A wall of legs formed around Cal as he tried to push his way toward Carrington’s Square.

“Let me through!” he called. “Come on, I need to reach them!”

Except everyone had to go somewhere, and for most of them that somewhere was in the opposite direction. The panicked crowd didn’t care about his shoving and pleading. People from the Lower City had entered a confused rampage as soon as the first volley of crossbow bolts had flown. Cal understood. They couldn’t afford to get hurt—no one would be there to heal them. But he wished they would let him through anyway.

Cal had been watching from a connecting bridge, nauseated and distant, like his mind refused to believe in Hasryan’s hanging. Until Arathiel’s lithe form jumped from an upper bridge. Screams and grunts echoed down, but his viewpoint was too far below, the angle all wrong for him to see what was going on. Everyone froze at a standstill, holding their breath. Cal prayed harder than he ever had, half choking on his whispered pleas to Ren. Then the first bolts fell, and Arathiel had swung down, carrying Hasryan. Blood stained Arathiel’s clothes, and small drops followed their rapid descent. He would need a healer. Cal rushed for the Square, desperate to help.

The bodies around Cal blocked his view, and he couldn’t tell what was going on anymore. Had Arathiel landed? Were his friends safe? How wounded was Arathiel? He needed to move faster, but he was so small, and it seemed all he could do was get buffeted left and right.

A hand grabbed his collar and yanked him out of the thick crowd. Cal yelped as Larryn dragged him to a tower out of everyone’s way, then glared at him. An expectant lump blocked Cal’s throat, and he avoided looking at his friend, instead trying to peek at Carrington’s Square, half-hidden behind the building. Larryn knelt and grabbed both of Cal’s shoulders, frowning. Fear coursed through Cal. Would he yell at him again? Hit him? They hadn’t talked since their fight on the solstice, and thinking of Larryn’s punch made his cheek throb.

“What’s the plan?”

Judging from his tone, Larryn was trying hard to keep his anger in check. Cal bit his lower lip.

“What plan?”

“What do you mean, ‘what plan’? Your weirdo friend just landed in the middle of city guards and freed Hasryan! Don’t act like you’re not involved in this mess. You lying dipshits have a strategy, and I want to know what it is.”

“What? No, I don’t know.” Cal wished he did. Arathiel had never said a word about this. He had asked how Nevian fared, then vanished from the Shelter, thrown out by Larryn. “He planned this on his own. Hard to talk to me when you kicked him out.”

Larryn didn’t take the bait. He let go of Cal’s shoulders with a slight push. “Gods, you’re useless.”

Cal fought against his rising tears. Larryn’s relentless insults were acid down his throat. But he’d had enough. He refused to endure this unfair treatment for the sake of a friendship Larryn no longer cared for. Cal grabbed Larryn’s shirt and pulled it down. He blinked out his tears and met his friend’s grey eyes.

“You’re wrong. Without me, no one would’ve come for Hasryan and he’d be dead. Who do you think convinced Arathiel he was innocent? Who talked to him about the friend we knew instead of the scapegoat they want us to see? Who first invited him to our card games at all?” Cal pointed at himself, then released Larryn. “I’m so useless I managed to save both Nevian and Hasryan! For once in your life, Larryn, shut up. We need to help them now.”

Larryn scowled, and after the solstice’s night, Cal’s instincts took over. He recoiled and raised his arms to block. No strike came. They remained there, standing in silence, Cal holding his breath. Larryn stepped back, his expression morphing into horror. He cast his gaze down, his shoulders hunched, his fists unwinding. The obvious shame acted as a balm over Cal’s heart, but it wouldn’t calm his frantic heartbeat or erase the pain now etched in his soul. Larryn, once his best friend, now scared Cal.

“You’re right,” Larryn said. “Cal, I’m … I didn’t think it through. You’re … so often right.”

Cal stared at him, stunned into silence. When did Larryn ever admit being wrong? The most he’d ever gotten out of Larryn was a ‘how can I make things better?’. Despite Cal’s resolution not to let Larryn off the hook easily, his heart swelled, and he managed a smile.

“Yeah, I am. I’ll want to hear that again later.”

For a brief instant, Larryn seemed irritated, but he nodded. Cal decided to take that as a promise. “I saw them split,” Larryn said. “Arathiel had some scary wounds. We should search for him.”

“Lead the way.”

