LSS: Before the Wave Breaks

Ten years. Ten years.

Lyall drew in a sharp, steadying breath, seeming to only just remember himself again. Alan froze in stunned silence, the irritation fading as the implications settled in. The loss of time washed over him, as did Lyall's confession: "You chose her."

Did this harsh reminder play on repeat in Lyall's mind like a broken mantra? Did it echo when he stole silent glances from the porch while Alan kissed Lara goodbye? Did it haunt him as he held his tongue, assuring Alan he was happy for him when pressed for his true thoughts and feelings?

Ten years. Ten. Years.

For the past decade, Lyall pressed Alan about almost everything: school, career, family, every minute detail of his life. He possessed an annoyingly uncanny ability to sense when Alan was bothered, sometimes before Alan even knew. It was a trait Alan simultaneously hated and loved about Lyall. His idiot friend knew Alan better than he knew himself.

So why, then, had Lyall never questioned anything about Lara? Why, then, had he offered genuine smiles after hearing Alan's romantic spiels about his love? Why, then, had he happily congratulated Alan when he spoke of marriage? If Lyall had harbored these feelings for this long, why had he never shown it?

The realization hit Alan like a physical blow: Lyall had held his heart at a distance, wanting the best future for Alan, even if it meant he didn't choose him.

"Gods damnit," Lyall finally muttered, shakily breaking the silence. Ducking his head, he pressed a hand over his eyes. "You're right. I am... such an idiot."

The weight of this sacrifice, of ten years of silent longing and selfless love, crashed over Alan. The man before him wasn't just his best friend, his confidant, his occasional tormentor. He was someone who had cared for Alan so deeply, so completely, that he had been willing to step aside for what he believed was Alan's happiness.

No. Alan was the idiot.

He gently peeled away Lyall's hand from his eyes, pressing his palm against the warmth of his cheek, his thumb grazing the edge of his lips.

"Lyall," he breathed, tilting his chin up to meet his eyes.

Tentatively, Lyall let him.

"I'm resigned to my fate, then," Alan murmured with tender understanding, leaning in until their foreheads touched. "I guess I am stuck with you after all."

His lips found his again, and the world dissolved into a symphony of sensation.

It began as a whisper, a tentative brush of lips against lips, like the first delicate notes of a lullaby. He tasted of midnight rain and wild things, of secrets whispered in the dark. Alan's fingers threaded through Lyall's hair, falling into the heat of his mouth. With a tangible shiver and nary a hesitation, Lyall gently leaned in. He rested his hands on Alan's waist, whispering his name with longing between kisses.

Alan's lips parted on a sigh, his head falling back against the canvas behind him. Yet even as he surrendered to the moment, his arms tightened around Lyall. With reverent fingers, he pushed Lyall's wild hair back, his touch wandering forward until his palms rested against his cheeks.

"Is this what you want, Lyall?" he whispered, thumb tracing his cheekbone.

"Oh my gods, yes." Hands firmly cradling Alan's back, Lyall tilted his head to melt into his touch. "I want this. Have wanted it." He pressed an ardent kiss to the scar on his palm. "I want you, Alan."

Summer, two years ago. Sitting on the porch with a cold beverage in hand, Alan finally revealed: "I'm in love with Lara."

Rightfully so, Lyall was taken back from the declaration, especially as Alan had only started the relationship one month prior. Buried beneath the happy sentiments were subtle seeds of uncertainty that Alan did not realize at the time, expressed only at this moment for the entirety of the relationship: "What does it mean to be 'in love'?"

One day later, Alan expressed the same confession to Lara. One week later, Alan introduced Santiago to Lyall. The rest was history, but it did not need to be.

What was love?

Reacting to the swell in melody, Alan found his lips again, kiss deepening and growing in intensity like a crescendo. Their hearts fiercely pounded against their chests like a primal rhythm keeping them on time, growing faster, hungrier, a clash of lips and tongue and teeth.

Alan broke apart to gasp for air, panting and flushed. He rested his forehead against Lyall's, hands finding his waist to pull him closer.

"How much do you want me?" he asked, gazing into his green eyes, wild with desire.

Fingers curled in Alan's hair, Lyall flashed him a breathless, adoring smile.

"I'll follow you out of Ruddlan," he declared in earnest. Tilting his head, he bumped their noses together, his shallow breath warm on Alan's face. "I want to be there when you play for the courts of kings. As you climb the very heavens to conduct the stars in the midst of deities. I don't care what it costs me.

"Friends." He pecked Alan on the lips. "Money." Another kiss. "Pride." He stole a slightly longer one. "I'll gladly play the court's jester if I must. So long as I have you. So long as I might stay beside you the whole way."

What was love?

Autumn, four years ago. The two of them were attending university, schedule meticulously planned so that they maximized the number of classes together. Which meant that Lyall repeatedly pursued introductory-level classes as an upperclassman.

"You're not that much of an idiot," Alan chided, throwing a crumpled paper ball at him. "We don't need to study every day. Besides..." He sighed and leaned his weight against his friend, head resting against his shoulder. "You're making me lose sleep, dammit," he muttered, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses.

Lyall's restless heel-bouncing, lost deep in his thoughts, abruptly stilled. Tilting his head to rest over Alan's, he steadily supported him. "That's just part of the college deal," he joked. Softer, and with deep fondness in his voice, he added, "Get some rest, Alan."

Alan didn't know it at the time, but Lyall's intention was not to study with his best friend who happened to be his classmate; it was to spend every possible minute with someone he cherished and held dear to his heart, finding every reasonable excuse to spend more time with him, especially as Alan's schedule quickly filled up with other obligations.

Alan's fingers tangled in Lyall's hair as their lips met again, thirsty and insistent. The kiss deepened into impossible levels, swallowing each other's soft gasps. Alan's heart beat loudly against his chest, blood singing in his veins. Lyall's hands naturally drifted down to rest over his back again, fisting the fabric of his shirt as he brought their hearts as close together as he could.

Still in Lyall's grasp, Alan broke away from the wall, stumbling slightly in his eagerness. He barely allowed a breath between them before reclaiming the kiss, guiding him backwards into the candlelit room. Between each push, their clasping lips were messy and urgent, punctuated by soft gasps and the rustle of clothing.

One final shove sent Lyall backwards on the barren mattress. Alan's breath caught at the sight of his friend falling back with mussed hair and untucked shirt, yielding to his every touch, ever-attentive eyes fixed on Alan as though the rest of the world didn't even exist. The springs creaked as he crawled on all fours, hovering over Lyall on his hands and knees.

"Tell me," Alan murmured, lowering himself and capturing Lyall's mouth once more, hands roaming. "Tell me more."

Lyall at first opened himself up to his kiss, losing himself deep in his affection. He sharply drew in Alan's breath so that he could eagerly answer: "You're fucking insane."

Alan hardly heard him, busy tracing the soft curve of his neck with hot breaths. His fingertips danced along the shirt fabric, soft and silky that swallowed his chest whole, a thin singular layer that contained the contours of his body, his heart, his essence.

Lyall's skin: warm and soft, welcoming. Alan flushed his palms against his, slotting his fingers through the missing spaces between his. He took in the sight of his friend below: messy and vulnerable and exposed, his hands pinned over his head, his ragged breaths fanning his face.

"You're a goddamn blaze." Lyall's voice, usually velvety and purposeful, was raw and unsteady as he allowed Alan to dictate his every movement. "Nothing in the vault of stars above could ever hope to match you. Your creativity, your passion, your heart all burn so bright, you effortlessly swallow the sun itself."

I don't think I've ever felt so much, so intensely and fully, than when I'm with you. You've brought a new depth of light into my world, painting my life in an array of pure, bursting colors. I've been mesmerized by it since the first time I truly saw you. I've wanted nothing more than for all of your beautiful and unabashed colors to adorn my entire being. I want you."

What was love?

Winter, seven years ago. It was a warm season, not unexpected for the Desert Sands. Lyall was back for winter break, his year at university grueling enough to cause more distance between them. In their time apart, Alan had grown wiser, recognizing the importance of education and ambition.

Empty beer bottle in hand, Alan peered over the edge of the building, his legs dangling in the air. "Where do you see yourself after school, anyways?" he asked Lyall through the cold night air. "Are you going to stay here as a doctor, then?"

"That's the plan," Lyall had confirmed, voice absent as he scanned the city's skyline. He wore a subtle grin, but there wasn't much heart in his answer.

Alan quietly hummed, the silence stretching between them. He could tell his friend was wearing himself thin with a future he had resigned himself to pursue far too early in life. They were young: teenagers, but at the cusp of adulthood.

A sudden white speck caught Alan's eye, clinging to his glasses. He blinked, tilting his face skyward. "It's snowing," he murmured with amused wonder.

Blinking himself back out his thoughts, Lyall's brows quirked as he tilted his head up too. His next grin came easier. He mustered a small, delighted, "Oh!"

Alan held out a hand, catching the delicate flakes in his palm. "I know you're busy, but..." He paused, curling his fingers protectively over the snowflakes. "...I miss seeing you around."

Turning his head to glance sideways at him, Lyall's grin slowly faded into a softer, more fond look. He quickly dropped his gaze down to his hands, idly tracing the lip of his own empty drink. "I miss you too," Lyall confessed, voice oddly small.

Alan gently disentangled one hand from his, his fingers trailing an unexplored journey. His lips never ceased exploration, savoring the flavored notes like an unsung melody. Hot breath fanning across sensitive skin, Lyall unraveled completely beneath him, a small, needy sound escaping his throat.

"Show me," Alan whispered in his ear. "Prove it."

The warmth of Lyall's trapped hand slipped out from under Alan's. Fingers slowly wound their way through the hair on the nape of his neck to hold him closer. "Since you asked so nicely..." Though still thick, his voice smiled like a cat's.

Alan was not the pious type, but his faith was tested.

The world flipped, like the moon's entrance after a sunny day, or the quiet of winter after a celebratory summer. The springs underneath creaked with the shift of weight, body settled onto knees, hands moving like a prayer against his skin, to sanctify and and cleanse and bless, absolving him of unbelonging doubt. To be tempted by ripe flesh on top of a barren, fruitless garden born by the name he dare not think; to shiver under whispered worships of unadulterated devotion from lips he wished to kiss; to completely melt in utter ecstasy and delight, delirious with the exalted idolization that fiercely pushed him against the edges of heaven's gates-- Alan begged to be released.

What was love? What was love?

Lyall. Lyall.

"Lyall?" Alan laughed.

Spring, ten years ago. Midnight had just barely fallen. Lyall helped Alan liberate beer from his house, even while his uncle was still awake. Stifling giggles from their adolescent rebellion, they fled down the deserted streets, six packs clinking like victory bells. They jostled each other joyfully, drunk on youth and the promise of an adventure. After all, Ruddlan awaited them, ripe for conquest. Together, they raced to join their their juvenile friends for a night of illicit fun.

The green bottle pointed towards Lyall, signifying the recipient of the kiss.

"Ooooh!" their friends drunkenly cooed. "Are you going to do it?"

"Gods," Lyall snickered, "someone rigged this game!" He reached for his cup. "Let's just both take a swig, call it over and done with."

"Psssh! That would be too easy," Alan said dismissively, grin tugging his lips.

With liquid courage coursing through his veins, Alan cupped Lyall's face, his touch clumsy yet eager. Their lips collided, more a crash than a kiss, tasting of cheap beer and forbidden excitement. His fingers found their way into Lyall's hair, tangling in the curly strands.

His sudden, playful kiss was met with shock. At first unsure, Lyall settled his hands on Alan's waist. It was by the incoherent cheers and teasing of their friends that Lyall found the gumption to try reciprocating in the silly and exaggerated way in which he usually liked to entertain others.

The kiss was messy. Inexperienced. Not unlike now, ten years later, when Lyall rose to hold his face in the same way he did a decade ago.

"Alan," he softly called now, a slight giggle in his voice as he lovingly stroked a thumb over Alan's cheekbone.

Alan gazed up at Lyall, really seeing him for the first time. The flicker of the candle flame caught in his eyes, revealing a depth Alan had never noticed before.

Alan had always loved love. His notions of love showed in the poems he wrote, the songs he composed, the every day words he exchanged. But in this moment, the feeling of love he idolized melted into something else.

Fear, for potential rejection. Anxiety, for potential heartache. Grief, for potential loss. Yet beneath it all, there was a fierce, overwhelming joy that threatened to burst from his chest, defying all odds.

This wasn't the sanitized, idealized version of love he had romanticized in his art. This was raw, messy, and terrifyingly real.

