The boat house stood tall—three sturdy stories of stone and wood built right into the underside of the bridge. Perfectly placed between the harbor and the market, it sat at the heart of the Ironbound’s daily rhythm. Fresh paint clung to its walls—a strange teal-green.

  "Hey Kael! Hey Yuri! You like the new color? I call it Seaweed Foam D’Lite!"

  A lanky woman covered in paint waved from across the lot. Wendy, grinning like she’d just won a contest only she knew about.

  Kael and Yuri exchanged a look.

  Kael shrugged.

  “Looks good, Wendy. But how the hell did you manage to paint all three stories since we left?”

  Wendy bounced toward them, grabbing Kael by the sleeve and dragging him around the side of the building. Yuri stayed behind, one hand firmly on Roman’s shoulder. The man was still sniveling and cradling his broken finger, eyes wide and twitchy.

  Wendy’s blonde ponytail swung behind her, somehow untouched by paint despite the chaos that covered her coveralls, boots, and undershirt.

  “Look!” she beamed.

  Kael squinted at the side of the building—and paused.

  Small handprints. Dozens of them. Painted in every color imaginable, running up and down the wall.

  “Had the kids from the orphanage help!” Wendy said, practically bouncing. “They loved it! Ms. Thatcher even turned it into a color-mixing lesson. Said it’s the least she could do for all the support the Ironbound gives the orphanage.”

  She rushed it all out like she was trying to speak before Kael could say he didn’t like it.

  Kael placed both hands gently on her shoulders, locking eyes with her warm hazel ones.

  “You did a great job. Really. I love it,” he said, smiling. “Getting the kids involved? That’s exactly what this place is about. Looks like a proper beater base now.”

  “I told her you were going to hate it,” came a dry voice.

  Oliver stood at the doorway, pushing up his amber mage lenses with one hand, a book tucked under his arm. He looked like a university mage student—neat, precise, a bit bookish—but his stare held the calculating sharpness of a seasoned beater.

  “Fifty excited kids makes a lot of noise,” Wendy pouted.

  Kael gave her shoulder a reassuring pat. “Don’t mind him—he’s just grumpy he couldn’t read in peace. But wait till he sees what I brought back…”

  Oliver's eyes narrowed with curiosity.

  Kael reached into his coat and slowly pulled out the books from Roman’s office. The moment he did, Oliver practically slid down the stairs like a kid on festival morning.

  “Are these… new books? Wait, this one—this looks like it’s from the Ancient Syrillian Courts, Fifth Age?!” His voice cracked with disbelief as he traced a hand along the embossed dragon on one of the covers.

  The embedded mage stone sparked to life—flaring softly.

  The dragon on the cover moved. It turned its head, opened its jaws, and let out a tiny roar of fire.

  Everyone froze.

  Wendy gasped. Oliver stood slack-jawed.

  Even Roman forgot himself and let out a breathless “Oh.”

  Yuri, hand still on Roman’s collar, leaned down and whispered, “No noise unless it’s permission to keep your teeth.”

  Roman shut up again.

  Then—

  CRACK!

  A sound like a gunshot rang out from above.

  Everyone froze.

  From the third-story window, a blur rocketed through the air.

  “KKKKAAAAEEEEEELLLLL!!!”

  A young beast kin women launched like a cannonball from the building, mid-air, flying straight at him.

  Kael instinctively dropped one foot back to brace for impact.

  The blur slammed into him—arms locking around his neck, legs coiled around his waist like a coiled spring.

  “Heya, Runt,” Kael said, grinning as he held the bundle of feminine muscle. “How you doing?”

  Runt—a beast kin he’d taken in off the streets four, maybe five years ago? Time got muddy in the blood and fire it took to claim the Ironbound. She’d been left behind during a beast kin village raid south—just a kid back then, small and half-starved, barely more than bone and fury.

  Now she was something else entirely.

  She touched two fingers of her right hand to her lower lip.

  “I see you, Kael,” she said quietly.

  Kael adjusted her weight in his arms so he could free his right hand, returning the gesture.

  “I see you, Runt.”

  She climbed down with the grace of a wildcat and stretched her arms over her head, popping her claws out at the apex. Her wild yellow hair caught the sunlight, ears twitching, tail flicking as she extended. Her cropped top showed off a lean, powerful core, and her pants clung to muscular legs that rippled under the fabric.

