Under a Waning Sun

Caelan was surprised to encounter Ivy in the hall leading to Uriah's office. He didn't show his wariness, of course, but his guard was up as soon as his eyes met hers.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said. "Not many people get an audience with the Six."

Ivy smiled earnestly, tilting her head as though she were clueless. "Really? We're meeting rather often now."

Caelan shrugged. "Welcome to the club. He getting interested in fireworks these days?"

If Ivy took offense, she hid it well, letting out a low chuckle instead. "No, but he is looking for people willing to get their hands dirty. You know, the ones who will actually do whatever it takes for the Suns. Sometimes, that happens to be fire."

"I suppose so," answered Caelan. "Not just anyone can blow up someone's entire livelihood. Or orchestrate their last moments on Nye in fire."

Ivy shrugged, folding her arms over her chest. "That's why you need the ones who can. I thought you'd get it."

The motion pulled up the hem of her sleeve slightly at her bicep, revealing the point of a blue ray he hadn't seen before, the skin around it red and fierce. Was that her third? It had to be. That put the two of them on equal standing.

"And so he rewarded you by promoting you to Three." Caelan wanted to cross his own arms but he forced them to remain at his sides.

"He sure did." Ivy smiled pleasantly. "I had no idea the position perks were that much cushier. You've been holding out on me. Makes you wonder what it's like to be a Four, no?"

"Indeed," said Caelan, flashing an equally unbothered smile. He was, in fact, very bothered. "The secret's out. I was hoping to keep it to myself a little longer. You're not mad, are you?"

"Mad?" Ivy let out a laugh. "Not at all. Especially if there's more right around the corner."

She was expecting to be promoted again that quickly? Not before him--he'd make sure of that.

"Hmm," said Caelan. "Well, it was good to see you after so long, Ivy. Take care." He brushed past her and continued on his way towards Uriah's door.

"Oh," he added. He turned to fix her with a hard stare, almost a glare, really. "You should try to spend some more time at home. You're leaving Adonis all alone, and he misses you."

She didn't deserve Adonis or any promotions in the Suns.

He turned away again and knocked on the door, calling, "Sir, it's Caelan."

"Caelan!" Uriah echoed amicably. "Come in."

The first thing he saw was Uriah, sitting in the seat he always occupied when engaging in longer conversations with others. His ankles were crossed like anchors.

What had he been discussing with Ivy that would warrant more than a few minutes of his time?

And why was he speaking to both Ivy and Caelan in quick succession?

"You called for me?" said Caelan.

"Yes, there's a matter I'd like to discuss." Uriah motioned to the seat across from him.

Caelan sat down gingerly. It was almost as if the seat was still warm.

"I've already established my favor for you," Uriah spoke evenly. "But that partiality bears intentions: I desire co-heirs to my empire, and at present, there is an empty seat. I need another Five who I can trust, but that responsibility is not doled out lightly. You appreciate candor, so I will tell you simply that I have my eye on you."

Caelan dipped his head. "I'm honored that you'd consider me."

Uriah held up a hand. "But I am also eyeing Ivy. I'm sure you've already heard of her explosive success, eliminating our competition in the area. Her devotion is proving quite promising, and for all your clever wit, I'm in want of something more..."

"In the spirit of competition," Uriah leaned in. "Consider yourself neck and neck."

No way was Uriah doing this. He was actually considering someone who made explosives on equal terms with him? Caelan was intelligent and strategic, and he had many more connections than Ivy. Surely it wasn't hard to see who was already more powerful and useful overall. That wasn't enough for him?

Caelan forced a smile. "I see," he said. "Then I have something to add to that."

"I'm listening."

"That favor you promised me." Caelan leaned forward, looking hard into Uriah's eyes. "I'd like to use it now. Please promote me to Four." He tilted his head slightly. "That's not too difficult an ask, is it?" He let the tiniest edge enter his voice. A challenge.

"Cashing in for a promotion," Uriah hummed. His lips curled into a wry smile. "And I can't accuse you of cheating because it's fair. The favor was an open ask. I'm impressed."

"Great," replied Caelan. "I hope to demonstrate to you how I can handle far greater responsibilities than I am now."

But inside, he was envisioning punching Ivy in the face. Just once.

He would have to figure out how to get her out of his way.

"And I look forward to seeing you lifted out of the grunt-work," Uriah said. "It's been clear to me from the beginning that your strengths would shine best in managerial roles. I'm sure you've grown tired of dealing with the Lowe family."

Caelan allowed himself a smirk. "Their reputation has preceded them for many years, I imagine. But yes, I believe I will be a strong asset to you in managing a part of the Suns. I'm looking forward to it."

"As am I."

He had to stay ahead of Ivy. Unfortunately, it seemed that fate had decided to put them at odds with each other. But he would be the one to impress Uriah. And then, after a little while longer, he would leave this place behind and go somewhere even the Suns couldn't find him.

"How fluent are you in financial literacy?" Uriah asked. "Could I trust you to manage the profits of the lumshade trade in the Sticks?"

"I believe I am well versed in finances," answered Caelan. That, he was confident in. "Plus, I am already involved with the lumshade trade and have connections to all I was liaison to, so everything should fall into place. Anything I don't know, I can quickly learn."

"Then it is so," Uriah said, getting to his feet. "Let me show you your office, and where we keep the ledger."


It was nice, getting to stay in and balance the books instead of going out into the field every day. Caelan could get used to it and the lavish new office he was given. He was also extremely pleased with the "agreement" he had made with Mr. and Mrs. Lowe. His wealth was accumulating exponentially like he had never seen before. He was able to spend his mornings in his office at the Suns base, afternoons out in town networking, and some nights at the Lowe mansion, keeping Cassia wrapped around his little finger.

Power and influence--and the right strategies--really made all the difference in the world. He would be able to leave Sticks sooner if this kept up.

That was, if Ivy didn't block his way.

Caelan had spent many nights since their encounter outside of Uriah's office lying awake, Cassia sleeping nestled at his side, wracking his brain on how to take his newfound rival down. Ideas came quickly to him, but a plan like this needed careful deliberation and meticulous orchestration. Slowly, his plan started to fall into place in his mind.

From whom could he weasel information out of about Ivy and her plans? Someone who would easily bend to his manipulations. It was a no-brainer. Ramona would tell him anything he wanted to know, if he played his cards right. He had already put the idea in her head to tell him about Ivy's whereabouts and moves before.

