Hasryan didn’t mind the cold night if it meant he escaped the Shelter’s cheering crowd. Every occasion to mingle with the patrons brought mixed feelings. On the one hand, they never commented on his jet-black skin and included him in all discussions. On the other, Hasryan always detected a hint of reluctance at his presence, and he disliked large groups. Too hard to keep track of everyone. He preferred to know where others’ were and most importantly, who stood right behind him.

The Shelter’s roof might threaten to collapse, but to Hasryan’s over-cautious mind, it would always be safer than a mass of people. Besides, he’d shared a drink with Larryn in more dangerous locations before. They’d initiated their friendship on a balcony of House Allastam’s tower. It hadn’t threatened to give in under their weight, but had any guards found two half-elves—including a dark-skinned one—sharing life stories in their home without permission, it wouldn’t have ended well.

Larryn let his legs dangle over the edge of the roof, mug stuck between his knees, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. They’d come up together, Hasryan sitting on Larryn’s right as always—his friend’s left ear had never entirely recovered from an infection. Larryn had spent the last five minutes in silence, chin tilted up as he glared at the criss-cross of bridges above their heads. Between the bridges and the rising towers, they could barely see the sky. Hasryan didn’t speak. The quiet didn’t bother him. They could let it stretch for over an hour at times, especially if Larryn had his hands busy preparing the next meal for the Shelter. Strange, how different Hasryan’s two friendships were. Cal couldn’t endure more than a few minutes without anyone speaking.

“What did Cal say about the newcomer?” Larryn’s voice shattered the silence. He turned his grey eyes to Hasryan, not bothering to hide his wariness. He extended the same protectiveness to his Shelter as he did to children, and Larryn could always sense when someone didn’t come from Isandor’s streets. He could tell from their smell, their demeanour—from a lifetime of experience inhabiting the Lower City.

“He declared him trustworthy.”

“Which means shit coming from Cal. He’d call an assassin trustworthy.”

Hasryan stiffened. He’d shared so many stories and silences with Larryn, he often forgot how much more he’d kept secret. “He also said it sounded like most places didn’t want to serve him. Funny how that happens to people with dark skin and white hair, huh?” Not that this Arathiel possessed any elven blood. His facial structure wasn’t angular enough, and he had round ears.

“Point taken.” Larryn raised his mug and drank. “As long as he doesn’t cause problems, I don’t mind him here. Same rules as anyone.”

Rules Hasryan inwardly thanked him for. It helped to have a safe haven, and he often wished Larryn had entered his life sooner. He might have been too young for such a building, however. “So … Are you ever going to reveal how old you are, or is it some kind of state secret?”

“Secret. Best to let everyone believe they’re dealing with a responsible adult, well into his twenties.”

Hasryan’s clear laugh covered the hint of conversations below. “No one thinks you’re responsible. Do you take us for fools?”

“Shut up.” Larryn grinned and shoved him. “I’m more adult than all the assholes living in towers above, prancing about with fancy silk underwear and commanding dozens of servants.”

“Not a high standard.”

Larryn snickered, then downed the rest of his beer. “Tell you what,” he said with a substantial slur to his speech, “I’ll give you my age when you reveal what it is you do, exactly. For work.”

Hasryan had to force himself to laugh. A lifetime of lies made it easier than it should have been. “Me? Just a trustworthy assassin.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips. Some things should remain unsaid, even as a joke. When Larryn snorted, reiterating how ridiculous the idea was to him, Hasryan focused on his drink and struggled to ignore the painful stab in his heart.

“I can live without knowing your age,” he said.

More importantly, Larryn could never learn of Hasryan’s job. How did one tell his best friend—his only friend, aside from Cal—he was a trained assassin? Oh, nothing much, Larryn. I just kill people for money! No way, especially now. They joked about the mystery around Larryn’s age, but to Hasryan, secrets were a matter of life and death. Larryn and Cal knew he worked for Brune, the head of Isandor’s tentacular mercenary organization, but Hasryan had never slipped a word about killing anyone. He had found people who trusted him despite his dark elven blood—actual friends!—and refused to risk that. What could ever be worth more?

“Plans for the coming year?” Hasryan asked, eager to push the topic in another direction.

“Some. Fix the Shelter even more. Force the merchant prick using the second floor as storage to sell it to me.” He motioned at one of the two towers between which the wooden Shelter had been built. He sketched a smile and ran a hand through his hair. “I’d love to dedicate an entire level to the kids. They could have a safe space to play and sleep. Efua would have company her age.”

“You just want an excuse to adopt them all.”

Larryn’s sheepish grin was all the answer Hasryan needed. He laughed, then clapped his friend on the back. “I could help with the merchant. Bring my parentage’s terrible reputation to bear, make him piss his pants.”

“I’d love to see that.” But Larryn was shaking his head. They’d had this kind of conversation before, and Hasryan guessed what Larryn would add. “You know I try to stay as legal as possible with the Shelter. Wouldn’t take much for the guards to decide to shut it down and then everyone would be on the streets with no food and no roof over their head. Winter’s about to roll in. I can’t inflict that on them.”

Hasryan might have laughed earlier, but Larryn's behaviour, though reckless, exceeded the typical maturity of others his age. At least when it came to the Shelter. Not even in his twenties, he’d said, and yet so many people depended on him already. They relied on him and his Shelter in a way very few had ever relied on Hasryan.

“Not much we can do, then. I doubt our new friend has large enough funds to buy you a whole floor.” Not if Hasryan judged by his paper-thin clothes, sewn over and over, and the lack of coat despite the chilling weather. Besides, he’d emptied his purse in front of Cal. They knew how little was available there. A cold wind swooped through the Shelter’s alley. Hasryan blew on his hands. “We ought to go back inside. I wouldn’t mind the fire, and there might even be some cheese left.”

“With Cal around?” Larryn snorted. “Don’t count on it. He’d share just about anything in his life, but not cheese.”

Hasryan laughed as he stood and stretched, blood warming his frozen limbs. It really was getting too late in the year for long discussions outside. Or even short ones. After shaking his legs and arms awake, he moved to the side of the roof and leaped off, glass still in hand, onto a large crate below.

“Just a warm fire, then, and maybe a quick game if you’re all up for it?”

“You bet.”

Larryn jumped after him, his landing less graceful than Hasryan’s. More alcohol and less practice. Hasryan steadied him, then smiled as they ambled to the door. Cheese didn’t matter. Neither did the fire, in truth. He only needed an evening with real friends to fulfill him.