He was imposing, bred for war, even in stillness. The man’s chest was a barrel of muscle, thighs wider than Bird’s legs combined. Stillness didn’t mean rest; it meant listening. It meant the moment just before the knife flew.
He turned the coin in his palm. Heat, then memory. The crowd’s hush, a predator’s footfall, and the old taste of iron. “Not tonight,” he whispered—to the coin or the darkness, hard to say.