But next time, he would use a different move on her. Caelan grimaced. He still couldn't believe he had kissed her last time they had met for the lumshade exchange. A light peck was already a lot if it was with Ramona. If they had gone any further than that, Caelan would have spiraled out of his mind in disgust. With her, and their history as children, it was just . . . no.

In the meantime, he'd ask Darren to continue keep an eye on Ivy. Everything she did, everyone she met. All of these things could possibly come in handy one day.

There was a knock on the office door, and Caelan didn't bother looking up as he called, "Come in." He did pull some papers over more confidential ones to cover them up, though.

"Busy as always, I see," Uriah said, closing the door behind him.

Caelan lifted his head, and he shot to his feet as soon as his mind registered who his eyes were seeing. "Sir," he said. "To what do I owe the pleasure? You must be far busier than me."

"I only intend to offer a quick token of gratitude." Uriah reached into his pocket and crossed the room with long strides. He pulled out a small box, and laid it on the table.

"Thank you," he said. "For helping me find my son."

"It was the least I could do," answered Caelan. "I'm more grateful for everything you've done for me." He shrugged. "And I'm sure Silas is delighted to have found his parents after all these years."

"And we are likewise, just as overjoyed," Uriah said with a smile. "Now, go on."

He gestured to the box.

Caelan smiled and picked it up off his desk. As much as he was pleased to receive a gift from Uriah, the idea of opening it in front of the man was one he was not fond of. Opening up some mystery item in front of others was an easy way to be betrayed by unexpected emotions. But he had no choice.

He slowly eased the lid off the box and glanced at its contents. He would have breathed a small sigh of relief if no one were there, and yet, at the same time, he found himself pressing his lips together at the sight. He forced his mouth to curve up instead.

"Just what I was wanting," he said. "They're beautiful. Thank you, sir."

It was a pair of cufflinks. Only, they weren't just a regular set.

"I thought you'd appreciate them," Uriah said warmly. But his undertone cut like a knife.

This was a reminder that eyes were always on him. The cufflinks had dandelions embossed into the silver. Sophie Rhett's favorite flower. Uriah had somehow discovered their significance to Caelan.

"Indeed," he said. "I'll put them to good use."

"That's what I hoped for," Uriah said, patting Caelan's shoulder. "I'll leave you to your work, now."

Caelan bowed his head and then watched Uriah shut the door behind him. He clenched the box in his hand. Then he sat down and pushed the open box to the corner of his desk.

He would make it out of there. Not even Uriah would be able to stop him.

He let out a slow breath and got back to work. But he couldn't quite get rid of the discomfort and eerie sense that formed within him every time his eyes drifted back to the dandelion cufflinks.

He pulled the box closer to him and picked them up. Then, steeling his resolve, he rolled his sleeves down and slipped the cufflinks on.

They suited him--almost too well.

Guard duty never kept Ossie's mind busy, even as it kept his body stationary. It drove him half-crazy, sometimes, his thoughts racing between worst-case scenarios, all while he had to stand motionless. These days, though, he found it comforting--to a point. He'd been thinking more and more about the musicians he had seen in the town square, the more time that passed. The song had wormed its way into his skull, and the words had turned over and over, onto their backs, then their bellies, defensive then vulnerable. He'd been particularly transfixed by the idea of the wishing well not giving the washer woman what she wanted.

As he stood outside the pair of locked doors inside the storehouse, Ossie's mind wandered. He'd been trying his best for a few weeks now to make sure Ivy never crossed his mind. It had worked so far. Any time she flitted across his recognition of existence, he'd turned his attention back to the washer woman. She wanted money for her son, so he wouldn't leave in search of money--but the well said that he would leave anyway. That they always did. What perplexed him most about this was that he wasn't sure he remembered the last time he'd heard of someone leaving the Sticks. If you were here, you stayed. There wasn't a question about it. He had certainly never heard of a child leaving behind a parent in the Sticks. Family stuck together--always. That was a lesson he'd never allow himself to forget again.

"Ossie?"

Ossie's head snapped to the sound involuntarily, every muscle in his body hit with a shot of adrenaline at the sudden call to attention. Ramona was running towards him, and she wasn't wearing shoes. Her bare feet were caked with the red mud of the forest between the base and the town. The look in her eyes was hollow when she slowed to a stop.

"Hey," she said with a tight smile. Her gaze flicked to Rufus, the other guard at end of the hall. "Could I steal you for a moment?"

He didn't hesitate. "Absolutely." If Ramona was asking to speak to him while he was on duty, it had to be urgent. He looked back at Rufus. "You'll be fine, won't you?"

Rufus nodded stiffly. "Just be quick about it. You know they don't like just one on the lab."

Ossie turned back to Ramona and took her arm, guiding her around a series of several corners, before he pulled her into a small, crowded room filled with cleaning supplies and an assortment of empty packaging boxes. He shut the door, then turned back to her sharply, the ache of anxiety beginning to spike in his chest. "What happened?"

Ramona's eyes fluttered, and her smile dimmed.

"I just... made a mistake," she said slowly.

Ossie's eyes flitted across her face, from her eyebrows, slightly drawn down, to her mouth, twisted, to her eyes, conveniently avoiding his gaze. "What kind of a mistake?" Ossie whispered, glancing back again at the door, overcome with the overwhelming paranoia that someone might burst in at any moment.

"I lost it." She stared to the side. "The goods. The gold. The delivery. It was stolen."

"Stolen," Ossie repeated faintly. "Not just... not just the gold, they took the--"

"All of it." Ramona's smile twitched, and she let out a wavering laugh. "And I know the person who took it... has probably used it all. I'm sure it's been long enough by now."

When her smile finally fell, it was with a shaky breath. She pressed her lips together and looked away.

"I should feel guilty," she said. "Asking you to help me."

"No," Ossie said quickly. "No, I'm your brother. It's what I'm here for." Still, his mind swam. How could he possibly get her out of this? Ramona wasn't in the little leagues anymore--if she lost a delivery, then she lost a lot of delivery. And to not only lose the delivery, but the gold from a previous delivery?

He felt nauseous. He wasn't sure if it was just the situation, or the faint smell of stale urine and defacation that radiated off of Ramona like she'd been sleeping at the tent camp for days on the skirts of the Sticks. As he took in the girl in front of him, he realized with a bolt of panic that she was no longer the small child he'd known what felt like only days ago. He couldn't stick her in a cupboard to hide, or carry her around their neighborhood while she coughed her life away. How could he protect her in a place like this, where good and bad were so blurred, and even the good people he knew did bad things? All he knew was he had to try. For himself and his worth as a brother, but also for their shared brother. He owed Hoss that much now, didn't he?