With trembling hands, Alan gingerly cupped Lyall's face, drawing him closer for a gentle kiss. This wasn't like their frenzied exchanges earlier; this was slow, deep, and achingly tender. Alan poured everything he felt into that kiss: years of friendship, newfound desire, and deep affection so profound, it threatened to overwhelm him.

His lips moved against his with a gentle insistence, savoring every nuance, every soft sigh. It was as if he, too, had been waiting nearly his entire life for this moment, for this kiss, for Lyall. And now that he had it, had him...

Alan knew he never wanted to let go.

A pistol's safety clicking off suddenly pierced the air, instantly shattering the illusion of safety.

Alan's blood ran cold, his heart now pounding for an entirely different reason. Lyall stilled above him.

Alan forced his gaze past Lyall's shoulder. Grey eyes pierced through the darkened room, cold and unforgiving. Conway materialized from the shadows, the candlelight catching the gleam of the gun aimed on them.

Shit.

Alan's mind raced as he gently pushed Lyall aside, sitting up with exaggerated care. He raised his palms in a placating gesture.

"Con," he greeted calmly. "I can explain. This isn't what it looks like."

Even though it was exactly what this looked like, but he wasn't exactly gifted with enough time to pivot from this and process the gun pointed at them. All he could focus on was the cold glint of metal, steady in Conway's grip, and the heavy realization that this had just become a nightmare.

Arm instinctively held in front of Alan in a protective gesture, Lyall urgently flicked his eyes between the two of them, quickly trying to put the pieces together. Then recognition dawned on him.

"It looks like you got distracted," Conway replied with a small grin of understanding, "by an invasive little pest."

"Con, I'm sorry," Alan apologized. His gaze remained fixed on the sudden deadly threat before them. With deliberate slowness, he eased past Lyall's protective hold and inched towards the edge of the bed, shielding Lyall from view. "Can we have this conversation without the gun?" he asked, nudging towards the pistol with his chin.

Lyall brushed a hand to his shoulder and tensely started, "Alan--"

The storm in Con's eyes turned violent. He fixed the gun at Lyall's head with a sharp, "Hands off."

Alan felt Lyall's touch freeze against his exposed skin. In one fluid motion, he quickly tore away from his grasp rose to his feet, putting distance between himself and Lyall. "He's off," he affirmed, his tone steady and reassuring. He didn't dare glance over his shoulder. Instead, he kept his gazed locked on the gun, acutely aware that its barrel remained trained on Lyall.

"Con," Alan continued, keeping his voice level. "Can you put down the gun? Please? Let's talk about this rationally."

Conway kept his eyes trained just past Alan's head. "Stop talking," he calmly demanded, stepping around Alan.

Alan inhaled slowly, centering himself. "You don't--"

"Alan," Lyall cut in sharply this time, his plea buried beneath thinly-veiled anger. He reluctantly held his hands up in complacency as Conway thrust the pistol against his chest. "It's alright. Please."

It wasn't alright. Not by a long shot. But Alan held his tongue, his posture relaxed but alert. His mind was racing ten steps ahead, weighing options, seeking an opening. He locked eyes with Lyall, willing him to understand. There was no telling whether Lyall could see an out, either; he kept his eyes trained down the barrel of the gun.

This couldn't be it. There had to be another way. There was always another way, always a path forward. And Alan would find it, even if he had to forge it himself.

"You, up," Conway said growled, a new, dangerous edge to his tone.

With the gleaming weapon aimed squarely at his temple, Lyall had no choice but to obey. They circled each other slowly, Conway replacing Lyall's blind steps backwards in a sort of dance.

"Alan," Con called over his shoulder, tempering his tone now as he walked Lyall toward the closet, "back on the bed. Now."

The back of Alan's knees brushed against the bed, his eyes catching Lyall's uneasy glance shifting his way. "Conway," he called steadily, swallowing the knot of tension in his throat. "What do you want?" He tilted his head down, gaze still locked on Lyall. "In exchange for his life."

"I want you to take a seat," Conway answered, every syllable hard and deliberate. Not even sparing him a backward glance, he shoved Lyall back amidst the disorganized boxes.

That was when Lyall made a desperate grab for the gun. The two locked in a silent grapple. Conway's back filled the doorway, blocking Lyall from Alan's view.

Con struck him. Lyall could only audibly gasp for air before the next blow. He sank to the floor, back against the wall and teeth bared in quiet pain.

In the blink of an eye, the door slammed shut, locking Lyall away from their view. Sliding a chair over from the corner, Conway wedged the back of it under the door handle, further securing it.

Delayed, Alan finally obeyed, the bed softly creaking with his weight. "What are you going to do with him?" he dared to ask, hands raised in surrender.

"Hm?" Conway turned back, as if just remembering him. "Oh! Not to worry, I won't do anything to him."

"Are you going to kill him?" Alan asked instead with a lowered voice.

"Well, dearie.." Holstering his pistol, Conway strode over to the bed. He tightly seized Alan by his wrists and forced him onto his back. The hunter then knelt on the bed over him, the frame groaning under their shifting weight, as he pinned Alan's hands at either side of his head. "That's entirely up to you."

Biting out enraged profanities from inside the closet, Lyall threw his full weight against the door. The chair didn't budge.

Alan grit his teeth, eyes closed tightly under his grasp. "Conditions," he managed through a clenched jaw. "What are your conditions?"

Forcing his wrists on top of each other, Con locked him in place with an iron grip, and grasped Alan's chin with his other hand. "Look at me."

"Tell me your conditions," Alan repeated, voice low and controlled. He actively resisted Conway's pull, defiant eyes still squeezed shut.

Con's breath ghosted over Alan's lips. Tone severe, he said again, "Look. At. Me."

Recognizing the precarious balance of power, Alan finally complied. His eyes snapped open, meeting the grim face of his captor. "Now," he emphasized patiently, tone even, "tell me your conditions."

A hint of a dark grin tugged at the corner of Conway's mouth. "I only have one condition, Alan, and that is: you leave with me for the Moonlight Kingdom tomorrow morning," he finally answered in a low rumble. He let the weight of his lower body settle on top of Alan. "And I won't touch the pup again." Voice lilting in a plea for sympathy, he added, "I'm not asking for much here."

Pup. The single word rang in Alan's ears like a death knell. Conway knew. He knew Lyall was a werewolf. Lyall was right: Conway was a werewolf, too.

Alan's jaw tightened, every muscle screaming to fight back. But he remained still, aware of the delicate imbalance of power.

The closet door was fiercely jostled this time as Lyall snarled, "Fucker!"

"If I agree," Alan interjected swiftly, cutting off Conway's reaction to Lyall's outburst, "will you let him go? How can I trust your word?"

Conway hummed, plastering on a wounded look. "You've trusted me this far, haven't you? What's changed?"

Biting back caustic words, Alan repeated with measured calm, "Will you let him go?"

"I'm happy to simply leave him to chew his way back out," Conway answered pleasantly. Eyes flicking down to Alan's lips, his voice dropped to a growl as he added, "I can be convinced to be nicer, though."

"Convinced," Alan seethed through grit teeth, "or forced?"

"What do you prefer?" Conway murmured, pressing in closer, his breath hot against Alan's skin.

"I prefer to be given a choice," Alan replied, voice thin with barely contained rage.

Yet Conway took that as an open invitation. Digging his fingers into Alan's cheeks, he bore down on him with an aggressive kiss, forcing his tongue down his throat.

Red flooded Alan's vision. Without hesitation, he violently clamped his teeth down on Conway's invading tongue, trapping it in a vicious bite. Even as Conway snarled and tried to pull away, Alan held on with stubborn ferocity.

Conway's hand shot to Alan's throat, ferociously pressing him in place as he recoiled. Tasting blood, Alan wrenched his hands free from Con's hold, abandoning all restraint. With a low feral growl, Alan lashed out, gasping for air. His nails raked across Conway's throat while sending his knee up between his legs.

Curling a bloodied lip, Conway snatched him by his wrists again and pinned his arms down to his chest. "I've been generous to you," he spat, straddling Alan's waist as he let his full weight press down on his arms. "But, fine. You've made your choice."

"Fuck you," Alan hissed, fury and disgust burning in his eyes. "You never gave me a choice."

Eyes darkening, Conway shook his head. His voice became as steely as his gaze. "You came to me."

"And you--" Alan writhed beneath him, fighting against the iron grip, "--trapped me!"

Again, trapping both his wrists in one hand, Conway unholstered his pistol with his other. "You never said 'no'."

The gun cracked against Alan's temple.

The world exploded into stars, then faded into a horrifying, silent darkness.

Cyrin gave the front door of his former home the most lethal blank stare he could manage.

He'd sorted his finances. He'd moved out. He'd gotten all of his old belongings into a new apartment closer to the base. He shouldn't be standing here, mere weeks after getting kicked out. The fact that he was here as if nothing ever happened made his stomach twist with a sickening feeling.

But his father's letter had been clear, and he wasn't about to test his threat about how if he didn't show up here, the militia would make sure he did.

Gritting his teeth, he knocked at the door and took a step back, hoping it would be answered by someone he liked.

It took a minute, but when the door opened up, Cyrin couldn't help but be relieved when he saw Camilla there.

"Hey," he said softly, only to be completely caught-off guard when his half-sister pulled him in for a hug.

She never did this. Camilla was perfectly affectionate in words, but she wasn't a hugger. Brushing aside the surprise, Cyrin wrapped their arms around her.

"Missed you already," they murmured.

"Me too." Camilla pulled back, tugging them inside as she closed the door behind them. "I wish this wasn't how I saw you again. Something's gotten into Father."

"What does he want with me?" Cyrin asked.

"I swear, he's got the strangest suspicion," Camilla said. "He needs to stop listening to Casper. He keeps planting things in his head."

Cyrin sighed quietly, unsurprised. "And Lorelei?"

"Even Mother thinks he's crazy," Camilla said. "But he doesn't listen to her."

That didn't shock them either. Their father hadn't given either of his wives very much attention.

"I'll hear him out," Cyrin said. "If I don't say goodbye on my way out, it's because I made a run for it."

"I understand," Camilla said with a huff of laughter, before pausing. "How's things with your boyfriend?"

For a moment, Cyrin had no idea what she was talking about. Then he did have an idea, and he nearly gagged. Gods, she couldn't mean Alexander--

No. No, she didn't. She meant his totally-real boyfriend he was getting disowned over for slumming it a bit too far.

Cyrin still felt a bit sick.

"Things are going well," he lied, smiling down at her. "Thanks for asking. I'll tell you more later, but I've got to find Father before he makes an example of me."

"See you around, lovebird," Camilla said, and Cyrin had to walk away so he could hide the fact that he was suppressing a laugh. Of all the lies he could've made up to hide the truth, this had to be the most ridiculous of them all.

The stairs ahead spiraled up to the second floor, and the metal of the railing was cold under his palm as he slowly went up, step by step. A tightness had formed in his chest by the time he made it to the top. Was he to be accused of something? Interrogated? Would something be demanded of him? If so, was it something he was able to give? He didn't know, and he honestly hated thinking about it.

Cyrin took a turn into a hallway, where they stopped in front of a set of double doors and rapped their knuckles sharply on the wood.

"Enter," his father's voice ordered.

He already sounded fed up. Wonderful.

Cyrin opened the door, stepping through. Their father's office had always been an intimidating stronghold of mercantile power-- every surface was covered in something that boasted its value. Paintings, sculptures, bejeweled decorations and other treasures took over the enitre room, and even a glance at the furniture that held it gave away that it, too, cost a fortune. Cyrin had long been commanded to never touch any of it. It was a rather easy lesson to learn that they were worth less than this wealth to Magnus Bridger III.

Their father stood at the mahogany desk in the center of the room, palm pressed into its surface as if he were trying to claim more of the office as territory for himself. Nothing had changed since the last time Cyrin had seen him-- his salt-and-pepper hair was still neatly groomed, and his suit was perfectly ironed. The look he gave them, one of narrow-eyed distaste, was not unfamiliar either.

Cyrin had the urge to stand up straight and fold their hands behind their back, like a servant at attention. Instead, they tilted their chin up and crossed their arms over their chest, silently demanding the reason for being summoned here.

"You've really outdone yourself this time, boy," his father said harshly. "I never expected you'd stoop quite this low."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Cyrin said in a calm tone.

It was true.

His father shook his head incredulously. "You deny it, then?"

"Deny what?" Cyrin demanded. "You haven't told me what you think I've done?"

