like this—it ain’t exactly built for comfort. But it’s mine.
“You wanna see where I live?” I ask after a beat.
River squints. “This isn’t it?”
“Nah. This is just breakfast pit. Come on.”
She hesitates. Then nods, slow.
I lead her under the bridge—through the arch carved from mossy stone, past the distillery barrels and into the shaded heart of my home.
It ain’t much to outsiders. But to me? It’s a palace.
The floors are worn smooth from centuries of footsteps—mine and older still.
Stone walls are chiseled with old troll glyphs, layered like veins.
Shelves carved right into the rock are lined with jars of herbs, bottles of moonshine, bones carved into tools and art alike.
A hearth blazes on one side, crackling warmly, lighting up the deep recesses where my bedroll lies piled high with pelts and furs.
The ceiling’s high, the arch perfect. The whole place smells like peat smoke and pine, with a trace of metal—iron ore and stone sweat.
River steps inside, her mouth slightly open.
“It’s…” she starts, then stops.
“Ugly?” I offer.
She shakes her head. “No. It’s… raw. Real. Like someone lives here and means it.”
I grin. “I do mean it.”
She runs her fingers along one carved beam, pausing over a spiral etched with runes. “What’s this one mean?”
“Home,” I say.
She nods. Just once. Then lowers herself to sit by the hearth, wincing as she does.
“You’re not scared,” I note.
River looks up at me, eyes sharp. “I’m always scared. But I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
Fair enough.
I sit opposite her, stretching out my legs. Fire crackles between us. I watch the light catch in her hair, in the tight corners of her eyes. Veeto lingers at the entrance, watching us like he’s waiting for something to snap.
But nothing does.
For once, nothing breaks.
Toad Knight explodes from a clump of moss like someone set his ass on fire. Sword raised, foam flecking at his froggy jowls. “She’s a spy, Kragna! I smelled subterfuge in her sweat!”
I don’t bother looking up from the stew pot. “You smelled your own swamp-ass again, didn’t you?”
Veeto nearly chokes on a sip of crabapple ale, slapping his hairy thigh. “Subterfuge? You barely know how to spell yer own name, let alone detect espionage.”
Toad Knight points his sword at River, who sits quietly beside the fire, cradling a warmed stone between her hands. Her face is pale, her limp still stiff, but she’s more alert today. Her eyes flick to the sword, then to me, unreadable.
“She’s here to soften you up,” Toad says, hissing like a punctured kettle. “Soon as your guard’s down—BAM! Poison in your stew, a knife in the kidney.”
“Pretty bold plan for someone who nearly bled out two nights ago,” Veeto mutters.
Charen swoops in, her web balloon farting gently as she lands upside down from a branch. Her eyes gleam with gleeful malice. “Would make a great bedtime story: ‘The Fool Troll and the Spy with the Limp.’ Ends with roasted innards and betrayal pie.”
River’s voice cuts through the din, low and sharp. “Y’all always this loud in the morning or is it a special treat for me?”
That shuts them up. I can’t help it—my lips twitch. She’s got teeth, even half-healed and outnumbered. Veeto whistles low. “I like her. Can we keep her?”
Charen clicks her fangs. “You can keep her if you salt her first. Human jerky doesn’t cure itself.”
Toad Knight doesn’t drop it. “Mark my words, Kragna. She’s danger wrapped in doe-eyes. I’ll gut her myself before she ruins you.”
I finally look him dead in the eye. “Touch her, and I’ll use your helmet as a chamber pot.”
Silence falls like a snapped snare. River blinks, surprised. Toad Knight croaks, deflates, and slinks off toward his usual stump to sulk and mutter about betrayal.
Later, the sun burns through the mist, and most of the menagerie has scattered. Charen’s weaving something obscene into the treetops. Veeto is snoring under the still. River limps her way over to where I’m sharpening a slab of bone into a ladle. She crosses her arms.
“I want to go back,” she says, voice flat.
I pause. “To where?”
“To Rizzo’s Rangers. To the fight. I don’t belong here.”
My gut knots tighter than a troll braid. “You sure you’re ready?”
She nods, but her eyes betray the tremble in her muscles. “I can move. That’s enough.”
I grunt. “I’ll take you.”
She blinks, startled. “Just like that?”
I shrug, trying to keep my voice even. “You want to go. I want to make sure you don’t get eaten by something dumber than me along the way.”
She laughs once—short, bitter. “So, not noble intentions?”
I look at her, really look. Her skin still bruised, her soul still bleeding. “Doesn’t matter what I want. You’re not a prisoner here.”
She studies me. I can feel her weighing my words, turning them over like river stones in her mind.
“You don’t trust me,” I say quietly.
She flinches just a bit. “Should I?”
That one stings. But I don’t let it show. “No. But I’m not the one who dragged you out of a river with half your insides trying to be outsides.”
River exhales and looks away. “I didn’t ask for help.”
“No,” I say. “But you needed it.”
She’s quiet a long time. “You confuse me, Kragna.”
“Good,” I mutter. “Means we’re even.”
I sling the satchel over my shoulder and double-check its contents for the third damn time.
