Arathiel didn’t say much on the long walk to Isandor, allowing his more talkative partners to explain their expedition at the enclave. His attention kept drifting, to the stinging line on his back. It hurt. The foreign sensation had panicked him at first, but now excitement pierced through. What did this mean? Could specific events trigger his other senses? What if he could recover some of them permanently? He shouldn’t get his hopes up—with the exception of the burn, he couldn’t feel anything else. No pain from the rough landing, no cold at the winter’s night, and no idea of the textures of either Varden’s hair or clothes. He wished he could ask him if Keroth’s fire could have caused this, or if they could test it.

They abandoned the horse when they reached Isandor’s first stairs. The chatter had died, and everyone walked with their heads low. Diel had tucked his golden hair into a hood, Hasryan sulked in the shadows out of sight, and Branwen scouted each bridge and set of stairs before they took them. They climbed through the Lower City until Cal pointed to a yellow door so bright it seemed to shine in the moonlight. Arathiel grinned. How flashy could it be if even he could see its intensity? Cal had been watching him, and he laughed at his reaction.

“You’ll love my place, Ara.”

And Arathiel did.

Cal’s front door lead to a spacious and round living room, furnished with three large sofas—one red, one blue, one green—colours strong enough for him to perceive in all of their glory. Shelves lined the walls, half-buried under trinkets and statuettes of deities. Most were dedicated to Ren’s many physical representations, but other divinities were present. Perhaps because of the priest in his arms, Arathiel sought Keroth’s statues. An ivory one depicted the pale and masculine fire wielder the Myrians referred to as the Firelord, while the dark wood carving next to Them showed the black woman hailed as the Mother of Flames in most southern regions—both very popular aspects of Keroth. The six core deities had as many representations as there were cultures, while demigods like Ren tended to resemble their appearances before ascension—or what common lore said of them, anyway. Xe had rich brown skin, curly hair, a pear-shaped figure, and Xir eternal mischievous smile.

“Your place hurts my eyes, Cal,” Hasryan said.

“Oh, good. I’m not alone!” Branwen spun around, her wide eyes taking in the surroundings. “You need my help with this living room. What’s that in the ceiling?”

Cal laughed, clearly enjoying their pain. “The pillows. There’s a ladder to get them.”

Arathiel shifted his attention from the statuettes to the ceiling. An enormous net hung from it with a myriad of rainbow pillows waiting within. Arathiel squinted from all the colours, grinning. Cal was right. He loved it in all its ugliness.

“It’s so lively. I could stay here forever.” Arathiel turned to Cal. “If you have no objections, I think we should grant Varden an actual bed. I suspect it’s been a long time for him.”

“Please do! My room’s right there.” He pointed at one of the doors leading out. “Meanwhile, we’ll get some sort of community resting area going.”

Arathiel headed in, and the walls’ deep blue disappointed him. They were enveloping and comforting but not as energetic as the sofas. Perhaps that was for the best—Varden might prefer to wake somewhere cozy rather than in a rainbow fest. Arathiel set him down on the mattress, thanking the gods for Cal’s human-sized bed. A small moan escaped Varden as Arathiel put a pillow under his head, and he touched the priest’s forehead only to remember with a sinking feeling that he couldn’t tell if it was burning hot. He’d have to ask Cal to look again. His friend had, in his words, ‘shoved some emergency healing’ into Varden, but after helping Hasryan and Isra, he’d had little left. Between ten days of torture and Varden’s actions in the brazier, the priest’s body might just be giving in.

At first, Arathiel hadn’t understood what had happened in the temple. The powerful flash of pain had fried his mind, yet it had ended before Arathiel even hit the burning logs. One moment, Arathiel thought he would die, devoured by agonizing flames; the next, Varden had wrapped an arm around him, curls whipping about in the hot air, and the fire had formed a dome over them without coming close.

“Are you okay?” he’d asked, his voice cracking.

Arathiel had clung to him, panicked at the sizzling pain across his back, repeating “I hurt” again and again.