"I'll figure it out," he heard his own voice say. It felt distant, and sounded more confident than he felt. "You don't need to worry."

Ramona's smile returned, but it was unsure.

"I -- Ossie, I don't want to get you in trouble. I just don't know who else to go to. It's only a matter of time before word gets out..."

"I'll figure it out," Ossie said again, firmer this time. He placed both his hands on her arms, just below her shoulders. "You don't need to think about it anymore. Just don't tell anyone else, okay? I'll handle it."

"But what does that mean?" she asked, more urgent. "Do I just--?"

The cool and carefree mask was starting to crack. Ramona's lips trembled. Ossie swallowed, then wordlessly pulled her into a hug, one hand around her torso, another at the back of her head. "It means I'm going to take care of it," he said softly, pressing down the sense of urgency building inside him. "I'm going to make sure nothing happens to you, okay?"

Ramona hugged him tightly, shaking in his arms. She nodded, face pressed against his chest, with less words than felt right, for her.

"Okay," was all she said, barely audible. He could feel her trembles, and the one word rumbled her chest against his. She felt so fragile, suddenly, in a way that he hadn't viewed her before, and Ossie knew that it was true. He would make sure nothing happened to her, even if it meant something happened to him instead. Family was more important than anything. He had to do this for her.

"It's all going to be okay." He massaged the back of her scalp gently, before painfully making himself pull away from the embrace to look her in the eyes. "Don't tell anyone about this, alright?"

She nodded, and her inhale was full of restrained tears.

"I won't," she said.

Ossie nodded and closed his eyes for a moment, catching his breath, then opened them again. He leaned forward and, overcome by a sudden impulse, found himself sweeping her hair out of her face and planting a soft kiss on her forehead. It was something he hadn't done with his younger sisters in several years. He hadn't realized until now that it was missing, or that it had been so long. The wishing well didn't know what it was talking about, he realized. In the end, they didn't all leave. The real family didn't run from each other's problems: they stayed together until the bitter end.

"Just stay... low, okay?" he said. "Don't do anything that'll bring attention."

Ramona stared up at him with tears in her eyes and whispered, "Okay."

Caelan was the one who oversaw Ramona's deliveries, Ossie knew that. He wasn't sure the last time he'd seen him though, and something about him had started an itch in the back of his skull--just hearing his name mentioned, and knowing how quickly he was rising in the ranks. Ossie knew you didn't skyrocket through the Blue Suns by being a good person. No. Even if they'd been friends as children, he couldn't make himself go to him. Caelan was far better at talking to people than Ossie was. If he decided to use it against them, Ossie wouldn't stand a chance.

He'd have to go above him, then. The uneasy feeling was back in his stomach. The only one truly above Caelan was... Uriah. He thought of the tall man with the slicked-back hair and a charming smile that sent every bone in his body clinking against one another like old glass bottles. His mother wasn't known for her nice words, but she'd been particularly loathful towards Uriah. The difference was, he was the only one she whispered about, instead of yelling. It seemed even the most hardened and spiteful in the Sticks felt there was a reason to fear Uriah.

It was what he had to do, though. If it wasn't him, it would be Ramona--and Ossie would always prefer it happen to him than one of his siblings. Even if it was dying... well, Ossie would've traded his life ten times over for Beau's at this point. There was no reason he wouldn't do the same for Ramona.

"Don't worry," he said to her a final time. "It'll be okay."



As he stood at the bottom of the steps, Ossie tried not to let his nerves overwhelm him. He felt a bit like a lamb leading itself to the slaughter, and a mental image of Kyle popped into his head--the goat, not his step-father--starving, weakened, trapped in his pen, making no moves to reach the other side of the fence, even as the wind of an incoming storm swung the gate open. He could run if he wanted--food within reach--but maybe it was his time to finally prove the love he had for his siblings. Maybe if he allowed death to overtake him in this way--sacrificing himself for Ramona--then he'd get to see Beau again. That would be a comfort at least.

The train of thought did not help to settle his nerves.

"Have you been summoned?" the guard in front of him asked, "or do you want to request a visitation?"

Ossie wasn't sure he'd ever even seen this guard before. This was an entirely different security level than anything he'd been involved in. "I want to request one," he said quietly, pushing the words out of his mouth one by one.

The first guard glanced over at the guard to his left, who nodded and started a trek up the stairs, disappearing around a corner. "She'll inquire," the first guard said. Ossie nodded uncomfortably in return, his eyebrows pulling down into a frown. What would happen if he didn't get to speak to him? How could he protect Ramona then? But he couldn't let himself think about that, not yet. He had to do this, and if he couldn't, well... he'd deal with that when he got there. The empty space behind him was his gate. He could turn and walk through it, walk away--but he couldn't. He wouldn't.

Finally, the second guard tromped back down the stairs. "Go up," she said. "He's waiting for you."

Ossie blinked a few times. Of course, this was the best case scenario, even if it ended with him possibly being dead, but Uriah rarely took visitors, from what he'd heard. Most people got turned away, and waited weeks or months to speak to their leader. "Okay," he said. He could feel his voice waver, but he moved towards the stairs anyway. At the top, there was only a single door and two guards flanking it. One opened the door for him, and Ossie ventured hesitantly through the doorway.

Uriah sat on the edge of a single seat amidst couches circling a coffee table. The sitting area was bathed in midday light that spilled through the large windows overlooking the Sticks; a distant collection of worn-down rooftops from his second-story view. The man's mouth turned upward into a small, warm smile that felt unnerving compared to his reputation. In his hand, he held a teapot, and was pouring a cup of steaming tea.

For someone in such a clean tweed suit, with his shiny black hair slicked back, it looked wrong for him to be serving himself.

"Osmond Ferrer," Uriah said like a greeting. "The baker's boy. You're not one I expected to reach out. You've always been quite independent."

Uriah set the teapot down on a mat at the edge of the table and waved to the couch across from him, pushing the teacup towards the empty spot.

"Sit down. Have some tea," Uriah offered.

