The armory was a dark, hollow room that smelled of cold iron, wet stone, and the sharp, metallic scent of fresh blood.
Kael sat alone on a broken wooden bench. His chest was bare, his back hunched over. A single, weak candle burned on a crate nearby, throwing long, nervous shadows across his battered body. The deep cut across his ribs was an ugly, open wound. It was still bleeding, the dark red dripping slowly down his side. It was the kind of injury that needed a real healer, a clean bed, and days of rest. But Kael did not want to be healed. He did not want to be comfortable.
He held a thick iron needle in his right hand. A stiff, dark thread, rough as twine, was tied to the end of it. His hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from blood loss and the raw, buzzing anger he could not turn off. He tightened his jaw, gripped the needle harder, and pushed the thick iron straight through his own broken skin.
A sharp hiss escaped his teeth.