Varden had squeezed him tight. A smile had brightened his face, erasing several lines of worry. The light had danced across his skin, and in the swirling chaos of flames and agony, Varden had turned into a beautiful, solid anchor. “It’s fine,” he’d said. “The fire is safe.”

Keeping it that way had taxed him. The strain had become more apparent as the temple crumbled around them, stones crashing into the brazier. Varden had scowled, his fingers digging into Arathiel, his breathing raw and shallow. The shield of flames had held. Varden had only dismissed it when silence had returned. Flames had rushed into his body, heat had drained from the coals under them, and he’d collapsed into Arathiel’s arms.

How strange to have saved someone he had never met, only to be immediately saved in return.

Arathiel smiled and pulled the covers over Varden, promising himself he’d watch over the priest. He couldn’t leave Cal’s place anyway. Being forced to hide alongside Hasryan, Diel, and Varden pleased him. With so many of them stuck in Cal’s tiny home, Arathiel doubted they’d have a moment of boredom.

 

✵

 

Hasryan’s peace of mind had vanished the moment their group entered Isandor once more. Now he was watching Lord Dathirii with reflexive wariness out of a habit entrenched for years. He couldn’t forget his current situation. This lord—a stranger, really—had lost everything tonight, and he could retrieve it in a single exchange: Hasryan for his home, his reputation, his family. Could Hasryan trust Diel’s promise of help, made before his world had unravelled? Larryn would mock him for even considering this noble an option, and yet … Worry etched on his face, Lord Dathirii shifted pillows around unhelpfully, unable to focus. Hard to imagine a cold and calculating traitor in the listless man thinking of his trapped love. Hasryan didn’t blame him—if any of his friends were in the Allastams’ hands, he’d find it difficult to concentrate too. Except that was precisely why he feared Lord Dathirii. Good but desperate people quickly abandoned morals to achieve their goals.

“Is Uncle that attractive, or are you just staring for fun?”

Hasryan dropped his pillow, startled by Branwen’s voice. She grinned at him, and he’d teased enough folks to know she thought he would fumble into an apology. He met her gaze and smirked. “Staring is amusing. I wanted to make you jealous, and it seems like it worked.”

“What? Of course not!” She huffed, her cheeks burning. Hasryan laughed.

“Hurried denial and immediate blush? Very credible.” If she had noted his focus on her uncle, she must have been staring too. Hasryan’s stomach tightened. He hated being watched, studied, judged. Too often, those who noticed him meant harm. At least Branwen didn’t feel threatening. Her curiosity and teasing set him on edge, but Hasryan appreciated the change of pace from hostile onlookers. He reminded himself that Cal’s place would always stay safe for him as long as his friend had a say in it.

Hasryan’s gaze sought Cal out. He’d fallen into step with the halfling during their return, away from the others, and they’d had their first private conversation since his fateful headbutt in the Skyward Tavern. At first, Hasryan floundered when he tried to voice his thoughts, so he thanked Cal for healing his leg, tried to explain why horses terrified him, and eventually shifted the topic toward the Shelter.

“I considered fleeing Isandor while I was hiding with Camilla but … I couldn’t leave everything behind. Even thinking neither you nor Larryn wanted to speak with me again. It’s my home now. I’m glad I stayed to fight for it, and for Arathiel.”

“He’s great, isn’t he?” Cal asked.

“Inviting him to play cards was our wisest decision this year,” Hasryan agreed. “I declared him an official part of our Halfies Trio. Apparently Sora’s cleric described him as half-alive.”

“That’s gross.” Cal had glanced back and frowned. “He’s as alive as they come. I wonder how they healed him. I tried, and it felt like a cold vortex sucking me in. My fingers became numb.”

They had stared at Cal’s small hand for a moment before shrugging it off. Just another layer to Arathiel’s mystery they had no intention of prying into. “Listen, Cal, I think you should know … I’m glad you stopped to save that apprentice. Nevian?”

Cal’s breath had caught and he had paled. “You-you are?”

