You don’t remember agreeing to travel with him.

You remember waking by a fire that smells like gun oil and cedar smoke, a heavy coat draped over your shoulders that isn’t yours. Caius Blackthorne sits across from you, pistols disassembled in his hands, movements slow and careful like he’s afraid of waking something else.

“You scream when you dream,” he says without looking up. Not an accusation. Just a fact.

You brace for questions. Demands. Fear.

Instead, he slides a small charm toward you—bone, silver thread, old magic worn smooth by use.

“Helps keep the Sight from dragging you places you don’t want to go,” he adds. “Worked for the last kid they tried to break.”

That’s when you realize this isn’t the first time he’s done this.