CHAPTER 213: RESPITE PART 1

The smoke had thinned to a tired veil when the heat came back—not with a hammer, not with a crack in the world, just a warmth at the edge of sight, like a forge door opened one notch.

"Unbound Soul."

It wasn’t a roar. It wasn’t a sermon. Just a voice leaning on its elbows.

Inigo didn’t stand all the way. He let the M4 rest across his thighs, one palm on Lyra’s wrist, the other on the rifle’s receiver. "You back for seconds," he said, "or to complain about the service?"

A ripple—maybe laughter, if lava had a sense of humor. The Lord of Destruction stepped out of the ripple without the pageantry. Cloak of fire pulled close. Armor scorched and cracked, the bright seams breathing slower. He didn’t come closer than shouting distance. He didn’t need to.

"Your cannon," the Lord said, chin tilting toward the Black Dragon, "is rude."

"Thank you," Inigo said.

"The small storms," the Lord added, visor turning to the scarred star where a handful of 5.56 had bullied its way inside, "were ruder."

"Those were personal."

A pause, the kind conversations make when both people agree not to lie.

"You bested me today," the Lord said, like he’d decided it was a word he could pick up without it burning his hand. "Not in the old way—where one falls and the other plants a flag—but in the way that matters. You made me change first."

Inigo swallowed, throat raw from dust and yelling and the weirdness of being congratulated by a furnace. "Yeah," he allowed. "I noticed."

"You have... very many answers," the Lord went on, almost conversational. "Every time I pressed, you reached into the air and came out with a new tooth. I do not know how many teeth you have."

Inigo didn’t touch the Shop pane hovering polite in his peripheral vision. He kept his voice light. "Infinite devolves to ’enough,’ most days."

"Enough to make me guess," the Lord said. "Enough to make guessing expensive."

They looked at each other through heat that had decided not to lie anymore.

"So," Inigo said, because someone had to break the glass. "You leaving."

"I am," the Lord said. He tilted his head toward Lyra. "And you will let me."

Inigo’s jaw worked. "I don’t know what else you can do," he said, honestly. "I’ve seen the hammer tricks. The pressure walls. The seams. But after that?" He shook his head. "You’ve got a look that says ’surprises.’ I’ve had enough surprises for one noon."

"Surprises," the Lord echoed, amused. "That’s a kind word. I have things that would teach us both lessons we do not want to learn today." He spread an empty hand and watched the runes along his palm flicker. "And I will not—now that I am finally entertained—risk ending my day on your menu."

Inigo snorted. "That’s not the worst review I’ve ever gotten."

A silence, almost companionable, drifted through the square like cooler air.

"You cook loud," the Lord said. "You make iron sing in keys I have not heard since the world remembered it could change."

"I cheat," Inigo said. "Catalog on demand."

"Cheating is a word losers use for problems they did not solve before the bell," the Lord said, casual. "I don’t mind your shop. I mind your questions. You aim where it matters—knees, wrists, the small hinges. You backlight me to show my lies. You throw storms to get me to show my hand, then put a knife through the glove. There is a lot about you I do not know."

"Same," Inigo said. He kept his voice even. "You don’t swing for show. You don’t miss. You learned mid-stride. You... liked getting hurt."

"Pain speaks plainly," the Lord said. "I have not heard plain speech in a long time."

He looked—if you could call it looking—toward the mountain where half a face was missing. "I could keep pressing," he said, like a man thinking out loud. "But then I would spend. And I do not spend when I have found a thing worth saving for."

"Saving for what?"

"For next," the Lord said simply. "When your seven stand with you. When your city puts on teeth and thinks that makes it safe."

"You keep saying seven," Inigo said. "You counting?"

"A continent counted for me once," the Lord said, a flicker of old arrogance peeking through. "Seven platinums. Seven people with the prerogative to be inconvenient. You’re one and a half today."

Inigo glanced down at Lyra. "She’s the half?"

"She is the half that makes you sharp," the Lord said, and there was no mockery in it. "Do not mistake insult for accuracy. A leaf that stings is still a leaf. But she taught my knee to remember what it’s for. I like her."

"Get in line," Inigo said automatically.

This time the ripple of amusement was obvious. "You will not chase," the Lord said. "You are not stupid."

"Opinion varies," Inigo said. He let the M4 tilt toward safe without looking away. "Truth is, I can’t guarantee I win a second round. Not with her down. Not with the big guns crooked. Not without rolling the dice on something I can’t put back in the box after. So—no. I won’t chase."

"Good," the Lord said, and there was that odd, almost polite respect again. "I am not running. I am declining a fight I cannot be sure is mine. A first in centuries."

"Glad to make history."

"You make messes," the Lord corrected, dry. "History is just a clerk’s word for a big mess the next day lacks the will to clean."

Inigo found himself—ridiculously—liking the bastard’s cadence, the way he swung between threat and kitchen talk, between awe and arithmetic. The feeling was disgusting and honest.

"You keep talking about my iron like it’s more than metal," he said. "What’s your deal with it?"

"It tells the truth when a hand insists," the Lord said, easy. "Priests lie and call it comfort. Nobles lie and call it order. Your iron lies less. You make it say no in voices stones remember. I approve."

Inigo squinted. "You break cities for fun or for philosophy."

"For purpose," the Lord said, and closed that door with a tone that said questions beyond it would be unwise.

"Yeah," Inigo said. "Figured."

The Lord shifted his weight. The seams along his chest flared and then dimmed, like a man testing a bruise and deciding to leave it alone. "I will go," he said. "I will return soon. Not out of fury. Out of gratitude. You gave me back a thing I’d lost: a day that fought back."

"You’re welcome?" Inigo tried.

"Stop being polite," the Lord advised, casual again. "It makes me want to be gentle. I hate gentle."

"Duly noted."

"One lesson," the Lord added, like a man tossing a coin on the bar on his way out. "The stones under your city remember patterns older than guild ledgers. Your scryers chase smoke and names. Tell them to mark sound. The old wards hum when I walk near. They do not sing for them yet. Make someone teach them."

"I’ll pass it along," Inigo said, and meant it.

The Lord inclined his helm toward Lyra, then toward the Black Dragon, then toward Inigo’s hands. "Keep her breathing. Keep that barrel honest. Keep your thumbnails sharp."

He stepped backward. No flourish. No ring. Just a seam that remembered how to be kind to him. Before it closed, the voice came one last time, lighter than it had any right to be.

"Unbound Soul," he said. "Thank you for today."

"Don’t make me regret it," Inigo said.

"I will try," the Lord said, and the seam stitched itself shut like a wound deciding to scar instead of bleed.

Silence arrived clumsy and then sat down properly. The river hissed where it licked hot rock. A piece of somewhere collapsed itself into dust a few blocks over and then was done. Far away, Elandra’s bells trailed toward something like agreement. Here, it was just Inigo, Lyra, and a square full of unwise metal.