Ossie walked to the seat unsurely. He wasn't sure the last time he'd really just... sat down to talk with someone. It felt more unnerving, in a way, than simply being able to say what he needed to say and take the punishment. It felt especially unnerving to know that Uriah, who had never met him, knew about him and his family. He's a dangerous man, the voice in his head--who sounded like his mother--whispered. Still, Ossie reached for the cup in front of him--if not to drink it, then to hold it because he wouldn't dare reject something from the most powerful man in the Sticks.

"Ashwaganda root," Uriah said in motion to the tea. "It's calming."

Ossie nodded awkwardly. "Thank you, sir," he said finally.

"Would it help to cut the pleasantries and say what's on your mind?" Uriah asked.

A wave of relief crashed down on Ossie, even as the wave of anticipation rose. "Yes, sir."

"Very well, then," Uriah said gently. "I'm here to listen."

And now here it was. Suddenly, the air in the room weighed in Ossie's lungs like iron. The best plan was likely to just get it out there--say it so it could be over with. "I'm here about my sister," he said, careful to avoid Uriah's intense gaze so he could keep the words flowing. "She made a mistake. I want to take whatever punishment there is for it."

Uriah's brows shot up, and he slowly lifted a hand. "Before you make any decisions for me, how about you let me know what's happened," he said. "Your sister. Which one are you referring to?"

"Ramona Drier, sir." Ossie bit his lip nervously, then immediately stopped.

Uriah bowed his head. "What was her mistake?"

"Someone stole from her," Ossie said. "An addict. They stole the goods and the gold." He forced himself to train his eyes on Uriah's face.

"Ah," Uriah said. The expression that transpired was painfully neutral, and Ossie could not read past the Six's eyes - grey, empty, and calculating. Uriah steepled his fingers between his knees for a moment as he visibly considered the confession in silence. More silence than Ossie could bear.

"Normally," Uriah finally said. "We deal with these kinds of infractions punitively."

Ossie held his breath, and felt his heart speed inside his chest.

"But--" Uriah's eyes softened, and he looked up. "Osmond. Your family... is my family. That is what it means to be a Sun."

The air stuck inside his lungs as he finally drew in a breath--a sharp one. No starvation. No dead goat.

Uriah rose to his feet, and he extended Osmond a hand. He stood up immediately and extended his own. Uriah took Ossie's hand, and then pulled him into a firm embrace with a hard pat on Ossie's back.

"Mercy," Uriah said before pulling away.

Mercy. The word echoed around his brain. The Suns weren't known for mercy, not from anything Ossie had grown up seeing. But maybe... maybe Uriah was different. Or maybe it was different because Ossie was here too. He thought of Juniper, and felt a sad twist of anxiety knot his stomach. Could she have been spared, if Adonis had come and spoken to Uriah about it? But then, maybe what she had done was not merciful, or maybe, her death itself had somehow been a mercy. An uncurable, extremely painful illness? An infected wound she wouldn't recover from? His mind raced with the possibilities.

For a moment, Uriah's gaze lingered on Ossie's bandana, and then Uriah met Ossie's eyes.

"Why do you hide your hair, Osmond?" Uriah asked.

A ripple of shame lapped against Ossie's cheeks. "It reminds people of my father, sir."

A sad, but understanding look softened Uriah's brow. "My boy," he said. "You are the author of your own legacy. What you see as your greatest shame can be your greatest pride. Here -- come. See what I see."

Uriah took Osmond's hand and led him to a floor-length mirror at the corner of the room. Nestled between two curtains, the silver-lined mirror captured the entirety of Osmond's frame: bulky, built out now that they had the extra income for stable food. Dusty, anxious, and just so... awkward. He hated it.

Uriah slowly reached for Ossie's bandana. "May I?"

Ossie nodded wordlessly. A lump rose up in his throat. Uriah gently slid the bandana off of Ossie's hair, revealing the dirtied, greasy red beneath it.

"Within ten seconds of you coming to me, you were willing to risk everything for someone you love," Uriah said. "Sticking out your neck, at risk of beheading, for family."

He watched as his eyebrows in the mirror pulled down. He watched the eyes of the boy hidden there stare back with a vulnerable confusion, a helplessness. He didn't view it as a risk. It was what siblings did for one another. It wasn't some brave act, like Uriah seemed to be framing it. It was just... family.

"This red hair of yours doesn't have to be a reminder of your father's failures. Reshape it. Let it be a signifier of what matters to you most: your passion. Your love for your family. You would do anything for them, and that zeal... you embody the spirit of the Suns, Osmond. That red is the color of devotion."

Uriah offered Ossie his bandana again, but with a strange form of fatherly care.

"Ramona will be forgiven," he said. "I will make sure of it."

The sigh left him completely unintentionally, and he felt embarrassed by it as soon as it did. "Thank you, sir." He looked at the bandana, but for some reason, he no longer felt the impulse to grab it and tie it back on as fast as he could.

"You are welcome," Uriah said, and his hand curled around the bandana before Ossie could take it.

He stepped away.

"I like the red on you," he said as he walked to the door and pocketed the bandana. When Ossie followed him, Uriah stopped just outside the door. "And just remember, Osmond: in a family, we are all our brother's keeper."

It felt like a lifetime had passed since Saoirse’s mother died.

Saoirse only saw her mother's face in her sleep. The details were starting to fade. She'd realized it mid-dream. Mid-nightmare, really. It was an especially unpleasant one. Someone, probably Uriah, had been chasing her. Her mother had jumped between them and Saoirse--

Saoirse hadn't recognized her.

She'd woken up not long after that. Her dreams had never been kind. Even before her mother's death, it'd always felt like something was out there lurking in the dark. Saoirse had learned to live with the feeling early-on. She'd gotten better at it, but there were still some nights where nothing helped. When the fear gripped her tight enough to choke and she struggled just to breathe.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Had been one of those nights, Saoirse thought, only a little bit bitter. She'd been awake for several hours and she had, for the most part, gotten a handle on things. The tears had stopped and her breaths had evened out. Still, it wasn't like she was going to go back to sleep.

The house was quiet. Her father was asleep and her sisters were out in the yard, bringing in the firewood Saoirse would need to cook them all breakfast.

Saoirse watched them through the back windows. She felt hollowed-out, numb, and vaguely nauseous. The thought of cooking right now was repulsive. She didn't know if she could stomach it, but it wasn't like Saoirse would have much of a choice. It was one of her chores – one of her only chores, now that her carvings and fishing lures were turning a profit.

