A crowd would gather long before Sora Sharpe arrived at Carrington Square with Hasryan. She had noticed the flow of residents when heading to the prisons to collect him and delayed as much as she could before escorting him out. More time for the Sapphire Guard to assume their position and less time for attempts to free him. Security measures. That was her excuse. It had nothing to do with lessening Hasryan’s exposure to those ready to cheer at his death.

Ever since Brune had pushed the blame solely on him, Sora found it hard not to think of Hasryan’s reaction. She couldn’t get his stunned expression out of her mind—how the defiance had drained away, leaving behind a bitter shell. This execution didn’t sit well with her. She scolded herself. He had killed several others aside from Lady Allastam, and whether or not Brune had framed him didn’t matter. The weight in her stomach didn’t move. She knew Hasryan was not the problem. Today’s hanging belonged to the political circus of Isandor, and in the process, they would kill their best source of information on the Crescent Moon’s activities.

She hated how often the demands of the powerful tied her hands. Lord Allastam and Brune wished to see Hasryan dead, and so he would hang today. Just like a Dathirii protected Larryn, preventing her from a thorough questioning. She could have nailed him for the prison break if she had tried harder, but her superiors had ordered her to back off from ‘Bonebreaker’. They had wanted her both to keep Hasryan imprisoned, and to do nothing against those who had tried to free him.

Admittedly, she didn’t care about Larryn if he stayed out of her way. A quick investigation of the Shelter revealed how much he helped others around. Sora had bigger targets, people who bypassed laws without breaking a sweat, eating Isandor from inside and ruining lives. But to get to them, she needed to climb through the ranks of Isandor Sapphire Guard, to play their game and forge alliances until no one remained untouchable for her. In a city corrupted to the core, it would prove a long and arduous road—one in which distasteful high-profile executions such as Hasryan’s became a necessity.

It didn’t alleviate the weight in her stomach as she extracted him from his cell and walked him out of the headquarters. He flinched at the sunlight, and the small movement provoked a ripple of tension in the guards escorting them. As if he could escape against the massive number of troops in place today. As if he had the will to try. Sora doubted it. Prison had hollowed his cheeks and sapped his energy, but his silence weighed on her more than anything. No more quips or smirks. As if he was already dead inside.

No. Sora pulled her thoughts away from there. He had killed others. People with families and friends, people who had deserved to live. She’d proven that long before Brune intervened, and Hasryan didn’t even deny it. How had she grown attached to such a man? She couldn’t get sentimental over this.

Sora Sharpe didn’t celebrate another death, but she wouldn’t mourn it either.

 

✵

 

Camilla Dathirii could not remember a time when she had enjoyed executions, and she had a few centuries of memories to draw from. Why would anyone delight in watching a man be pushed off a bridge, only to have a noose break his neck or choke him? Putting Carrington’s Square, built in honour of one of Isandor’s founding Houses, to such use was barbaric. Luscious gardens filled the park, which nestled in the middle of the city’s towers, and four elegant arches reached upward, meeting twenty feet above the centre. This central point formed a smaller circle with a hole sufficiently wide to drop a man through. The body would hang high above the statue of Lord Carrington in the middle of the park below and the large hydrangea bushes surrounding it. Part of the crowd often stood right under, amidst the flowers, eager to see this gruesome spectacle from as close as possible.

Today, however, the ambiance differed from the usual. Commoners packed the gardens and nearby bridges, but no cheers or excited screams came from them. They stared in relative silence, a buzz of hushed conversations drifting up from them. They used to be the loudest crowd, unruly and chaotic, but their enthusiasm had been doused. Camilla studied the group, curious. The poorest huddled with solemn expressions, some even holding black flowers to display their grief. Arathiel had said he’d met Hasryan at a shelter for the homeless, and she imagined these were the patrons who had appreciated him. They had come to pay homage to a comrade, not cheer at his death.

