Larryn didn’t leave his kitchens until late afternoon. He didn’t dare, not with his anger still simmering, ready to explode at the first person to provoke him. His thoughts whirled, a hurricane of frustration and regrets with Hasryan at its centre. Miserable Hasryan, alone in his cell, condemned. Curse it all, why had Larryn fled so fast? He should have stayed. Even with the lies, he should have stood by his friend and freed him. Who else could have? He’d been Hasryan’s last chance, and he’d wasted it by letting his anger and fear take over. The possibility of returning to jail—of shackles around his wrists and boots crunching his fingers into hard ground—had frozen his mind. It didn’t seem fair to be cooking safely in the Shelter while his friend prepared to die, but there was nothing else he could do now. They would never sneak into the headquarters a second time. Hasryan was doomed, and Larryn never wanted to see Cal’s face again. The Halfies Trio was broken.

All for a Myrian who had fallen off a bridge, splitting his skull and shattering Larryn’s friendship with Cal. Larryn stared at door number seven, his hands curled into fists. As much as he tried to remind himself this wasn’t the Myrian’s fault, he couldn’t contain his bitterness. Couldn’t he have smashed his head an hour later? Cal would call it a fated encounter, saying Ren had timed the fall and didn’t want him to die. But as always, it seemed luck was not on Larryn’s side, and now he had a wounded stranger to watch over.

Larryn turned the doorknob and entered without knocking before his willingness to have a peaceful talk with this Myrian ended. His gaze went straight to the bed to rest upon the teenager. One of his long legs dangled over the side, out of proportion with the apprentice’s height, as was so often the case with boys his age. He had a tuft of down-like blond hair, and sleep smoothed his otherwise squarish features. Looking at him now, Larryn realized the boy couldn’t be all that old. Cal had said he was a teenager, but the information settled in Larryn’s mind. He hadn’t been listening, not really.

This kid didn’t deserve his rage. Someone had tried to kill him, pushed him off a bridge. Last night might have been as enjoyable as sloshing shit all over his clothes, but Larryn refused to unleash his pent-up anger on a wounded teenager. He cleared his throat, loud enough to wake him. The Myrian jolted up, wide-eyed, tucking his lanky limbs into a tight ball. Larryn recognized the terror in his gaze—how often had he sprung to his feet after being shaken awake, fists curled and ready to fight?

“Hey, hey,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t know that’d scare you. You’re all right. You’re safe.”

The teenager raised a hand to his mouth, leaned over the bedside, and vomited. Not a lot, as his stomach must have been almost empty, but Larryn winced at the retching sound. The bitter smell overcame the Lower City’s latent stench right away. The boy groaned, wiped his mouth, then flopped back to the bed.

“Thanks for provoking that,” he said.

“I’ll clean it, don’t worry.” Larryn had seen worse than a puddle of vomit. Once you’d found yourself lying in a pool of shit and piss, half-conscious from a thorough beating, a little puke didn’t seem so bad. “I’m Larryn.”

“The owner.”

“Yeah.”

He studied Larryn in silence. After a moment, his tongue made a small clack of disapproval.

“You’re too young to be the owner.”

“Look who’s talking! You’re just a teenager.”

“And you’re not?”

“Not anymore.” No one needed to know it hadn’t been a month since he’d turned twenty. Besides, the birthday evening seemed so long ago now, so impossibly serene. He’d never have one of those rooftops chats with Hasryan again. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Again?” Nevian propped himself on an elbow. “What is it with you people and questions? I answered a billion of them this morning. Can’t you just talk with one another?”

“No.” Larryn had considered reaching out to Cal, but he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure he ever would be. “I can tell you’re from the Myrian Enclave. What’s your name, and can you go back there?”

“Nevian.” He scoffed, then stared straight ahead. “I can return if I want a brutal and painful death, perhaps. And when they learn I survived, they will come for me. It won’t be pretty.”

