I walk toward the pyre.
Boris is sitting on a scorched piece of ballista wreckage, tearing into a slab of roasted meat the size of his forearm.
Whatever beast that came from, it died ugly and cooked fast. The firelight catches the grease on his beard and the deep lines carved into his face.
He looks up when he hears my boots. Reaches into the pile beside him and holds out a chunk of charred meat without a word.
I take it. I drop to one knee beside him.
I don't eat. I just hold the meat and stare at it, watching the heat curl off the blackened surface.
"Something wrong, kid?" Boris asks between bites. Casual. Too casual. The kind of casual that takes effort.
I don't play along.
"You need to be straight with me, Boris." I keep my voice level. No heat. No accusation. Just the math. "If you really respected my father, you owe me that much."
Boris stops chewing.
