Larryn usually directed his murderous urges at slimy nobles—arrogant pricks who flaunted their titles like a free pass to be horrible, or holier-than-thou hypocrites who gave a coin or two away to assuage their guilt but otherwise didn’t give a rat’s ass about the poor sod who carried their shit every day. Especially House Dathirii, who posed as champions for those in need but hadn’t blinked at tossing his mother out in the street. His lord father could throw all the money he wanted Larryn’s way, but they both knew the truth. The elven house fared no better compassion-wise than any noble family out there, and they despised the slums and their inhabitants.

Today, however, Larryn kept a special spot in his hating heart for a certain halfling and his empty promises. They would see how long his luck held once Larryn got his hands on that unreliable wretch. Hasryan needed him to be there, and where was Cal? Nobody knew! Sleeping or gambling, probably, but most definitely not saving his friend’s life. If Cal had a drop of wisdom, he would be running away because Larryn would be coming for his lying ass the moment he exited the headquarters’ prisons.

At first, Larryn had thought he’d never get in without Cal to back their scheme with his magic. Plans could be changed, however. Larryn had his acolyte disguise and no qualms about deceiving guards. He strode straight to the ones at the entrance, clad in the simple outfit, and with a few fake words professing his faith, he was in. They didn’t ask questions. They mocked him for wasting time on the scum in their cells, praised his devotion in a tone coated with derision, then escorted him inside the low-security prisons.

This, of course, wasn’t where Larryn meant to be. Without Cal to distract the guard while Larryn took him down, he had to rely on a cruder and riskier method. He reached into his sleeve, touching his small bag of ground pepper, and hoped it would be enough. It had cost so much time and money to prepare, but Larryn hated lacking a back-up plan. Good thing he hadn’t bet everything on an irresponsible twat. Once he made his move, however, he would have to be fast. Flawless. Larryn reviewed his mental map of the headquarters one last time. He could do this. He had to.

A single guard flanked him on his left, and it unnerved Larryn not to hear her steps, but he didn’t need to. No one else was in sight. With a slight smile, Larryn smashed his elbow into her nose, then unleashed the bag of spice into her mouth. It choked her cry of alarm, turning it into a pained gasp. Larryn wasted no time hitting her temple and knocking her out. Her uniform would never fit on his slender frame, but he snatched her sapphire cloak and keys. The former might fool someone far away, and even without that no-good halfling, he might get lucky, and one of the keys would open Hasryan’s cell.

Larryn stalked down the corridors. He knew his way around these prisons, had already been in these cells in the past. Guards laughed and kicked you, disgusting food came at irregular times, and wounds became infected and festered. Larryn remembered lying on the floor in a feverish daze, wondering how long he’d been there and why he still fought to survive. He must have been thirteen, skin stretched over flimsy bones, and they’d caught him stealing. Broken his fingers. Again. At the time, his days had cycled between starving and freezing outside, or the painful grind of prison. His only respite came in occasional stays at the haphazard collection of mismatched and rotten planks nailed together that Jim called a shelter. It had taken years for Larryn to recognize Jim’s love and understand how the gentle welcome had helped keep him alive. Most of the time, he’d been determined to live through the day as an insult to his father.

Hasryan had survived the same way—out of spite. They’d talked about it one night, a discussion that had solidified their friendship. They’d passed a bottle of throat-ripping alcohol between them, sitting on the railing of House Lorn’s biggest balcony. Neither of them were allowed there. They’d climbed Isandor’s most prestigious family’s tower, laughing at how convenient the vines covering it were for thieves, then sneaked inside and acquired a few pricey items. Their success warranted a little celebration. That night must have been the first time Hasryan revealed anything about his past. Every day I live, I stick out my tongue at the shit-licking bigots who punched or spat on me for my black skin. A sentiment Larryn had shared. Nobles kicked the street kids around for fun, and every time he survived their beatings had been a small victory. Hasryan had also muttered something about his mother in a soft voice, but Larryn hadn’t dared to ask. They hadn’t known each other long enough. After that night, however, they’d become fast friends. Two young men with shitty lives, surviving out of spite for the rest of the world.

