For the umpteenth time, Larryn yanked his hand back with a hiss. “What even is that shit? It hurts.”

“Yeah, well, it’ll save you two days of fever. Stop moving.”

Cal grabbed his wrist and pulled it closer once more before dabbing the numerous cuts on Larryn’s arms with his lemon-based solution. Every time he used this trick, his mind shifted toward Aberah Lake, far to the South, and the less-than-tender care of his mom. She didn’t budge if it stung: you’d gotten yourself into trouble, and those were the consequences. A zealot had snatched control of the region at the time, and Cal had been too young to understand why bringing attention to their family was dangerous. But he’d learned, and it had hurt more than lemon ever could. Now all that was left of his parents were a few household tricks and a sadness that climbed like the tide every other month.

“I can’t believe you’re protesting this, and not the beating you just took. You didn’t complain so much when you broke the bones at the base of your wrists to escape shackles!”

Cal had meant to tease, but he regretted it when Larryn’s expression darkened. “Sorry, I was too busy thinking about how an asshole noble had just stabbed my father.” He sighed, leaning back into his chair. “Can’t you just call upon Ren and heal me?”

“Afraid not.” Cal reached into his small kit for the bandages. He’d closed most of Larryn’s wounds with magic, but Ren’s power didn’t lie in healing. Xe brought luck. Under Xir guidance, you avoided getting hurt at all, and thus never needed divine fixing. Larryn, on the other hand, still had a sizeable cut in his palm from a glass bottle. “You shouldn’t have fought. Maybe it’ll teach you.”

Larryn straightened up, his attention snapping back to Cal. “He insulted you.”

“So? I don’t need Hasryan and you to prove you’d fight on my behalf. I know that already.” In fact, they were a little too willing to do so. “You realize Drake used me as bait? It’s bad enough to be mocked, but when you’re the lure to provoke your friends into a brawl, it sucks double time.”

“I couldn’t let him get away with it.”

“You should have!” Cal pulled on the bandages tighter than necessary, then captured Larryn’s gaze. He needed him to understand. “I know you think you’re helping me, but you’re wrong. I asked you and Hasryan to stand down and ignore him, and you didn’t listen. You weren’t fighting for me. I’m just your excuse to land a few hits on him again.”

Cal tied the fabric in place and examined his handiwork. Few would try to treat people from the streets, and he’d learned a handful of tricks over time. Larryn’s propensity to get into fights provided ample practice.

“Well, if Arathiel had been there, maybe we—”

“Stop. You can’t blame those absent for actions you regret.”

Knocks interrupted them, and when Larryn called, Arathiel himself entered. He’d found a cleaner outfit than the mismatched mess he’d arrived at the Shelter in, but still wore short sleeves despite the cold nights. Temperatures outside dropped at an alarming rate, and the common room’s fire didn’t reach most of the Shelter, yet Arathiel continued to go around with inappropriately light clothes. He’d become sick before long.

Cal cast Larryn a meaningful stare. For all of Arathiel’s peculiarities, he’d proven a kind and warm new friend. From the moment Cal had spotted him waiting at a table, drenched and lost, he’d known Arathiel would be more than a patron. Cal might have no interest in romance, but he loved making new friends and spotted potential ones faster than most developed a crush. His instincts didn’t lie, and if Larryn scared Arathiel with ill-thought words, Cal would have a few choice ones of his own.

“What’s going on? The common room is so—” Arathiel stopped as he laid eyes on Larryn’s multiple bruises and bandaged hand. “Quiet. What happened?” He closed the door behind himself.

“Tavern brawl,” Larryn said. “They arrested Hasryan.”

“What? Why him?”

Larryn snorted, and Cal sensed the snarky answer long before it came. He interrupted. “He head-butted Drake Allastam. A lord.”

“This asshole snapped his fingers, and they took him. Simple as that.”

“What now? How can we help him?”

This time Larryn laughed. “We can’t. Tonight they’ll beat him up, but tomorrow his boss should bail him out.”

“That’s …”

“Typical,” Larryn said. “Typical is the word you’re looking for.”

“He’ll be okay!” Cal added. “There’s nothing you can do. He’ll be touched to know you worried about him, though.”