“Don’t get me wrong. It hurt to believe you didn’t care about me. But you did the right thing, and I bet you’re full of guilt about it.” He had smirked when Cal bit his lower lip—of course he had been beating himself up over this. “Please clear your conscience.”

“Larryn—”

“Is wrong on so many levels, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Cal had laughed, then hugged his legs. When he had whispered “thank you,” tears had filled his voice, and Hasryan had been glad he had discussed it. He owed the halfling so much, and he hated the idea of guilt weighing his friend down. Cal deserved nothing less than happiness and endless crates of cheese. Perhaps Lord Dathirii would see to the latter once they had taken back his tower.

Urgent knocks interrupted his thoughts, and Hasryan slid away from the entrance, his heart hammering. How had they found them so fast? But no, guards would have smashed the door without pause. He continued to draw back, ready to disappear into the kitchen, when a young voice called through the thick wood.

“Cal! Cal, please!”

Hasryan recognized Efua’s voice, and he hesitated. She sounded terrified, but should they let her see everyone? He had played and chatted with her a few times, but Hasryan preferred to avoid children in general, and he doubted they could trust her with the huge secret this living room had become. Cal must not have shared his worries because he ran and flung the door open. She threw herself into his arms, crouching to compensate for the height difference, and squeezed tight.

“Whoa, Efua, what’s wrong?”

She sniffed and pulled back. “It’s Larryn, he—” Efua stopped, her gaze settling on the numerous strangers in the room. She clamped shut and straightened. “Nothing. I’m okay.”

“We can’t help him if you don’t tell us,” Hasryan said. A low dread built in his mind. Larryn had a knack for getting into trouble and paying tenfold for his mistakes. “You can speak freely here.”

Efua furrowed her eyebrows and studied the group. Her eyes lingered on Lord Dathirii, then she dug into her pocket and retrieved a folded parchment. Cal accepted it with a frown, prying it open under everyone’s watch. No one said a word, and only Efua moved, pulling at her curly hair: a nervous habit. With every line, Cal grew paler, until he reached the end and groaned.

“Ren’s gracious luck, he’ll get himself killed one day.” He rubbed his face with one hand, concern and anger warring in his expression. “Who did he want to receive this message, Efua?”

“Lord Dathirii.” She stared at her feet, doing her best not to look at Diel. Even if she didn’t know exactly who he was, Isandor had a limited supply of upper-class golden-haired elves. She must have suspected. “I went to the tower, but the guards weren’t Dathirii, and they told me there wasn’t a Lord Dathirii anymore, and then they asked me if I wanted to give it to the elf in charge. I asked them if he was the Lord Dathirii, and they laughed and shooed me away.”

“I’m right here,” Diel said. “Since this missive is destined to me, might I perhaps have it, Sir Cal?”

Although Diel continued their little knightly humour, the strange edge in his voice made it clear he’d just ordered Cal. Efua gasped, and for a moment, Cal stayed put, uncertain. His hesitation dug claws of worry through Hasryan’s stomach. Just what had Larryn done this time? When Cal finally brought Diel the message, Hasryan was already cringing.

“Please don’t get mad at him,” Cal said. “I’m sure they’re totally okay!”

“They …”

Diel’s voice trailed off as he dropped his sentence to read. Hasryan waved Cal over, hoping for some insight into the contents of this letter.

“Are you certain it’s real? Larryn can’t write.” He whispered, but in the heavy silence, everyone must have heard him.

“Oh, it’s him all right,” Cal said. “Reeks of him. I think he made Nevian write it. You won’t like what it says.”

A tired laugh escaped Hasryan. He suspected this involved him, and he doubted Larryn’s words toward the Dathirii would be kind. Resigned to deal with whatever Larryn had cooked up this time, he waited for Diel to finish the message. And indeed, when the elven lord reached the end, he looked straight at Hasryan.

“The good news is, I know exactly where Vellien is, and we’ll have a professional healer for Varden soon.” With a heavy sigh, he gave the letter a slight shake. “The bad news is, this Larryn wants to exchange their safety for yours. He seems to be under the impression I’m holding you against your will, Hasryan.”