"Your sister's missing," his father said flatly. "But her whereabouts are no mystery to you, I presume."

Cyrin frowned. He couldn't mean Camilla-- they'd just talked to her downstairs. That left...

"What do you mean, Allison's missing?"

"Kidnapping a family member is not going to subdue us into welcoming you back," his father said, his tone and expression sour. "No matter how much bitterness you've committed it with."

"I--" Cyrin balked. "You can't seriously believe what you're saying right now."

"I told you, darling," a familiar, languid voice said behind him. "We should've just called the militia instead of pointing the finger at him. He clearly lacks the ambition for such a mission."

Cyrin could smell the smoke of Lorelei's cigarette as his stepmother moved around him to stand by his father. Her expression was bored and jaded, and he could tell she was already uninterested in the matter and his presence. At least she was seeing reason.

"Allison disappeared and you haven't even told the militia yet?" he asked in disbelief.

"It seemed you were the responsible party," his father said stiffly. "I found it best to inform them after you were in our custody."

"Casper had you believe that," Lorelei sighed. "Perhaps you should listen a little less to the child of yours who only wants your money?"

For once, Cyrin actually agreed with her, although he knew she was only saying it because she didn't like the idea of any of his biological siblings inheriting the business.

"He's the only one with a plan to expand our trade," his father insisted.

"Clearly, it's making him biased," Lorelei pointed out. She swept a hand out in Cyrin's direction, sending a spark flying from the tip of her cigarette. It sizzled out harmlessly in the air. "Look at him. He wouldn't abduct a sibling he's soft towards just to send a message. He's harmless."

I'll show you harmless, Cyrin thought darkly. Once I find whoever took my sister.

"What happened with her?" they demanded.

"She vanished overnight," their father started. "She was last seen yesterday evening in her room--"

Cyrin turned around, hurrying out of the office and down the hallway.

"Young man!" his father sputtered. "You do not leave this office until you have been dismissed!"

Cyrin ignored him, rushing past doors until he arrived at Allison's, which he shoved open with his shoulder. At first glance, everything was as he expected it to be, except for the open window. The curtains were billowing in the desert breeze. He dropped to a knee, already scouring the floor for clues.

"The audacity," his father said with disdain, walking in behind him with Lorelei a few moments later. "Where are your manners?"

"What are you going to do about it?" Cyrin asked, pulling aside the sheets to peek under the bed. "Cut me off? Oh, wait. You've played the last of your hand against me."

"Don't imagine for a moment that I can't still ruin your life," his father snapped.

Cyrin got to their feet, pausing in their search to give him the coldest glare they could summon to their face.

"Oh, I know you can't," they said. "All the power you held over me, you freely gave up. You lost it the moment you decided I wasn't yours anymore. And if I'm not yours, I don't have to answer to you. You can't have it both ways."

Anger flashed over his father's face, and he opened his mouth, but Cyrin lost all interest in whatever he had to say when they spotted a sparkle on the windowsill behind him. They pushed past him-- that earned him another indignant sputter, which they relished-- picking up the item there and holding it to the light. It was a small metal pin, one that might be fastened to a collar or over the heart, with a four letter insignia printed over it. D.A.M.G..

Cyrin's hand shook as they immediately slipped it into a pocket and turned to exit the room swiftly.

"What was that? Where are you going?" Lorelei called.

"You're some terrible investigators," Cyrin hollered over their shoulder, not slowing down as they slipped into the hallway. "I'm taking over on this. I'll get Allison back."

Cyrin had to remind himself he wasn't actually walking to the DAMG building to burn it all down. From an outside perspective, he was sure that's what it looked like.

It took all of his willpower to ease the clench of his jaw and the tension in his posture as he stepped into the visitors area. He couldn't be looking like he was here to murder someone. Quite possibly, he was, but he definitely wasn't supposed to signal it. Not until the last moment.

Cyrin waltzed up to a open booth at the front desk that served as a place for citizens to make their reports. At the other end, some man was rambling about how a mage had summoned frogs to swarm his house, sounding completely senile. Cyrin ignored them. False reports of mage activity were helpful since they could distract from the true ones, and the DAMG would have to spend time and resources on them.

"I'm looking for an agent," they said smoothly to the woman at the desk, before dropping the pin on the counter. "He left this at my place after... well." They shrugged innocently. "Any chance you could help me find him?"

The woman behind the desk regarded Cyrin with a mix of surprise and curiosity. Her greying hair was pulled back into a neat bun behind large, round glasses.

She hummed and leaned down to reach into a desk drawer.

"I was skeptical when Alexander said a Bridger would be coming by," she said. "But he told me to give this to you. Maybe it will help you in your search."

She pulled a sealed envelope out from the desk and handed it to them. The wax seal was a deep red, pressed in with the pin left in Allison's room.

Cyrin tried not to stare at the letter with any of the hatred they felt.

"He's playing hard to get," they said instead, accepting the letter. "Classic."

"He does seem the sort," the woman remarked, like she was trying to remain neutral. "But I'm not sure there's much else I can do for you."

"Do you know if he's been assigned somewhere?" Cyrin asked.

"I'm not at liberty to give that information if I have it," she said.

It was worth a try. He expected Alexander wanted to be found, anyway.

"Makes perfect sense," Cyrin said, clenching the envelope below the desk. They scooped up the pin. "Thanks for your help."

"Have a nice day," the woman said pleasantly.

Yeah. They wouldn't.

Cyrin flashed her a smile that faded the minute they turned their head away. Once they were out of the DAMG, they walked away with the most urgency they could afford to show before stopping in the shade of a tree several blocks away, tearing at the paper under the seal.

They hadn't immediately arrested him, as they would have if they knew he was a mage. That meant Alexander hadn't told them anything yet.

So what was he doing?

Cyrin unfolded the paper and stared daggers into the words.

Took you long enough.

South End. 131 Trodden Lane. You seem the type familiar with back sheds. How many shortcuts will it take this time? Ally's a-waiting.

Cyrin swore quietly under his breath, resisting the urge to tear up the paper into shreds. There was no time to get backup-- the hint was clear that time was of the essence. He wanted Tula, Raj, Leilan and Jordan with him for this. But he didn't dare imagine what being late would cause.

He had to do this alone. And it was exactly what Alexander wanted.

At least he'd chosen somewhere not too far. Distant from people, but on the closer side of the South End. And it was more accessible through some lesser-known shortcuts that he was indeed familiar with.

Cyrin just hated proving Alexander right.



The lonely mailbox on the dusty road confirmed it: this was the place. It wasn't much of a place at all, just a small barn on the corner of a tomato farm plot, and it looked either unrepaired or disused. The large wooden door hung slightly open, indicating that it'd be easy to walk right in-- and perfectly obvious. There were no upper windows to sneak through, no second entrance. If Alexander was in there, he had to be watching that door like a hawk.

Gods. Cyrin hated that man.

He could make the choice to walk in empty-handed rather than brandishing a knife, leaving Alexander to wonder if he'd been armed before he'd left his place unsuspectingly that morning, and that was just about his only advantage in this situation. Everything else Alexander had manipulated the deck on.

With a clenched jaw, Cyrin marched up to the barn, kicking the door sharply open.

He saw Allison first. His sister was tied to a support team by a rope wrapping tightly around her arms and chest, and she was still in nightclothes. Her head was held high, but when she saw him, her eyes sparked with alarm, not relief.

"Stop--" she shouted.

Cyrin heard the creaking of hinges too late. They spun around just in time to see the doors swing shut, pushed by some force they must have set into motion. A heavy sound-- something they knew instinctively was a bar falling over the handles outside-- followed.

"I love it when mice walk right into a trap," Alexander said with a menacing smile. "It makes it so easy."

Cyrin slowly turned around again. Alexander stood behind Allison, twirling a dagger in his hand as he moved around the beam and leaned against it. He deftly brought the dagger down to Allison's throat and squatted down.

"Let's play a game," Alexander said, his smile darkening. "One where we find out if your brother really has magic or not."

Cyrin stiffened, unable to look away from that blade. It gleamed ominously sharp in the light of the lanterns hanging from the ceiling.

"He doesn't have to play anything," Allison said firmly.

Alexander pressed the dagger against her throat.

"Bait doesn't get to speak," Alexander said, his tone turned threatening.

"And psychopaths shouldn't be given power, but here we are," she said flatly.

"Stop," Cyrin said urgently, holding up both hands. They weren't sure which one of them they were addressing, but their response was shaking as they asked what they already knew. "What is this?"

"A test," Alexander said.

No further explanation was given as Alexander quickly cut Allison's throat, and blood splattered across the hay-covered floor. Alexander got to his feet and stepped back, sweeping his hands toward Allison in a haunting invitation.

There were two voices waging war in Cyrin's head as he saw his sister slump against the support beam, the neckline of her shirt turning red. One of anger that was screaming at him to charge Alexander and end him immediately. One of desperate panic that was shouting that he couldn't waste a second on violence, he had to play along if Allison was going to live. There was so much blood already. Alexander would win.

Cyrin burst forward, catching her head as it fell. Blood spattered his shoulder, but he didn't spare it a thought as he squeezed his eyes shut, desperately calling on that power within himself to rise to the surface. Even through closed eyes, he could see the glow on Allison's neck as the wound sealed up.

Blindly, he found her hand, forcing her fingers open before closing them again around the whistle from his pocket. Her pulse thudded in her wrist, and a choked sob of panic died in his throat when he felt it.

Alexander would pay. He'd pay for this.

Cyrin blinked open angry eyes, staring at Alexander with all the hatred they could manage, still holding Allison up.

"You monster," they seethed.

Alexander was smiling. Because of course he fucking was.

"A monster who is right," Alexander said. "How long have you been hiding in plain sight, little mage?"

"I'll go right back to it," Cyrin snapped. "Because you're not making it out of here alive. You had the bright idea of locking yourself in here with me. Who's the prisoner now?"

Alexander tilted the bloodied dagger in Cyrin's direction, waving it in invitation.

"I'm up for round two," Alexander cooed.

Cyrin didn't waste another moment. They took out a knife and charged.

For a minute, the sheer rage running through their system possessed their movements, and Alexander had no choice but to go on the defense and step back at first. Cyrin hoped to corner him against a wall, but Alexander must've known it, because he retreated in the direction of a ladder leading up to the hayloft after another vicious swing his way. Alexander clambered up a few steps, and Cyrin stabbed at his leg. He pulled it up just in time, and their blade pierced through nothing.

"What's wrong with you?" Cyrin snarled at him. "Why do you have to be doing this?"

Alexander pulled himself up to the hayloft and dangled his head out over the edge to look at Cyrin.

"Catching vermin? Why not but for the fun?" Alexander sing-songed.

"I'm not some rodent to call an exterminator on," Cyrin snapped, storming up the ladder and facing him at the top. "I'm a human. Would a mouse be fighting you as an equal?"

Alexander threw a knife Cyrin's way. Cyrin picked a side-- right-- and dodged that way. He heard the knife sink into the planks behind him.

Merely laughing, Alexander moved away to rush through the stacks of hay blocks. But there seemed to be some purpose to his movements besides retreating or taking cover, and he could've chosen to do either of those things.

"Will you fight?" Cyrin hollered. "Or do you only know how to slaughter innocent people who don't stand a chance?"

Alexander glanced down at his feet, eyes glinting with mischief.

"Innocent," Alexander echoed wryly. "Now that's rich."

Then came flying another dagger.

Cyrin ducked behind a block of hay, and he felt it rattle from the force. He wished that was a sign he'd be running out of knives, but he knew better.

"Does it help to delude yourself into believing that existing is criminal enough for us?" He spoke sharply, rounding the corner while remaining under cover. "What sort of mental gymnastics do you have to brainwash yourself into to think I'm the evil one for healing someone you hurt?"

Alexander leaped over the edge of the loft, holding onto the edge as he swung down and disappeared under its cover below.

"You mages are all the same," Alexander said. "You see the world in black and white."

"And you, enlightened creature of nuance, can see nothing past what I was born with," Cyrin said. "I pity you."

They stepped up on top of the block to gain a vantage point-- and froze.

Alexander hadn't been alone where he had been standing. From above, Cyrin could see Casper, leaned against a block, looking up at him with angered terror. He wasn't tied up. He hadn't shouted for help. He was clearly there of his own volition.

Something was wrong. And that something smelled a lot like conspiracy.

Cyrin shook his head in plain disappointment, making eye contact with Casper for a short moment before turning away and silently hopping back down to the hayloft floor. Neither Casper nor Alexander deserved a reaction.