Arathiel half-pouted, half-smiled, as if he couldn’t decide whether it irked him to have to wait or pleased him to learn Hasryan cared what he thought about him. Cal wondered how far that interest went. The bond between these two had forged quickly, but Hasryan had only ever expressed interest in women, and it always stopped at desire. When Cal had asked, Hasryan had shrugged it off as a potential trust issue, saying he’d never met someone he trusted deeply enough to have romantic urges. At the hint of anxiousness in his friend’s voice, Cal had promptly answered, “If you ever get them, tell me how it feels, because I’m forever at a lost.” It drew a smile out of Hasryan, and they let the matter rest.

Larryn lumbered to his feet with a groan and stretched his muscles. “We should return to the main room. The longer we stay apart, the wilder their theories will become. Cal, can you get the music started again? I’ll prepare some quick snacks to distract them.”

“And me?” Arathiel asked.

Larryn shrugged. “You’re welcome to enjoy the fireplace and not freeze those poor arms off.”

Fear flickered over Arathiel’s expression, and he crossed his arms, trying to subtly inspect them. Questions burned Cal’s lips. Their new friend so often seemed to forget the world, like he now had with the chill and his outfit. He never commented on the stink, and he hadn’t noticed his wound, according to Hasryan. Larryn believed he couldn’t taste anything, so he’d started cooking his meals with a wide range of textures for Arathiel, but the only reaction it had earned him was a suspicious stare when he’d brought a strange tomato jelly. And in Cal’s modest opinion, that weird stuff had deserved the look. Despite his desire to ask about everything and promise Arathiel he could talk to them, Cal locked his questions behind tight lips. He wanted Arathiel to stay comfortable, and if that required intense willpower on his part, then so be it. Cal smiled at their new friend.

“Come with me. I’ll introduce you to our musicians! Do you dance?”

And they were off, Arathiel surprising Cal with a wistful story of his sister, who had loved to dance.

 

✵

 

Arathiel tightened the cape over his shoulder. He kept thinking it would slip without him noticing, that the hood would fall off and reveal his features. Sneaking and sulking had never been his method of choice, but his other option involved sitting all night at the Shelter and doing nothing. Not much of one. After Cal had revived the music and introduced him to a few regular patrons, Arathiel had pretended he needed fresh air and left. He climbed through the city straight to the Sapphire Guard’s headquarters and prison.

Arathiel’s hand clasped over his emergency pouch, almost devoid of coins. It wasn’t empty, though. Inside hid his family’s sigil, the light blue tint washed away by the decades. Or perhaps Arathiel just couldn’t see it anymore. So much looked grey to him now. He approached the two guards near the entrance. Their shoulders hunched and they rubbed their hands—must be cold, then. When they noticed him, however, they snapped to attention.

“No one goes in at night, sir.”

“I need to visit someone. To make sure he’ll be all right.”

The guard scowled. “I said no one—”

“I heard you.” Arathiel’s soft tone vanished, and he recovered the commanding voice he’d used when training rookies. “He has dark elven blood. Your colleagues must have brought him in earlier, from a tavern brawl.”

The guard snickered. “Ah, yes. You still can’t get in, sir.”

“It’s milord.” Arathiel had known it might come to this. Even on a good day, most people weren’t permitted to enter the prisons. You needed influence, and his resided in his title. Voicing it felt wrong, however. Like an old relic trying to pass as modern art. He reached into his pouch and retrieved his family’s sigil. It glinted in the torchlight despite its age, as if winking at him. Mocked even by inanimate objects. Arathiel gritted his teeth and extended his palm. “House Brasten.”

The guard stifled a groan. He picked up the insignia and squinted. Perhaps in the darkness he wouldn’t notice how old it was. “That’s all good, milord, but he can’t see anyone tonight. He can’t even open his eyes!” Arathiel glared at them, and the two guards’ snickers died. “Come back tomorrow.”

“I will, and I expect him to be in shape to talk.”

Arathiel turned on his heel and strode away. He’d maintained a firm tone despite his hammering heart and the doubts crawling into it. If he returned tomorrow, he’d have neither darkness nor his hood to hide himself. They’d ask for more than a sigil to substantiate his claim. Arathiel hurried down a flight of stairs, ignoring the risk inherent to his speed—he moved on instinct, the granite under his boots hard to feel through the numbness of his senses. He would fall long before he even realized his false steps. But the exertion helped clear his mind, and by the time he reached the ground, he’d spent his nervous energy.

