“Sleep finds a way. No matter how you look at it, you’ll need to be rested to help your friend.”
Branwen humphed but didn’t argue further. Considering the state of her back, Camilla suspected exhaustion would crush her worries for a time. She turned to Vellien.
“I was looking for you when I heard about Branwen,” she said. “Must you stay here all night?”
“Not at all. I’ve done all I can to heal her and dull the pain. Time and rest will finish my work. Why?”
“A good acquaintance of mine needs a healer.” How much did Arathiel want her to share? He’d been so nervous about asking her, but his stress mostly emanated from this second, mysterious request. Camille opted to explain more. “He came to see me with news of a badly wounded teenager. I was told he might not survive the night without professional help.”
A soft chuckle escaped Branwen. “Sure, Aunt Camilla. Steal my healer away, go ahead.”
“I can find someone else. If Branwen needs you …”
“If I have my way, my dear cousin will be snoring so loudly no one else in this tower will be able to sleep,” Vellien said. “Don’t worry about it. Tell me where, and I’ll be off as soon as I can.”
Garith snorted. “Sounds like I’d better get a book and spend the night here.”
Camilla’s gaze hovered from one cousin to the next. Hard not to be proud of them—Branwen, Garith, and Vellien, House Dathirii’s youngest generation. They had learned to stick together and worked extra hard to carve their space in the family’s business. Vellien had found theirs early on: even as a child, they’d had a powerful connection to the Elven Shepherd and had used Alluma’s strength to heal wounded birds. Garith shared his father’s love for numbers and had inherited the money keeper’s job when Gallinos was slaughtered. Watching his talent develop had always been a source of pride and sorrow for Camilla. She had learned to cultivate the former and stop the latter from overtaking her. Gallinos’ sudden death would forever remain a throbbing hole in her heart, but although her grief stayed, she no longer mourned him.
Compared to the other two, Branwen had struggled to find her calling. For a long time, she’d had no specific role and spent her days hanging out with friends or designing new dresses. Then one day, they’d discovered she always seemed to know Isandor’s dirtiest gossip first, and Branwen found her place. Her love for sewing and theatre became a talent for disguise, and she trained her gift for earning a stranger’s trust into skillful information gathering. Now Diel called upon one of the three cousins almost every day, and Camilla knew with utmost certainty that House Dathirii would always be in good hands.
She explained to Vellien how to reach the teenager and what little she knew. By the time she was done, Branwen had closed her eyes, her breathing steady. Camilla exchanged a knowing look with Garith and Vellien, then excused herself. As much as she wanted to spend the night watching over her niece, she had a special guest waiting in her quarters.
Camilla hurried down the wooden corridors of the Dathirii Tower. Ever since she had first shared tea with Arathiel, she had hoped he would shake off the torpor holding him hidden in the Lower City. Something had happened to him in the last century that blocked him from reaching out to House Brasten even though she’d assured him they were fine people and would welcome him in. Yet tonight, Arathiel seemed ready to break out of his shell. An event important enough to bring the young lord—no, not young anymore, though it was hard for her to think of Arathiel as anything else—to her door in the middle of the night warranted her attention. She meant to help, no matter the nature of his request.
Larryn pushed open the Shelter’s door, his entire arm taut from restrained anger. Hours of dodging pursuit through Isandor hadn’t burned out his fury, but if he stomped in, he’d wake everyone.
Inside, the tables had been set aside, and patrons curled on the floor, sharing blankets and trying to sleep while they were warm and fed. His people. They counted on him and this home, and tonight he’d almost lost them. Larryn wound his way through the labyrinth of bodies, one long stride after the other, sometimes struggling to find a spot for even the tip of his toes. His gaze never left his target: Cal sat on a stool behind the counter with a mug. The closer Larryn got, the paler the halfling became.