"I'd say you mage hunters are all the same too," he said. "But I've known ones with the bravery and the conscience required to figure out what's right."

Alexander let out a laugh. It was punctuated by another knife flying through the air-- and this time, Cyrin didn't realize he was in a position to even aim until it was too late to dodge.

The knife ripped through his side and lodged itself into the block just behind him. Cyrin hissed in pain, pulling away from it, and his clothing tore there from the movement. Alexander had moved out from under the cover and was now looking up at him.

"Right," he spat. "And who gets to determine that?"

Cyrin pressed a hand to his side, feeling blood well up against it. It was painful, but it was a flesh wound. Alexander should still have had two of those from their last fight. He could survive just fine.

"Neither of us are whole enough to say it's ourselves," they said. "Fortunately, the world is filled with people who are a lot better than us."

With that, Cyrin took a running start, vaulting off the hayloft and swinging a kick at Alexander's wounded side on the way down. That was enough to get a visceral reaction out of him. Alexander hissed, but tackled Cyrin with a yank of Cyrin's leg.

Cyrin let themselves fall to the barn floor, landing solidly on their back, but the minute Alexander tried to clamber over them and pin them down, they swung their knee up towards where his other injury was-- the cut over his stomach.

Alexander's face contorted in pain. He growled and stumbled to the side for a moment, but fought to get on top of Cyrin once again.

Drawing this out would be a fool's move. Allison was still tied up, and Casper was being useless in the loft. They had to take their chance or risk losing it.

Alexander was too much like them. If they had this in common, he would have a knife right...

As Alexander's hand pinned down their shoulder and dug into Cyrin's non-existent old wound, Cyrin reached up, feeling the outline of a dagger within his coat, pinned against his chest.

There.

"No one's better," Alexander hissed as he pinned Cyrin.

"I'm sorry you think that," Cyrin grunted. "Sincerely. You're missing out on a lot of joy."

But they weren't all that sorry for this.

Ripping the knife out of its hidden pocket, Cyrin gripped the hilt and rammed the blade into Alexander's chest.

The overconfident, playful pride that had been present in Alexander's eyes from the start shattered in an instant. His eyes went wide as Alexander's own weight atop of Cyrin drove the dagger deeper, and he let out a thin breath. The smell was sour over Cyrin's face.

There was a second of cold silence as Alexander remained frozen, crouched over Cyrin. And then he lifted his own dagger to Cyrin's side. Cyrin doubted they had the presence of mind to move out of the way.

But he didn't pierce it in.

Alexander let out a faint sigh, and his mouth twitched into a smile that didn't stick.

"My own dagger," Alexander said, looking down at Cyrin's hands. Blood was starting to pool around them.

Cyrin was frozen, their breathing thin and shallow. Their skin was crawling with the feeling of seeping blood, but they couldn't seem to let go of the knife. This wasn't what they'd imagined. Not at all.

"Thought you'd have done the same," they murmured.

Alexander was visibly beginning to struggle to keep his weight aloft. He slumped a little further over Cyrin. The dagger went deeper.

"I guess I would've," he said, letting go of Cyrin's shoulder and planting his hand on the ground beside them. His arm shook.

A voice was building inside Cyrin's head to scream, Then why not?

With a grunt-- since the motion sent pain shooting through their side-- they slipped out from underneath Alexander, kneeling to the side. With more gentleness than Alexander might've deserved, they grabbed his shoulders and flipped him over to lie on his back so that he wouldn't have to hold himself up. Alexander didn't fight it, but there was a twitch in his face, like he was suppressing the pain. Cyrin had been stabbed enough times that they knew how agonizing this felt.

"You're wrong," they said faintly-- and they surprised themselves with the regret in their voice. "You're really quite wrong. I wish there was enough time for you to see that."

Alexander's breaths began to shudder.

"Pull it out," Alexander said quietly.

"You'd die twice as fast," Cyrin said insistently.

"It's over anyway," Alexander said, his voice catching as some blood began to bubble up into his mouth. "You've won. End it."

But Cyrin's hands were shaking as he was struck with a very, very familiar feeling. Here was a mage hunter on the ground in front of him, bleeding and bitter, and here he was with a looming and risky choice resting on his shoulders-- again.

"No," he said, voice tight with a panic he was just realizing he felt. "I don't win by you dying. That's not how it works."

Alexander's expression contorted with pain as he reached up to grab the hilt of the dagger lodged in his chest. Tears began to well up in his eyes as he ripped the blade out himself, and the flow of blood immediately began to pool in its absence. He let out a gurgled cough as blood sputtered from his lips.

Again, there were only heartbeats to act. Cyrin prayed to the gods he wasn't making a terrible mistake.

He leaned forward, shoving Alexander's clenched hands aside from the gushing wound and pressing his hands into his chest as he poured all of his focus into the injury. Wave after wave of exhaustion sank over him, but he ignored it, letting his energy drain as a glow of light appeared at the edges of the wound-- bright and large at first, but shrinking and dimming as it sealed up. When it went out, the stab wound was gone, leaving only red-stained skin, and Cyrin's head was spinning so fiercely he almost lost track of which way was up.

To make matters worse, the cut on the side of his chest seemed to be aching twice as bad now that he was drained. Cyrin groaned weakly, slumping a little and barely managing to stay sitting upright.

"What...?" Alexander breathed as his eyes refocused. He sat up slowly, feeling the healed wound on his chest with growing confusion.

"You weren't going to take the second chance, damn it," Cyrin grunted. "So I chose for you."

"Second...?" Alexander echoed, watching Cyrin with wide eyes. His gaze flicked up to the loft, then behind Cyrin, to Allison. "You had the upper hand. Why did you give that up?"

"I'd much rather change your mind than kill you," Cyrin said firmly. "That is how I win."

Alexander stared at him in dumbfounded silence, slightly shaking his head.

"It worked with Tula," Cyrin said.

When he'd been caught years ago, he'd been drugged and thrown in a caravan wagon like cargo that was aiming to travel through the Desert Sands. Tula had bragged and bragged of her accomplishment, promising the rest of his family was next once he was 'safe and sound' at his unwilling destination. But they hadn't ever made it. A group of highwaymen bandits had attacked them a week in, hoping to steal something valuable. They found nothing, and Cyrin was largely ignored because of his helpless state, but Tula had gotten badly shot after putting up a fight. He couldn't describe why he'd been so certain, but in that moment of her bleeding out as she'd stared at him with angry eyes, he instinctively knew that either they were both getting out of this desert alive, or neither of them would.

The rest was history.

"I may not know all about what's right," Cyrin said lowly. "But if you want this-- if you want to try again and do better-- maybe we can show each other what that looks like."

There was a long pause as Alexander studied him, and it was after several seconds of silence that Cyrin realized Alexander had been stunned into silence until he finally spouted: "Why?"

"Because I think you can do it," Cyrin said, with a hint of pleadingness. "Even if you don't think you can right now."

"But I..." Alexander trailed off. His eyes drifted to Allison.

Cyrin looked her way. His sister had managed to stand on her own again and was blinking away her daze. She was curling and uncurling her fingers around the whistle, and he hoped she'd had the presence of mind to blow it, even though none of them could hear the sound.

"You did," they said. They hadn't forgotten.

Alexander pressed his lips together, and it felt like Cyrin was watching him process regret. Maybe for the first time.

"I don't deserve this," Alexander said faintly.

Cyrin sighed quietly, looking down at where their side was stained with red. The black fabric of their clothes would've hidden it all if not for the tear. They were starting to recover their bearings.

"I think... it isn't a question of being deserving," they said. "But of willingness. You got this. That's reality, whether it feels fair or not. What are you going to do with it?"

Alexander furrowed his brows and looked to the floor for a moment. Then, he got to his feet and extended Cyrin a hand.

Yeah. They could actually use that right about now.

Hiding a wince of pain, Cyrin accepted the offer, bloodstained hand in bloodstained hand, as they hauled themselves up to standing.

Suddenly, the barn doors burst open.

Wood splintered as the doors fell off their hinges and fell to the sides. Bo stood in the doorway and tossed something to the side as his eyes locked in on Alexander and Cyrin with a laser focus.

Bo wasn't wearing his usual all-black getup. Instead, he was wearing a long red robe and simple linen pants. With bare feet, it looked like Bo had come running from the middle of a nap.

Alexander froze, and slowly looked between Bo and Cyrin.

"...A friend of yours?" Alexander whispered as he let go of Cyrin's hand.

"Yeah," Cyrin said quietly to him, even though that wasn't really the right label. "Someone who's better."

He had to say something before Bo vaporized Alexander in the middle of this promising moment.

Taking a deep breath, Cyrin turned back to Bo, taking a step forward.

"The state of emergency's over," he said.

Baffled, Allison held up the whistle, staring between it and Bo.

"How... did this thing seriously summon you?" she asked, with heavy doubt. "It didn't make a sound."

"I wouldn't give you a broken whistle," Cyrin said.

Allison let out a weak huff. "I thought you were dumb enough to," she said, with weary affection. "My bad."

The teasing, along with the reminder that he hadn't just lost her, brought a faint smile to Cyrin's lips.

Bo crossed the barn and approached Allison, but kept his gaze on Alexander. He knelt down beside her and began to untie her wrists.

"Casper," Bo said as he freed their sister. "You can come out now."

Silence from the hayloft. Allison seemed to know nothing of his presence, because she frowned in utter confusion as she rubbed at the raw skin of her wrists. Bo helped her to her feet.

Cyrin reached into his jacket and sent a knife flinging into a particular block of hay. A startled yelp echoed through the barn.

"Casper, get your ass down here," Cyrin said flatly.

He should've known his brother wouldn't look guilty when Casper moved to the railing, glaring at all of them in equal parts.

"Do you have any idea of the mess you've all just made?" he seethed.

"'You all'," Alexander echoed with a scoff. "You helped."

"You were supposed to get my brother caught," Casper started, pointing an accusing finger at Alexander before turning it to Cyrin. "And you were supposed to be gotten rid of." His frown deepened at he pointed at Allison. "You were supposed to be a fucking hostage, not nearly get killed--" His glare was venomous with hatred as he turned to Bo. "--and you were supposed to stay out of this and not ruin everything by showing up!"

Bo cast Casper a weary glance as he supported Allison with his arm.

"It is a good day when no one dies," he said lowly. "Messes can be cleaned. People can't be brought back."

"Keeping them around was not my intention," Casper snapped.

"What are you doing here?" Allison demanded.

Casper swept his hand to Alexander.

"We had a plan," he said irritatedly. "Which he did not follow. And it's all for nothing."

"Plans changed when I almost died," Alexander said with a shrug.

"They changed before that," Casper argued. "You weren't supposed to harm her!"

"I'll take that. But to be fair, you never made that clear," Alexander said, raising his hands.

Bo flicked his eye to Cyrin. He looked deeply worried by this conversation. Cyrin could only shake his head.

He wished he could say this was surprising. He wished he could say it didn't hurt.

"Kingsman," Bo said before Casper could retort once more. "Step away from my kid."

Alexander's defensive stance faltered, and his eyes widened with confusion for a moment before he obeyed. He lifted his hands and backed away several feet: as much as the small shed would allow him.

"Allison," Bo said. "I can help take you home. Cyrin, you know where to go. We will catch up later. Casper--"

Bo looked up at him, and there was a tense moment as they met each others eyes.

"If I see you near Cyrin again, my intervention will not be peaceful," he warned. "And if you follow them, I will forcefully pull you away."

Casper clenched his jaw, but Cyrin he knew he realized he meant it. He was too much of a coward to do anything, either.

Head held high, but not without a glare Cyrin's way, Casper took the ladder down and stormed out of the barn. Cyrin watched him leave dispassionately.

For a moment, the shed fell quiet.

"Alexander," Bo said, finally, turning to look at the blood-stained mage-hunter. "You will clean up this mess. You started it, and you will finish it. And once you are done here, you will have two options: leave Ruddlan, and never return. Or go to the woods outside the northern gate tomorrow morning with intentions to change. You've been given a second chance. Do not waste it."

So he'd put together what must've happened, then. It wasn't hard. They were both bloodcovered and clearly drained from a fight, but Alexander's wound was nowhere to be seen, so the healing could easily be concluded-- and Bo knew why Cyrin might've done it.

Alexander still seemed a little shocked and unsure, but he nodded.

"Understood," he said, looking around the shed that had been torn apart.

Bo led Allison towards the door, but stopped by Cyrin.

"Will you make it back?" Bo asked quietly.

Cyrin looked down at his side, which was still seeping blood. It would've looked so much worse without dark clothing, and it was already pretty ugly.

