CHAPTER 158: SKEWER

If she thought about calling him back, she didn’t show it.

He reached the edge of the stall lane and kept walking, the street bending him away from her view like a reed yielding to the current.

He didn’t glance back, didn’t slow his pace.

The skewer shop loomed again, the busty owner tossing her head back in laughter at some customer’s joke, her cleavage drawing stares like moths to a flame—every man around her pretending to eye the meat while devouring something else entirely.

But as he moved on, Lor felt that familiar coil tighten in his gut: the knowledge of her need.

Not the casual want everyone chased, but the raw, gnawing kind that shoved a girl like Ameth—sharp as a blade, eyes like winter frost—behind a rickety cart, watching rot claim her stock and her margins along with it.

Pride versus hunger, a brutal arithmetic where neither could be sold cheap.

Desperation ticked like a clock, and he’d heard its echo in the silence when he walked away.

Still, she let him go.

Fine.

He veered toward Nellie’s street, a quieter ribbon of stone winding into the residential quarter.

The air softened here, trading char and spice for the steam of fresh laundry and the earthy remnants of yesterday’s rain.

His mind drifted to Nellie—her timid shy smile, the way sunlight carved a golden trapezoid on her bedroom floor.

How to weave a ritual into something innocent for her, without tipping into the shadows that always lurked at the edges of his thoughts.

The alley yawned open on his left, a narrow slit in the day’s brightness, but he didn’t notice it at first.

He noticed the hand.

Fingers clamped onto his shirt placket, yanking him sideways with a force that scraped his heel against the stone and sent him stumbling.

Light vanished like a slammed door; his shoulder slammed into rough brick, breath escaping in a sharp grunt.

Ameth.

She’d moved like a shadow given form—no warning, no hesitation, just pure intent.

The alley was a cramped vein of cool dampness, yesterday’s rain lingering in the air, the sky reduced to a thin white strip overhead.

Crates stacked haphazardly on one wall; a rain pipe clicking faintly as it contracted in the shade on the other.

Her grip on his shirt was iron, unyielding.

"What the—!"

"Perform the ritual," she demanded, her voice low and edged, like a blade pressed to skin.

Lor blinked, the surprise bubbling into a small, incredulous laugh that echoed off the walls.

"What!?...You could’ve just told me that instead of dragging me in here like a damn mugger," he said, rubbing his shoulder where the brick had bitten. "Why didn’t you say anything when I left?"

"I didn’t want anyone to see me with you."

There it was—raw, unadorned, no sugar to soften the blow.

He felt the press of her knuckles against his chest, her palm steady as a vice.

Up close, the distance between them evaporated; the soft fabric of her tunic grazed his forearm with each breath she took.

"Why?" he asked, the word slipping out on reflex, even as he knew the answer.

She shot him a look that made the question feel foolish, like tripping over the same stone twice.

"Seriously? Your Light. Your little cult of perverse rituals. Everyone in our class knows what it is. You’re a disgusting perv, Lor. You know that, right?" Her voice dipped lower, weighted with quiet venom, the word ’perv’ landing like a slap.

"You know about me. If I’m seen with you, my name gets dragged through the filth even worse than it already is. I don’t want anything to do with you in public. And this—" her fingers twisted in his shirt, knuckles whitening—"doesn’t leave us. If it leaks, I’m killing you without mercy."

She didn’t blink, her eyes locked on his, the alley swallowing any echo.

The gossip about her wasn’t the loud, tavern kind—it was whispered in academy halls, scribbled in margins: the illegitimate daughter of a housemaid, sired by a noble with too many rings and too little conscience.

The old man dead, the wives tallying heirs, and the spare tossed out like yesterday’s scraps.

Nobility reduced to a wobbly cart and vegetables wilting under the sun.

"You’re scaring me," Lor said lightly, though his lungs felt tight with the wall at his back and the pipe’s incessant clicking. He tried a smile, but it barely tugged at his cheeks.

"Maybe I don’t want to perform the ritual now."

Her response was action, not words—she stepped in closer, shoving him harder against the brick.

Cold grit dug into his shoulder blade through his shirt.

Her braid swung forward, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked earth and fresh produce, mingled with a clean, elusive note he hadn’t caught at the cart.

"You’re going to do it," she said, her voice a low growl.

He let a beat pass, playing the part of the reluctant underdog—small, practical, acutely aware of the power she wielded in this moment because she needed something badly enough to threaten for it.

"I wanted to help you," he murmured, framing it as a shared reminder, not a bargain. "At first. But now it’s starting to feel... risky."

"Do it," she repeated, teeth clenched, the words heavy with unspoken fury.

"You’re sure you want a ritual?" he asked, his eyes darting away and back, the way a nervous boy might to avoid stoking her anger. "You called it ’that crap’ a minute ago."

Her mouth twisted in a tiny, bitter tilt—not quite a smile, more a grimace of resignation.

"I don’t want to want it," she admitted, the words tasting like ash. "I want it to work."

He watched her throat bob as she swallowed the dregs of her pride.

Up close, the ice in her eyes thawed just enough to reveal focus, not disdain—a desperate clarity born of necessity.

He could almost hear the mental tally: cost, risk, need, secrecy.

The pipe ticked again, a metronome to their standoff.

Market sounds threaded in—a crier’s voice unraveling into the distance.

Her grip didn’t loosen, but he felt the faint tremor in her forearm, the strain of holding him pinned.

"So how do we do it?" she asked finally, the word clipped, efficient as a merchant pricing goods.