Smoked meat—check. Firestarter stones—check.
Extra moonshine, stashed in a padded gourd so it won’t clink—hell yes.
Knotted rope, bone-hilted knives, two carved totems for luck.
Not that I believe in that rot, but it never hurts.
The forest’s teeth are sharper than most gods’ mercy.
River’s pacing near the edge of the clearing, just outta reach.
She’s already got her boots laced, her pack strapped up, and her battered little gun slung crosswise on her back like it’s part of her spine.
She’s got that look again—sharp and shuttered.
Like she’s already said goodbye to this place in her head, even though her body hasn’t budged yet.
I’m not in a rush. Something about watching her just…
move. It’s hypnotic. She walks with a limp still, yeah, but it’s the kind of limp that says I’ve bled and I’m still standing.
Her eyes flick from tree to tree like she’s memorizing the terrain, cataloging every crunch of leaf, every sigh of wind.
The air’s still heavy with mist, clinging to the moss like second skin.
My nose catches the smell of river rot and pine needles, sharp and clean.
Her scent is different—smoke, sweat, something like cedar bark if it got pissed off.
“You ready?” she asks without looking at me.
“Been ready. Just triple-checkin’ my travel stash.” I pat the bag. “Can’t go gallivanting without a decent bottle.”
“Right,” she mutters. “Wouldn’t want the wilderness to sober you up.”
I grin, even though she’s not trying to be funny. “Exactly.”
We set off with the sun still struggling to break through the canopy.
My hooves make soft, wet thumps in the loam while she barely disturbs the ferns.
Like a whisper gliding through a dream. How the hell does she do that?
Not even trained rangers move like that.
It's not natural. But then, maybe she isn’t. Not fully. Not anymore.
I keep a few paces behind her, not to give her space—though she seems to need it—but so I can watch. The sway of her shoulders. The way her hand never strays far from the grip of her weapon. Her braid bounces just slightly with every step. A black whip against the fog.
My chest does something odd. Like it’s gotten too tight all of a sudden. Not pain, not quite. More like… pressure. Like I swallowed a river stone and it lodged behind my ribs.
I tell myself I’m just being polite. She needs a guide. I’m guiding. That’s it. No deeper reason.
But she moves like she belongs out here. Like the forest grew around her instead of the other way around. And I realize, slowly and with a kind of growing dread, that she’s already carved out a space in my insides. Squatted there like she owns the place. No permission asked. No mercy given.
“You keep lookin’ at me like I’m about to sprout fangs,” she says suddenly.
I blink. “Maybe you already have.”
She throws me a sideways glance. “That supposed to be charming?”
“If I was tryin’, you’d know it.”
“Good,” she mutters. “Don’t try.”
We fall into silence after that, only broken by the crack of twigs and the chirr of unseen insects.
Somewhere far off, something howls—not wolf, not bear.
Something older. Something hungry. She pauses, head tilting toward the sound, but doesn’t ask.
Doesn’t need to. She knows enough not to dig at things best left buried.
“You know,” I say, just to cut through the fog, “I once made it three days through this range on nothin’ but boiled fungus and dried squirrel intestines.”
She gives me a side-eye. “You telling me that as a warning?”
“Nah. Just flexin’.”
“Color me unimpressed.”
“Figures. Humans got no taste.”
She smirks, the barest twitch of her lips. But it hits me like a thrown hammer. That one little curl of a smile. Gods.
“You really gonna go back to those assholes?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She stiffens slightly. “They’re my people.”
“Are they?”
She stops walking, turns slowly. Her face’s gone hard again, jaw clenched. “Yes.”
I nod once. “Alright.”
She starts walking again, faster now. I follow, biting back the rest of what wants to come out. That they left her. That she damn near died. That I was the one who dragged her half-drowned body from the river, not them.
But I don’t say it. Because she wouldn’t hear it right now.
A branch snaps overhead and something winged bolts through the mist. She ducks low instinctively. I follow suit, dropping into a crouch. My hand goes to the handle of my bone knife. She’s already got her gun out, but there’s nothing. Just an owl, oversized and ugly, flapping off into the gloom.
“False alarm,” I murmur.
She straightens slowly, gun still raised. “You say that like it’s supposed to make me feel better.”
“Fair.”
We press on. The path narrows into a game trail, barely wide enough for one. River moves like water, seamless and quick. I trail behind, slower but deliberate. The trees here grow crooked, like they’re listening. Watching.
“Why’d you bring me back?” she asks suddenly. “That night. You could’ve just left me.”
I don’t answer right away. The truth sticks in my throat like pine sap.
Finally, I say, “Didn’t want to see the forest chew you up.”
“That all?”
I grunt. “Maybe I just like your stories.”
She goes quiet again, but there’s something softer in the line of her shoulders. A looseness that wasn’t there before. Her pace slows, just a little, like she’s letting me catch up.
She doesn’t look at me when she speaks again. “Don’t mistake gratitude for trust.”
“I ain’t that dumb.”
“But you are that stubborn.”
That, I can’t argue with. I smile, and this time she doesn’t roll her eyes.