"I always do," he said, though it lacked vigor.

Bo's expression softened with worry. He set a hand on Cyrin's shoulder.

"Move quickly," he whispered. "Mel is at the house."

Cyrin wasn't sure he really had 'quick' left in him, but he knew it wasn't far. He gave a slight but firm nod in reply, lips just barely curling back into a smile.

It always felt surreal to get healed. Cyrin had had it happen several times, and they were a healer themselves, but they'd never gotten used to staring at the place their wound had been without half-expecting it to still be there. Even with the blood cleaned off and fresh clothes-- at Flora's insistence-- it didn't really feel right.

They could only imagine what Alexander, who most likely had never been healed by a mage and had been especially close to death, had made of it.

Numbly, Cyrin looked down at the knife balanced in their palm, flipping and catching it in midair for good measure. They were back at the resistance safehouse, perched on the kitchen counter with their legs dangling off the side. A smattering of pale flour still dusted the surface a few feet away from one of Bo's baking projects. Cyrin distantly wondered what it had been. Bread again, maybe, or maybe a new muffin recipe this time.

Bo would be back soon. He was supposed to be, at least.

Cyrin didn't know how long it would take him to get Allison back on her feet. He regretted not being there-- if getting healed hadn't been urgent, he would've gone back with her. He wasn't interested in clearing his name with their father, but he did want to be able to talk with her. Now he'd have to find a time to sneak into the Barlowe estates again.

This was a mess. He knew he should feel relief at how things had ended, but if he did, it was overwhelmed by the weariness hanging over him.

The front door opened and closed with a small thud. Cyrin could hear Bo sigh loudly before he turned the corner and looked into the kitchen.

Bo paused at the doorway and leaned against it with his shoulder.

He was still barefoot and in pajamas. And he, too, looked weary.

"You smell better," Bo said.

Cyrin let out a tired huff, putting the knife aside on the counter. These clothes didn't have their usual assortment of hidden pockets-- and were much more colorful, too-- so there was nowhere else for it to go.

"A post near-death experience shower does wonders," they said.

"Good to see you haven't lost your sense of humor," Bo quipped lowly as he walked in and took the nearest chair, plopping down heavily. "Your sister's okay. Your family shoo'ed me off pretty quickly, though."

"I'm not surprised," Cyrin said, rubbing at their face. "They're... not the thankful sort."

"Which is... surprising," Bo said with a slow nod.

Cyrin sighed quietly, dropping their gaze to the kitchen floor.

"I'm sorry I didn't get there before Allison was hurt," Bo said, quieter. "I assume you had to heal her."

"It was a test," Cyrin said. "Alexander wanted to see if I would heal her if he hurt her as a way to prove my magic. He must've figured out what type I would've inherited if I had any, somehow. No one's managed to make that connection before."

"It was probably Tula that was the giveaway," Bo said quietly.

Cyrin slowly nodded. Ironic that Tula and Alexander had followed similar paths there.

"Probably," he said. "Either way, it worked."

Bo nodded sadly. "You healed him too, didn't you?" he asked.

Cyrin folded his hands in his lap.

"I didn't want him..." he started, then shook his head. "I thought I wanted him to die. But I didn't. I realized I would rather see him live as an ally than die as an enemy."

"I'm proud of you," Bo said softly.

Cyrin smiled faintly with sadness, although it quickly dropped.

"I just hope things... work," he said. "From here on. But I know Tula's path wasn't linear either."

"We have people who can work with him," Bo said. "I don't expect it to be you."

Cyrin pursed his lips in silent deliberation for a moment. This was only a task on their itemlist because of him.

"I could handle it," he said carefully. "I think I could."

"I think you could too," Bo said. "But we're also shipping you off to the Moonlight Kingdom soon. I think it'd be better to have someone who could keep a consistent eye on him in the long term."

It took Cyrin a second to nod. Right. They'd forgotten about that-- or rather, they hadn't forgotten, but it hadn't yet cemented itself in their mind as reality yet.

"I'm thinking of asking Hendrik," Bo said.

Cyrin chuckled before they realized he was serious. A second realization followed soon after, which was that it wasn't a bad idea. Hendrik had an existing connection with him, so Alexander wouldn't have some stranger for company, and he knew how to keep people in line.

"Alexander, I suspect, has lived his entire life in moral greys," Bo explained. "I think Hendrik, who views the world in much more black and white, would be good to challenge him in a season where he's reevaluating his... moral compass, so to speak."

With lips pursed, Bo looked to be suppressing a grin as he added: "And I have... a feeling."

"I think I share it," Cyrin admitted.

"This was you can focus on the task ahead of you," Bo said. "And... I assume you'll want some time and capacity to follow up with your sister. After today."

"As soon as we can," Cyrin said. "Which... will likely be further out than either of us like."

Even if he was off the hook for 'kidnapping' Allison, he had a feeling he wouldn't be welcome back for a visit to the Bridger residence so soon.

"Allison seems okay," Bo said, softer. "Considering the circumstances. She's got a good head on her shoulders."

"She does," Cyrin agreed quietly. "I've always admired it about her. She got that from Mother."

Bo smiled small. "Yeah. I see a lot of your mother in her."

Maybe things would be easier if Cyrin had inherited that too. They doubted they'd be in this mess if that were the case.

"That's how I know she'll pull through," they said, dropping their gaze down to the kitchen floor again.

Bo tilted his head to the side, watching Cyrin with his brows softened.

"And what about you?" Bo asked.

Cyrin let out a tired huff. "Does it seem like I won't?"

It was a rhetorical-sounding question, but they found themselves wanting to know the answer.

"I can tell that you've been struggling," Bo said, quieter. "Ever since your parents kicked you out."

"Struggling's more of a constant state of being," Cyrin said. "A way of life, perhaps."

"There are many kinds of struggle," Bo said. "And it is a part of life. But it doesn't have to be your way."

Cyrin sighed quietly, letting some exhaustion show more transparently in his shoulders. "And if it is?"

Bo leaned forward in his chair and met Cyrin's eyes.

"Do you want it to be?" Bo asked.

"Of course not," Cyrin said, a little surprised he would ask. "I know I don't-- I know it looks like I don't even try, but I-- I do. I really do."

Bo held up a hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it as an accusation. I know most of the circumstances surrounding you are outside of your control. I know you're trying."

"It just doesn't work." Cyrin shrugged a shoulder, as if he was still trying to pretend-- even though this was Bo in front of him-- that it didn't bother him. "I don't want it. But I'm turning resigned."

"What is it you're resigned to?" Bo asked.

"This." Cyrin threw up a hand to indicate the situation at large, but went on anyway. "I haven't lived up to a single thing expected of me. I've made half my family worry about me to the point of exhaustion and made the other half resent, if not hate, me. I haven't known peace in years, because I don't know how to heal when everyday feels like another reminder that I shouldn't be on the face of the planet. And I--" Cyrin gestured defeatedly, a sick feeling sinking deep in their chest. "Something's wrong with my mind. I... can't walk into a room without first knowing how to get out of it at a moment's notice. Nothing's safe, even when it's supposed to be. It's as if there's something in me so stubborn, so spiteful about surviving that it turns everything into a life-or-death situation, and I've been at war for most of my life."

"That seems bigger than the situation you're in right now," Bo said softly.

"Problems have a way of overlapping," Cyrin murmured, letting their hand fall limply to the counter again. "Maybe I'm dealing with this family issue more directly, but I'm still in the midst of this... flaw in my design. That's the context around it."

Bo nodded. "Have you always felt this way?"

Had they?

Cyrin didn't know. Before he'd become a ghost in the eyes of the world, his memories were hazy, like fog steaming up the view of a mirror glass. Most people didn't have such a distant recollection of their lives before age eight, from all he'd gathered, but for some reason he was different, because he couldn't remember much of anything concrete from back then. The only reliable memories were all snippets of haphazard details, like how his mother's laugh had sounded, or how his face had looked back then, or how their house would fill with music three times a week for the piano lessons he and his older siblings had had. He didn't know it for sure, but his childhood might've been good back then. Maybe.

It felt better to be uncertain about that than to know for sure that something good had been taken away from them.

"I don't know," Cyrin said distantly. "I can't remember a time when I didn't."

"Do you think you'll always feel this way?" Bo asked, softer.

Cyrin rubbed at his face as weariness sank heavier onto their shoulders. "I can't imagine a future where I don't."

"I'm sorry," Bo said softly. "That sounds like a heavy burden."

Cyrin wished they could tell him it felt otherwise. He nodded numbly.

"You don't seem surprised to hear it," they murmured.

"I've known you for a long time," Bo said. "It doesn't mean I'm not sad to hear it, but I'm glad you're able to tell me."

Cyrin sighed quietly, tearing their gaze away from the floor to look up at Bo again. Bo's expression was so earnest and saddened that they couldn't help but feel an ache in their heart.

"You do know me," they said faintly. "Sometimes it feels like you know too much. I don't understand how that can be, but you're still... here."

"No amount of information changes how I feel about you, Cyrin," Bo said. "I love you. No matter what happens, that doesn't change."

Cyrin bit the inside of their cheek, fiercely enough to draw blood after a few moments of silence.

"What if you shouldn't?" they whispered, hearing their voice catch on the words.

"It's not a matter of should or shouldn't," Bo said. "I do."

"And that doesn't make sense," Cyrin said weakly.

"Does it have to?" Bo asked.

Maybe not. But he wanted to be able to fully believe it.

Something pricked at his eyes, and Cyrin squinted ahead, hoping that would subdue the sensation. It didn't work much.

"Maybe I don't need a complex understanding of the solar cycle to trust that the sun's going to rise tomorrow, because it always does," he murmured. "But... it helps to know that we're orbiting it anyway. It makes the idea easier to grasp."

Bo took in a deep breath and sat a little further on the edge of his chair as he leaned in to look at Cyrin intently. The tenderness in his eye only seemed to deepen.

"When I first met you, you were a little kid," Bo said. "A small boy, no higher than my knees. I've watched you grow up into the person you are now. I know for some people, when they first meet their child it's love at first sight. That's beautiful, but I found myself falling in love with you as I got to know you. It came slowly, but the moment that it did, it had a hold on my heart forever. I know that you had your mother, and you have your father, and your step-mother. I could never be your family by blood, but I've always thought of you as a son. I love you because I like you. And I like you because I love you, because I love you... because I do."

A quiet sniffle escaped Cyrin on their next breath in. The burning in their eyes intensified as their shoulder blades pinched together with tension.

"You called me your kid," he whispered.

"Was that okay?" Bo asked quietly in return.

"Yes." A shuddering breath rattled through Cyrin's chest. "More than-- more than 'okay'."

Bo's brows pinched together, and he was quiet for a moment before he opened up his arms in invitation for a hug.

Cyrin slipped off the counter, leaning in and wrapping his arms around Bo tightly. Bo hugged him back firmly in return.

He hadn't been claimed as family by a parent in an eternity. His mother had cared-- he vaguely remembered that much of her-- but his father was indifferent towards all his children, and Lorelei hadn't even tried to step into the space left behind by his mother, only parenting Camilla and Magnus. He'd never really been theirs. The few times his father had called him his child, it was not a statement made with pride. Only with a solemn disappointment that he had to be his problem. But he wanted to belong to someone-- someone he wouldn't be a disgrace to.

A few tears rolled down his cheeks.

"I love you, Dad," Cyrin whispered.

"I love you, son," Bo whispered back, hugging Cyrin a little tighter.

Cyrin took a deep breath, leaning further into the embrace as they squeezed their eyes shut. Their heart ached with a heavy knowledge that this was the first time they could recall saying those words-- but if it had needed years, they were glad it was now and here they were saying it.

"I've wanted to call you that for a long time," he said quietly.

"Well now it can be official," Bo said, his voice audibly choking up. "Call me dad anytime."

"You've been the only one I've ever had," Cyrin whispered.

Bo hugged Cyrin even tighter - almost to the point of discomfort, but just short of it.

"And what a joy it's been to be," Bo said.

Cyrin smiled softly. "You've been the best I could ask for," they agreed gently.

Bo gave a chaste kiss to the top of Cyrin's head, and then finally pulled away, holding Cyrin out by the shoulders.

"I'm proud of you," Bo said. "And I love you very much."

Cyrin wiped their eyes with the back of their hand, smiling an inch wider as they met his eyes.

"I love you so much, too," they said. "Thank you for choosing me."

"It wasn't a hard choice," Bo answered with a small smile.