Larryn wondered if they would attack the Shelter, too. Was Nevian nothing but problems waiting to happen? That would be just like Cal, to dump more trouble on his shoulders. “So you have nowhere to go. Any money or means to earn some?”

Nevian’s sickly shade of green turned even paler as he shook his head. Did this bother him more than being hunted? He wouldn’t be the first to struggle with helplessness. Larryn sighed. A part of him had come looking for an excuse to throw Nevian out, to get back at him for causing Cal’s lateness. He couldn’t do that, though. He would never dump another kid on the streets.

“So you’re now a homeless teenager too sick to stay on your feet. I guess you qualify for this place.”

“I’m not homeless.” The distinct disgust in Nevian’s tone made Larryn’s hair stand on end. “I’m a young wizard. I can work, I’m serious and disciplined, and I’d never waste entire days burning my gold on alcohol and loitering.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Larryn voice dripped with acid. What revolting shit had he just heard? “You’re right, Nevian. You’re nothing like the rest of us. We know what it’s like to struggle every day for our most basic needs, and we’re grateful for what protection, food, and warmth this place provides. You, however, are just an asshole.” Larryn sneered and moved closer to the bed. “Lucky you, though, you’re an asshole who has no home and no income. You are homeless, but you’ll never have to live through the shit the others do because you smashed onto the right bridge at the right time. I don’t throw people out, not when they have nothing else. If you ever say anything like that again, though, I’ll make an exception for your ass and boot it out with great pleasure. Those good-for-nothing folk you just trashed? They are my people, and this Shelter is dedicated to them. You don’t get to profit from this place and talk shit about them. Is that clear?”

Nevian had stiffened as Larryn neared the bed, leaning as far back as he could, shifting his right arm away again. Controlled fear. Larryn stayed a safe distance from him, hoping it would help. Threatening a physical hit was not the goal, but he needed Nevian to understand he wouldn’t accept words like these.

“Now, this once-homeless kid”—Larryn tapped his own chest—“is going to clean up your vomit and bring you something to eat. Why don’t you use the time to rest and think about how wrong you are?” This time, Nevian scowled and seemed about to protest. Larryn hushed him. “Let it sink in first.”

He left Nevian in his bed, not caring in the least if the apprentice hated him. This was his Shelter. He made the rules, and he intended to keep the place safe. Enough people spat on street folk every day already. Nevian would have to change his mind or endure their presence and learn to shut his mouth.

 

✵

 

Varden stepped into his cell and collapsed to the ground.

How had he even managed to walk from Avenazar’s torture room to his new home? He didn’t remember dragging himself but knew only that he had, somehow, through sheer willpower. Guards could flank him all they wanted. He refused to let them carry him. Not until he couldn’t stand any longer.

Not that this tiny defiance would last. Varden shivered, the stone’s cold seeping through his ruined garb. They had taken away all torches from the corridor, all sources of fire and warmth. Even after the Long Night had ended, he had stayed cut off from Keroth. Severed from Their power and wisdom, from the comfort of Their presence nearby. Or perhaps he simply no longer felt the Firelord—perhaps They had abandoned him.

No. Varden pushed the idea away. He couldn’t let himself go down that road. He needed to think straight, to consider his position. If only he could …

Hours of torture had turned his brain into wet logs, and Varden no longer managed to strike any kind of fire from it. He curled up, unable to feel anything past the pain radiating from his back and the exhaustion in his confused mind.

Avenazar had rifled through his entire life, leaving no memory untouched. Nothing was sacred to him. Not his parents’ death, not Miles and their time together, not Varden’s peaceful meditation, sitting in Keroth’s brazier. Certainly not anything concerning Branwen and Nevian. He tainted it all, forcing Varden to relive his past in flashes, jumping back and forth depending on Avenazar’s interest. By the time the wizard’s crushing presence left his mind, Varden was completely disoriented, unsure he’d escaped his memories. Even now, his most solid grip on reality was the notable absence of Avenazar’s snide comments and the horrible needling pain across his shoulder blade.

