Chapter 28 Kragna
KRAGNA
The moss smells sweeter than I remember. Damp and thick with rain memory, like the ground itself has been waiting to breathe again. Heartbreak Bridge rises through the mist like a bone crowned with ivy. My home. Or it was. Now it’s something else.
Now it’s ours.
Charen’s message is the first thing I see.
She’s spun her webs across the arch in tight silver letters big as a boar’s belly:
“WELCOME BACK, BITCHES.”
I snort so hard I nearly cough.
“Subtle,” River says beside me.
“I think that’s the nicest thing she’s ever said to me.”
“I’m touched.”
“You should be worried.”
From above, Charen drops down on a thread, hanging upside down like a fuzzy death omen with attitude.
“Took you lovebirds long enough,” she chirps, legs twitching. “I was gonna start charging rent for the moss patch.”
River raises a brow. “You don’t even own the moss.”
“I do now,” Charen snaps. “Squatter’s rights.”
Veeto’s already by the fire pit, stacking wood like a half-drunk lumberjack. He glances up, sees us, and grins so wide I’m sure something cracks in his cheekbone.
“Well, if it ain’t the honeymooners!” he bellows. “I brought beer and deer jerky. Figured y’all’d be too busy makin’ squelchy noises to forage.”
“Still charming as ever,” River mutters.
“Don’t encourage him,” I growl, dropping our pack beside the stone bench.
“I’d rather encourage Bruce,” she mutters.
Bruce bellows from the pond, tail flicking like a dinosaur-sized puppy. He’s nested in the mudbank and half-submerged, tufts of feathers sticking up like a dandelion gone to war.
“Guess he made himself at home,” River murmurs.
“More like took over the deed.”
The moon’s low tonight, fat and orange as a bonfire biscuit. I can feel it buzzing in my teeth—but not like before. No shift. No rage. Just warmth. It touches the stones like a blessing, like it’s telling me now you build.
So I do.
While River drops her gear and wanders to the ridge with Veeto’s stolen flask, I walk the curve of the bridge, eye the ground beside my house. It’s a good patch. Flat. Sheltered by weeping pines. The soil’s soft enough to dig, but firm enough to hold.
Not just a house this time.
Something more.
I sink my claws into the earth. Pull. Shape. Stack stone. Pour sweat into mortar made from ash and sand. Each rock speaks to me in a language older than any I’ve spoken. This one wants to be a wall. That one? A hearthstone. That slab? A roof beam if I can convince it.
By the time dusk settles, I’ve raised the bones of something new. Not just mine.
Ours.
I find her again near the ridge. She’s sitting cross-legged on the ledge, staring up at the sky like she’s waiting for it to crack open.
I sit beside her. No words for a bit. Just the hush of night. Wind in the trees. The rustle of critters who know better than to come too close.
After a while, she speaks.
“I still dream about them,” she says softly. “The scouts. My team.”
I glance at her, but she’s not looking at me. Just the stars.
“Lenny. Bex. Garth. Even Tod, the idiot who always forgot to load his sidearm.” Her voice cracks. “Sometimes I wake up hearing them scream. Other times, I dream we made it out. That we’re sitting around the fire cracking jokes, passing a bottle. Then I open my eyes and they’re ash again.”
I say nothing for a minute. What do you say to that? The truth, maybe.
“I still dream about cities,” I murmur. “On fire. Screaming. Me… over them. Tearing spires from the ground. Eating priests. Cracking towers like crab shells.”
She turns to me. Eyes wide. But not afraid.
“You?”
I nod. “Old urges. Old instincts. A part of me always wanted to see the world burn just to hear it beg.”
She swallows. “And now?”
I reach for her hand. Curl my fingers around hers. Her pulse is a quiet drum under her skin.
“Now I don’t want to burn anything,” I say. “Not unless it’s with you.”
She smiles, small and sad and fierce. “You’re such a softie.”
“Don’t tell Veeto. He’d try to hug me again.”
We sit there till the stars start to shimmer like spilled glitter. Then she stands, pulls me up, and leads me back down to our half-built home.
We settle in.
She hunts. I build.
We bicker about firewood, snore volumes, and how long the stew’s supposed to boil.
She teaches me to use a rifle. I teach her to gut a moose the troll way. (It’s messier. She likes it.)
We argue.
We make up.
We make love.
We fight again over who gets the dry half of the bedroll when it rains.
She wins.
Every time.
But I let her.
Nights are best.
Nights are when the bridge hums with quiet. When Bruce snores from the pond. When Charen writes filthy poems in her sleep-webs and Veeto’s passed out face-first in his beer jug.
Nights are when River curls beside me, hair in my mouth, elbows sharp, breath soft on my throat.
Nights are when I look at the house we built stone by stone, kiss by kiss, scream by scream.
And I think—
Maybe trolls were never meant to be alone.
Maybe bridges aren’t for tolls.
Maybe they’re for crossing.
For connection.
And beneath that bridge, between those thighs, I didn’t just find love.
I found a reason to keep living.