Chapter 15
By the time I reached Azul's tannery, my legs felt like lead. My hands ached, raw from the sled's grip. But none of that mattered.
I had done it. And now, I wanted to see Azul's smug face twist when he realized it too.
People stared as I passed, eyes flicking between the bloodied sled and the boy dragging it. Let them. They weren't the ones who nearly got torn apart for this haul.
I pounded on the door. The sharp, acrid smell of the tannery hit me again—that unmistakable mix of animal hide, chemicals, and sweat. Metal tools clinked somewhere in the back room, and the constant drip of some solution onto stone created a steady rhythm beneath our conversation.
The apprentice answered again.
"Get your master," I said. I didn't care what he was doing. He could drop it and come to me.
Azul came not long after, stepping into view. Good. He didn't keep me waiting this time.
He barely glanced at me—I grabbed one of the beavers and let it drop at his feet with a heavy thud. The wet slap of flesh on stone made his apprentice flinch. Blood smeared across the ground, spreading in dark streaks across the stone.
His apprentice flinched.
"There's your beavers," I said, voice flat.
Azul's eyes flicked to the carcass. Then to my hands. The dried blood. The torn edges of my sleeve. His smirk thinned.
Then he scowled. "This couldn't have waited? I'll have you—"
"I don't have time for this," I cut in. "I brought the goods. "I told you I'd get them, and I did. So check them and stop wasting my time.
I didn't drag this sled through mud and predator-infested woodlands just to get scolded. I was done treating this fool so nicely.
He was about to launch into another tirade but stopped. His eyes flicked to the blood caked on my hands, the dried streaks across my arms and clothes. Then to my dagger—still in my grip, the blade dark, catching the light just enough to remind him what it was for.
That shut him up.
His apprentice took a step back first, eyes darting between me and the blood on my hands. Azul noticed his apprentice—his scowl faltering for half a second.
Then, slowly, he crouched, lifting the beaver like he expected it to fall apart in his hands.
He bent down, grabbing the beaver, but I didn't miss the shift in his movements—more careful now, more deliberate.
Something shifted inside me as I watched him—a small, bitter satisfaction. He'd called me weak, incapable. Now he was the one moving cautiously in my presence. This wasn't just about proving him wrong anymore. It was about reminding him—and myself—that I wasn't someone to be dismissed.
Azul snorted, nudging the beaver slightly with his boot. "Hmph. Even a starving rat may gnaw the flesh of a dragon's corpse, thinking itself a beast of legend."
Azul ran a hand over the pelt, fingers pressing into the fur like he was searching for a flaw. His mouth twisted, but he found nothing to pick at.
"Didn't ruin the coat too much. A miracle," he muttered.
I didn't blink. Didn't move. Let the silence stretch just long enough to make him shift.
He sighed. "Fine."
He inspected the beaver, turning it over in his hands. "This is better than last time. Didn't think you had it in you. Guess you really can fulfill the order, eh?" He chuckled.
I didn't move. Didn't blink. Let the silence stretch just long enough for Azul to shift his weight, adjusting his stance.
He ignored it. Ignored everything he'd said before—about how I couldn't cultivate, how I'd never be able to follow through. The more he pretended it never happened, the more I simmered.
The night weighed on me. My muscles screamed. My ribs ached. And worse?
Azul still wouldn't say the words.
Maybe it was enough. But I wasn't sure it was enough to quiet the ache in me.
"I'll be back tomorrow for payment," I said, already turning to leave. "Full price."
Right now, I needed sleep. The rest could wait.
The door creaked as I shoved it open. Darkness greeted me, the faint scent of old wood and stale air grounding me in reality.
I set the dagger down first. Then, the rest of the weight followed—the sled, my coat, the exhaustion. I barely managed to pry off my boots before I fell onto the mat, muscles aching in protest.
Sleep found me before I could think.
