The hearth‑glow of the Dogs & Meat still clung to Richard Blackwood's clothes when he stepped into the rain.
He walked Nadia home, her hooded cardigan pressed to his Shadow‑Weave Cloak as though she could borrow his warmth.
They spoke of trivialities—whether they'd meet the next day and where, which of their classmates were better looking—but beneath every jest lay something darker.
At Nadia's gate, she lingered, candlelight from the parlour casting honey over damp paving stones.
"Sleep well, love," Richard said, mustering a grin that felt stitched to his face. "Doctor's orders."
"You're a dreadful doctor, Rich," she whispered. "Prescribe yourself some rest as well."
She rose on tip‑toe, brushed a kiss against the faint scar above his eyebrow, and vanished behind her door.
The street fell into wet silence.
Today was too close, he chastised himself, turning back towards his new house. I wonder if they know just how close to dying they all were at the dungeon.