Unlike the nobles, who wanted to celebrate. They occupied the bridges above Carrington’s Square, which offered a great view of the criminal before he dropped. Members of lesser Houses lined the handful of stairs winding up the surrounding towers, halfway between the gardens and the top of the arch. Sometimes, these spots were empty, and residents of the Middle City could climb on them to witness executions, but not today. Almost every family of note in Isandor had sent someone to watch, most of them with a bright lily, symbol of a celebration. House Allastam had been granted places close to the central hanging circle, at an angle where the city guards would not block their view. Even young Mia Allastam had come despite her frail health. A light blue scarf wound around her neck and over her pale blond hair, and she wore fur-lined gloves to protect herself from the cold.

Diel stood behind her, his golden hair whipping in the wind. He had chosen somber attire, held no flowers, and wasn’t smiling. This was an obligation, nothing more. Only a few Dathirii had come: Kellian to congratulate Miss Sharpe, Hellion and his friends—all relatives for whom Camilla bore no love—and Yultes. They chatted with other ambitious nobles who had gathered to praise House Allastam for finally solving the mystery behind Lady Allastam’s murder. Camilla noted Lord Freitz among them. Of everyone assembled, he had the most legitimate reason to rejoice: this arrest had cleared his name of a crime for which House Freitz had suffered Lord Allastam’s bitter wrath. His presence surprised no one, and he even seemed of a mind to talk with Lord Allastam. Perhaps their families could at last start to mend the deep wounds between them.

The stage was set, she thought, and in the middle of it was their infamous assassin.

Camilla stood not too far from the guards surrounding the middle circle, and she had an excellent view of the young Hasryan. They had shackled his hands behind him, and three soldiers flanked him. More waited on each bridge spiking out, crossbows at the ready, their gaze never leaving the assassin. The longer Camilla watched, however, the more ridiculous these precautions seemed. Dirt clotted Hasryan’s thick white hair, and his shoulders hunched in defeat. He had scanned the crowd below earlier, but his eyes glazed over everyone, and now he stared at his feet, so close to the drop.

He seemed so young, yet already broken. Ready to die.

Her heart clenched. How could he not be? Nobles jeered at him, called for guards to give him the final push early. He had been burdened with one of the city’s most heinous crimes and framed by his boss. Camilla remembered Arathiel’s slow explanation. He had tried so hard to be factual, but he had no proof Hasryan hadn’t done this assassination. He just believed it was all false, and Hasryan mattered enough to draw him out. As Camilla stared at the young man standing above Carrington’s Square, empty eyes set on his feet, she couldn’t help but agree with Arathiel’s assessment. It wasn’t fair for him to die. Criminal or no, she didn’t have the heart to let it happen.

She spotted Sora Sharpe among the guards close to Hasryan and made her way through the crowd. People gasped and ruffled as officials finished tying their hanging rope to the central circle under Hasryan’s feet. They pulled on it to test the strength, and she knew from experience they would have the noose around Hasryan’s neck within a few minutes. Then they only needed to read the list of his crimes and give him the final nudge. Her pace quickened until she reached the line of city guards behind which Sora stood, holding a heated discussion with one of her superiors. Camilla glanced at the bridges above. She spotted Arathiel, waiting, ready. She wasn’t sure she would ever be. Camilla hadn’t done anything so dangerous in decades, but she couldn’t deny the flutter of excitement in her stomach.

“Miss Sharpe!” Her call drew Sora’s attention. She excused herself from her current debate and moved closer to Camilla, pushing past the guards. This was perhaps her least favourite part of the plan, but it gave Arathiel an honest chance to reach Hasryan. “I never had the opportunity to congratulate you for—oh!”

Camilla had extended her hand to shake Sora’s and pulled on her own purse in the process. She dropped it as subtly as possible, and the contents scattered among the guards’ feet as it crashed on the ground. A few objects rolled over the bridge’s edges and fell below, drawing surprised exclamations when they landed on Carrington’s Square’s crowd. The soldiers stepped aside and crouched down, trying to gather what they could. Camilla apologized over and over, then moved through them to help, further disrupting their line. Sora put a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s fine, milady, let us. We’ll take care of it.” She squeezed Camilla’s shoulder in reassurance. “Hurry up, boys.”