I made it two steps before my knees nearly gave out. The world blurred at the edges—just for a moment—before I caught myself against the cot.
My body screamed with every movement. Wounds I'd ignored during the hunt now demanded attention. Bruises blooming beneath my skin like dark flowers. The trek back had left a mark.
I collapsed onto the small cot in the corner, not bothering to remove my bloodied clothes. Just needed to rest. Just for a moment.
A small voice broke through my exhaustion. "Khan?"
Charlotte. The youngest. Standing in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"Go back to bed," I muttered.
She didn't move. Her eyes were wide, taking in the blood, the dirt. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." The words came out sharper than I intended.
Henley appeared behind Charlotte, a towel in his hands. His eyes swept over me—taking in the state of my clothes, the blood, the way I was holding myself. He'd been around long enough to read the signs of a hard hunt.
Henley stood there, towel in hand, his gaze settling on me with that same quiet scrutiny. He didn't speak right away, just exhaled through his nose—a slow, measured breath.
"Looks like you brought back more than just beavers this time." His voice was steady, but there was a weight to it. Not anger. Not exactly. Something heavier.
I ignored it, shifting on the cot, trying to find a position that didn't aggravate my wounds.
Henley sighed, dipping the cloth into the bowl of water. "You're making a name for yourself."
He wrung out the towel. "Hope you survive long enough to enjoy it."
I said nothing.
Henley sighed and knelt, wringing out the towel. Water dripped into the bowl, slow and steady. He didn't look at me as he spoke again. "You've got nothing left to prove. Not like this.
You could take a step back, build something for yourself instead of breaking yourself."
He wrung out the towel, voice quieter. "You don't have to bleed to prove your worth."
I let out a tired breath, this wasn't the first time we were having this conversation, the words barely registering before exhaustion pulled me under.
I said nothing. Sleep tugged at me, but my mind was already racing. The beavers for Azul. The daily quota. Big Randy would be waiting. And then there was the spirit beast—a problem I couldn't ignore much longer.
I mumbled some more things to him, not realising I was drifting off to sleep.
Morning came too soon, dragging me from a sleep that barely counted. My wounds had stiffened overnight, every movement a slow punishment, each movement a reminder of the hunt. And I woke up—
In the wrong bed.
My body tensed. This wasn't mine. It was Henley's.
I shot to my feet immediately , jaw tightening as pain flared through my ribs I'd had too much etiquette beaten into me for that. This wasn't right. My father would have never allowed it—taking another man's bed like I belonged there. Guest or not, I knew my place. A man should sleep in his own bed, not another's.
I straightened, exhaling slowly. Next time, I'd sleep on the floor.
Henley had left a bowl of herbal salve and clean bandages—silent care that spoke more than words.
The scent of the herbal salve was sharp, mixing with the lingering coppery tang of dried blood. I dipped my fingers into the paste and winced as I smeared it over my wounds. It burned. A reminder that I was still here, still breathing.
Henley's care was a quiet thing, never spoken aloud. He didn't approve of what I was doing—of how I came back each time more battered than before. But he never stopped me. Never told me to quit. Instead, he left bandages by my bedside, always waiting for me to use them or ignore them.
I flexed my fingers, testing the stiffness in my knuckles, when the sound of boots scuffing against the doorway made me pause.
The air shifted first. A presence. Heavy, watching.
Then, the footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Too many for just one man.
My stomach coiled tight. Not now.
The supervisor stood there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable—but I knew better.
"Heard you brought in some fine pelts," he said. Not a question. A demand wrapped in idle conversation.
I straightened, my grip tightening around the bandage in my hands.
"Word travels," he continued. "A little rat of mine is talking. Those beavers—they're worth more than your usual catch. I'll be taking my cut."
He stepped inside, his silhouette cutting against the morning light. Behind him, a few of his men loomed in the shadows.
"I'll be taking my cut.
I exhaled slowly, fists tightening into a fist.
Of course.