"You're still one of the few who made it," Cyrin said, with a quiet, slightly sorrowful laugh. "And for that, I'll always be grateful."

"I'm grateful for you, too," Bo said.

Cyrin leaned in for another hug, perching his chin on top of Bo's shoulder as he took a deep breath, smile still lingering. And he didn't pull away for a long time.

The sickening crack on the other side of the door sent ice down Lyall's spine. He froze, his knuckles undoubtedly turning white around the handle.

The bed shifted again, but it wasn't Alan's gait crossing the room. Nor was it Alan's harried utterings under shortened breath.

So Lyall switched tactics. Keeping an ear turned attentively to the door beside him, he tore through the mounds of fabric and boxes that Alan had stacked for anything solid enough to weaponize.

His fingers grazed a hooked piece of wood. A shoehorn.

The smell of sharp pepper and spearmint drew closer to the door. "I'm willing to cut you a deal," the other wolf rumbled, a wicked smile in his voice.

Silently dropping to all fours, Lyall wrapped his paws around the shoehorn. "Purely out of the kindness of your blackened heart?" he quipped to keep him unsuspecting. Then, eyes screwed shut, he braced himself as he carefully split the wood between his teeth.

"Out of fondness for your friend," Conway answered. "Perhaps partiality towards a kindred spirit. Take your pick."

Lyall's hackles rose at the lust dripping from Conway's voice. "What do you have in mind," he neatly prompted anyway, "o' magnanimous one?"

"In exchange for your life--"

The chair shifted out from under the door handle. Changing back, he gripped his improvised weapon tightly.

"--you accompany us to the Moonlight Kingdom, and keep him entertained when I can't."

Lyall stared blankly at the light that seeped in under the door, at first refusing to believe what he heard.

"You know as well as I - if not more so - that he's a bright mind," Conway went on, as though this was an entirely common proposition. "He'll quickly tire of house chores and neighborhood gossip. He needs to be kept engaged, lest he wither away from the sheer boredom."

Lip curled, repulsed, he almost declined with a sharp retort. Almost.

Drawing out the silence between them to give the appearance of weighty consideration, Lyall lifted his hand and adjusted his grip on his weapon. "I will safely assume the alternative ends poorly for me?"

"Your choice."

He let out a breath, and lifted his empty hand too. "I'll go with you, then."

The door drew open. He first saw the gun only just begin to take aim. Conway first saw only his gesture of compliance.

He swung his shadowed hand for the other wolf's eye. It bore deep. With a pained roar, Conway let the gun fall to the floor. Lyall slipped away before he could get locked in another grapple, and bolted down the hallway.

This is just another game of chase with the little ones, he told himself as he pattered down the stairs, and skidded into the sitting room.

Though the set of paws that pounded down the hall after him were far heavier than Viktor's, and landed at the bottom of the stairwell more decisively than Tove's.

Lyall wove between furniture, and slid frantically around corners. Try as he might to remain composed, the fact remained: he was facing at least a few severe tactical disadvantages.

For one, he didn't have a lay of the land. Conway cutting him off with ease in the kitchen was solid proof of this. Carried by his own momentum, Lyall suddenly found himself beneath the maws of the other wolf.

Which was disadvantage number two: Conway practically towered over him.

Large teeth sank into his scruff. He was flung sideways, and stars burst behind his eyes when his head smacked against the cupboard.

A hand clamped down on his throat. Vision slowly clearing, Lyall weakly pushed his own against Conway's chest as the hunter loomed over him.

Disadvantage number three: he was not a trained fighter.

"You're lucky I enjoy your friend, pup," Conway sneered, pressing a blade next to his eye. "This is your last chance. Come with us, or die before daybreak."

Teeth bared, he slammed the heel of his palm into Conway's jaw. He sucked in a breath, then aimed his fist for his gouged eye.

Enraged, Conway gripped him by the collar of his shirt and knocked his head against the tiles. His ears rang. Dazed and sluggish, Lyall helplessly spectated through his own eyes as Conway retaliated. Blow after blow, snapping his head sideways, cutting the skin of his cheek on his knuckles. It was only when Conway settled back, satisfied, that he felt the bruises, the aches, and the heat of blood pouring from his broken nose.

He squirmed, still unable to accept any form of defeat, however small.

"I urge you to think over your next choices wisely," Conway murmured, sliding his arm over his throat and slowly pressing down. "If not for your sake, then for Alan's."

The unspoken threat only spurned on a bout of righteous anger. "You touch him again--"

His throat closed under Conway's weight, threatening to collapse entirely. Clawing with his free hand at his wrist, Lyall uselessly struggled and gaped for air. Conway watched with an animalistic glint in his eyes as he steadily lost his strength. His eyes slowly rolled back, his hand fell limp to the floor. He was falling back through the tiles, plunging deep into a darkness he'd never known before.

Then the wolf eased off again, and Lyall lurched back into consciousness. He choked and heaved for breath. His hands were dragged up over his head and pinned at the wrists. His heart seized when he couldn't find Conway over him anymore.

He startled, breath audibly hitching when Conway growled in his ear, "She made you soft and undisciplined. Too unruly and ill-suited to be with people and others of our kind alike."

Who was 'she'?

He fought to steel himself as his own grim reality finally sank in: he was fighting a battle he was destined to lose.

"I'll write to her on your behalf," Conway assured him with feigned softness. He chuckled wryly. "Seems that she'll wind up succeeding you."

Succeeding... His mother.

No. No no no, he was lying, trying to pull some bullshit on him.

Lyall tried fighting his hold again. Conway held his knife by his eye again. He froze, sucking in a terrified breath when the steel bit into his skin.

"She despaired about you not having a father present." The knife harmlessly trailed down his cheek, along his jugular. Lyall kept from even swallowing. "And now I finally understand. She didn't have what it took to raise a competent man. You couldn't hold a job that was basically handed to you. Couldn't stick it out with your fiancé for even a couple months more. Even your best friend since childhood couldn't stand to keep you for company. He chose a placid and dull young woman instead, then me."

He whimpered. Not for the knife stopping right over his heart, though-- for the reminders of his worth. How it always always manifested in his own stagnation. No matter how hard he tried to keep up with the world, to rise up to the standard.

He tried telling himself these failings were behind him. Tried reminding himself of his rekindled connection with Mum, the passion and raw affections he had just shared with Alan.

But how could he know he was truly past those? He was still him. He would only take the same shortcomings with him, no matter where he went.

"I think it's better this way," Conway finally decided. "Alan will be free of you, and better off for it."

Lyall wanted to challenge whether Conway would even be better. But the image of Santiago sitting alone in bed morphed into a more devastating vision.

Alan, alone, wearing an unpaired silver band on his finger, and a look of such deep disappointment and heartache. All because of him.

And he couldn't bear it. So he couldn't find it within himself to disagree, to fight anymore.

The knife danced back up to his collarbone, drawing his wary, tired eyes back up to Conway.

"I'll give him your warmest regards." A bright smile devoid of any real warmth cracked in the dark. "After a little more father-son bonding. We have a lot of years to catch up on, after all."

He wasn't going to win this fight, he fully accepted this now. But he was determined to hold one final, secret victory over Conway.

So he shut his eyes against the image of the predatory gleam that took joy in his pain, purged the cold of the foreign house from his bones, forgot the knife even as it bit and tore at flesh.

He let these things go, wound back in time, and replaced it all the softness of Alan's kiss. The warmth of his gaze, the sunlight at his fingertips that warmed his skin with each touch. The feeling of belonging-- realizing he'd always belonged with Alan, no matter what they called each other, and finally being able to fully give himself into it. Give his fullest affections to Alan in their last moments together.

That was something Conway had no sway over.

Lyall breathed out, bidding his love goodbye, and braced himself for that deep darkness.

Alan awoke with a splitting headache.

Consciousness trickled back slowly, like water seeping through cracks. The world was a hazy blur, shapes and shadows swirling incomprehensibly. Alan tried to lift a hand to his throbbing temple, but his arms wouldn't move.

Something was wrong.

Awareness crashed over him, each wave bringing sharper pain and growing dread. Alan tried to move, but his wrists refused to budge. Panic flared as his foggy mind registered the tight pressure around them. Moaning, Alan lolled his head to the side and forced his eyes open, vision swimming as he fought against the rising nausea.

The room spun lazily, details blurring together in a nauseating swirl. Alan blinked hard, willing the vertigo to pass.

Breathe. He had to breathe.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, only to choke as he registered a foreign object in his mouth. Cotton fibers scraped against his tongue, threatening to trigger his gag reflex.

Panic surged through him. Alan tried to cry out, but only muffled grunts escaped around the gag. Saliva pooled rapidly with no way to swallow properly. Drool trickled down his chin, but the fabric remained stubbornly in place. He retched, body convulsing as it fought desperately to expel the object.

What the fuck? What was this?

Adrenaline flooded his system. Desperate to free himself, Alan thrashed wildly, only to discover a new horror: his arms were stretched painfully above his head, wrists bound tight to the bedpost.

Fuck!

Alan clawed against his bindings, muscles screaming in protest. The bed frame creaked beneath him, but the restraints held firm. The grim reality of the situation crashed down upon him: he was trapped. He was tied, gagged, and trapped in Conway's room.

No, no, no. He couldn't go out like this. He couldn't let Conway take him to the Kingdom. Lyall was still here. He had to find Lyall.

Alan's attempt to scream devolved into a hysterical coughing fit. He keeled over as much as his bonds allowed, gagging and retching, his body shuddering with each spasm.

Calm down. He had to calm down.

Forcing his racing heart to slow, Alan took stock of his surroundings. Evening sunlight seeped around the edges of drawn curtains, casting long shadows across the room. A solitary candle still burned steadily on the nightstand. He couldn't have been unconscious for long.

His focused gaze then drifted towards the trail of crimson droplets leading to the door.

Was that... blood?

Alan couldn't ignore the heavy pit in his stomach. Beside the macabre path laid a splintered shoehorn, its edges stained a rusty red. The closet door was wide open, clothes scattered amongst the floor.

Lyall.

Head hung low, he sharply closed his eyes and forced himself to heave under him, disgusting retches escaping the hollows of his throat. It wasn't until tears stung his eyes that the saliva-infested sock finally escaped, dropping to the floor beside his feet, wet and warm like like an abandoned piece of flesh. Dizzied, Alan bared his teeth and attacked the belt that bound his hands, driven by pure animalistic instinct.

A mirthless laugh of victory almost bubbled out of throat when he tasted freedom. The belt clattered to the floor, leaving Alan without restraint. His legs moved on their own, sweeping across the room. His eyes landed on the abandoned shotgun on the floor-- the same one Conway had used to knock him out.

It was now in his hands.

A familiar voice cried in pain outside the room. Lyall.

He tore outside the room with silent feet, pulse thundering in his ears. Peering over the railing, Alan saw Conway's back first, then Lyall's thrashing legs under him, pinned and trapped. The blade of Conway's knife glinted in mid-air.

"Coyotes are a nuisance, but wolves are a challenge," his father once told him, long ago, in the woods of the Moonlight Kingdom, when their warm breaths steamed the cold air, and the gun weighed heavy against Alan's little arms. His father would say this whenever he spotted a predator, pushing aside his warm furs to enter into position, quietly jostling the gun against his shoulder, aimed to kill. "And a challenge, my son, is something to be conquered."

With a heavy grip, Alan held the gun against his shoulder, its barrel pointed at Conway's back. He held his breath, finger clicking the barrel, feeling the sheer power transfer from his fingertip to the bullet that kissed death.

The world went silent. And then it exploded into a deafening cacophony of noise that killed.

Crimson bloomed across Conway's back. A cry, and then a thud.

Alan pulled away, racing down the steps two at a time, senses dulled.

"Lyall!" he called with desperation, quick to attend his side. "Lyall!"

"Alan!" Lyall answered back, voice shrill and shaking as he threw aside a blackened knife. "Alan, you have to leave now."

Lyall needed medical attention, and fast. Alan's body moved upon his own volition, amassing rags that he clumsily shook out of drawers. He had recently washed these white rags with bleach, removing every stain, every blemish. He watched instead as the white swelled with crimson.

Distant, Alan inched away from the pooling red that emanated from Conway's lifeless body. It seeped into the tiles of the floors, beginning to touch the frays of Lyall's trousers.

Alan pressed his hand against Lyall's, expression sobering. He couldn't meet his eyes, gaze drifting down to the color of his face. The struggles of a fight spilled over his nose, his cheek, his skin, coloring it with pain and violence.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Please, go," Lyall softly begged him, clutching Alan's hand, "now. They can't know it was you."

