Larryn would kill him.

Cal sprinted through the Lower City, cursing himself. He couldn’t be late, not tonight. They had spent an entire week planning for this evening. Larryn had spied on the prison’s guards for days, memorizing their schedule, bribing them to learn Hasryan’s precise location, and gathering information on the special allowances made for the winter solstice. They had devised a dozen different approaches to sneak into the city guards’ headquarters and break Hasryan out of their jail.

Calleran Masset, part-time priest of Ren, was at the centre of their final plan. Followers of the Unlady cherished the winter solstice, especially its long night. Many of Ren’s legendary schemes had been carried out in the dead of the night, and on this particular night, Xe had tricked Evzen, God of Birth and Death, into a game of luck, winning over a sliver of Evzen’s immortality and elevating Xirself to the rank of deity. Since then, people everywhere considered the solstice an excellent night for gambling and other chancy endeavours—perfect for a difficult prison break. Besides, Ren was the chosen patron of many thieves and scammers, and Xir priests were allowed to visit inmates and bless them, giving Cal and Larryn a legal reason to be inside.

Entering the headquarters this way removed half the obstacles. Once past the first guards, they could veer into the high-security area and seek Hasryan. Sneaking around made Cal more nervous. Unlike Larryn, he hadn’t spent years training his discretion through frequent uninvited trips into the Dathirii Tower. He did, however, have incredible luck. When they had devised the plan, they had discussed Cal staying behind and keeping their cover up but determined he should come along. Happenstance always favoured him, and Larryn’s skills might not suffice. Not to mention, Hasryan could be wounded and in need of Cal’s meagre healing abilities.

No matter how he looked at it, Cal concluded he was a crucial part of tonight’s scheme.

And he had overslept.

Larryn would definitely kill him. Hasryan, too, if he ever had the chance. No amount of running on his short, plump legs would make up for the lost time. All he had wanted was a nap, to be in better shape through the night! Cal took naps all the time, almost every single day. It was a habit he’d developed long ago, when he lived in the far south with his brothers. The heat there became so stifling, everyone slept through the late afternoon. Cal still did, despite moving to Isandor and complaining about the fast-approaching winter. His naps, however, never lasted more than an hour. Two when he was really exhausted, which hadn’t been the case earlier. Yet somehow, on this special day, he had slept so late into the evening it would be more proper to call it a night.

Cal wanted to curse his luck, but he knew better. Ren wouldn’t betray him like that. Xe never had before. Cal might not understand why he had overslept. He had, though, and he chose to see it as a sign. So he ran, hoping to arrive in time, or that his lateness would turn to their advantage. He had learned not to question his deity’s flights of fancy and trust Xir. Ren had a reason. Xe always did.

It came falling from the sky, crashing on the bridge at Cal’s feet.

He jumped back with a yelp, tripped on his feet, and landed on his ass. Cal rubbed the hurt flesh with a mutter before turning to what had surprised him. A long-limbed teenager had smashed on the bridge then rolled over. Blood splattered the stones under his head, stopping Cal’s heart and mind. So much red. After a moment of shock, he scrambled back up, his heart racing, and rushed to the young man’s side. He had to help. Now. With trembling hands, Cal withdrew his melted silver coin, knelt next to the teenager, and slapped his holy symbol on the kid’s chest.

“All right, Ren. You brought me here. Don’t let me down.”

Cal had never been the best healer. He could fix immediate injuries—enough to save a life—but the intricacies of the art didn’t interest him. Neither did they Ren, really, yet Xir soft laugh echoed in his mind as he focused on the spell, and white light spread from Cal’s coin, swirling straight to the teenager’s head and enveloping it. The blood puddle ceased to widen, but Ren’s presence grew distant almost right away. The glow flickered, then vanished. Shit. Cal tried to push the blood-soaked blond hair aside to inspect the damage, but he had no real idea how to evaluate this teenager’s health. He could stare at the wounds for hours without ever knowing if it looked good. Why had Ren put him here? Cal wasn’t who this kid needed! Calm down, he berated himself. Do your best. He’d figure out the rest after. Blood beat against his skull, but he set his palm over the coin a second time and managed to conjure another brief burst of healing.

