Chapter 8 Kragna
KRAGNA
By the time we reach the rim of human land, the air smells of smoke. Not cooking fires, not hearths. The sharp, biting smoke of burning timber and gunpowder.
The trees thin and the land flattens into frost-rimed fields scarred by trenches.
The farmhouse rises in the distance, or what’s left of it—walls broken, roof collapsed, windows dark.
A dozen humans crouch in the rubble, rifles bristling through shattered beams. Their faces are pale with exhaustion, but their eyes are hard.
And the siege is already here.
Dark elf banners ripple through the mist beyond the fields, their soldiers moving like spiders in formation. Arrows hiss through the air, cracking into wood, while gunfire snaps back in jagged rhythm. The farmhouse shakes with every shot, every impact.
River stiffens beside me. Her eyes fix on the ruin like it’s holy ground. Her pace quickens, even as her limp drags at her.
“Rizzo’s rangers,” she says, voice rough, almost reverent. “They’re holding.”
I grunt, watching the lines. The humans are stretched thin, maybe twenty left, pinned down by twice their number. They won’t last the night.
We break cover, moving toward the farmhouse. That’s when the shouting starts.
“CONTACT!”
A man on the rooftop swings his rifle toward us, eyes wide. Others follow, barrels glinting, barrels steady. And all of them are aimed at me.
“Monster!” one bellows. “He’s with the elves!”
I bare my teeth, heat rolling off me. “Try it,” I growl.
The air hums with tension. Fingers tighten on triggers. I can already taste the powder smoke, already imagine how many I’ll kill before they put me down. My claws itch for it.
And then River steps forward.
Her voice cracks across the field like a whip, cutting through fear, through fury, through everything. “Stand down!”
The rifles hesitate.
She moves into their sights, hands raised but steady, eyes blazing with something fierce and commanding. “He’s with me. He saved my life. Lower your damn weapons.”
A murmur runs through the defenders, disbelief and confusion. But none of them shoot. Not with her standing there, fire in her eyes and steel in her voice.
One man lowers his gun first, slow. Then another. The tension bleeds from the air, sharp edges softening but not vanishing. I feel their stares on me like knives—fear, hatred, distrust. The same old song.
But River stands in front of me, small and furious and unyielding.
Her people. Her command.
And for the first time in a long, long while, I don’t feel the urge to crush the ones aiming their weapons. I just watch her, heat burning low in my chest.
The farmhouse stinks of smoke and blood.
Not fresh blood, but the sour iron tang that clings after wounds are half-cleaned and bandaged in haste.
The walls groan with every hit outside, every arrow striking wood, every bullet chewing through plaster.
The floor is cold dirt, churned to mud by boots and blood alike.
River pushes ahead, weaving through her people like she’s never been gone. Their hands reach for her as she passes—brief touches, quick murmurs, eyes shining with something close to hope.
And then he’s there.
Mike Rizzo.
He looks like a man carved down to his bones. His frame’s still broad, but thinner, hollower. His face is all angles, the beard more gray than brown, eyes sunk deep but still burning with that fire I’ve only ever seen in zealots and dying stars.
“River.” His voice cracks when he says her name.
She freezes, then steps into his arms. He hugs her tight, too tight, like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. His hand curls around the back of her head, holding her like she’s still that girl he saved from chains.
“Thought I lost you,” he mutters, low enough I barely catch it. His eyes stare past her shoulder, unfocused, thousand-yard. “Too many lost. Couldn’t bear to add you.”
She swallows hard, murmurs something back I can’t hear. For a heartbeat, the war falls away and it’s just them—soldier and commander, father and daughter in all but blood.
Then his gaze lifts. And finds me.
The warmth dies.
He lets her go, straightening, his hand slipping away from her like he’s sheathing a blade. His eyes narrow, sharp as any rifle sight, locking onto me.
The room changes. Guns shift in hands. Boots scrape. Whispers hiss like snakes in the dark.
River feels it too. She turns, standing between us. “He’s with me.”
Rizzo doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t blink. “That a troll?”
“Yes,” she snaps. “And he saved my life. Twice. You’d be down one more soldier if it weren’t for him.”
The murmurs sharpen. Words like monster and traitor ripple through the room. I catch them all. My ears are sharper than theirs. Their fear stinks, sharp and sour, rolling off them in waves.
I bare my teeth. Just enough to show I hear. Just enough to remind them fear has reason.
“Trustworthy?” Rizzo finally asks, voice flat, dead.
“Yes,” River says, firm.
His gaze flicks to her. “You sure about that?”
“I wouldn’t be standing here otherwise.”