He barely shook his head, only able to register the blood that oozed out of Lyall. He weakly slid his hand away, pressing rags against the wound on his arm.

"No," he said. "I'm not leaving you."

Swallowing, Lyall relented with a weak nod. He pulled Alan's hand up to his lips, pressing a desperate yet relieved kiss to his knuckles.

The severe silence that followed did not require words for both of them to understand.

An urgent knock on the door stole their attention. Alan stared at the door, frozen in place. Then abruptly stood up, knowing that concerned neighbors likely heard the gunshot, and they would make a good messenger for obtaining medical attention.

A pull of his arm snapped his attention back towards his bleeding friend. Disoriented, Alan blinked and stared at Lyall's hand around his, almost missing the desperate plea in his eyes.

"Don't," Lyall quietly pleaded. "Do not take the fall for this."

"You said--" He faltered, then swallowed and started again, soberly meeting his eyes. "Lyall. You need medical attention.

Lyall loosened his hold on him, relenting. "Please, don't take the fall," he repeated.

Alan's heart clenched at the desperation of his voice. "Okay," he said under his breath. Then more loudly, "I won't. I won't take the fall."

Turning away, Alan stepped one foot after the other, reminding himself of the promise he made.

They will be okay.

So much of the grief in James's life had been sudden. From the loss of his father, to the loss of Jack, to the jarring loss of the last of his innocence in a war, he felt like he'd had to learn how to grieve the losses no one prepared for. Change happened quickly.

This was the only time in his life he'd seen it coming, and watching the slow death of everything he once knew was almost more agonizing than living in blissful innocence until the end.

They were leaving Ruddlan in two days. It felt like it'd been the longest summer ever. Yes, everything had fallen into place with his plans: but so much else had occured without any of his foresight. While he'd managed to burn bridges with the friends he was bringing back home with him, he'd somehow made new connections in Ruddlan that he hadn't expected.

Most of them were thread-bare. His tied to the resistance were thin, and dependent on a shared mission. But intertwined and in the midst of it were two friendships he hadn't expected to blossom with Shane and Kirk. Particularly Shane.

James was growing more comfortable around Kirk, but James was starting to feel more like himself around Shane in ways he hadn't in a long time. Despite the fact that they were all still reeling and shaken from the kidnapping and the ensuing raid on the Gallery, there was a shared sense of comraderie found in one another in the aftermath. Instead of letting it push them apart, they found each other.

James took comfort in the small moments. The library visits, as Shane grew the courage to go out again. The shared meals, the talks late into the night, the rides around the city.

It almost made the pain of everything else easier. But as everyone in the manor started packing, it sunk in that... in the past two months, he'd become estranged from everyone in his party but Kirk.

Ingrid stopped paying attention to him. Fonzi had latched onto Carter, Ingrid latched onto Hellen, and while Hellen and Kirk still had each other, whenever James was in a room with them all, he felt invisible.

It was strange.

That had been something he'd wished for. He didn't expect it to feel like this, though: degrading, and hopeless.

The month-long trip back home was going to be even more isolating, and he could feel it.

He was getting everything he wanted, and yet, it still hurt.

The only good news was that, in light of their departure, the surveillance of his everyday going and coming lifted, just for the last week as they wrapped things up in Ruddlan: and gods, was it a mess they were leaving behind.

Carter was the most involved in the politics of it, but after Mayor Barlowe was exposed for having ties to the Suns and playing a part in Shane's kidnapping, the city was in disarray. It was even more-so after the raid on the Gallery. The militia had their hands full dismantling the gang's front, catching remaining suns members in the city, and purging their presence from the streets.

All of this, at the cusp of the mayoral election - in which, Barlowe stepped down from the running. Predictably, Carter sponsored one of the counsel members he favored. Unsurprisingly, they won.

James was glad those meetings weren't his responsibility. He was a translator, and a linguist, and a polyglot. Those things weren't needed in an area with one common tongue, but even if his skills were needed, James had a feeling Carter would've found someone else to fill the gap. Ever since their last conversation... well. They'd hardly spoken.

It was for the best.

James was able to arrange one final meeting with his resistance allies to discuss and finalize their plans before he left the city. This time, he met on their turf: going to the base for a second time, late in the evening.

The land outside of Ruddlan was dry. Their base broke into the forest north of the river, away from the sand. With the setting sun pouring through the gaps of the thin trees, it almost felt peaceful, riding in. Caspar joined him, this time, which was a comfort he didn't want to take for granted.

The late night air was beginning to cool as summer was coming to a close. A faint breeze rustled the leaves, pulling in the early winds of autumn. There was just enough of a chill to contrast the day's earlier heat to bring discomfort. James pulled his jacket around him tighter.

They didn't find their way to the base this time. The base found them.

The young man who'd taken the horses last time - the man James now knew as Raj - appeared before they saw any other signs of life, and led them to a different entrance, with a different opening. Once again he took the horses to keep them above-ground, and James and Caspar were ushered inside.

After the raid, the base was full of people. James had brought his hat this time, and he pulled it down over his face as he kept his head low, ducking through the main room to avoid perception. One of the women who worked on the base -- Mel, Raj's sister -- met them in the entry room quickly, and ushered them down the hall, away from prying eyes.

They were brought into Eve's office, but this time, it felt still.

Gathered around Eve's desk, everyone sat quietly. To his left, was Cyrin Bridger and his partner, Tula Nazar. Across from them were Kirk and Shane, who'd come by earlier, to avoid direct association and suspicion. Missing from the room was Bo -- the one who'd brought them all together.

James hadn't seen the man since Bo had gone into the raid. All he knew was that he made it out.

And Sparrow was dead.

Somehow, miraculously, most of the suns in the base had been left alive. Many of them had been caught by the militia, but many more escaped.

It would've been a feat to carve a path of destruction into the heart of the Gallery. But to manage to spare so many of death... that was another feat on its own.

James had the feeling that Bo was no regular mage. But that was something he had no liberty in knowing.

James and Caspar took the two remaining seats by the door. A split second later, Raj stepped in with a nod, moving to stand behind Cyrin and Tula.

Eve, behind her desk, nodded to everyone in indication that the meeting would begin.

"Thank you everyone for being on time," Eve said calmly as she adjusted a piece of paper sitting on the desk in front of her, glancing down at it. "I've spoken with most of your individually, but this is our official briefing before this plan is underway. Everything has been accounted for within our means, and in two months, gods willing, we will all meet here again with a stolen library and a dragon."

Eve adjusted the piece of paper again, ever so slightly. But she sat tall as she continued.

The plan she laid out had several moving pieces.

James would infiltrate the palace library where the documents and the coffin were kept with the help of Caspar and his in-palace connections. They were responsible for getting the cargo out of the palace.

Once they broke through the palace security under the guise of a supply wagon driven by Caspar, Caspar would meet with Cyrin, Raj, and Tula, who would load up the stolen library onto a separate wagon to take out of the city. Caspar would then go on with the coffin on his own beyond the gate, where he'd meet up with Eve and James. Together the two parties would split the cargo and separately ensure their safe passage back to Ruddlan.

In the interum, while the cargo would be taken out of the city, Kirk would remain in the palace with an active alibi, but temporary evidence as a red herring would be planted at the crime scene, making it look like the theft was his responsibility. It would be the smokescreen needed for those within the palace to get out unsuspected.

That was all after they made it to the Moonlight Kingdom. Until then, Caspar would travel back to the Moonlight kingdom with the King's Hand: including Kirk and James. Tula, Raj, Cyrin, and Eve would travel in a separate party off-grid to the kingdom, taking a faster path so they could make arrangements for the getaway wagons with connections in King's Peak.

Shane was to wait in Ruddlan, ready to recieve the stolen library and sift through it once it came into the base's possession.

There were other updates that were less relevant to James, but meant more to the others in the room.

Jordan would be taking a step back from reconaissance work for a season to restore ties with the Hawking family. Someone named Shay would be working together with Hendrik as the new Leader of the Ruddlan Base. Hild Ashlund, apparently, would be taking Eve's old position as the Rescue Administrator, while Eve stepped into the field of mission work.

But the biggest news (though it didn't seem new news to those in the room) was that Bo was retiring. Apparently he had a family to take care of after the passing of a friend.

With all of the news of active changes and a big, impending mission, the room felt heavy by the time Eve finished.

She rose to her feet, and everyone else rose in turn.

There were no further questions.

"You are all dismissed," she said. "We will head out in two days. Make your preparations, and travel safely."

And, just like that, one by one everyone bowed their heads and began to file out of the room. James would've been quick to follow, but something inside of him hesitated.

If he and Eve were going to be on the same team ushering the coffin back to Ruddlan... he wanted to clear the air.

It wasn't long before the room was empty of all but him, Caspar, and Eve. He cast Eve a brief glance, and then looked to Caspar.

He could see the almost desparate look on Eve's face as she foresaw what was happening already.

"May I--?" he asked.

"No," she said sharply.

Caspar awkwardly looked between the two of them, and there was a stiff pause of silence.

"I'll meet you outside with the horses," Caspar offered.

"Great," James said too-quickly. "I'll see you."

"Right," Caspar said just as stiffly, nodding his head as he slipped out the door and closed it behind him, leaving no time for further interruptions.

"I have nothing more to say to you," Eve said sternly, before James could even get a word in. "Get out of my office."

James sighed, feeling pained -- already weary of having to extend the olive branch. But by gods, here he was doing it again anyway.

"I just want to clear the air," James said placatingly.

"There's nothing left to clear, Tiberius," she said. "I've made it clear where I stand, and you've done nothing but ignore my wishes. At this point you're just being belligerent and anything further we'd have left to say would be redundant. You're wasting my time."

James wilted, but took in a deep breath to try again.

"You've had a chance to say your piece," he said quietly. "But I've yet a chance to say mine. I know you don't owe me anything, but would you at least give me this?"

Eve took in a sharp inhale as she stared at him with her brows knit together and she regarded him with wary suspicion. She pressed her lips together, silent for some agonizing seconds before she finally huffed, tapping her stack of files on the table and setting them back down in quiet indication that she wasn't going to leave just yet.

"You're right," she said, folding her arms. "I don't owe you anything."

James's heart sank.

"Two minutes," she said.

That's what she was giving him.

Not wanting to waste words or time, James took another deep breath, and this time stood a little taller, though he was unable to meet Eve's piercing stare.

"We never have to speak of the festival again," he began without pause. "But it was one of the happiest nights of my life until it ended."

Eve stiffened from the statement.

"I understand your feelings of betrayal and I deeply regret decieving you when it was never my intention to do so," he continued in hopes he could finish. "I know I can't make amends for my past and I don't expect a brighter future, your acceptance of any apologies, nor your pity. I only want you to know that you hold my highest respect and I hold no ill will toward you."

Eve pressed her lips into a thin line. "You say you respect me and understand my feelings of betrayal," she began evenly, "and yet, here you are, once again disrespecting my time." She threw a hand towards him in an accusatory manner. "Do you not think before you act? Do you ever stop to think about the consequences of your actions? Did you not think about what would happen after you revealed the face beneath the mask? Does the future ever cross your mind, Tiberius? Or are you stuck in the betrayal of the past and present?"

James's eyes once again dropped to the floor.

"I... have a tendency to be shortsighted," he admitted. "At the time, I was caught up in the euphoria of not being known for everything associated with my name or title. I know it was selfish."

"It is selfish," she affirmed. "It is selfish to not think ahead and consider how your actions impact others."

His head sunk lower. He was afraid if he apologized, she'd just shoot him down again.

"I'm trying to do better," he said faintly.

Eve crossed her arms, her icy glare unrelenting. "Trying is not enough. Be better."

James couldnt argue with her. "Is there anything I could do to be so?"

She stared him down, glare piercing through him. "Be more honest," she answered steadily. "Who you were contradicts with who you say you are. Which begs the question: who are you, truly?"

I'm not enough, am I?

James could only look up to meet her eyes for a second before looking away. Her stare was relentless. Any amount of confidence he'd mustered for this conversation was quickly dwindling. He couldn't help but worry that it was impossible to please her, and he didn't want this to be how it was with Ingrid, or Carter. He couldn't keep bending himself over backwards to be whatever it is they needed him to be. He couldn't do that with her.

He wasn't perfect, and all he could offer was who he was right now.

He let out a sigh and slumped back into his chair. He leaned forward and ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to think of an answer to get this conversation away from cyclical dissapointment.

"James," he said quietly. "My real name is James."

Doubt colored Eve's face, but he kept going.