Cal then sat back with a groan. Now he was exhausted, but he hadn’t done much more than prevent an immediate death. Without a professional—someone who had an inkling of how to heal—this teenager wouldn’t make it through the night. And if they stayed here, the cold might finish him off anyway. Cal grabbed him by the armpits, determined to pull him out of the way. His weak muscles managed to slide the teenager an inch or two before he had to stop, out of breath. Sweat covered his body, and the chill wind cooled it further. He was hot and cold, and convinced he wouldn’t achieve anything on his own.

This time, he did curse his luck. Why did it have to be someone twice his height? Why now? He could never save this kid and reach Larryn in time. Cal stared at the youthful face. Squarish, contorted in pain that seemed at home there, with deep pockets under his eyes. How could someone so young have years of fighting etched into his very traits? Cal checked his heartbeat and had trouble even finding it. He was dying, losing whatever war he’d been involved in. But Hasryan’s execution was in two days. They freed him tonight, or not at all.

Either a teenager died there, right before his eyes, or his friend hanged before the end of the week.

A disgusting choice, yet one that became more obvious with every passing second. Cal looked at the broken body before him again, then straightened up. “You stay right here, buddy. I’ll get help for you.”

Cal spun around and started back toward the Shelter. His small steps lengthened into strides, then he launched into a sprint. His lungs burned from the night’s exercise, but now that he'd made his decision, a sense of urgency pushed him past his usual limits. He needed to save that kid. Why else would Ren have kept him in bed? Cal just hoped he would succeed, and fast. Once Larryn came back from the guards’ headquarters, Cal would become a dead halfling.

 

✵

 

Arathiel studied the subdued atmosphere at the Shelter with worry. This place always bustled with activity, and the strange calm tonight didn’t sit well with him. True, Hasryan’s arrest had doused everyone’s mood, but it hadn’t stopped the locals from sharing in Larryn’s food and creating lively melodies. At times Arathiel had wished it had. It had felt wrong—Hasryan had obviously loved the wild rhythm of wooden-spoon music, fingers jumping and tapping in sync whenever he didn’t watch himself. He had smiled when Arathiel had pointed it out. Not his usual smirk, but a softer expression, more sincere.

“This is what home sounds like to me now,” he had said.

Home still played, but Hasryan couldn’t hear it anymore.

Larryn and Cal weren’t around either, leaving Arathiel alone for winter solstice. He had hoped for another game with them, to keep himself distracted. Lady Camilla had invited him to join a small dinner with a few family members, and he hadn’t had the courage to accept. Perhaps he was missing out on a pleasant evening and a chance to catch up with old times, but every day, it became harder to return to his previous life. The more he settled into the Shelter, the less he wanted to knock at the Brasten Tower’s door and face his sister’s ghost. Lindi so often hovered at the edge of his thoughts, as if she stayed with him, participating in his mind in this new life he was growing for himself.

Arathiel took a long swig of ale. The liquid flowed down his throat, but he couldn’t tell whether it was warm or cool. Perhaps it tasted like piss, though Arathiel doubted Larryn would ruin his reputed meals with shit drinks. Not that he even remembered what it tasted like. After a while, certain memories had turned into blanks. Arathiel wished he could imagine the taste the way he sometimes mentally cast more vibrant colours on the towers outside. As if the projection could ever give him back his senses. He ought to stop and move on but couldn’t. He remembered enough for the rest to cling at the edge of his consciousness, refusing to let go.

Arathiel set his pint on the counter and slid off his stool. A walk in the cold might improve his mood. After all, it didn’t matter if others froze outside. He wouldn’t feel it at all. Moving around would get his blood flowing and his spirits back up, however. Physical exertion always helped, whether through endless treks, a quick exhausting run, or training to improve his balance.

He had almost reached the door when it was flung open. Cal dashed inside, panting, and Arathiel caught him before he crashed into a table. Red streaks covered his cheeks, the marks deeper than exercise and cold should warrant. Had he cried? Cal’s breath came in painful gasps, and he sniffled. Definitely cried, though from what Arathiel had no idea.

“Woah there. Calm down.” Several heads turned to stare at them, and the sudden attention gave him goosebumps. Arathiel led his friend back outside, eager to escape the unwelcome scrutiny. “Let’s go out. Breathe a little.”