He leaned against a nearby tower and closed his eyes. Cal and Larryn had assured him the guards would release Hasryan soon. He’d meant to lift his friend’s spirit with a surprise visit through the night, but he didn’t have it in him to return during the day. House Brasten was his family by name, a tool he’d accepted to use tonight, but he didn’t have the courage to reconnect with them and drag his past into the light.

 

✵

 

Brune never did “take care of it.” Not on the first day, at any rate. Hasryan lay in his cell for hours, muscles throbbing from the beating. The guards had added punches to those already distributed by the tavern’s patrons until conscious thoughts slipped from Hasryan’s mind. He tried not to move, but he couldn’t escape the occasional spike of pain. He missed Cal. For his healing, yes, and also his cheerful company. A friend’s laugh helped him deal with hatred. The guards had stated he would receive no visitors, however. They always said that. It had never kept Brune away before. Nothing could stop her. Her prolonged absence brought the inevitable question: Was this wait a lesson?

He could hear her in his mind. Don’t head-butt the nobles, Hasryan. You’re wasting my time and money. This stay in a cell wasn’t his first, but every time before, Brune had reminded him he was lucky to be her best assassin and extracted him without delays. He liked that better. It meant she trusted him to carry out any job she handed to him despite how often he got in trouble. No one else relied on him that way, not even Larryn and Cal. The former had learned to handle his own problems, and the latter never had any. They were friends—a miracle in itself—but they didn't entrust their future success to him. Brune did, and would again. Not to mention no one else knew his real job.

She would get him out. It might take longer than usual, but she would.

When guards fetched him from his cell the following day, he wasn’t scared. They dragged him to a windowless room containing a table and two chairs and shackled him to one of them. Its cold seeped through his pants, and Hasryan shivered. They hung the lamp on a wall, out of reach, and left him without explanation. Hasryan didn’t need one. He had seen interrogation rooms before. What could they want to ask, though? He’d smashed that arrogant prick’s nose with his forehead, and since the man had a title while Hasryan had black skin, he had landed in a cell. A straightforward story which he had no intention of denying.

A woman entered, clad in the Isandor Sapphire Guards’ livery: a simple white and grey outfit with a light-blue cape behind. She wore no armour, but dark-blue threads decorated her collar, sleeves, and the bottom of her cape. Not a regular guard, then, but an investigator. He straightened up, more alert. Tavern fights should be below her. Her serious smile as she sat on the chair opposite of him didn’t alleviate his stress. Deep-set eyes studied him as though she could parse out his soul from the get-go, and Hasryan swallowed hard. He needed to size her up, make the most of what little information she presented to him. Her confident bearing indicated she believed herself at an advantage, and her firm strides implied she knew what she wanted. She expected a quick win. Was she an outsider? Her darker skin and its rich ochre undertone marked her as a descendant from the Phong Peninsula—a land far to the southeast in which Hasryan had never set foot.

“Who’s your friend in House Brasten?” Though her voice was sharp, her Allorian was smooth. From the region, then. She had probably lived in Isandor longer than him.

Hasryan tilted his head to the side. “No one? What do they even have to do with this?”

“Nothing, apparently.” She shrugged it off. Hasryan didn’t press the point. Good interrogators gave no more information than they meant to. “You’re in trouble.”

Hasryan crushed his mounting dread and snorted at her declaration. In trouble for that head-butt? They both knew better. Her smile didn’t budge, and in deliberate movements, she leaned to the side, retrieved his wave-patterned dagger from her bag, and set it on the table. Hasryan’s mirth died. The blade’s specific shape was his trademark in the underworld. He couldn’t resist using it even though it created distinctive wounds. Brune’s trust mattered too much, and she usually arrived before they looked into the dagger or forced them to let it go. Her delay might complicate matters.

“Is this yours?” the investigator asked.

“Depends. Which gets me into more trouble? If I stole it, or if I had it all along?”

He smirked, but she tapped the blade again, sending sparks of electricity down its length.

“Is it yours or not?”

Hasryan spread his arms and shrugged. “Lady, I don’t even know your name. Why would I answer your incriminating questions?”