A pang of guilt overtook Camilla as she straightened up. She had enjoyed Miss Sharpe’s great wit over several tea conversations, when the investigator and Kellian had collaborated. An arrest as important as Hasryan’s would launch her career. This case mattered, and while Camilla didn’t favour the outcome, tricking Sora felt wrong. Too late now.

“Thank you, Sora,” she said.

Then Arathiel’s lithe form landed on the bridge behind them, sword drawn. His feet hit the stone a little hard, but he moved right away. He smacked two guards with the pommel while they spun around, confused and surprised, and parried the first attack. Camilla forced an expression of horror on her face. The chaos of bodies shuffling on the narrow bridge pushed her, and her faked fear became real as she stumbled back. A bad fall to the gardens below would shatter her bones. Sora caught her and helped her up.

“Quick, Lady Camilla, you ought to get out.”

Her heart hammered against her chest, and she met Sora’s gaze. Miss Sharpe seemed more concerned about her safety than about the man crashing through the guards behind her, parrying attacks as he advanced toward the centre. Their distraction had worked, but as Camilla’s wrinkled hand squeezed Sora’s, the elven lady wasn’t thrilled about it. She hoped Sora could forgive her if she one day realized it had been intentional.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Thank you again.”

Then she was moving back into the crowd, melting away as Arathiel proceeded with their plan.

 

✵

 

Arathiel’s fingers dug into his palm as he watched Camilla approach Sora Sharpe. Part of him wished she had no part in this plan, that she had stayed safe in the Dathirii Tower. The other thanked her courage and willingness to help, no matter how little. He had woken up nauseated and exhausted, and although excitement now coursed through his body, Arathiel could barely focus. Everything seemed miles away from him, muffled and withdrawn. He hadn’t felt so isolated from the world since first walking through Isandor’s docks, desperate to smell the stench of fish.

Today, his numbed senses would be his blessing. Today he stopped hiding, stopped pretending his body worked perfectly, and just accepted it didn’t. Most days brought new struggles, small but draining. Even today, Arathiel was as likely to fail as he was to succeed because of it. What if he failed his landing and flattened himself pathetically on the bridge? What if he couldn’t overpower the guards down there, and they captured him before he reached Hasryan? But he had to try, for Hasryan’s sake and his own. If he stepped back and watched now, Arathiel would always remain a ghost.

The contents of Camilla’s purse scattered across the bridge below, and so did his thoughts.

Jump. Now.

Arathiel’s stride lengthened. He sprinted until his path crossed over Camilla’s bridge, where guards scrambled to kneel and pick up her things. In one fluid movement, he drew his sword out and leaped down.

His heart slung into his throat, and for a moment it felt like flying—breaking free from the doubts and fears holding him back. In a single jump, he had turned his life around and flung himself in front of everyone’s gaze. Arathiel landed hard. Shouts surrounded him, surprised and dismayed. Elation coursed through him, pushing a grin to his lips. He’d kept his balance and crashed through their line without breaking any bones!

A handful of soldiers blocked his path to Hasryan. Arathiel slammed his pommel into the two closest soldiers, side-stepped the third’s slash, and advanced through their ranks. He did not feel the impact of his sword stopping the next attack, parrying then striking on instinct. Years of training flowed back through his muscles, and although he needed every inch of focus to break through the numbness of his senses, Arathiel intercepted each slash with ease, countering them with the flat of his blade.

Even rusted, his skills surpassed these guards’. They outnumbered him and managed superficial cuts, but Arathiel ignored the growing number of wounds and progressed at a steady pace. They didn’t hurt, and with every new stride—every slam of his sword in a guard’s face—he approached Hasryan. It didn’t matter how many wounds he collected in the process. He would get there, and he would save his friend.

