Dane's POV:
"You will get us all killed," Mireya screams, her voice breaking apart as she pulls her daughter hard into her chest, fingers digging in like she's afraid Sally might vanish if she loosens her grip even for a second.
Her knees wobble beneath her, age and terror working together against her, the skin of her throat wrinkled and streaked with blood that has already begun to crust, darkening as the cold night air dries it.
"You think that bastard is going to let you go?" I snarl back, not slowing, not turning, my boots already hitting the first step of the narrow spiral staircase.
The stairs are old marble, once pale, now permanently stained, every step slick with years of spilled ale, wine, piss, and whatever else people have bled out here when the night demanded it.
My hand skims the wall as I climb, the stone damp and gritty under my palm, the smell thickening with every turn upward.