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  She wasn’t even fully grown yet—and still moved like a predator.

  “You smell like fire and blood…” she murmured, moving close again, nose brushing near Kael’s collarbone. She inhaled deeply.

  “…and a woman.”

  Kael met her sharp green eyes. They narrowed for a moment, piercing.

  Then she grinned.

  “And red sauce stew!” she shouted, grabbing his arm like a lifeline. “I want some!”

  Kael chuckled as she clung to him.

  Runt could be clingy. Oliver had explained it to him years ago—she saw Kael, and by extension the Ironbound, as her pride. Her family. Kael sat at the center of that constellation.

  There wasn’t much to be done about it. Lion-type beast kin were notoriously territorial—especially the battle-born. Made sense, considering the war still grinding in the southern borderlands, a conflict that had dragged on for over a hundred years.

  Kael didn’t mind.

  He understood. Maybe more than most.

  Runt turned her head and looked at Roman.

  Then she began to walk toward him—slow, hips swaying, every movement coiled and deliberate. Predator on the hunt.

  Her claws clicked out from their sheathes one by one, gleaming in the morning sun.

  Roman looked like he might die on the spot. Not from violence—just sheer terror. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide and glassy.

  “Is he the one who hurt you?” Runt’s voice was low, almost gentle.

  She moved like a shadow wrapping around him. The clingy kitten from before was gone—replaced by a jungle cat on the edge of a pounce.

  She slid one claw along Roman’s collarbone… then slowly traced the bottom of his jaw.

  Roman twitched. Frozen. Helpless. Even Wendy audibly gulped.

  Yuri, ever the actor, stepped in with flair and yanked Roman back by the scruff.

  “You can’t play with your food, Runt,” he said with a smirk. “Kael’d be upset if he died too quick. He’s got a lot to answer for. Don’t you, scumbag?”

  But Runt didn’t stop.

  She moved again—fast this time. A blur of motion, a blaze of instinct. She stopped with her claws poised millimeters from Roman’s eyes.

  Roman didn’t scream.

  He fainted.

  Yuri let him drop like a sack of potatoes.

  “Damn,” Yuri muttered. “I thought he’d at least squeal.”

  He bent down and scooped the unconscious man over his shoulder, dusting himself off like it was nothing.

  “Boss,” Yuri said, turning to Kael, “you want him at the courthouse? And who we inviting?”

  Kael took a slow breath, eyes sweeping the docks as solanir rose higher over the Iron District.

  “Everyone,” he said.

  “Open invitation.”

  The courthouse sat in a quieter corner of the Ironbound district, tucked away from the noise of the market. A massive circular structure built of dark stone, its broad cascading steps fanned out like an open hand facing the street.

  Today, those steps were packed.

  Everyone was there.

  Shops had shut down. Food stalls popped up like mushrooms after rain, filling the air with spices, steam, and the hum of voices. It felt more like a festival than a trial. A celebration before judgment.

  Kael’s toughs patrolled the streets in pairs, keeping order with calm, watchful eyes. No one tested them.

  Yuri, for once, was clean and sharp, navigating the crowd with his newest flame—Lucy. She kept him on a tight leash. He kept trying to cup a feel anyway, grinning like a boy sneaking snacks before dinner. She slapped his hand away each time, but never really let go of it.

  Kael sat at the top of the courthouse steps, alone with his thoughts. Roman lay behind him on the stone, shackled and whimpering.

  Runt lounged on the roof above, stretching in the last rays of sun. She looked relaxed—sun-kissed and sprawled out like a cat—but Kael knew better. She was coiled. Watching. Waiting.

  He didn't expect trouble today—not really. The Syndicate wouldn’t risk an open strike, not here, not in his district. But the chance was never zero.

  Inside, Rachel waited.

  Merry and Wendy were with her. Her face was bruised, purple and yellow blooming over skin like rotten fruit. A cut split her brow, and her eye was swollen nearly shut. Cracked ribs. A broken finger. The nail gone. She’d been beaten, slammed into a table, hurt in every way that mattered.

  But not broken.

  When Kael asked her if she wanted to come, she didn’t hesitate. She just nodded once, steady and sure.

  In that moment, he saw the fire behind her pain.

  A warrior’s eyes.