She sighed and turned away from the window, picking up the latest piece she'd been working on -- another chess piece. Her sisters nearly had a complete set. They just needed another few rooks. Saoirse turned the carving over in her hand, whittling at it periodically with the knife she kept tucked under her pallet. The work was tedious but it helped.

Nights were easier when she kept her mind and hands busy. Days were too, but it felt like that was all she was doing these days – keeping busy. It was exhausting and infuriating. Saoirse knew she wasn't healthy, not really, but she was well enough to get restless.

Saoirse knew what she wanted.

All the breathing exercises in the Sticks wouldn't bring her mother back, so she would have to settle for the next best thing. It was just a matter of figuring out how.

Saoirse set down the knife and stood up, stretching her arms up over her head. She had a lot to think over and plenty of time.

For now, she had breakfast to make. At least that wouldn't be much of a stretch -- there was plenty of food in the house these days. Dried fish and porridge could go a long way, even if Saoirse didn't care all that much for the taste.


Breakfast was a quiet affair.
Saoirse grabbed the kettle and a pot. She filled them both with water and set them on the stove to boil, adding a pinch of salt to the pot.

The kettle didn't take long. Saoirse took it off the heat and made herself a mug of tea. Today it was red clover and mullein. The blend was not particularly tasty, but Saoirse'd been sick again and a neighbor had said it might help.

The pot started to boil. Saoirse added the ground corn and another pinch of salt. She stirred until the porridge was the right consistency, then took it off the heat. After a quick break for more tea, Saoirse added some dried fish, set the lid on, and let the steam work its magic.

Saoirse left shortly after eating, slipping out the door with her hunting bag strapped to her back.

Her step-father caught her on the way out. "I know I don't have to tell you," he said. "But be careful. It doesn't hurt to keep an ear out."

Saoirse knew he meant well. Still, she had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. "I'll be careful," she said. "I always am."

She didn't stick around to hear his reply. Her sisters were finishing up with their first batch of laundry, and Saoirse knew it was just a matter of time before they came out into the kitchen for a break. It was best she left before then. They'd ask her what her plans were. Saoirse didn't trust herself to answer. It was getting harder to lie to them.

Her step-dad, though-- he could assume she was hunting all he wanted. Saoirse didn't have the heart to correct him, and it wasn't entirely untrue. She needed to check her traps. It just wasn't what she'd really set out to do.

She spent the morning walking a loop around the woods, emptying and resetting her traps. Not that there was much to show for it.

Nearly all of them were empty -- just some tufts of fur and a single, half-starved squirrel. Saoirse sighed. She slipped it free of the snare and put it in her pack. Strange. The squirrel was fresh enough to still be warm.

She hadn't heard it struggle.

Saoirse took down the snare, coiled the wire, and tucked it in her bag. Looking around, she was suddenly much more aware of the knives hidden on her form. There was one in her boot. Saoirse itched to reach for it. Instead, she sighed. Letting out a slow breath, she stood up and made her way back through the trees, leaving the forest entirely.

The squirrel in her bag wasn't much. She'd foraged some roots too, but it still wasn't much. The squirrel's pelt was too patchy and there wasn't a lot of meat on its bones. Saoirse knew her family had enough food squirreled away that they'd be fine with a poor hunt, but she wasn't sure if that was true for Silas.

She doubted her friend would have any use for it, but it'd at least give her a reason to talk to him. Regardless, something was better than nothing. Maybe he could use the bones in a stew, or the next time he--

Yeah, Saoirse cut that thought short. She walked on in a state of mild alarm.
It hadn't been long since she'd stopped by but somehow, the smithy looked worse than Saoirse remembered. She walked up to the door and took a moment to catch her breath, then lifted her hand to knock.

"Hey," Saoirse called out. "I brought, uh, food. Let me in?"

Silas appeared in the doorway a few moments later. She was surprised to see how disheveled he looked this late in the day, like he'd just rolled out of bed.

"I'm glad to see you," he said, offering a lopsided smile. "I wanted to show you something."

"Oh?" Saoirse smiled back. "Cool, lead the way."

It was chilly inside Morgan's -- er, Silas' -- shack. He gestured for her to sit on the bench as he stuffed a log inside the stove and struck a jagged piece of flint.

Saoirse set the squirrel down in the usual spot and took a seat.

"After we last spoke," Silas began once the sparks took hold, "I ran into him again, on my way back home."

Saoirse went a bit pale. She nodded along anyway, curious.

"It was an accident, I think. He didn't mean to run into me. He said he had just dropped off a package for me, from my mom."

"Huh," Saoirse blinked, a little stunned. That wasn't at all what she'd expected. Not that she knew what she'd even been expecting, other than the worst. "What was in it?"

A wry smile played on his lips. "Stay right there." Silas ducked into the hallway, disappearing into what used to be Morgan's bedroom.

A minute passed. Then another. Silas had been in there for a while. Saoirse looked towards the bedroom, frowning. She didn't like to wait. "You good in there??"

"I'm almost done!" he called back.

When he finally reemerged, Silas had completely transformed -- not into a wolf, but into a completely different person. He was wearing a beautiful olive green tunic with pale blue cuffs and bronze stitching, wine-red trousers, and shiny black boots tied at his calves with buckles.

Silas strode into the room and gave her a spin in front of the stove, followed by a ridiculous little bow.

Saoirse laughed despite herself. The bow was absurd -- like something Caelan might do. But she had to admit that Silas looked nice. "Ooh, high society!" She smiled. "You look awesome, holy crap."

"The shoes are a little big," he said, wiggling a leg, "but I wouldn't expect her to know how big my feet are."

"Maybe you'll grow into them?" Saoirse said. "They look nice. The clothes too-- the stitching alone, I think my sisters would explode if they saw it, it's so neat." She paused, not unkindly. "It's really nice that she sent you something."

"I never thought I'd own anything this nice. When am I gonna wear this? I'm a blacksmith!"

Saoirse didn't know what to say to that. It was a fair point, but she could think of at least one place that Silas' parents might think he'd need to dress up for. Her smile faltered a bit. It was a moment before she spoke. "Was there, like, a note?" She'd seen Silas reading before and figured the Suns had too.

"There was, actually." He seemed sad about it, for some reason. "Hold on, I'll go grab it."

Saoirse nodded.

Silas returned with a small shred of parchment that seemed terribly modest compared to the ornate clothes it came with.

"She stitched it into the lining."

That explained it. Crouching by the stove, Silas began to read the letter out loud.