Larryn’s jaws hurt from clenching in anger, his hands shook, and the blood hammering against his temple made his head spin. In two days, Hasryan would be executed. Isandor’s great nobles would hang him above Carrington’s Square and cheer at yet another Lower City scapegoat with which to wash their hands of their own massacres. Everything had gone wrong tonight, and all of it was Cal’s fault. If he had been there, they would have saved Hasryan. There would have been no hurried confession through a cell door, and Larryn wouldn’t have snapped like that. He would have had more time to let it sink in because they could all talk about it in the safety of a hideout. But no. Instead, that piece of shit was sitting on his ass in the Shelter, nursing a drink like no one had counted on him! Larryn meant to teach him a thing or two about loyalty, even if it involved his fists.
Larryn grabbed the front of Cal’s shirt when he reached him, yanking him off his stool as Cal tried to speak. Whatever pathetic words were about to cross his lips turned into a surprised yelp, then Larryn dragged him out of the common room and into the corridor.
“You killed him.” Larryn shoved him away the moment the door closed behind them. Cal stumbled and fell, his face scrunching up in a sorry grimace. “I couldn’t get him out. Not without your help, I didn’t have enough time! Where the fuck were you?”
“I was coming, I swear! I ran so hard my heart wanted to explode, and—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Larryn advanced on Cal, and the halfling scrambled back. “I waited almost an hour for your ass.”
Cal flinched, turning his head away. “I tried, Larryn. I’m so sorry, I really wanted to be there, but I couldn’t.”
Larryn grabbed him again, heaving Cal to his feet. “Then where were you, hmm? What could possibly be more important than saving Hasryan’s life?”
Hasryan, for whom he had endured his hypocrite father and dared to plead for a favour. Hasryan, who had hidden the truth from them and been an assassin all along. Hasryan, always so scared of betrayal, who had finally trusted him with his secret only to have Larryn run away right after. The night’s events sank in—the enormity of leaving Hasryan behind, truly alone—and guilt wrapped around Larryn’s rage. He loomed over his smaller friend—no, ex-friend—and glared. Cal could have made it all better if he had come. No amount of pleading eyes would change that, but Cal tried anyway, gesticulating as an answer tumbled out.
“A teenager crashed on the bridge right next to me, and his skull was almost cracked, and I couldn’t leave him there! He needed help. Immediate help!”
Larryn let go and stepped back, amazed. Cal had never been a good liar, and Larryn had heard ludicrous tales from others before, but this beat all of them. A teenager falling from the sky? Did Cal not even have the decency to tell him the truth? If he’d wasted the night gambling, Larryn at least deserved to know.
“You’re the worst friend ever.”
“You think I’m lying? He’s in there right now!” Cal pointed at the door across from Arathiel’s with a determined frown. Larryn stared at it, taken aback. Would Cal push the lie so far? If Larryn walked in there to find an empty bed … He glared at the ‘7’ painted on the wood, knowing deep down that behind it rested a wounded teen. Cal lowered his hand. “He fell, but I was too small to move him, so I ran back here and found Arathiel, and now he’s—”
“I don’t care.” Larryn tore his gaze from the door, turning his head to better hear Cal, a great lump in his throat. It didn’t change anything, this teenager. “Nothing matters more than Hasryan. Nothing should have! When that rope tightens around his neck and snaps it, I hope you remember you chose some random kid over him.”
“He’d just crashed on a bridge! I couldn’t—”
�
��I don’t give a rat’s ass about your teenager!” Larryn threw his arms up. His anger coiled at the bottom of his stomach, like a snake ready to strike. “He can die for all I care.”
The halfling blinked out tears, his guilty expression hardening into a scowl. He lifted his chin, defiance lighting his still-wet eyes. “Well, he’s dying right now if that makes you happy!”
“Oh, because you abandoned us but didn’t even save him?”
“You would know that if you’d let me finish a sentence. But no! You’re too busy blaming me for everything, and being angry and—and mean! I can’t stop thinking about Hasryan either and I don’t need you to remind me of the consequences of my decision. I’m the worst friend ever?” His voice cracked, and the tears returned, but Cal finished in an angry snarl. “You should find a mirror!”