  She was wheeled in through the back—quiet, steady—flanked by the women who stood with her.

  Roman had already begged. He’d offered money. Promises. Deals. He’d screamed. Tried to run. Tried to fight.

  Kael had expected all of it.

  None of it worked.

  Today, Roman wasn’t dealing with corrupt guards or syndicate bribes.

  Today, he would face Ironbound justice.

  For Rachel.

  Oliver waited by the platform, clipboard in hand, robes crisp, lenses catching the light. Calm. Focused. The record keeper.

  Rachel was wheeled forward through the crowd. People stepped aside, respectfully quiet.

  Kael stepped to the center.

  He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

  His voice cut through the air like a knife.

  “This man laid hands on someone under my protection.”

  He let that hang.

  “He thought Ironbound was a place you could pass through. That our people didn’t matter. That we’d forget.”

  A beat passed. Kael’s jaw tightened. The scars tracing the right side of his face caught the light—silvery, jagged, like lightning frozen mid-strike. But behind the storm, his eyes stayed calm. Too calm.

  “But we don’t forget.”

  He scanned the crowd. Looked at faces. Real people. People who lived here, who bled here, who survived.

  “We remember every bruise. Every scar.”

  Kael’s voice grew firmer.

  “So today—he learns.”

  He turned slightly, his stance widening, posture steady.

  “This isn’t justice from the top down. This is justice from the street up. From the mothers. The shopkeepers. The orphans.”

  His gaze swept over them all.

  “From you.”

  Kael nodded once, like punctuation.

  “You don’t get to walk into our district and hurt one of ours and expect to walk out.”

  He looked down at Rachel.

  She nodded once, calm and steady.

  Rachel leaned forward in her chair, her voice rough, but clear.

  “He tried to take everything from me.”

  She paused, letting the silence carry the weight of it.

  “But I’m still here.”

  She looked at Roman—held his gaze like steel.

  “He doesn’t get to walk away. And I don’t need to hide anymore.”

  Her final words were ice.

  “I hope you live long enough to feel what it’s like to be helpless.”

  No one clapped. No one spoke. But a current ran through the crowd. A ripple of breath. A communal pulse.

  Kael raised one hand. Then gave the order.

  “Strip him.”

  Yuri and Runt moved at once. They ripped away Roman’s clothes, tossing his fine coat and shirt into the crowd like garbage.

  Roman squirmed, panicked. Runt cuffed him across the ribs—hard. He went still.

  Kael raised his hand again. The crowd quieted. Held its breath.

  “Today, you all take part.”

  His voice was low now, for them alone.

  “For Rachel.”

  He scanned the steps.

  “For every girl who never got justice. For every man who was told to shut up and take it.”

  He gestured to the side, where a row of blunt sticks and switches had been laid out in silence.

  “One piece each. No more.”

  His voice turned quiet, almost gentle.

  “If you’ve ever been scared. Ever been hurt. Ever wanted to scream…”

  A pause.

  “Here’s your voice.”

  The silence after that was long. Solid.

  Then a mother stepped forward.

  She picked up a switch, walked to Roman, and looked him in the eyes.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  The sound of her strike cracked across the stones.

  Then a shopkeeper.

  Then a street tough.

  A boy no older than ten.

  Then Wendy.

  Even Oliver.

  Every strike came like a metronome of pain.

  The whistle of wood. The crunch of bone. The rising pitch of screams.

  On and on. No rush. No mercy.

  Rachel came last.

  She didn’t say a word.

  But her strike made Roman buckle.

  By the end, he was slumped on the stone. Bleeding. Weeping. Unable to stand.

  Kael stood over him, the shadow of judgment.

  “This is mercy,” he said. “We could’ve fed you to the harbor dogs.”

  He looked down at what was left of the man.

  “But this? This sticks.”

  Then he turned to the people. To his district.

  “Mark this day.”

  He let it settle.

  “Ironbound doesn’t suffer cowards. And it doesn’t forgive monsters.”

  Roman was dragged to the edge of the district by Kael’s toughs. A rough wooden sign was strung around his neck.

  "I HURT ONE OF OUR OWN."

  They dumped him in the dirt outside the boundary stones.

  Not killed.

  But broken.

  If he came back, he wouldn’t make it another step.

  Not that he’d ever walk again.