 

✵

 

Hasryan closed his eyes as guards passed the heavy rope over his head. It weighed on his shoulders, brushing against his throat whenever he moved, a reminder of the fate that awaited him, minutes away. At first, he had searched the crowd for Larryn, Cal, or Brune. Would they come to see him die? Perhaps it was best not to know. What would it change? He wouldn’t be any less alone. Better to forget them, to accept he would die on his own. The guards next to him joked about some party last night, how one of them had jumped into the icy river and almost frozen. Hasryan wished he could trade lives with them, become so accepted that even the most careless stunts would earn him cheers. Not that he regretted how he’d lived his. He’d done a lot of bad things and wouldn’t apologize for any of it. He was who he was.

The first surprised shriek came from his left. Men grunted from pain, blades clanged with a resounding sound, gasps emerged from the crowd. Hasryan’s heart jumped.

“Stop him!” nobles screamed. “Push the dark elf off!”

His eyes snapped open. All but one guard had left his side. Hasryan searched the confused mess of armours for the intruder causing this chaos and froze. Arathiel? Arathiel the would-be friend, the one with whom he’d shared immediate understanding, the potential relationship cut short by an arrest. He parried attacks from all directions with amazing ease, ducked under a blow, and kicked at the guard’s steel-covered legs with his thin leather boots. Hasryan cringed, certain that must have hurt, before recalling the deep cut in Arathiel’s sole on their first meeting. Perhaps it didn’t. A sword cut through Arathiel’s shoulder as he pushed past another guard, but he didn’t wince. He moved on with nothing more than a glance at his new wound, and soon he was out of the thick of soldiers, sprinting toward Hasryan.

The guard nearby swore and turned to Hasryan. “You’re dead.”

“Oh no.” Someone had come to save him. Someone cared. “No way.”

Hasryan dropped into a crouch as the soldier reached for his back, intending to shove him off the bridge. He flung his weight into his opponent’s legs, and the man crashed down hard. The guard rolled away, almost to the edge of the circle—a dangerous fall. Close enough to spark doubts, and he backed off to wait for reinforcements. Arathiel’s strong hands helped Hasryan up. One grabbed the rope around his neck and yanked it off. Hasryan touched his throat with a deep breath, then turned to his unexpected saviour. Arathiel smiled.

“Ready? We’re not out of this yet.”

Guards were closing in on their small circle. They raised crossbows, and a salvo of bolts followed. Arathiel jerked as one clipped his hip. He swore and gave the wound a cursory look. He seemed tense, perhaps even worried about it, but Hasryan knew he should have been on his knees, legs buckling under the pain. Instead, he wrapped the rope around his right arm, slipped the left one around Hasryan’s hips, then pulled him close.

“Hang on tight!”

Arathiel leaped off the bridge, not giving him time for an answer. The rope yanked as it reached its full length. Snap. Hasryan’s throat tightened as he imagined it around his neck. Snap. A friend had saved him from that awful fate, one he’d never dared to count as such. They swung above Carrington’s Square, Hasryan clinging to Arathiel, his eyes watering. Why would Arathiel risk it? What had Hasryan done to deserve this kind of trust? The wind of their speedy descent wiped his tears away. They accelerated fast, and as they passed the lowest point of their arc, Arathiel let go of the rope.

The crowd under them jostled in a panic to get out of the way. They screamed and ran, trying to take cover from the crossbow bolts that would soon fall. Hasryan thought he heard a few cheers. Perhaps he had imagined them, or perhaps people just loved a thrilling escape attempt, even from a hated criminal. The ground rushed toward them. It had seemed terrifyingly high from the bridge above, but now it was way too close for Hasryan’s liking.

“This is bad.”

“Less than death, no?”

Hasryan grinned at the wild amusement in Arathiel’s tone. A neck-breaking swing from a high bridge and a chance to stick it to Isandor’s guards and Brune? Of course it was better than death! He let go of Arathiel as they landed in the flower bed and tucked himself into a ball as soon as his feet touched the ground. Pain coursed up his legs and spine as he rolled through the bright-pink flowers, breaking most of his fall. He managed to straighten up despite the hands tied behind his back and sprinted away, eager to put distance between the guards and himself.

“Where to?” he called, turning to the side.

Arathiel wasn’t with him.

