Chapter Thirteen
The fox survives where wolves may fail
A clever tongue can tip the scale
The Gateway opens into fire. Not just flame—furnace.
Ronyn barely has time to brace before heat crashes into him like a living thing, wet and choking and relentless. The air burns his lungs on the inhale, sulfur and ash coating his tongue, and his boots hit black stone hot enough to bite through leather.
The ground thrums. Not in the way of magic, but with labor. With the steady, rhythmic pulse of work that never rests.
All around them, the volcanic forges of Vyrhal roar to life—crucibles tipped and reset, molten metal poured into reinforced troughs cut deep into blackened stone.
Massive bellows scream as workers heave them into motion, forcing air into furnace throats already glowing white-hot.
Hammers strike anvils in thunderous, unyielding rhythm, a sound that rattles bone and leaves no room for thought.
This place does not welcome visitors. It is a machine built on the blood and sweat of Vyrhalians. This place demands output. And Ronyn knows places like this don’t ask who you are—they decide what you’re worth.
A man stumbles near a crucible, skin blistered and red where sparks caught him. No one rushes to help. Someone hooks an arm under his shoulder and drags him clear, work resuming before the scream fades.
Jax swears behind him, sharp and reverent. “Fucking Stars,” she breathes.
Ronyn straightens, heat licking at his skin, something deep in his chest answering the rhythm of the forges whether he wants it to or not. Instinct tells him this place doesn’t tolerate hesitation.
His pulse falls into step with the hammer blows. Not comfort—recognition. But not his. Tarrakai’s. As if this place is not something he can name, but something he remembers in the body. And that unsettles him far more than the heat ever could.
Yeah. This is going to hurt.
No one stops working. No one even notices their presence, or the Gateway that snaps shut behind them.
A lumbering man with a long beard of ginger peppered with gray, and a tattoo carved into his neck shoves into Ronyn.
Ronyn quirks a smile. “Evenin’, good sir,” he says jovially.
But the man only sneers.
“Sir? Titles don’t mean shit here, outsider. Can you lift? Swing a hammer?” The man’s words come out an intolerant grunt.
“Okay, no titles. Got it. I can lift… things. Prefer not to. Quite handy with a bow, though,” Ronyn offers, though he knows he’s scrambling.
Jax thumps him in the ribs with her elbow.
Not that it helps.
A brutal, humorless laugh tears from the man’s throat. “Everyone here can wield a bow, lad. We hunt our own food here. You must be from the city—and what makes you special there, makes you barely more than acceptable here. You’re used to street merchants preparing your dinner, eh, outsider?”
The hairs on Ronyn’s arms stand on end. Because it doesn’t feel like a question. It feels like a threat.
A low, dark growl rumbles through Ronyn’s mind. I hunt my own food too, human.
Tarrakai’s words are all threat and theatrics.
Ronyn grins at Ginger Beard on the outside.
Yeah, I have to hunt for my food too, but you can’t just eat everyone that annoys you, Tarrakai. Persuasion is an art form. Watch and learn. He sends the words to Tarrakai, who huffs an ignorant snort.
But Ronyn means it: persuasion comes first, and violence is the version he saves for when it fails.
Ginger Beard is still staring at Ronyn. Still sneering at him.
A hammer stops mid-swing nearby. Another man looks up from a crucible. Not curious—measuring. Ronyn suddenly becomes very aware that every tool within reach could cave a skull.
But before he can speak—
“Why the fuck does it matter where we’re from? Weapons and coin are the same no matter where you’re from,” Jax snaps, stepping forward and pinning her shoulders back. But she barely reaches the man’s shoulder.
Not that it would stop her.
Ronyn rolls his shoulders, muscles loosening instead of tightening, as if his body recognizes the rules of this place before his mind does.
But before Ronyn moves, the man closes the gap between him and Jax.
“Whorehouse is behind the tavern, woman. Best not get your pretty little head concerned with the dealings of men.”
He peers down at her, daring her to speak. But her mouth twists into a snarl, and Ronyn knows what’s next. He’s seen that look before when she’s itching to start a fight.
Yeah, he’s seen that look a lot. Fucking Stars.