He studies her face, searching for cracks, for hesitation. Finds none. His jaw works, grinding stone.
The room’s air is tight as a bowstring, ready to snap. I can feel the weight of every rifle, every trigger finger itching for an excuse.
Finally, Rizzo exhales through his nose, a short, sharp sound. “Fine.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. “But if he so much as breathes wrong—”
“He won’t.” River cuts him off, hard. Her voice fills the room, steadier than his.
For a moment, I almost smile.
Almost.
Because even as he steps back, even as the room settles, I can see it in his eyes.
He doesn’t trust me.
And maybe he never will.
The farmhouse barely settles after River’s stand, the air still crackling with suspicion and unease, when the door bangs open. Cold night spills in with a gust of frost and smoke—and Veeto struts through like he owns the place.
The satyr’s hooves click on the wooden floor, his curly beard wet with snowmelt, eyes sparkling with mischief. He raises his hands as if to show he’s unarmed, which means nothing when the bastard’s tongue is sharper than any blade.
“Well now,” he drawls, gaze sweeping the room. “Looks like I stumbled into a proper family reunion. Guns pointed every which way, daddy glaring at daughter’s choice in men, monster in the corner sulking like he wasn’t invited. Delicious.”
Rizzo stiffens. “Who the hell—”
“Name’s Veeto.” He gives a little bow, mock-formal. “Friend of the troll. Supplier of good booze, bad jokes, and the occasional bit of intelligence, when it suits me. Don’t shoot, unless you want the walls painted with my guts. Spoiler: they’d clash with the curtains.”
River pinches the bridge of her nose, sighing. “Veeto.”
He perks at her voice, tilts his head, and grins wide. “And you must be the famous River. Well, well, I see why our big lug here went soft. Fierce eyes, fire in your voice, legs like—”
“Finish that,” I growl, stepping forward, “and I’ll use your horns for a meat rack.”
The soldiers murmur, some snickering, some shifting nervously. Veeto just laughs, the sound high and wild.
“Oh-ho! Look at him. Lava eyes blazing, fists twitching. Haven’t seen you this riled in years, Kragna.” He leans toward me, dropping his voice to a mock whisper. “Guess that means she’s not just any pretty little soldier, hm? She’s your tasty war bride.”
The red fog hits me before the words finish leaving his mouth. My claws flex, my chest tightens, and I’m half a breath from driving my fist through his smug skull. The room tilts with rage, sharp and hot, the kind that leaves no space for thought.
And then—her hand.
River’s palm presses firm against my chest, stopping me cold.
Her touch sears more than my fury. For a moment all I can feel is her hand, steady, her gaze locking mine with something harder than steel.
“Not here,” she says, low. “Not like this.”
The fight drains from me in a rush, leaving my chest heaving. Veeto cackles, delighted, utterly unbothered by how close he just came to death.
“Gods above, she’s already taming you. What a sight.” He saunters toward the fire, settling himself on a broken stool like he belongs. “Now, what’s the plan, humans? You’ve got more holes in this defense than a whorehouse on payday.”
Rizzo doesn’t rise to the bait, though I can see the twitch in his jaw. He’s too tired, too stretched thin. Instead he spreads a map across the table, pins it down with a knife, and begins to speak.
“We’re out of time,” he says. His voice is flat, stripped of all but necessity. “Supplies are running low. Ammunition’s worse. Half our men are dead, and the rest are half-dead. And Laertiez’s armies…” He shakes his head. “They’re advancing faster than we planned. Too fast.”
The room tightens around his words. The men lean in, eyes sunken, listening like drowning souls listen to prayer.
“We hold here, we die here,” Rizzo says. “We scatter, we die slower. Only option left is to break through—to find a way to destabilize Laertiez before his army crushes us whole. Buy time, bleed him politically before he bleeds us dry.”
The murmurs ripple, uneasy, desperate. No one likes it, but no one argues. Desperation leaves little room for pride.
The night wears thin. Men bed down where they can, rifles close, nerves closer. The fire guttered low, smoke curling up through the rafters.
I stay awake.
River sits with me for a while, her eyes shadowed but steady, her presence a strange kind of balm. She doesn’t ask why I almost killed Veeto. She doesn’t ask what’s turning in my head. She just… sits.
Eventually, her head dips, her body softens, and she drifts into sleep beside me, breath slow, lashes dark against her cheek. She doesn’t even flinch when her shoulder brushes mine.
I don’t move.
I watch her a long time, firelight painting her in gold and shadow. My chest tightens, not with hunger, not with lust. With something colder, heavier.
Fear.
Not of her. Not of what she is.
Fear that I’m already too deep.