Larryn’s fingers clenched into a tight ball, and his rage uncoiled all at once. His fist flew into Cal’s face, who stumbled back with cry of pain. He held his cheek, eyes wide and confused. When Larryn strode forward, his head spinning from the sudden release of anger, Cal scrambled back. His tiny legs weren’t fast enough to retreat, however. Larryn seized him. How dare Cal call him a bad friend? Larryn had tried everything—an infuriating face-off with Sharpe, the humiliation of pleading with his father, the high-stakes infiltration in the headquarters. And what had Cal done? Sacrificed Hasryan. Larryn pulled him close and raised his fist for a second punch.
A small, sharp cough interrupted from behind. Larryn froze.
“I’m sorry, but I heard there was a halfling here, looking for a healer?”
Larryn spun on his heel, but the moment his gaze fell on the newcomer, his hot anger died, replaced by cold and horrified fury. Outrage, shame, and confusion rioted inside, and Larryn’s entire world vanished except for the visitor. A young elf stood in the corridor, his hair short and messy. Although hastily garbed, his clothes exhibited the hallmarks of the richest castes: attention to detail, quality fabric, and with white areas clean as a bleached asshole. This elf’s hair might have a tinge of copper in it, but the underlying golden colour screamed of one particular House. Larryn’s throat tightened. Fantastic. A Dathirii noble was all he needed to conclude this most wonderful night. Next thing he knew, his pretentious father would step through the door and try to give him life lessons!
“Oh no,” he said. “Absolutely not. You’re not allowed here. Get out. Now.”
He dumped Cal to the ground, shaking. He didn’t want them here, not now, not ever. Larryn didn’t deal well with nobles on a good day. Tonight, he would commit murder and end up sharing Hasryan’s noose. This Dathirii needed to leave.
“I’m confused.” The elf seemed uncertain what to say. “Isn’t there a wounded teenager?”
“Yes!” Cal scrambled to his feet and stepped forward. He cast Larryn a determined glare before turning to the elf. “He’s in room seven, right there.”
Larryn grabbed Cal’s shoulder and pulled him back. “It doesn’t matter. This is my Shelter. Get out.”
“Like hell he will.” Cal slapped his hand away. “I’m not letting the kid die because of your issues. Follow me, Mister Healer.”
Cal entered room seven without another glance at Larryn, his head high. Silence stretched in the corridor as Larryn stared at the Dathirii, daring him to go any further. The elven lord looked young, and he shuffled from one foot to the next, rubbing one of his arms. His deep-set eyes never left Larryn, however. There was a hint of confused recognition in them, like someone coming across an old acquaintance and trying to remember where they’d first met. After an awkward pause, he seemed to give up.
“I’m not sure what I did wrong, sir?”
Of course he wasn’t, Larryn thought. They never knew. They went about their life like a stroll in the park, oblivious to the harm they caused, to the suffering hanging right under their nose. Nobles didn’t see the begging men unless it was to piss on them.
“You don’t know what you did wrong.” Larryn didn’t bother to hide his bitterness as he repeated the words. “Did you not notice the dozens of homeless folk huddled on my floor while you stepped over them? Or did it never cross your mind that your fur-lined cloak and its pretty golden thread is worth more than the entire building? I could sell it and feed everyone here for a week. I’ll tell you what you did wrong, milord: you exist.”
An outraged expression flickered on the young noble’s face, quickly replaced by a saddened frown. Their shoulders slumped, and they looked back toward the common room. Then the Dathirii unclasped their cloak, stepped forward, and offered the garment to Larryn.
“You’re right. I should have seen it. I’m sorry for that,” they said. “I’m not going to apologize for existing, however. I came all the way here to heal a perfect stranger despite the ridiculous hour and despite having a cousin in great need of help, too. Since this makes me such a terrible person in your eyes, though, I won’t linger. I’ll save his life and get on with mine.”
When Larryn didn’t take the cloak, the elf dropped it and pushed past him. Larryn grabbed their forearm, digging his fingers in. “I hate you people. Don’t you dare act like you’re some sort of benevolent saviour for this. You … you don’t get to claim that you care because you dumped your cloak on me.”