Saoirse listened intently, her expression growing more grim as he continued. She usually liked being right about things, but this--

She just felt sad and angry. For Silas and Delia and her mother. For everyone else caught up in Uriah's web. It was horrible and overwhelming. She could only imagine how Silas felt.

"Are--" Saoirse started to say something, only to cut herself off. "That's-- a lot."

"Now we know why she gave me up. She hates werewolves."

Saoirse looked at her cousin, stunned. Was he being purposefully dense? "I think she just hates your father."

"For now," he sighed. "She doesn't know yet that I'm just like him."

"You're nothing like him." Saoirse said. "He's a monster 'cause he's a monster, not because he's a werewolf."

The silence that followed was concerning. He didn't seem to believe her.

"Let the wolf be damned," he repeated under his breath, and gazed up at her with haunted eyes. "I don't think I can do that for much longer."

Saoirse sighed. She'd noticed the lumshade; this wasn't news.

"At least there's another way with... him," he said. "He told me as much."

"...What did he say?"

"That he'd mentor me. That he'd love and protect both halves of me." Silas stood and dropped the letter on the kitchen table. "That's more than she can say."

"And you believe him?"

He sank into the chair. "I'm just so tired of running away from it."

Saoirse looked at the ground. She was tired of it, too.

"She thinks that if I run away from here, I'll be free from him forever. But I wouldn't be. I never will be." He rubbed a bruised spot on his arm. "I'm cursed. She got that part right."

"You're a good person, Silas." Saoirse said, softly. "You're a good wolf, too."

A huff of air escaped his nose. He shrugged. "Maybe Uriah could make me a better one."

"He's a murderer and a control freak," Saoirse said, incredulous.

Silas showed his palms, defensively. "You know of any other werewolf mentors?"

"None that didn't kill my mom, no." Saoirse glared at him for a moment, then got up and walked to the door, "and if you don't, we know what that means..."



It was deceptively easy to arrange a letter to Delia. Saoirse spent enough time in the woods to know where the Suns' couriers frequented -- slipping a letter into one of their bags wasn't as difficult as they might've liked to believe.

Finding someone to write the letter? That was the hard part.

Caelan was taller than Saoirse remembered. He'd grown into his features enough that she might have considered him handsome, if not for the smug look he always seemed to wear.

"Caelan," she said. "Fancy meeting you here."

If he was surprised, the only sign of it was a raised eyebrow as he glanced at her falling into step beside him on the path outside of the town proper. "Saoirse," he greeted her. "I could say the same thing."

"Gosh, it's been a few years. Hasn't it?"

"Since Silas's birthday party." Caelan put his hands in his pockets and turned to face her. He slowed his pace and walked backwards, keeping his large hazel eyes on her in a way that almost seemed disinterested. "It's been three years. I doubt you're here for a social call." He spread his arms at his sides. "I've been around, you know. It would've been easy for you to find me, say hello?"

"One of my life's regrets, truly." Saoirse gave a faux-sad smile. "I'm sure you've been devastated."

Caelan chuckled. "So let's cut to the chase then. There's something you want from me."

"You always were clever," Saoirse said. Her smile almost reached her eyes. "I need you to write something for me. A letter."

"Ah, my specialty." Caelan also smiled, though Saoirse couldn't read the expression in his gaze. "I certainly can write one of those. But these are hard times." He stopped and bent to draw his face closer to hers. "What can you give me to make it worth my while, Wolfbait?"

"Yeah, it's such hard times out here in the Sticks." Saoirse said, leaning closer and batting her eyelashes as sarcastically as she could. "Almost makes you want a way out, doesn't it, gold digger?" She glanced towards the house nearby. A grand building. Cassia's home.

Caelan looked over his shoulder at the mansion and back at Saoirse. "I have no idea what you mean," he said with a nonchalant smile. "This isn't the way out of Sticks, silly. And I'm on official business."

"I'm sure," Saoirse said. "But wouldn't it be nice to have one, just in case?"

"Hmm." Caelan's long lashes fluttered slightly as he looked down and pressed his lips together, making a show of contemplation. When he lifted his eyes again, there was a small glint in them. "You have a way out of this place, but you would rather offer it to me in exchange for a letter?"

"The letter is for Delia Pretorius," Saoirse said, cocking her head to the side. "I think it'll be a good incentive."

Caelan mirrored her head tilt. "Funny you'd ask me when I work so closely with Uriah."

"Yeah, well. It's hard times."

"It's a cruel existence in Sticks," Caelan murmured softly, almost just to himself. His expression grew distant for a moment, but then he smirked and raised his chin. "Good thing I'm an excellent forger. Learned from the best. No one would ever know who actually wrote it."

"Well then," Saoirse smiled. "Do we have a deal?"

"Bring me assurance of a way out of Sticks," said Caelan, "and you'll have your letter." He extended his right hand.

Saoirse clasped his hand and shook.

"Good doing business with you for once, Bear-trap."

"Likewise, Prince Charming."



Getting Caelan his way out of Sticks was the easy part. Saoirse knew her brother had contacts who owed him a favor. Riley worried for her. She only needed to ask him once.

Saoirse didn't like lying to him. It left a twisted, hollow feeling in her gut. But their mother was dead and lying wouldn't change that. What Riley didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Soon enough, she had a name. Saoirse found Caelan the next day and relayed the information.

"-- Leo Ramirez, Captain of The Wailing Serpent, a ship in the Western Isles' navy. Tell him 'Tuna on Rye' sent you and is cashing in the favor."

The letter was in her hand in less than a week. Saoirse slipped it into the courier's bag and waited. And waited.

When a courier found her, Saoirse had just about given up hope of a reply. It took all of her self-control not to pull a knife.

"Hey, you're Saoirse, right?"

"Yeah."

Saoirse eyed the courier, seizing him up. He was shorter than Caelan, but taller than her -- not that that was a challenge. Slim in a way that suggested a lot of exercise, with expressive brown eyes. He didn’t look like a Sun. Saoirse supposed they rarely did.

"Got a letter for you," he smiled and held it out. "Special delivery."

Saoirse's eyes widened. She took the letter and picked off the seal, looking it over. There was less written than she'd hoped. Not that she could make any of it out. Ugh, she hadn't thought about that.

Asking Caelan was out of the question, and she wasn't sure if she could trust Silas with it -- she was still a bit mad at him.

"Thank you," Saoirse said, glancing at the courier. The Suns kept their people educated enough. "What's your name?"