There was no 'right' answer here. Only the truth.

"It's the one my parents gave me," he explained. "I changed my name before I went into the army, after my dad died."

James knew he was opening this can of worms, inevitably. He still wasn't happy it was coming around. He ran his hand down his face and leaned back into his seat.

"I was ten, and I ran away from home. At the time, it seemed easier to start over. I was a kid. My poor judgement led me to leave my only remaining family in light of our loss and I couldn't handle the shame of it, so I told everyone I was an orphan. It became a script I kept to for consistency, and for years, I didn't look back. I threw myself into the military with everything I had thinking it'd give me a sense of purpose; instead, it chewed me up and spit me out. My reputation is built on lies, my status was bought with blood, and the only thing I have left is this mission. If you really want to know who I am, I'd rather you knew who my family is. My ties have been cut with them for over ten years, but if anything goes wrong beyond this point I don't want any of this to come back on them. My only hope is that because of my distance, they'll be spared the association with me and any consequences thereafter."

James folded his hands together between his knees and he leaned forward in the chair, looking at the floor.

"The only person who knows of them is Carter Haddon," James said softly. "If he has any love in his heart left for me, he'll keep his mouth shut. But I cannot guarantee that, so... I'm left with you. To ask for a favor I don't deserve, that you could spare some of your resources to ensure their safety."

James flared out his fingers in front of him.

"That's who I am," he said, barely audible.

"That's what you are called," Eve replied back, quieter. "Your family may have named you, but that name does not define you." Relaxing the stiffness held in her shoulders, she clasped her hands together in front of her, studying him. "Who are you, outside of the family you abandoned?"

It hurt to hear her say it so plainly. Abandoned. But it wasn't like she could possibly know she was the first he'd ever spoken of this to outside of Carter. She had no reason to soften the blow, either.

"I'm the subject of more controversy than I ever hoped to bear," he said, staring at his hands. "A soldier, a counselor, a linguist. I'm a poor friend to the few I've kept and a killer of more people than I can bear to count. I think that about sums it up."

"And yet, you have a plan to commit treason against a kingdom you have fought hard to protect," Eve stated.

"Sure," James said faintly. "But you said so yourself; that will never make up for anything. Just add 'traitor' to the list."

"Then why bother?" she asked. "Unless you willingly choose to be a walking contradiction who makes impulsive choices, I fail to see why you are taking drastic measures that do not clearly define your character."

He huffed out a bitter laugh through his nose as the last of his inner fortitude withered away. He pressed his lips into a frown and took in a deep breath to shift his stare from his hands to his shoes. Frustration came with blurry vision.

"Because I couldn't live with myself if I didn't," he said.

There was a stiff silence. Then Eve dared to break it, softly prodding, "Meaning...?"

James swallowed, trying to push through the growing knot in his throat.

"The funny thing about survivors' guilt is... you combine it with remorse, and it's a powerful force..."

Damnit. His throat tightened like a knot, and he knew if he tried to speak again, his voice would break. Hot tears began to flood his eyes and he tried to blink them away in vain. Desperate to collect himself, he lifted his hand to shield his eyes as he kept his face turned downward. His other hand turned to a taut fist over his knee in hopes that the tension would relieve the growing pressure behind his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Eve murmured over his hitched breath. "I pushed too far."

James wished he could come back, too. But the downside to burying everything deep was that it took so much more work to push it down again once it was dug up. He fought against the tears that were building, wishing that this could've happened anywhere else - but especially not with Eve. If he'd had his way, he'd have broken down alone, after all of these storms had passed.

If only he could've hung in there just a little longer.

James lifted his sleeve up, trying to wipe away the tears.

"No, I'm--" he began, his voice wavering. "Sorry. I shouldn't-- you were right, I--"

"No," Eve cut in firmly. "Don't fight me on this. Just..." Finally, she pulled her chair forward, sitting at her desk. "Take all the time you need," she finished softly.

James took in a deep breath, hating it for its quiver. With all of the self control he could summon, he spent the next few moments stifling his cries until they were no more. The end result was a deep pain in his chest, but his eyes were finally dry.

Well... dry enough.

He dabbed them once more with the edge of his sleeve and nodded slightly before he dared to look up. Eve had a pen and paper in hand, seemingly waiting for some indication from him to signal that she was allowed to speak.

"I will grant you the favor," she said with a slow nod. "I'll make sure your family is safe in the fallout of your plans."

James nodded in gratitude. He sniffed and inclined his head to her notepad.

"I can... write down their information for you," he said hoarsely.

It was a dreary summer morning. The sky was overcast. The air was thick. The smell of incoming rain came in on a southward breeze, taunting the first fall rain, and for a moment, when the wind stilled, the world felt small and quiet.

The wagon was all packed.

The time in Ruddlan had felt so short. For all that had occured in a mere three months, it was over as quickly as it began, and somehow, despite having no other choice to be, James didn't feel ready to go.

The rest of the King's hand was gathered on the porch, saying their goodbyes. For most of them, their farewells had already been made earlier that week.

James overheard that things fell through with Fonzi and his summer fling, Mel. It was to no one's pleasure, and no one's surprise. Carter mentioned in passing that he and Hild parted on good terms - but James didn't dig deeper. The only lasting romance of the summer had been between Kirk and Shane; and it was Shane who'd been the only person left to wish them all goodbye, by the end of it. For presentation and security's sake, no one from the resistance could be present to see them off. Those goodbyes had already been made.

After he left Ruddlan, the only person he'd have to lean on was Caspar. And when they parted ways, it'd just be him.

Ingrid had already hurried off into the carriage, but Hellen and Kirk hung back to give Shane dozens of repeating hugs. Carter and Fonzi made polite discussion with the housekeeper, but Carter was the one to call it and pull away to the wagon. He egged everyone on to get moving and finish up.

"I'm going to miss you," Hellen said to Shane as she hugged him one last time.

James stood off to the side, looking at the ground.

There was a chance he'd never see any of them again. He couldn't help but think it.

There was always a chance none of this would work.

"Me too," Shane said, hugging her back tightly. A sad smile lingered on his face, and his eyes had been glistening for a while now. "It's been an honor."

"You take care, and be safe," Hellen said firmly, before pecking him on the cheek and finally ripping herself away, hurring down the porch steps down the paved path.

Kirk drew Shane in silently in her absence, and James briefly met his eyes. He could tell Kirk thought it too: they had no guarantees they'd be back here.

Only hope.

Carter whistled in insistence as Hellen hopped up into the wagon and Caspar stepped up into the driver's seat, grabbing the reins.

"I'll write you as soon as I can," Kirk said softly as he pulled away from Shane with reluctance.

Shane nodded, wiping away a tear from his eyes as he smiled bravely.

"I will too," he said softly. "I've been thinking... When the dust settles up here, and once everything's in order again... I'll try to join you down south."

Kirk seemed pleasantly surprised as he matched Shane's smile. "Well... when that happens, I'll move heaven and earth to help you."

Shane grinned with eagerness and relief. "Then we'll make it happen," he promised, squeezing Kirk's hand with love in his eyes.

Kirk parted from Shane with a final lingering kiss, and as he pulled away, he gave Shane one last adoring look before nodding to James towards the wagon.

"Come on, let's go!" Fonzi shouted from the wagon.

James moved to follow, bowing his head to Shane as he passed, but before he could make it off the steps, Shane pulled him back by his forearm. James stopped and looked back.

"Wait a minute," Shane said, with a sort of quiet urgency. With clear signaling of what he meant to do, he opened his arms, leaned in, and held James in a gentle, tender hug.

James hesitated to hug him back, but when he did, he felt a subtle knot of emotion work its way from his chest to his throat. Were he to relent, he was sure his eyes would've watered.

Instead, he pushed it down and hugged Shane a little tighter.

What he wanted to say was: "I'll see you soon," but for whatever reason, in his gut, he couldn't quite believe it.

So instead, he simply said: "Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Tiberius," Shane said quietly, voice tight. He held him a little tighter before adding in a whisper, "You have everything you need to get through this, no matter how it goes. The bravery, the strength, the determination, the wisdom-- all of it. I believe in you."

James pulled away with the edges of his lips pulled back in a weak smile. He couldn't bring himself to say thank you; it was becoming more difficult to keep the tears at bay.

Instead, he just nodded and met Shane's eyes. Shane was obviously emotional, eyes still watering, but there was a brave, hopeful light in his eyes that matched the faint smile on his face.

James would cling to that hope too, for as long as he could.

One last whistle brought him off the porch, and he followed after Kirk, jogging to catch up behind him. He was the last to step up into the carriage, and he shut the door behind him. Only a second passed after he sat back into his seat that the carriage moved forward, and he was watching Shane wave goodbye from the porch.

The journey out of the Barlowe Estates was quick, and before he knew it, they were passing under the very same gate they'd come through at the start of the summer.

Just like that, all of the bustle of the city was gone, and they were back on the open road.

Across from him, Hellen had already started to fall asleep leaning on Kirk's shoulder. Ingrid, beside Hellen, fixed her eyes outside the other window with Fonzi across from her.

It was Carter who sat beside him, and nudged him in the side.

James glanced over, searching Carter's eyes as Carter searched his.

"It'll be good to be back home, won't it?" Carter asked.

And there was a strange emphasis on the word home that James couldn't ignore.

"Yeah," James said. But in his heart, he didn't agree.

Yes, the Moonlight Kingdom was his life. It was his home. They were his people.

But now, he was forging a new path.

Even if he couldn't, one day, mages would be free.

Alan Alvaro and Lyall Ashlund's stories become intertwined. Following the events of Conway's death, Lyall is turned into the clinic for medical attention, and Alan turns himself to the sheriff to report Conway's death. He keeps true to his promise and tells the truth: that he shot Conway out of self-defense due to extortion and abuse, proven by his inflicted injuries. The processing and aftermath is raw and difficult, but Lyall and Alan heal together. Lyall deeply empathizes with him, and during an especially low point, Alan confesses his love.

Together, they embark on a journey of healing, love, and self-discovery. They move in together and fumble through life. Alan is by Lyall's side when Astrid enters hospice care, and he drops idea that perhaps they ought to marry while she is still alive. To no one's surprise, they passionately committed to the idea, holding a quiet ceremony with their families. When Astrid passes away, they agree to start their marriage with a new chapter, born out of wholeness and peace. Lyall and Alan restart their lives at the Isles where their roots began, running an inn with pink forget-me-nots planted under the sign, symbolizing that they are a safe space for mages. They find humility and happiness in their new life together.

Alistair Alvaro steps into dragonhood under Bo's mentorship, strengthening his magic and discipline. He continually reflects on his new identity, wrestling destiny with self-isolation, vowing to learn from Renerre's legacy. After tremendous grieving, he breaks up with Aisling, wanting the best of her so she may live a full, happy life with someone who ages with her. The twins rekindle their bond, and only Alan knows the full extent of Alistair's truth, who he visits regularly and completely trusts. Alistair commits to building himself up, focusing on health and healing. He spends a considerable amount of time in nature, finding peace with his magic and the future, as well as deep contentment with his budding friendship with Bo and Caspar. Years later, Alistair wonders if he is repeating Renerre's path of loneliness-- that is, until he is given his first directive to look after a certain lost dragon...

Shane Hawking spent the following months reconnecting with Eve and his adoptive brother Jordan, making them once more indistinguishable from true family, before moving to the Moonlight Kingdom to live with Kirk Fayek. After completing his doctorate, Shane married Kirk, and the two of them went on to live happily with their three adoptive children and Shrimp the cat. He became an advisor to King Margrave of Lettera and spent the following years writing a book on the true history of Nye and the Calamity under the alias of Percy Hayes, keeping his identity in secret until the liberation of mages, at which point he and Kirk received wide recognition for their roles in the resistance and reforming society.

James Hawke's mission was fulfilled in King's Peak, and the hidden history and dragon's coffin were secured and brought to Ruddlan. Unfortunately, his own journey diverged as Carter Haddon turned on him, he was made to be a wanted man, and has been on the run for many years... but not for much longer.

Finishing with 505,458 words, I heartily congratulate my LSS crew for their hard work, dedication, commitment, and passion in this project.

Thank you for the long hours, concerted energy, and creative fuel you gave to The Last Ship Sailing competition, this story, and for doing this together. I've been so grateful for this season and this story. I feel lucky that I got to do something like this with such wonderful people and quality writers - you don't get that everywhere.

My heart is full and I'm proud of each of you. Thank you @Carina, @urbanhart, and @silvernight.

You did good. I love you guys.