“That does sound an awful lot like Larryn.” How had he learned Hasryan had stayed in the Dathirii Tower? Had he guessed it because of Arathiel’s friendship and temporary freedom? Except he couldn’t prove that, which meant he’d kidnapped a noble and threatened them with nothing but his bitter opinions to support his conclusion. How exactly did he think that would work out? Any House had the resources to track him down, drag him to a cell or a noose, and close the Shelter forever. “I’m touched by his dedication, but this is ridiculous.”

“So, you all know him, don’t you?” Diel crumpled the parchment, steel in his voice. “I’ll admit I have little patience for those who would attack my family tonight. I have lived through enough of it.”

“Please don’t hurt him!” Cal stepped forward, spreading his arms as if Larryn stood behind him. “He’s a good person who puts all his time and energy and money into a shelter where he feeds and houses homeless folk. He’s just … misguided, and angry, and since Hasryan’s arrest, he’s grown more and more erratic. Please understand. His best friend almost got hanged in front of everyone, and he is convinced no one else can keep Hasryan safe. You can’t blame him! This city always treated both of them as shit. Dirt under your boots.”

The passion with which Cal defended Larryn surprised Hasryan. After the punch, no one would have faulted him for staying silent. “Don’t unleash the resentment you’ve built against Lord Allastam on him,” Hasryan added. “He’s an easier and unprotected target who made a shit decision, but he doesn’t deserve it. I can fix this.”

Diel straightened in his seat, fingers playing with the corner of a pillow. “Then please do. I don’t care about punishing this Larryn in any shape or form, but I cannot let him hurt Vellien.”

“They’ve been helping at his Shelter for days!” Branwen added. “Your friend needs to work on his thank-you skills.”

“That, and so much more,” Hasryan said. “I’ll go. It’s risky, but we should talk, and I can bring Vellien safely here after.”

Lord Dathirii’s shoulders slumped, and he nodded. “Thank you, Hasryan. That’s all I want, really.”

“Happy to serve, milord.” Hasryan grinned, then found a cloak to throw over his too-bright coat. “If I can, I’ll even return with dinner for all of us. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m dying of hunger, and you haven’t really enjoyed food until you’ve tasted Larryn’s cooking.”

His comment drew a smile from Diel and a joyful exclamation from Cal and Efua. Hasryan motioned for her to lead the way. “Let’s head out together.”

She had been standing in silence, always staying close to Cal, and Hasryan’s suggestion surprised her. “I thought you couldn’t be free anymore. Are you okay now?”

“I am, but I still have to be careful not to be seen by guards.” He pulled his hood up and opened the door. “Come on, I’ll explain what I can on the way.”

She skipped ahead, hair bouncing as she left Cal’s place. Hasryan wondered how much he could tell her, but she needed to know she couldn’t talk about who she’d seen at Cal’s, or even that she had delivered a letter there. Efua had always been a quick thinker, and he believed she could handle the secret if no one asked. He hoped she’d never be in a position where people pressured her for such information.

As they travelled to the Lower City and Larryn’s Shelter, Hasryan’s stomach began to knot. Seeing his friend again after their fight in the prison made him anxious—no, more than that. Every step wound his nerves tighter and brought new catastrophic scenarios to his mind. Larryn would hate what Hasryan had to say, even if he needed to hear it. No one else could reach through his wall of anger, though. Larryn trapped himself in it like the city of Nal-Gresh in its stone egg. Those not welcomed never entered. Except Hasryan didn’t want to fight for him to listen. Hasryan considered the Shelter his home, and its owner had carved a place for him there. They shared specific hardships and a criminal bent that made their friendship unique. Not to mention Larryn’s loyalty had obviously never died, not even in the Sapphire Guard’s prisons. Only Larryn would kidnap a Dathirii elf for his sake. Hasryan smiled at the thought despite the short-sightedness of it all. Or because of it, perhaps. It was time to get a few hard truths out of the way and drag the last member of the Halfies Trio—or, well, Quartet now—back into his circle of friends.