"Darren."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Darren."

"Nice to meet you too," Darren said, smiling.

Saoirse smiled back, much more genuine than she would have liked. It was rare for people to treat her like this --like something besides a freak. Neither of them spoke. For the first time in a long while, Saoirse found the silence comfortable.

It was a moment before she spoke.

"Can I ask you something?"

Darren blinked. "Sure. I mean, can't say I'll have an answer, but yeah, sure."

"Can you tell me what this says? I can't, um..." Saoirse looked to the side. Most of the town was illiterate, but it still felt like some sort of shame. "I can't. And I don't really have anyone I can ask."

Darren gave a small smile. "Sure, Saoirse. I can do that."

She passed him the letter.

The letter, for better or worse, wasn't revealing. Just entirely disheartening and angering. Another dead end for Saoirse.

Darren cleared his throat."Saoirse," he read. "It would be to our mutual benefit that you never reach out to me again, but please know I grieve for you and your mother every day. I'm sorry. Do not reply."

Saoirse stared at the ground. She took a deep breath, in and out, before she looked back up again. "Thanks, Darren," she said, trying not to let herself cry. "Seriously, thank you."

"Don't mention it." He handed her back the letter.

Saoirse tucked it in her pocket and took another deep breath. "I need to get home," she said, voice a bit more steady. "Take care, yeah?"

"Yeah," Another small smile. "You too, Saoirse. Take care."

It was a long, quiet walk home.

Silas had inherited Morgan's habit of holding onto everything. In a corner of the smithy, a barrel housed bits of broken tools; in a crate under the bench, receipts, pamphlets, and other scraps gathered dust and mouse droppings; and at the end of the hallway a loose floorboard covered several dozen glass vials, empty.

Clink. One more for the pile, and hardly room for another.

The floorboard groaned shut and Silas got to his feet, dusting off his pants. He hoped Ramona would be by that night, else he would have a rough go of it. He'd tried to stretch out the last hit until morning, but another nightmare had broken him. As he readied the syringe in the dark stillness of the night, he promised himself he'd go and find her himself the next day.

It was now late morning and Silas was in no mood to leave. Languid and pathetic, he spent an hour with Kyle in the goat pen, picking at the dirt beneath his fingernails and wallowing in boredom. A group of kids chased a dog down the alleyway, their laughter growing louder. Squinting in the sunlight, Silas watched their shadows flick by, one by one, clouds of dust settling in their wake.

It was a beautiful, cloudless day, and he missed his friends. Saoirse didn't want to talk to him right now, and the rest . . . they were all busy and important, happy to do Uriah's bidding.

Would it really be so bad to wander near the base, and see if Caelan was free, or if Ossie was posted at the gate?

After scrubbing his hands and splashing his face in the wash basin, Silas put on the pair of wine red trousers and an old but clean white shirt, then tied a bandana around his head and strapped on his gloves. The pimpled reflection in the scuffed up mirror wrinkled its nose, but then it stepped back and squared its shoulders and nodded.

Silas didn't dare admit it, but most of all, he hoped he would see his father.

The incriminating floorboard creaked under his boots as he headed out.



There were two guards posted at the gate, and no familiar faces in sight.

Swallowing the dust in his throat, Silas stepped forward. The female guard offered a tight smile. "I'm looking for Ramona Drier," Silas said.

A flash of pity softened the guard's face. "Can it wait? She'll be doing her rounds tonight."

"No, no, I'm not—" Silas raised his hands, painfully aware that the gloves only made it look worse. He put them down. "She's my friend. Something urgent came up."

"I see." The female guard looked pointedly at the younger one, who seemed reluctant to meet her gaze. When he finally did, glowering, he sighed, shot a disgusted glance at Silas, and stomped off into the base.

"He'll fetch her for you," the remaining guard assured Silas.

Gods, they all knew he was a good-for-nothing lumbum. Silas wanted to melt into a puddle and slip between the cracks, never to be seen again. Instead, he thanked the guard and waited.

It felt like he'd been standing there forever before he saw Ramona, trotting up with her long braid bouncing behind her. A smile came to her face when she saw him, crinkling her eyes. The day's melancholy evaporated - it was good to see her.

"Thanks, Dana," she said as she slipped out the gate and poised her hands behind her back, swishing her shoulders. "Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Si," she sing-songed up to him.

"Sorry, I hope you weren't busy with something."

Her smile shrank, but didn't wane. "Never too busy for my favorite customer."

"Not so loud!" Silas winced, his shoulders nearly touching his ears.

Ramona's grin disappeared, and her eyes softened. "Sorry," she said sincerely. "I..."

With a glance back at the gate, she took Silas's hand. "Wanna talk over here?" she asked, but didn't wait for his answer. She drew him behind a hedge of bushes and then pulled away.

"I forget you're still shy about it," she said quietly.

"So you're saying the others aren't?"

Ramona's mouth hung open for a moment. Then she laughed, and playfully patted his cheek. "You're better than most, is all. Are you alright? Did you run out?"

Better than most was reassuring, at least.

"I tried to make it last," Silas confessed, "but . . ." He shrugged. "Last night was hard."

Ramona bit her lip, and nodded in understanding. Dipping her head, she slid her hand inside her jacket and gingerly procured two vials.

"I'm sorry it was hard," she murmured as she held them out. "I... don't like to think of you in that state."

Silas was so glad to see the vials that he could've kissed her, but he went for the hug instead, embracing Ramona while she was still holding the vials. "You've always got my back, Mona," he said over her shoulder. "Thanks."

Ramona hugged him back - loosely at first - then a tight embrace.

"Of course I do," she said. "Why wouldn't I?"

Silas pulled away. He took the vials and slipped them into his pocket, but couldn't make eye contact with her. "Well, the others don't, not anymore. It feels like it's just you."

All the others had grown up and left him in the dust. It was funny, because it'd felt like Silas had been the first to grow up, the first to have a real job and earn real copper pieces. He'd been the one too busy at the smithy to meet his friends in the forest.

The roles were reversed, now, but Ramona was different. She hadn't grown up, not fully, anyway. She was still goofy and playful, and she still found the time to be his friend. He wondered if those things were connected - if the others were too mature, too serious, to sustain the bond between themselves and the ragged orphan they used to chase goats with.

He looked up, and there was something oddly steady in the way Ramona was watching him.

"Well," she said softly. "You'll always have me. I promise."