Varden doubted Avenazar had meant to ground him when he’d materialized a fire poker in his hands. To mark the passage of days, he had said. Because prisoners always lose track. Avenazar had pinched the poker’s tip, and the metal had glowed red, then white. Varden knew too well what had followed, but his mind slid over it, blocking the searing agony. One Avenazar would have no trouble inflicting upon him again, whether through memories or another strike.

This was his life now, and he was terrified. How long could he withstand Avenazar’s torture before he lost track of himself? How many times could he hop through his past before he no longer knew what had happened when and how these experiences shaped who he was? He couldn’t allow this. What else did he have, if not himself? He refused to surrender it, to let anyone twist it. He had held true and helped Branwen and Nevian despite the risk. Now he would endure, test his resilience, and trust in Keroth’s will and his own self-love.

And when he put it that way—when it was his inner strength and Keroth’s support against Avenazar’s evil—Varden had no doubts he would survive.

 

✵

 

Branwen hissed as the needle pricked her finger and set her current work down. The faint ripples of pain running up her back distracted her, slowing her work. It would help if she slept more, too, but anxiety and nightmares plagued her nights. Nothing to be done about it, except save Varden. She wouldn’t rest until she knew he was safe.

At least she was doing something to help. Branwen spread the rough fabric of her project on her workdesk to evaluate its progress. She had an excellent memory for clothes and remembered the outfits worn by Keroth’s acolytes down to the details. Reproducing them was another matter, but Branwen trusted her ability to create an appropriate disguise. She would infiltrate the enclave and get him out, even if she had to do it alone.

Branwen leaned back, tears blurring her eyes, her hands shaking. She couldn’t remember ever crying so much, but the floodgates had opened during winter solstice, and she’d never found the energy to close them again. Every time her mind wandered back to Varden, she found tears streaming down her cheeks and had to take a moment to wrestle control over herself. It never failed. Except on one occasion.

Shortly after her return, Diel had called a meeting between several House leaders, to discuss a Coalition between them. He had asked Branwen to share the last ten days with them and reveal the extent of Avenazar’s ruthlessness and plans. Moving about triggered jolting pain along her spine, but she had agreed. Anything to give Varden a chance.

She had picked an open-back dress for the occasion, one in which she felt absolutely gorgeous. Branwen knew she would need the confidence, and she wanted to expose the ugly purple and yellow pattern of bruises Avenazar had left her. She had hoped they could shock the nobles into action, force into them the realization that they could no longer stand by and watch.

She should have known better.

The lords and ladies of Isandor offered Branwen their sympathies and wished her a prompt recovery. They expressed dismay over the state of her back and the violence of Avenazar’s actions, and promptly condemned the use of such brutal force. So far, so good, Branwen had thought, standing in front of the assembled group, her heart swelling with hope. Though they couched their words, their disgust and fear seemed real.

Then again, one had said, and Branwen immediately understood the excuses would follow. Then again, House Dathirii had provoked the Myrians. Then again, this battle didn’t concern Isandor as a whole. Then again, the fate of Varden Daramond was a matter of internal affairs, and they should not interfere. Then again, if Lord Dathirii had found the soldiers he kept promising, Branwen might never have been hurt, and he could guarantee nothing bad would happen to the other nobles, either.

Over and over, they told her she would receive no help—and neither would Varden, not from them.

Diel had stood in silence, growing paler with every rebuttal. Branwen tried to argue, burning off her urge to cry with furious indignation. The soulless bastards didn’t care. About her, about Varden, about Isandor’s future.

But so be it. She would not wait to act—not for her health to fully return, not for the support of other Houses, not for Diel’s non-existent miracle. Come what may, she would complete her disguise, go back to the Myrian Enclave, and save her friend.