Hasryan skidded to a stop and spun around. Arathiel struggled in the flowers still. He tried to step forward, but the moment he put his weight on his left ankle, it gave in, and he crashed down. He’d landed wrong, broken something. Hasryan ran back and crouched nearby. Above them, guards yelled and pointed crossbows in their direction. Bystanders had cleared the park, leaving the two of them as easy targets.

“We’ve got to move,” Hasryan said.

“Heh. I knew I’d mess up a landing. At least it wasn’t the first.”

Arathiel didn’t even sound hurt. Irritated and worried, certainly, but he pushed himself up and took a careful step. Hasryan watched his expression as he put his full weight on his ankle. No sign of agony distorted his features. Chills coursed up Hasryan’s spine. This went way beyond tolerance to pain. Arathiel had dozens of small cuts from his run through the guards, a bleeding wound near his no-doubt smashed hip, and a deep slash in his shoulder. None of them bothered him in the least. None except his twisted ankle, and only because he had trouble walking. Hasryan struggled with several questions but decided not to ask any of them. Not now. Arathiel had just saved his life.

His friend shoved a paper in Hasryan’s palm. “Go there. It’ll be safe.”

“I’m not leaving you here! You can’t walk.”

“I can.” Arathiel grabbed his ankle with both of his hands. He jerked it back at the right angle in one sharp movement. The sudden pop and the sounds of bones grinding one against the other made Hasryan’s insides shoot up. He gasped, his mind refusing to wrap around what Arathiel had just done. Without flinching. Arathiel pushed himself to his feet, balanced for a moment, then smiled.

“See? Now run.”

Hasryan only stared. “What …”

“I don’t feel pain, or much else for that matter.”

Arathiel answered the unfinished question in a soft tone and looked away. Hasryan swallowed hard and captured Arathiel’s gaze.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Shouts from above warned them they didn’t have time to linger. The next bolts wouldn’t miss them. It might not kill Arathiel, but Hasryan would be done for. “May Cal’s luck be with you.”

He spun on his heels and sprinted away, the paper crumpled in his hands. Arathiel’s chuckle followed him, and the sound wrought crushing guilt through Hasryan. A shout to fire resonated from above as he reached the edge of Carrington’s Square, and he ducked. A bolt whizzed past his arm, narrowly missing him, and he kept moving. It wasn’t a serious wound, and for the first time since Larryn had ditched him in his cell, Hasryan wanted to live. Experience told him not to trust Arathiel, that he was running into a trap—something darker and trickier. But why would he, when Hasryan had been about to die? He needed to believe, to give this strange painless man the last of his faith. Everyone else had abandoned him, and Hasryan clung to the idea that one person had risked it all to see him through.

As soon as he was out of sight, he crouched, put the paper on the ground, held it with his foot and checked the address. Silly Arathiel should have found a better way, one in which handcuffs wouldn’t be a problem. Not that Hasryan had room to complain. The address was somewhere in the Upper City. Perfect. They would expect him to run into the shadiest part of town, not among the nobles’ bridges. Hasryan ripped the paper in two and kicked the pieces off the street and into the wind, trusting it would be enough to cover their tracks. Then he sprinted up, watching for signs of pursuit as he took a winding path through Isandor. The guards seemed to grow more distant, and it had been a while since he’d heard the whistle warning he’d been spotted.

He arrived at the indicated address, and as he lay eyes on the door that was supposed to be his safe house, his stomach sunk. It was a small white door encased in the side of a high tree-shaped spire. The Dathirii Tower. Home to Isandor’s elven House, friends of the Allastams, Larryn’s most hated nobles. How could this be safe? If an elf found him in there, he would be back to Carrington’s Square by nightfall. Hasryan swallowed hard. This wasn’t the main entrance, and no guards stood around. He could hear shouts from a squad of soldiers below him. Someone could run past his bridge and spot him at any moment.

He had no other choice. They would tear the Shelter down looking for him, and Brune knew all his hideouts. If he meant to trust Arathiel, he had to go all the way.

Hasryan twisted around to turn the unlocked doorknob, then slipped inside, unseen.