Cal followed him toward the now-deserted bridges, noticing for the first time the bow on Larryn’s back. What had he meant to do? What kind of awful idea would Larryn have gone through with, if not for Arathiel’s intervention? Cal still couldn’t wrap his mind around Arathiel’s stunt. When he’d spilled his heart, he hadn’t thought to convince him. He had just needed to let it all out. How and why Arathiel had planned this didn’t matter. He had landed above Carrington’s Square, fought his way to Hasryan, and escaped with a fantastic jump off the bridge. They all owed him, and now Arathiel was hurt. He needed Cal’s healing, and Larryn’s uncanny ability to avoid authorities.

Once the four of them were safe, they could talk at length about Larryn’s apology.

 

✵

 

Arathiel never even left Carrington’s Square. When Hasryan had turned heel and run, he had tried to do the same. His ankle didn’t comply. The weird angle voided all his walking and running practice. He couldn’t tell when his feet hit the ground, and his usual timing didn’t account for the broken bones. Jerking the ankle back into place had helped, but Arathiel put deliberate care in each step. The next volley of bolts rained down soon enough, and one struck his calf. The impact threw him to the ground.

Arathiel let out a soft swear and rolled over. Focusing became more difficult the longer blood oozed out of his shoulder, hip, and now leg. He swallowed hard, staring at the growing red stains on his clothes. Exhaustion was catching up to him, wrapping around his mind, thickening the blur that was already his world. He dragged himself to a bench and leaned against its side. Maybe he was dying. Was that even possible for him? He’d never tested his limits since the Well. But if he was alive now, then surely he could die, too? Darkness slipped at the corners of his consciousness, chipping at it. He was dying. The blood loss was killing him like it would anyone else—an oddly comforting thought.

A shape obscured part of the sunlight. Arathiel lifted his head and squinted until he identified Sora Sharpe. She had a crossbow aimed at his heart and stood over him.

“You’re under arrest.”

Her voice was strong and clear. Much more distinct than everything else. Arathiel used it as an anchor into this world.

“I know.”

She didn’t move. Her expression was stuck between fear and confusion. Indecisive, unlike her tone. Had he scared her too? Hasryan’s stunned horror when Arathiel had snapped his ankle back had crushed his heart. Perhaps only shock had caused him to recoil—he had seemed to recover quickly from it. Arathiel might never know how disgusted Hasryan was if Sharpe continued to stare without moving or helping.

“I don’t feel pain,” he said, “but I think the blood loss will kill me.”

“Are you expecting an apology? You freed a high-profile assassin on the day of his execution. Of course we shot you down.”

Arathiel chuckled, then he put his hand over the shoulder wound and pressed as hard as he could. If he could staunch the bleeding, perhaps a healer would get there in time. Without pain and other signals, he had no idea how long he had left. Arathiel hoped Hasryan had reached the Dathirii Tower. It would be a shame to die and have failed.

“No, I understand. I was hoping for some healing, actually.”

“Healing.”

Sharpe seemed to hesitate, and Arathiel lifted his head a little higher. Perhaps she didn’t want to help a monster like him. Or she was too angry. He couldn’t tell. He tried to decipher her solid mask, but his sight was growing blurrier. He closed his eyes, attempting to clear the rising fog in his mind. Sora would come through. If she let him die, she would lose her best link to Hasryan’s new hideout.

“All right,” she said after an eternity. “Let’s get you patched up and—”

“Back off! Step away or I’ll shoot!”

Arathiel’s eyes flew open when he recognized Larryn’s voice. He withheld a curse and tilted his head to the side until he spotted two familiar shapes at one end of the Square. It took some time before he could make out the contour of a bow in Larryn’s hands. They were threatening Lieutenant Sharpe with a weapon. His insides recoiled, and he gritted his teeth. If Larryn shot her, he could kiss his Shelter goodbye. Whether Arathiel was welcomed there or not didn’t matter. The unique haven at the bottom of the Lower City couldn’t fall. Arathiel gathered his strength to speak loud and clear.

“Larryn, don’t,” he said. “It’s okay.”

“And let her lock you in a cell? No way this is happening again. I protect my own.”

His own. A bitter smile reached Arathiel’s lips. Two days ago, Larryn had thrown him out, making it clear he wasn’t part of the Lower City and didn’t belong. How quickly he could change his mind … and at the worst time possible, too. Arathiel shifted his weight to better see Larryn, earning a warning glare from Sharpe. She’d aimed her crossbow at the half-elf now, perhaps guessing Arathiel wouldn’t have the strength to do much.

“Larryn, you were right about me. My full name is Lord Arathiel Brasten, and I am a noble of this city. Was. More than hundred years ago.” Arathiel had almost withheld House and title, but there would have been more Dathirii at the execution today, and he was convinced one of them would have recognized him. The time for hiding was over. That had been the point all along. Sora hissed when she heard him, realizing the extra complications this meant for her. He ignored her. “Lower your bow. Don’t lose the Shelter on my account. I’m … I think I’m dying anyway.”