Larryn had the Shelter now—people to feed and protect—and as far as he was concerned, Hasryan was one of them. If Cal didn’t care enough to show up and break him out of prison, he could go drown in the Reonne. Larryn had no intention of letting this vile city execute his friend.

Larryn hurried back through the headquarters to the room where they kept evidence, dodging out of sight whenever he needed. The single guard inside never had a chance. By the time he noticed something wrong, Larryn had smashed the lights out of him. The trail of unconscious bodies made him uncomfortable. Larryn wished he could follow their original plan. It had been simple and less violent. Full of risks, yes, but with a priest of Ren by his side, he had felt confident in their luck.

In the end, sacrificing a single night to rescue a friend from an undeserved execution was too much to ask of Cal. Larryn couldn’t quite believe it. How often had Cal been there for him? He had saved his life when Larryn had first provoked Drake, stayed by his side after Jim’s death, taken care of so many cuts and burns, and kept his temper in check countless times. Larryn’s fingers might be crooked because of how often others had snapped them, but without Cal they’d be unusable. Cooking wouldn’t even be an option for Larryn.

Yet he wasn’t there for Hasryan. His absence burned the bottom of Larryn’s stomach, eating away at his patience and trust. He would never be able to rely on Cal after tonight. With a frustrated growl, Larryn searched through the boxes and bags for Hasryan’s dagger. What would have taken five minutes if Cal had come to read the labels instead lasted half an hour. By the time Larryn left the room to find the high-security cells, his fists had balled up, and his mind reviewed the few choice words he’d throw at Cal once Hasryan was safe.

 

✵

 

Hasryan had no idea how long he had left before his execution. He’d lost count of the days since the trial. Not that he had tried hard to keep track. Less practical matters occupied his mind. He played with a small rock found on the dirty ground of his cell and flung it at regular intervals against the wall. Every throw punctuated an angry interrogation. He tossed the stone—how could Brune sell him out like this?—and it bounced back, rattling on the floor. Hasryan picked it up. He spun it between his fingers, wondering if another condemned soul had played with it. Then he threw again—had she ever wanted anything but a scapegoat from him?—and the rock returned. It never answered him. Hasryan sighed.

He had trusted her for protection, for support, and for a continuous string of jobs that saved him from the slur-ridden series of meetings finding freelance work meant. She trusted him to get any contracts done. Or so he’d thought. For a decade, he had served as her best man, willing and loyal. They’d built her mercenary empire together. Yet she’d pushed him off the bridge to get more space for herself without the slightest hesitation.

Hasryan had believed she didn’t care about his dark elven ancestry. What a mistake. Brune cared a lot. It made him the perfect scapegoat.

He never should have trusted her. Or anyone. Every time he let someone close to him, they betrayed or abandoned him. Hasryan had learned long ago people saw him as a tool to use and discard. He’d counted those he could call friends on a single hand. Brune, Larryn, Cal … perhaps even Arathiel, given time. Brune had been a lie, however, and he didn’t know how the others would take these accusations. Sora had admitted Larryn had tried to visit, but he was liable to do so just to yell at him. Hasryan picked up the rock again when a hesitant voice called down the corridor.

“Hasryan?”

His heart jumped as he recognized Larryn. Hasryan scrambled to the thick wooden door and grabbed the iron bars of its tiny window.

“Larryn! You … how did you—”

It was the middle of the night. Hasryan struggled to form a coherent sentence. What risks had he taken to get inside the headquarters? Could that really be him?

“Thieves go where they want.” Larryn’s familiar tight-lipped smile, pointed chin, and hollow cheeks appeared in front of the door. “They wouldn’t let me visit through legal means.”

“Yeah, Sharpe told me.”

In a way, it had been considerate of her. This way Hasryan had known his isolation came from forbidden visits. He had still convinced himself they’d stopped trying once they discovered he was an assassin. Larryn and Cal knew he worked for Brune, but he’d always refused to explain what he did, calling it professional discretion. He’d also shared a few thieving escapades with Larryn, who had witnessed how he melted into shadows and could go unseen. He’d thought the two of them had drawn the line of what they considered moral at killing. Didn’t everyone?

