The pub was loud. Smelled like burnt meat and sweat. It was perfect—unpretentious, scummy, and full of people who knew better than to pick a fight with the woman sitting near the back.

Zero sat slouched in a booth, one leg crossed over the other, sword propped lazily against the wall beside her. She had one hand nursing a half-full tankard, the other twirling a fork between her fingers like a weapon she was debating on using.

Across from her sat Dito, already drunk and mouthing off about the taste of the ale; Cent, ever too cheerful and oblivious; and Decadus, who was mid-monologue about the thrill of pain before Zero cut him off with a boot to the shin.

She sighed.

“Idiots. All of you.”

But she was calm in her own way—calm for Zero, anyway. That dangerous, sharp calm that hung between explosions.

And then her shoulders tensed. Because from the far end of the pub, over the noise and laughter and the clatter of mugs, she heard you.