Cal wiped his tears and nose with his sleeve. His movements were shaky, but he managed to stifle his gasps as they exited. He wrapped his stubby fingers in the fabric of Arathiel’s pants as if holding on for life. Cal lifted bright blue eyes to him. A long second trickled by in which he remained silent, and Arathiel felt himself being evaluated, as if Cal sorted through how much he could say, if anything. Apparently he passed because when Cal started talking, it surged out in a semi-coherent ramble.

“It’s that teenager. He just fell—almost on me—and I tried to heal him, but I’m not good and I think he’s going to die anyway, and I left him there on the bridge—just like that!—and anyone could come by and do something fatal to him, but I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t move him by myself, not with these tiny flabby arms, so I ran all the way back here.” He breathed deeply, then coughed. “My lungs feel like little balls of flames spinning and burning everything inside, my mind included, and there’s no way I’ll ever fix this kid and get to the guards’ headquarters in time to save Hasryan and I ruined—”

“Wait, what?” Cal’s entire story had been near impossible to follow, but Arathiel had handled it well until that last part. He couldn’t let that slip uninterrupted. “Save Hasryan?”

Cal slapped a hand over his mouth with a horrified expression. “I said nothing! Especially not that!”

He had. Arathiel glanced around, making sure no one had heard them, or would. Cold dark nights did not prompt a lot of traffic, for which he was thankful. Arathiel put his hand over Cal’s and squeezed. “It’s all right. You can tell me. I don’t like these accusations any more than you do.”

Cal’s wistful expression told Arathiel he was considering it, but he gave an emphatic shake of his head. “Nuh-uh, not twice. Forget you heard anything? Pretty please? Except everything about the dying teenager who really needs to be moved to safety?”

Arathiel bit back his questions about Hasryan, even though he’d rather know what was going on with him. In the few choice nights he’d spent with Larryn, Cal, and Hasryan, he’d grown attached to their trio, and to the dark elf in particular. Hasryan knew how it felt to be the outsider, the weird one others stared at, and it calmed Arathiel to have this kindred spirit, even if they had little else in common. Cal’s pleading tone convinced him to hold back, however. Pushing a panicked friend for more information wouldn’t be right. “Okay. Let’s start by bringing your kid here. He can be in my room if you want.”

“No need. The one across from yours is empty. I’ll give him that.” Cal craned his neck to look up at Arathiel, a forced smile on his lips. “Just lift and carry him, and I’ll manage everything else. You don’t have to trouble yourself further.”

“It sounded like you had a lot on your plate two seconds ago.” Arathiel kept his tone warm and inviting, but Cal shot him a warning glare, so he raised a hand in apology. “I get it. I heard nothing. Everything is perfectly fine, and you never mentioned a certain friend of dark elven descent. Show me the way.”

He motioned down the street. Cal mumbled his thanks, then trotted off, taking two steps for every of Arathiel’s long strides.

 

✵

 

By the time they arrived, Cal shivered and drew his winter cloak tight around his shoulders. The sweat from his long run must have cooled down, freezing him, and Arathiel wondered how cold it actually was. He remembered wearing extra layers of fur at this time of the year and regretted not throwing a cloak on. Walking through the city with a simple shirt had already earned him several weird looks, and he didn’t want to draw more attention than necessary to his body. The disbelief and confusion in others’ gazes reminded him of his own sense of disconnect. Arathiel ran a hand over his arm, as much a fake attempt to warm himself up as a gesture of reassurance. The pressure might be distant and barely noticeable, but the movement’s familiarity grounded him. He was real, he had returned home, and he might still build a life for himself here.

“There he is!”

Cal’s exclamation drew him from his thoughts. He pointed ahead and started running down the street. By squinting, Arathiel managed to make out a blurry humanoid form on the bridge. He thanked the moonlight for what little his destroyed sight perceived and approached. No wonder Cal hadn’t been able to move him: despite his young age, the teenager was taller than even Arathiel. Something about his position seemed off, but when Arathiel noticed the weird angle in his leg, he understood. He touched Cal’s shoulder to draw his attention on it.

“We’ll have to see to the leg, too. It looks broken.”

Arathiel knelt next to the young man and reached for his neck. He stopped himself before he could check his heartbeat, however. Even if there was one, it wouldn’t bypass Arathiel’s numbed sense of touch. He’d once tried finding his own with no success. Arathiel had never asked anyone to verify he indeed had one. He assumed he did, since he still bled when cut.