Time to fool around and waste hours. Sooner or later, Brune would get him out. His job was to say nothing before then. Nothing important, anyway. Hasryan enjoyed a good banter, even more so with the city’s guards. His ability to drag out a conversation infuriated them.

“It’s Sora Sharpe. Please answer. I don’t have all day.”

She flicked her long black braid out of the way. Stiff tone, irritated scowl, angry glare: perfect for Hasryan.

“I do. A lengthy day in a dark cell. Although I’ll admit, this hell hole isn’t much better.” Hasryan leaned back, his smirk steady. “You’re a lady. You should find a nice decoration to brighten up this place.”

“Charming. Your sexism is an appreciated change from my favourite colleague’s repeated transphobia. I’m glad the bigot club is diversifying a little.” Without missing a beat, she picked up his dagger and stuffed it back into her bag. “An interrogation room isn’t meant for comfort, and I care nothing for decorations. Not everyone follows the stereotypes shoved upon them by gender or race, although you seem determined to excel in what dark elves are reputed for. Congratulations, Mister Fel’ethier: you are the prime suspect in a dozen murders, one of which is so old, it implies you were a killer before you were an adult.”

Hasryan laughed, but his bitterness seeped through the mirth. How could she understand? He had become a killer long before he was an adult, or even a teenager. They’d forced the decision on him before he could have any grasp of the world and its cruel workings. Kill or be sacrificed. As far as he was concerned, Sora Sharpe could shove her righteous anger deep up her ass. She had no right to judge his life. Hasryan trailed his fingers on the table, keeping his cool.

“Which murder would that be, if I may enquire? I lose track, you see. Dark elves don’t count their crimes.”

His crimes, no, but he could name every assassination contract since arriving in Isandor. Brune didn’t need people killed often, and even less now that she controlled the mercenary business. He asked to fuel her righteous anger, not satisfy his curiosity.

“Lady Ilyana Allastam, born Carrington.”

“What?”

Hasryan jerked forward, pulling the chains on his wrists taut with a clang. Anyone who’d lived in Isandor during the last decade had experienced the scars caused by Lady Allastam’s death. Her husband, the current Head of the Allastam House, had blamed everything on another family and launched the first bloody feud in over a century. Instead of attacking their opponent’s trades, nobles outright killed each other and annihilated any lowborn remotely linked to the enemy house. Hasryan and Brune had arrived in Isandor less than two months beforehand. He’d been sixteen, eager to help. The feud had been an incredible boon to their business and had allowed the Crescent Moon Mercenaries to get ahead.

But he hadn’t killed Lady Allastam. He had been planting evidence in another house, thrilled by this first job under Brune’s command. How could they blame him for one of the rare assassinations he’d had no part in? A smile danced on Sharpe’s lips. She enjoyed his surprise. The investigator caught his gaze and held it while she set her palms on the table.

“You heard me,” she said. “You killed Lady Allastam with the very distinctive dagger we were discussing. The wounds match. You should use less conspicuous weapons.”

Hasryan tilted his head to the side. Nice try, but her affirmation didn’t hold. “I didn’t even have it at the time.”

“So it is yours.”

Sora Sharpe straightened with a victorious smile and set a hand on her hip. Hasryan bit a curse back and forced a low chuckle out instead. He shouldn’t have underestimated her. He was too used to angry guards with brains blunter than their clubs. Perhaps a little name-dropping was called for, to shake her confidence.

“Well played. Yes, it’s mine. It’s a gift from my boss. You might know her? Her name’s Brune.” And just like that, Sora Sharpe’s mirth vanished. Everyone in Isandor’s Sapphire Guards understood they couldn’t touch Brune. Hasryan tapped on the table with his index finger. “You can ask her about the dagger. I’m sure she’ll come by soon enough.”

“Don’t think you’ll get out that easy. I’m not letting you go.”

Hasryan’s eyebrows shot up. Did she believe that for even one second? He’d received threats of justice from frustrated guards before. She could try to keep him inside, but in the long run he was safe. Brune would never abandon him. She relied on him, and he on her.

After a final glare and an unconvincing “You’ll see,” Sharpe headed toward the door. As she touched the knob, Hasryan cleared his throat. She spun on her heels, her expression a mix of anger and hope. He smirked.

“I’ll enjoy your clinging to me!”

The energy she put into slamming the door warmed his heart.