Chapter 35: Hot Springs and Hungers
The walk back into the heart of the city felt different.
Maybe it was the weight of Mavus Grey’s death still clinging to my shoulders like a fur coat woven from old regrets. Or maybe it was the beast boy trailing beside me—barefoot, dirt-smudged, and wearing his exhaustion like a medal.
The streets were quieter here, closer to dawn, the cobblestones still damp with dew and last night’s sins. Lamplight flickered above us in lazy, uneven rhythm, casting our shadows across the street like a pair of tired ghosts on parade.
He didn’t complain.
Of course not. He was too proud for that. The kind of pride stitched not from arrogance but from survival—threadbare and patchworked, but still holding together with quiet dignity.
His stomach growled.
Loudly.
It was less of a rumble and more of a small, mournful roar—the sort of sound that echoed slightly, like a lonely bear calling out across a snowy valley. He stiffened immediately, standing straighter, like posture could somehow shame his own body into silence.
I glanced sideways.
Another rumble.
More pitiful this time. Almost apologetic.