It was becoming harder to keep his voice from slurring, and his sight had grown so dark he couldn’t tell if Larryn put his weapon down. At least he wasn’t cold or in pain. It was like the world around him was moving further away than it already had in the Well. He heard Cal’s heavy but rapid footsteps across the park’s cobblestone pathways, then Sora’s sharp order.

“Stay where you are!”

The running stopped, and a pleading voice rose, very close to him. “I just want to staunch the bleeding! Please, Miss Sharpe, he’s my friend.”

In the silence that followed, Arathiel forced himself to look at Cal. He was just a few feet away, his hands in the air, watching Sora with a desperate pout. She pressed her lips together.

“One false move, and I’m arresting you too.”

“Thank you!”

Cal threw himself on his knees next to Arathiel and fumbled for something. His half-melted silver coin. How often had Arathiel noticed Cal touch it and wish for luck? His friend placed the burned side over the shoulder wound and began a soft prayer. Arathiel twisted his head to see. He didn’t feel any kind of relief—no more than he felt pain—but the blood flow slowed, and the cut closed itself. Sweat rolled down Cal’s forehead, and he grew pale. Should it be this hard? Arathiel put a hand on his forearm to stop him.

“Fix the hip and let go,” he said. “As long as I live to get to the guards’ headquarters, I’ll be fine.”

“You can’t go there. Something’s wrong, Arathiel.” Cal’s voice cracked. He moved his melted coin to the hip, and the wound started to heal too. It didn’t last. Cal quickly snatched his hands back, confusion plain on his face. “This is wrong. Please don’t go to prison. You can’t.”

Sharpe cleared her throat. “He is coming. You’re lucky I don’t drag everyone in with him.”

“It’s okay, Cal,” Arathiel added. “I’ve been in worse places than a cell.”

Cal leaned back. He seemed on the verge of crying, and from the bags under his eyes, Arathiel doubted he’d had much sleep since the solstice. They had all been convinced Hasryan would die. Arathiel picked up his friend’s hand and squeezed it.

“Thank you for the card games, Cal, and the warm welcome. Keep being nice to strangers like that.”

“Don’t talk like this is goodbye!”

“Yeah, don’t.” Larryn had come up behind Cal, his bow slung over his back. He put a hand on Cal’s head and stared at Arathiel. “You say you’re a noble. Politics will save your ass.”

Arathiel wasn’t so certain. They would keep him alive, yes, but freeing Hasryan had set half the city against him, if not more. He shrugged, not too concerned about his fate. Not as long as Hasryan was free. The very thought brought him a strange elation. He should have died in the Well, yet instead had come out with this new body and extra time in their world. How long had Arathiel hung to the side, a spectre watching events unfold, uncertain he deserved to participate? Not anymore. In a single strike, he had changed the course of Isandor’s politics and announced his return. It wouldn’t be possible to hide anymore. He had jumped in with both feet, given history a big shove in one direction, and proved he still had a role to play. Maybe he didn’t feel pain or touch or warmth, but he was very much a part of this world, and he had saved a friend.

Guards started to surround them, none of them bringing good news for Sora. Hasryan was gone. They were still searching, but every new soldier arriving did so empty-handed. Sharpe gave all three of them a long glare, then took her handcuffs out.

“Don’t think you’ve won yet,” she said.

She pulled Arathiel to his feet. Two men came to hold him up, and the cuffs clipped around his wrists—locked him into this new, exposed life. Cal and Larryn had been forced to back away, but he nodded in their direction. He managed to smile despite his dizziness and the fog over his brain. Sora was right, of course. Even if he lived through the day, he would face endless interrogations about Hasryan and himself. It didn’t matter. He’d finally made his peace with the strange turn his life had taken and decided to make the most of it. Arathiel couldn’t remember when he had last been so content.

 

✵

 

After Arathiel’s arrest, Larryn hung around Carrington’s Square for a while longer. He hoped and dreaded to hear more about Hasryan, but the guards and nobles slowly cleared out, and soon it became obvious he wouldn’t learn more. Cal had stayed by his side. Neither said anything to the other. Larryn couldn’t bear to look at him for more than a few seconds at a time. Memories of the winter solstice resurfaced without fail, bringing bitter anger and shame with them. A petty part of him wished Cal hadn’t been right—that he’d made a mistake by saving Nevian—and he tried to stomp it out. He didn’t want Hasryan dead just to prove a point. Not in the least. He just hated being wrong. More than that, he hated how he’d hurt Cal. Being right might have made it a sliver better.

