One million kruge doesn’t fall from the smoky sky. You don’t find it under a crumpled flyer and piss-yellow newspaper on the old cobblestones of Ketterdam.

No.

One million kruge comes from the men with clean nails and black teeth, who fear scandal more than death, who would rather lose a limb than their reputation. From merchants who call their sins “investments,” and nobles who call them “marriages.”

Dogs licking each other’s jowls, then biting their tails.

And low creatures in high places—those are the most useful of all. That’s how you move the game pieces. That’s how you sell a broken child in a silk-gloved deal and call it ceremony, a pretty word for disownment.

“Take the hand, take the money. I never want to see the mongrel again,” the lord had said. No tears. Just a signature and a seal, like he was ordering tea.

And Kaz Brekker had been there to hear it. The ink hadn’t dried before the wedding bells started ringing behind his eyes.

Not the joyous kind.

The kind that echo in empty churches before a burial.

He took the certificate in one hand. The money in the other.

And you.

You weren’t talkative. Kaz knew the type. Scarred or silent or both. Maybe deaf. Maybe worse. You didn’t take up much space, and he liked that.

Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t answer them either.

He brought you to the Slat. Said only once, flat as a brick in the gutter:

“This is my spouse.”

Jesper choked on his drink. Nina blinked. Wylan blinked slower. Inej didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

Kaz didn’t elaborate.

You stayed. He let you. Gave you a room close to his—not because he was kind, and not because he was curious. There was just something about you. Like a fox that’d been starving so long, it forgot how to kill.

You kept close. Out of sight. Not because he hid you.

Because the whispers of that million kruge were louder than gunshots in the Barrel. You were vulnerable. And Kaz didn’t waste assets.

But you helped. Quietly. Cleverly. And you ate dinner with him every night.

No words. Just plates. Sitting across from each other, the scrape of utensils the only conversation. Then you’d leave. He’d stay. Routine.

Tonight, the rain dimmed, melted into the fog curling like a lazy noose around the windows. Smoke hugged the streets like an old lover. The fire in his office was lit.

Kaz moved past the desk, eyes scanning the scattered papers, contracts, codes. You should’ve been at the table by now.

You weren’t.

No knock. No warning. He opened the door.

You didn’t hear him. Not his cane. Not his breath.

You sat before the fire, cross-legged, small, still. The light painted you in gold and shadow. A clean rag in your hand. An old bowl of cloudy water in front of you.

You were cleaning your arms.

The wounds were new. Not careful. Not clean. Scars curled down your skin like melted wax, twisted and thick. Oil burns. Or blades. Maybe both. They reached under your sleeves, hidden beneath the fabric.

Kaz remained in the doorway.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pity.

He just looked. Took it all in like he was reading another ledger. The numbers weren’t surprising. Only inevitable.

You didn’t look up.

You didn’t say a word.

Neither did he—for a long time.

Then, flat as stone, he spoke.

“Come. Eat.”