“How nice of her!” Larryn punched the wooden door. His righteous anger brought a smile to Hasryan’s lips. “Let us thank the lords almighty she was courteous enough to tell you why you rotted alone in this disgusting cell while she pinned every unsolved crime in this city on your ass! We’ll have to send her a card or something.” Hasryan heard the jingle of keys, then Larryn inserted one in the lock. “My good friend the guard lent me her keys. Let’s see if one is yours.”

“You’re breaking me out?”

“Of course I am!” Larryn tried to turn the key, and when it failed, he switched to another. “Why else would I show up in the middle of the night?”

It should have been obvious, but Hasryan couldn’t believe Larryn was there yet, let alone about to save him. Another key stuck in the lock without opening it, and his friend moved on to the next with a grunt of frustration.

“I’m not sure how we’ll escape yet, but you’re not spending another night here.”

“You came here without a plan?”

Hasryan snorted. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. This was so typical of Larryn. He’d rushed into danger because he had to, certain he could figure everything out as he went. Consequences didn’t matter when the need to act overtook Larryn—which most often meant they piled up on him immediately.

“I didn’t.” Larryn kept trying out new keys, and every new failure drew a deeper grunt from it. “We had a great plan, with a good bluff and magical chance and everything! Perfect, except it relied on that worthless, half-sized bag of flesh and luck. I swear, once I get my hands on Cal, he’ll wish he was out of reach behind these bars!”

Hasryan’s legs wobbled, and he tightened his grip on the bars to hold himself up. Was the ground even under his feet anymore? He tried to focus on Larryn and ignore the painful hammering of his heart.

“Cal was supposed to be here too?”

“Forget him,” Larryn said. “Friends like that aren’t worth your time.”

So Cal had ditched him. Hasryan wasn’t worth the risk, even for the luckiest person in Isandor. He squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead against the door. How many friends had he been forced to forget before? Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. For all his laughter and hugs, Cal’s life had been riddled with lucky happenstance and trustworthy friends. He’d always thrived and couldn’t understand the difficult grind of constant rejections, starving, and scrambling to survive. Not the way Larryn did. But Larryn had come, at least. He had to remember that. Cling to it.

Larryn rammed another key in the lock, and when this one didn’t turn, he cried out in rage and flung the key ring down the corridor. A string of curses followed, and Larryn’s colourful cussing brought a smile to Hasryan’s lips—until an alarm bell interrupted it.

“Oh, piss on Allastam’s old balls. They must have found the knocked-out guard. One of them, anyway.”

Hasryan’s insides twisted into tight knots as he realized their time was running out. He wished he could see Larryn better through the barred window. His friend crouched near the door, and Hasryan heard him pull something out of his sleeve, then slide a metallic stick into the lock.

“Larryn, they’ll come here. You don’t have time for this.”

“I’m sure as hell going to try.”

Hasryan didn’t argue any further. Any attempt to convince Larryn otherwise was pointless. Instead, he knelt on the other side of the lock and pressed his ear to the wood. They stayed like that for painfully long seconds, Hasryan’s mouth turning dry as he listened to his friend’s handiwork. After a while, Larryn cursed, rattled the lockpick in frustration, then kicked at the door with such strength Hasryan scrambled back.

“Apparently a thief goes wherever he wants, except into a goddamn cell!”

“Stay here and you will. Just not mine.”

The quiet in his own tone surprised Hasryan. His last hope had shattered with Larryn’s pick. The twists and knots inside held tighter than ever, but he accepted he wouldn’t escape. Larryn shouldn’t share his fate. No one else believed in him, and Hasryan couldn’t bear the idea it would get him imprisoned. He needed his friend to be safe and free, and to keep the Shelter alive.

“You have to leave,” he said.

“Not without you.” Larryn’s strangled tone betrayed his doubts. Hasryan pictured him on the other side, fists tights, one tiny impulse away from unleashing his rage on the door. “I was supposed to have more time. This should have worked. Cal had promised, and I could take that lock down with a few more minutes.”

