The dungeon stank of rot and
copper.
Kira pressed herself against the slick stone wall, her breath coming in short, controlled bursts. Somewhere in the darkness ahead, something was eating. The wet, tearing sounds echoed through the corridor, punctuated by the crack of bone.
"Move it, girl."
She'd heard sounds like that before.
In the orphanage kitchens, when Cook butchered the chickens. The same wet snap. The same meaty tear. Kira had been five the first time she'd watched, standing on a stool to reach the counter, her small hands covered in feathers and blood.
"Good girl," Cook had said, not unkindly. "You don't flinch. That's rare."
Kira hadn't known how to explain that she'd already learned not to flinch. That flinching got you noticed, and being noticed got you hurt.
The boot caught her between the shoulder blades, not hard enough to bruise but enough to send her stumbling forward. She caught herself on her hands, the rough stone scraping her palms. The sting was familiar. Grounding, almost.
"I said move."
Kira pushed herself up and kept walking. Behind her, the raid party hung back—six contracted hunters with their spirits manifested in shimmering half-forms. A wolf made of blue flame. A serpent of living shadow. A humanoid figure wreathed in wind. Their contractors stood with weapons drawn, eyes scanning the darkness, but none of them moved ahead of her.
That was her job.
She was the canary. The tripwire. The thing you sent first to see what was waiting.
The eating sound stopped.
The bait girl, they called her in the slave compound. Not to her face—she wasn't worth the breath. But she'd heard it whispered when they thought she wasn't listening. The bait girl. The one with no contract. The disposable one.