“Men? I don’t see any men,” Jax quips sarcastically, looking around like she’s searching. “Perhaps you’d like to see the kind of skills I have to offer that don’t include spreading my legs. Fair warning, though: it’ll end with my blade ripping you from throat to ball sack.”
Here we fucking go.
Ronyn lets out an exaggerated laugh. “No need for discussions about ball sacks, love.”
He wraps his arm around Jax’s shoulder, urging her to stand down. She tries to squirm out of his hold, but he grips tighter.
Ginger Beard closes the gap completely, pushing his barrel-chest into Ronyn’s chin. “Your bitch has some bark in her. Put her on a leash, or I’ll do it for ya,” he promises, spittle forming in the corners of his mouth.
Jax moves to open her mouth, and her hand flies to the chakram at her hip.
Ronyn squeezes her tightly again, desperate to deescalate the brawl that’s about to ensue.
So he takes a step back, offering a light laugh and a dismissive wave, and changes the topic. The art of distraction has never been wasted on an incensed man. And he’s survived long enough to know it works better than force.
“I am rather good with a hammer, actually. I was raised by a Dravari weaponsmith who told me great stories about the skilled men of Vyrhal. We’ve come to see your famed weaponry for ourselves. Isn’t that right, Jaxxy?” Ronyn spreads a fake, too-big smile on his face.
Jax mutters something indecipherable under her breath.
At least she didn’t outright insult the man again.
“We don’t trade to outsiders unless they’re willing to work for our trust first,” the man grunts, eyes never leaving Jax. “Weapons are for those who bleed for Vyrhal. Or at the very least, for those who won’t turn the blade back on us.”
Ronyn picks up the rules of Vyrhal instantly—the same rules he learned long before he had the words for them:
No one here cares what you believe in.
They care about what they can take from you.
Trust, coin, labor.
In Vyrhal, it’s a game of proof.
Ronyn removes his leather armor, leaving only his tunic and pants.
He rolls up his sleeves.
Ronyn has survived worse places than this—the gambling dens of The Barrier District, The Black Stream Markets, The Tannery, the front lines of an army. And they all follow the same rules:
Hunger teaches you when to grin.
Poverty teaches you when to bow.
Violence teaches you when to hurt quietly so others don’t notice.
And distrust teaches you exactly when to create opportunities to disprove it.
But survival teaches you that who you pretend to be can matter more than who you are.
“Show me what to do, my friend.”
Jax scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. “I owe these people nothing.”
Ronyn huffs an agitated exhale.
Why can’t she just play the fucking game? Why can’t she trust that he’s handling it?
“Wait for me at the tavern, Jaxxy. I’ll meet you there after.” He spins back to the ginger-bearded man. “Assuming we all head to the tavern for an ale later?”
He silently pleads for Jax to keep her mouth shut.
“Aye. Once you’ve earned your keep and our trust, lad,” he grumbles.
“Wonderful,” Ronyn declares with an exaggerated flourish. “A moment to part from my companion?”
The man grunts his agreement and turns his back, returning to a warehouse with large hessian bags of… something.
But Jax wastes no time. “You’re going to work for this piece of shit? And then, what? Raise a glass together at the tavern?” She drags a hand down her face in exasperation. She pitches her voice low. “We’re finding the dragons, Ronyn. We’re not here for a fucking tankard of ale.”
Ronyn’s patience snaps.
“Lips loosen with ale, Jax. Have you ever thought about that? People let secrets and stories slip with people they trust. Now, go to the tavern and see what you can overhear. Try not to insult anyone or start a fucking fight. I’ll be here—completing our mission. ” His words come out clipped and harsh.
Jax stares at him for a heartbeat too long. This isn’t Ronyn joking his way out of trouble. This is Ronyn surviving.
Because Ronyn Holt is good for more than a laugh.
He’s a master of manipulation, too. A tactician.
And he knows: being likeable is a covert strategy he’s deployed since he was left alone on the streets of Virellin when his family were hung for stealing apples.
The problem is, sometimes he forgets where the act ends and he begins.
But he’ll complete his mission, no matter the method. If it costs him a little more of himself, so be it.
He learned long ago that survival always charges interest.
And he’s learned to pay it in pieces no one else notices are missing.