Maybe.

Larryn doubted it. He glanced at his hand, flexed the fingers with which he had punched his friend. Nothing could make that better. And the truth was, Larryn wasn’t sure he wanted to yet. Anger still overrode his guilt whenever he looked Cal’s way. He needed more time. Still, when it became obvious there would be no more news, Larryn turned toward him.

“C’mon. Let me get you a meal.”

Hope passed through Cal’s expression, and Larryn avoided his gaze. They headed out in silence, and he wondered if it seemed as heavy to Cal as it was to him. They used to talk all the time. Mostly Cal, really, but Larryn contributed a rant or two every now and then. Yet they made it all the way to Larryn’s kitchens without a word. He let Cal in after a slight hesitation, and dragged a chair inside for him to sit down. Cal climbed into it, then stared at Larryn, his legs dangling. Expecting something.

Larryn cleared his throat, hurried to his pantry, and retrieved several types of cheese from it. He had bought so many yesterday, and it would be delusional not to admit guilt had played a big part in it. He had no intention of cooking with this much cheese, and everyone knew of Cal’s undying love for it. He picked a solid block of Windfoot from Aberah Lake’s southern shore—Cal’s favourite—and handed it to the halfling without looking at him.

“You bought me cheese.”

Cal’s dumbfounded tone wasn’t as pleased as Larryn would have hoped. His throat thick, he picked up the small wheel of Kessyr, a softer goat cheese from Mehr. Cal took it, but his frown deepened.

“You know I can’t refuse cheese.”

With a faint smile, Larryn rubbed the back of his neck and showed him the last type: a strange, squeaky cheese that roasted rather than melted when put above fire. He lit his oven then gathered a few herbs and a slice of cold pork. He didn’t have time to launch into a full-blown meal, but he had promised Cal something, and even this bit of cooking soothed him.

“So what are you trying to do?” Cal asked. “You think if you just feed me, I’ll forget?”

Larryn stiffened and squeezed his eyes shut. He was glad he hadn’t been looking at Cal. “No. I don’t want you to forget.” Shit. That’s not what he meant. Larryn groaned and slapped the pork onto a plate. “I’m still angry.”

“Of course you are.”

The hard edge in Cal’s tone surprised Larryn. Cal had always softened the blows and accepted his spikes of anger. It had been like no matter how often he lashed out in frustration, Cal endured to help. But Larryn had obviously crossed a line now, and he knew that, and he wished he could make it a bit better somehow.

“Cal, I—”

“Don’t bother.” Cal’s shuddering breath wrung Larryn’s insides. “I can tell you’re trying, but if you’re not going to utter the words ‘I’m sorry’ in the next, like, five minutes? I’m leaving. With the cheese. And you will still owe me a meal.”

Larryn couldn’t help a slight smile. Of course he would take the cheese. Then again, he deserved it. Larryn turned around and forced himself to meet his gaze. He had to apologize. He knew he shouldn’t have hit Cal. It didn’t matter how furious and confused and terrified he’d been for Hasryan. Larryn licked his lips, but the words refused to leave his throat. They bundled together, glued inside by his latent anger, until only a low growl came out. Larryn’s fists clenched, and he whirled around before he could see too much of the tears filling Cal’s eyes.

“I thought so,” Cal said. “Some other day, maybe. I’ll spend some time at my place instead of here and only return to check on Nevian. It’ll do the two of us a lot of good.”

Larryn heard him climb off the chair. He gripped the counter. “Wait.” The familiar shuffle of Cal’s steps stopped. One last chance. “I …” Larryn tried to swallow, but he was parched. “I shouldn’t have. Hit you, I mean.”

“Yeah. You shouldn’t have.”

No need to turn around to notice the obvious efforts Cal made to keep his voice steady. A short silence followed—his friend waiting for more—then the kitchens’ door creaked. Larryn stared at the beginning of a meal in front of him, his excuse for a conversation with Cal. What was the point when he couldn’t even utter two simple words? It shouldn’t be this hard! But they wouldn’t come out, and somehow Larryn doubted they would anytime soon. Not as long as Hasryan was out there somewhere, and Larryn wasn’t certain he was safe.

With a final grunt, Larryn shoved the pork away and turned to his pantry. He had half the Lower City to feed and no more time to waste on Cal’s hurt feelings. He started bringing out the ingredients he needed for the evening’s meal, doing his best to ignore the nagging voice in his head, repeating over and over that when it came to Cal’s friendship, ‘waste’ was not a term he should ever use.