“You should check,” he said. “You’ll be able to compare with earlier.”

Cal stared at him with a mix of worry and curiosity, lips pinched. He must have noticed Arathiel’s withdrawal but decided not to question it. Instead, he applied his fingers on the young man’s throat, and his concerned frown deepened.

“Well, he’s alive, I guess.” Cal brought his hand back and blew on his fingers. “I’m freezing, yet his skin is still colder than mine. If he stays outside any longer, it’ll kill him. We need to bring him back so I can finish healing him somewhere warm. Or try to.”

Arathiel swallowed hard. He’d had no idea the cold was this intense. Apparently, the temperature matched winter solstice’s name, and a strong wind blew across the bridges, worsening the weather. The wounded teenager wore a long coat thrown over heavy robes, but it didn’t protect him enough. Arathiel glanced at his own skin, its dark brown almost grey to his eyes. Not a single goosebump.

“Let’s hurry,” he said.

He slid his arms under the teenager’s unwieldy body, then twisted one around to hold his head stable. Poor kid. How had he ended up falling? Above Arathiel, the bridge lines smeared together, the complex crisscross too obscured for his sight. He’d ask later but doubted he’d receive an answer. If Cal didn’t trust him with tonight’s plans for Hasryan, why would this teenager tell Arathiel his story? Everyone had secrets, and no one wanted to share them with the half-dead stranger who lived a step removed from this world.

Not that Arathiel shared his secret either. He walked in silence, trying his best not to look out of balance despite the heavy load he carried. He’d never practised hauling lanky teenagers! Every stride, he prayed he could continue to predict when his foot touched the bridge and how to best shift his weight to progress without falling. Arathiel hadn’t been forced to be this calculating about walking in a long time, and it darkened his mood. Sometimes, he could almost distinguish the rough fabric of the cloak against his naked forearm, and the fleeting sensation left him wanting more. The return trek to the Shelter promised to be a constant string of reminders about his numbed perceptions. Arathiel gritted his teeth and kept moving. He was saving a life, and that mattered more than his discomfort.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Cal piped up in the middle of the way back. He’d been staring at Arathiel for the past five minutes, perplexed. His teeth clattered despite his hands gripping his cloak tight and fur-lined boots keeping his feet warm. Arathiel wondered how long ago he had noticed Arathiel didn’t have winter clothes on, and how difficult it had been to hold the question back. Cal always tried so hard not to launch into intrusive interrogations during their card games. Hasryan had been right about that much: he might like his gossip, but he valued people even more.

“No,” Arathiel said, “I’m not.”

“How come?”

Arathiel shrugged. There had been no point in lying about the cold, but he didn’t want to explain either. “Who knows? You weren’t supposed to be doing something involving Hasryan, and I’m definitely not walking around like I can’t tell if it’s hot or cold outside. The strange things happening tonight are all lies.”

“That’s not fair! I’d tell you, but this isn’t my secret, and I’m not the one who’ll suffer the most if it becomes known. You’re just hiding!” Cal’s eyes widened as the words crossed his lips. He gasped, then scrambled to explain, his hands flailing around. “I didn’t mean that! Well, yes, but not …” Cal stopped, pausing long enough to get his thoughts in order. Long enough for Arathiel to realize he was holding his breath, unsettled by this direct confrontation. “So many little things about you are different, and I know it’s bothering you, yet you never tell us anything. I just wish you would. I want to help, Ara, but I can’t if you hide.”

Arathiel turned his head away. “I’m not hiding, I’m delaying.”

His soft answer convinced no one, not even himself. Alone at the Shelter, he could silence his family name, conceal his dysfunctional body, and become one homeless man among many. A strange one, but the Lower City had its share of bizarre occupants. Live and let live was the norm, but it seemed Cal had had enough. Arathiel suspected his already difficult night had destroyed his friend’s patience.

“So you don’t feel cold, you can’t taste, and you don’t feel pain,” Cal said. Arathiel’s gaze snapped back to the halfling. How did he know the last one? “Hasryan told me. About how your feet were full of scars and you’d never notice cuts on them. He said, ‘You’re right, Cal, this one’s got a story, but if you harass him for it, I’ll punch you myself.’ So I didn’t.”