“You don’t have them.” Hasryan returned to the window, a lump forming in his throat. What if he died tomorrow? How long did he even have left? He would never talk to Larryn again, and his friend couldn’t linger. If Hasryan wanted someone to know the whole truth about him—to accept him and call him friend despite everything—it had to be now. Larryn was his only chance. But if he had even one person behind him when he dropped, a noose around his neck … it wouldn’t be as miserable. “Larryn, please, listen to me. About the assassinations—”

“You don’t need to tell me. I know they’re fake.” Larryn gave the door’s handle an angry shake. “How anyone can fall for this is beyond me. Calling the dark elf an assassin is the easiest ploy in the whole damn world. I know you better than that.”

“Clearly you don’t!” Hasryan’s mind spun. He blurted the rest out before he lost his courage—before Larryn’s dismissive assurance that he wasn’t a murderer extinguished his desire for a clean slate. “I am one. Larryn, I’m an assassin. I kill people.”

Sudden silence greeted Hasryan’s words, and his admission hung between them, as much a barrier as the wooden door. Hasryan shoved his shaking hands in his pockets and braced himself for the rejection.

“You’re not. No.”

The tightness in Larryn’s voice crushed Hasryan’s heart. It was a silent plea for Hasryan’s words to be an illusion, a misheard confession. Hasryan’s fingers tingled, and he felt dizzy. He needed Larryn to be okay with this. If he didn’t dare call him a friend after this, who would?

“I’m sorry. That’s what I do—well, did—for Brune. Larryn, please—”

“Stop!” Larryn stepped back until he hit the wall on the other side of the corridor. “Do you have any idea what I did to get you out? Who I’ve yelled at or pleaded with? I begged my father to bail you out. Crawled back to him for help, promising they’d set you up. And now you’re telling me I was wrong?”

Every single word was a dagger punched into Hasryan’s heart. Larryn always refused to mention his biological father. They all knew he existed—and anyone who’d heard Larryn harp on nobles could guess at his social standing—but Hasryan wasn’t aware they were still in touch. Begging and vouching for Hasryan’s innocence must have cost him a lot.

He had cared. As long as he’d believed Hasryan had done nothing wrong, he had done absolutely everything he could, no matter how hard on him. Not anymore. Hasryan needed time to explain.

“Larryn, I—”

“Over here!”

A guard interrupted them, his voice coming from way down the corridor. Hasryan rushed to the tiny window to look at Larryn, but his friend refused to look back. Larryn’s insistence on keeping his eyes on the ground said everything. Hasryan’s last friendship had just slipped away.

“I didn’t kill Lady Allastam, I swear!” Hasryan said. “Brune is using me as a scapegoat. She lied about the dagger. Larryn, please. I … I don’t want to die like this.”

“I need to go. They can’t find me here. The Shelter …”

His voice was hollow. Defeated. Hasryan ached to plead for him to stay. He didn’t want to be alone in this cell, to wait for his execution knowing everyone had abandoned him. For once in his life, he needed to be accepted. But Larryn had Isandor’s entire homeless population to care for, and no desire to help the lying assassin he used to name a friend. Cold numbness slipped into Hasryan as he stepped back from the cell’s door.

“Go,” he said. “Don’t get caught.”

Larryn remained frozen on the other side, but a second call from a city guard shook him out of his daze. For a brief moment, he seemed about to add something, then he gritted his teeth and dashed down the corridor. Hasryan listened to his steps growing fainter until he could no longer hear Larryn. His last friend had come to save him in the middle of the night, risking everything, and Hasryan had said just the right words to drive him away. He’d hoped their shared hardships would be enough, that Larryn would understand why he’d gone down this road. In the end, however, Larryn had left him alone.

Hasryan leaned on the wall and slid to the ground. His hand found the small stone he’d been throwing about, now a familiar shape in his palm. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised by this end. He’d endured most of his life alone. It was only fitting that in a few days, he would die alone, too.