Then he let go. The elf moved into the room without another word. For the longest time, Larryn remained rooted where he was, trembling. He stared at the fur-lined cloak, tried to block out Cal’s broken and accusing voice from inside. This was the worst night. Everyone and everything hated him—Cal, Hasryan, the entire damn city. Larryn’s breathing hitched and sped and refused to slow down, to turn back into something normal. His mind zipped from one shattered piece of his life to another until he couldn’t find anything right with it anymore. Or … almost. The kitchens. He still had that—his haven away from the cloak, the complete disaster this night had been, and the anger roiling inside him.
✵
When the door opened behind Cal, he wiped his tears in a hurry. Now was not the time to be crying. He could do this—he could remain calm and professional. His nose and cheek throbbed and his heart felt like it had shrivelled and hid, but he breathed in deeply, smacked a smile on his lips, and turned around. His gaze met the young elf’s, and he motioned for the bed where the teenager rested. This kid had better thank Cal a thousand times for his troubles.
“He’s right here,” he said, as though it wasn’t obvious. He needed to fill the silence, to act like he didn’t hurt so much. “Sorry about all that, um … sir.”
“Vellien. No sir, and I prefer ‘they’ to ‘he,’ if possible.” Vellien made their request in a soft voice, couched in a mix of worry and irritation.
“Of course!”
With a brief smile, the young elf moved to the bedside and crouched. “Good. Let’s forget your friend outside and do what I came here for. What can you tell me?”
“Not much.” Cal walked up next to Vellien. He had to push aside Larryn and Hasryan for now. If they couldn’t save this one life, all his pain would be a waste. “He fell—smashed his head on the bridge right beside me. I’m a priest of Ren, but no healer. I dumped all the energy I could in his skull to stop the bleeding. Oh, and his leg is broken, I think?”
Vellien let out a thoughtful ‘hmm’, then lifted the head in a slow movement, their fingers spread around the teenager’s forehead. White energy enveloped their palms, but it didn’t fan out. It shimmered, its intensity wavering. Cal held his breath and prayed to Ren he had done enough for this kid, that this better healer had arrived in time. Vellien’s face grew darker as the seconds elapsed. They set the head down with a concerned frown, then moved their palm over the twisted leg. A soft hiss escaped them. Vellien removed their hand, the light vanished, and they rubbed the back of their neck. The thoughtful expression aged their youthful traits.
“It’s a good thing you sent for me. Your initial judgment was right: I doubt he’d make it through the night without professional help.” Vellien drew
a chair closer to the bed and sat down. They smiled at Cal, as if to comfort him, and the unnecessary consideration did soothe his nerves. Vellien set their index finger near the dried blood on the teenager’s skull. Their white light appeared again, undulating over the head like water, slowly working on the damage. “Proper healing is more than shoving divine energy in a wound. When you do that, you risk stitching it up wrong and causing permanent harm.”
Vellien’s tone was devoid of reproach, but shards of shame stabbed at Cal’s heart nonetheless. Had he done anything right tonight? Would Ren not give him a tiny amount of respite? He wrung his hands together.
“I just wanted him to live.”
“A good reflex. Bleeding out is no better, and I think you bought him enough time for me to arrive.” Vellien seemed about to add more, but instead snapped their attention back to their patient, lips parted. “What the … someone did something to his mind.”
They snatched their hand back and murmured a few words, shifting the focus of their healing. The white light rose above the teenager’s body as a bright blue sphere, illuminating the room. For the first time, Vellien examined who they were treating, rather than what. Their eyes narrowed.
“Those are Myrian clothes,” they said. “He’s from the enclave.”
Cal perked up. He hadn’t thought much of the robes earlier. But House Dathirii was at war with the Myrians, though, wasn’t it? And Vellien’s snazzy outfit, calm demeanour, and golden hair all pointed toward that noble family, or Larryn wouldn’t have threatened to throw them out so fast. Cal bit his lip, his throat tightening.
“Please heal him anyway? He doesn’t deserve to die because his robes say he’s with your enemies!”
“No, of course not.” Vellien kept staring at the teenager, however, as if working through a puzzle. “One of their wizards attacked my cousin tonight. I was taking care of her wounds earlier, and she said she’d been defending an apprentice. Apparently, he threw himself off the bridge. Were you in the Lower City?”
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