“Yet here you are, asking questions.”

A bitter smile twisted Cal’s lips. “Hasryan can’t punch me now, can he?”

Arathiel jumped on his chance to change subject, relieved at the opening. “Do they really want to execute him?”

“On some bullshit reason, too! It’s so ridiculous. When they put him in jail, we thought he’d be back within a day. As usual! But all of a sudden they’re saying he killed the prick’s mother a decade ago? They have his dagger, and they’re all convinced it’s the one that did it, and just because his horrible boss said she’d given the weapon to him before the kill, not after, they’re all ‘oh yes, must be him.’ Like she couldn’t lie to cover her own ass! But Hasryan has everything against him—dark elven ancestors when she doesn’t, and no powerful friends while she owns half the city. So they’re all happy to pin the blame on the scapegoat and call it a day. It’s just … it’s so unfair.”

They reached the Shelter’s door by the end of his rant, and Cal’s voice cracked as he grabbed the handle. He turned it and entered, his tiny shoulders slumped.

“And you’re certain it’s not him,” Arathiel said.

He’d never questioned the city guards’ decisions before, but the time spent in Larryn’s Shelter had changed that. Once you lived in the Lower City, you noticed them harass vagrants and presumed thieves on a daily basis. Would he be that surprised to learn they would execute someone without protection in order to solve a famous case?

“When I imagine Hasryan as a teenager,” Cal said, “I see an insufferable smart-ass. Not a cold-blooded killer.”

Arathiel wanted to point out no one envisioned their friends as murderers, but he couldn’t picture Hasryan doing it either. Perhaps it was because of how vulnerable he had seemed, the first time Arathiel had met him. Like he was waiting for the inevitable insult from Arathiel to bail, and he had this dazed expression when it never arrived. Then he’d shielded Arathiel from questions at their first card games, and gone out of his way to include him in the following days. None of this meant Hasryan couldn’t kill, not from a rational point of view, but Cal’s obvious distress convinced Arathiel not to press the point. Nobody needed irritating logic after indirectly dooming a friend to hanging.

They traversed the common area in silence and entered the section with private rooms. Cal pushed open the door to room number seven, right across from Arathiel’s. They set the teenager down on the hard bed and stared at him. At least they had accomplished that much tonight. After a moment, Cal examined his head wound and his bent leg, careful not to move him too much. His actions drew a groan from the young man.

“Don’t you dare wake so soon,” Cal scolded him. “You were dying.”

Arathiel set a hand on Cal’s shoulders and squeezed. He could hear the doubts in his friend’s voice, the questions underlying them. What if he could have saved both him and Hasryan? Had he made a mistake? Chosen wrong and wasted Hasryan’s only chance? Arathiel wished he had an answer to reassure Cal. A way to solve his problems, even if just as a thank you for the trio’s warm welcome to the Shelter.

“You said he’d need a better healer. I know where I might find one.”

Cal raised his head. Curiosity buried his doubts for a moment. “You do? How?”

“When I arrived, I thought everything I knew about this city would’ve changed. I was wrong. Some acquaintances are still here, and they’ll help. Keep him alive until we return.” Arathiel could almost hear all the questions on the tip of Cal’s tongue. He turned to face him and smiled. “Listen, I can’t explain now. I don’t have the time, and neither does our new Shelter resident. But you were right earlier. Maybe it’s time I stop hiding.”

Revealing himself and detailing his past filled Arathiel with dread, but a tentative plan was forming in his mind. Camilla wouldn’t hesitate to send a healer to the Shelter, and she might even be able to do more for him. First, however, he needed to ask her questions on Isandor’s current methods of execution, the political weight of Hasryan’s supposed crime, and how much of Cal’s declarations about scapegoating relied on blind faith in Hasryan.

But even if Lady Camilla told him they were deluding themselves and Hasryan must have done it, Arathiel already knew he wouldn’t abort his rescue attempt. He couldn’t stand by and watch them kill Hasryan, no matter how irrational it seemed. Through a few games of cards and several understanding silences, Hasryan had provided him with the first brick to build a life independent from his past—to grieve, accept what he’d lost, and seek what he could have now. In a way, he and the others had gently been teasing him back into this world.

If Arathiel needed to leap fully into it in order to save Hasryan, he wouldn’t hesitate.