I gasped and thrashed as the dream-body ripped itself upright.
It smelled like iron and rain—someone's blood on moss.
"Don't move," a voice hissed close enough that I could hear the flecks of spit. "You gonna cry, runt?"
"Stop," the boy whispered, voice small under three cages of mocking laughter.
"Look what we dragged in," a taller one said. "Skinny kid thinks he's lost. Thinks he can steal from Luciano's stretch." The thugs circled, boots crunching broken leaves.
I reached for the sound without thinking. My hands found only damp soil and a rock thick with wet red smears. The old habit blinked into me: when I ate, strength followed. The memory showed, not told. I tasted it in my mouth—metal and moss—and thought in two beats, Throw.
"Give me your pack," the shorter one demanded, poking River with a blunt stick. "Or we'll show the Eagle what happens to thieves."
River's breath caught. "I didn't—" he started.
"Shut up." The leader leaned close, fingers curling around River's collar. "Your boss won't trade for you. You're trash on the trail."
I made a sound that wasn't human. It came from my throat, raw and wrong. The leader looked up, puzzled, then laughed.
"You sick?" he asked. "You lost your mind too?"
I threw.
The rock spun and hit the leader's shoulder. Red smeared brighter across wet leather. He cursed, stumbling back. He did not