He believed her, and his heart swelled with gratitude.

He'd thought he'd always have Saoirse, too, but right now they weren't talking, and it didn't seem like her simmering anger was ever going to dissipate. Silas felt that with time they would work through it, but right then, his cautious curiosity about his dad and Saoirse's ignitable hatred of him were at odds with each other.

Uriah was an enigma. Despite Saoirse's voice in his head, begging him to turn around and flee, Silas remained rooted.

Ramona seemed to be doing fine, and she was working under Uriah's shadow all the time. Squinting, Silas looked up at the stucco building towering over them through the leaves.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Go for it."

"Are you happy in the Suns?"

Her lips curled into a grin as she huffed through her nose. "You know, happier than I thought I'd be. It's funny how all the stories we heard as a kid aren't really true."

See? Silas told the Saoirse voice in his head.

"How so?"

"Grown ups were always saying the Suns would wring you out and hang you out to dry," Ramona said. "But all I've experienced is people believing in me and looking out for me, even when I don't deserve it. That's a hell of a lot more than I can say for my own parents."

Silas hummed thoughtfully. He opened his mouth and closed it, then bit back his apprehension and cut directly to the heart of it. "How about Uriah? Is he nice to you?"

"I don't get many moments with the big guy," she said. "But every time I have, he's been nothing but kind to me. Haven't had any other bosses, so I don't know much else, but it feels like family. At least, what I'd like to think family should be like."

Family.

"That sounds nice," Silas said, half to himself.

"Are you... here to join?" Ramona asked, jolting Silas out of his thoughts.

"No, it's just that . . . like you said, it seems like it's not as bad as everyone says it is. Not something to be scared of."

"Well, think of it this way: I figure, if you came all this way just to see me," Ramona said, taking half a step closer to him. "You've already got the courage, so maybe it's worth going through the gate and making it official. You'd have an excuse to be around your friends more, anyway. It's kind of fun, getting to work alongside each other."

That part he wouldn't mind. But Silas hadn't put on his fancy pants just to come and see his friends, and he wasn't here to get singed. He glanced up at the building again and his stomach leaped.

Don't do it, Saoirse hissed. Run!

"What do you say?" Ramona asked with a lilt in her voice.

Trying to act as unenthused as possible even though his heart was beating a mile a minute, Silas shrugged. "If you're able to let me in, sure. Guess it wouldn't hurt to look around."

"I think I could work something--"

"Mona!" a voice shouted.

Ramona went rigid. "--Later. Soon?" she brushed her hand over his.

Dammit. "Yeah, soon. Of course."

"I'll be back as soon as I can, I just-- coming!"

One more shout, and she darted without another word of apology. Breaking through the hedge, she left Silas with the lumshade, hidden behind the leaves.

The courage he'd mustered shattered all around him. Groaning, Silas collapsed in the dirt, a cloud of dust enveloping him in disappointment.

Shaded by the hedge, Silas waited for his hammering heart to slow down before he got up and started to head back home, hands stuffed in his pockets.

It feels like family.

Silas ached to know: what did family feel like?

Was it a wildflower bouquet, and a package of beautiful clothes? Was it the way a mother sent her baby away, to keep him safe? Was it the wistful, shining eyes of a father finding his long-lost son?

Silas stopped.

Against his better judgement, he reemerged from the line of hedges and strode again towards the gate.

"Dana, was it?" he said to the guard. "Could you get me in to see Uriah?"

Better to spit it all out at once before he changed his mind. Unfortunately, Dana spat back at him with a sputtering laugh. It only died when she realized he was serious.

"No," she huffed. "You don't just get an audience with Uriah."

"He might bend the rules for me a little," Silas said. "I'm--"

"Listen, if you've got an issue with 'Mona you can air it out to me and I'll pass it along," Dana said tiredly.

"Oh!" Silas laughed. "No, no, Ramona's great."

"Then what's the issue?"

Fiddling with the vials in his pocket, he searched for just the right words. "I have a feeling Uriah would be upset if you didn't tell him Silas came by, is all."

Dana's brows pinched together in a moment of fear and contemplation. The risk assessment was visible when the curl of her upper lip shifted to a reluctant frown. With a huffed "Fine," she sent the other guard off to notify Uriah of Silas's presence. The look she gave him in the minutes that followed was one of impatience - waiting to be proven right. But the guard she sent away returned promptly, practically sprinting back to the gate.

"Uriah says to let him in immediately," the other announced in haste.

Dana's pride died in her eyes when she opened the gate in confusion. The other guard watched Silas with curiosity and pointed him to the middle of three large buildings.

You enter that base, you've made your decision. Saoirse's voice rang in his head with words she meant to say last they spoke.

But it feels like family, Ramona insisted, even though she wasn't there.

"Come on," Dana said, this time with a smile. "If Uriah wants to see you, you must be really important to him."

A sweat broke out on his forehead as he followed Dana across the first floor of the building and up a flight of stairs. Ramona's voice was silent, but Saoirse's was as loud as ever, clamoring for him to turn and run while he still had the chance. They passed by a window, and Silas felt the crazy urge to throw his weight at it and flee. The air that filled his lungs was stale and hot; the stucco walls were impossibly tall and thick; the stairs seemed to go up and up forever.

"Uriah is waiting for you," a tall, broad man said at the top of the stairs. "First door on the left."

Silas nodded and clumsily reached for the doorknob, palms sweaty but mercifully covered by gloves.

Squinting in the light that spilled from Uriah's office, Silas saw immediately that it wasn't as he'd conjured in his dream; there was no giant map of Nye, no glimmering chandelier. Instead there were big windows, red curtains, beautiful couches, and a chess board.

Uriah was on his feet the moment Silas entered. His sleek, black suit was sharp and tailored, and his tie was an emerald green. A full smile graced his features as he extended a hand.

"Silas," he said, like the name was worth more than gold. "I'm so happy to see you. Please, make yourself comfortable wherever you'd like."

Should he find himself trapped in here, Silas made a second quick sweep of the room: a letter opener on the desk in the corner caught his eye, as did a kettle of boiling water on the wall.

Silas picked a seat closest to the door, and Uriah sat across from him.

"What brings you here today, my son?"

I wanted to come see for myself if you're really as bad as they all say you are, was the real reason. "I was just visiting a friend," he said instead.

"Ah, one of your childhood friends?" Uriah asked with a small smile. "Which one?" He said it like he knew who they all were.

"Ramona Drier."

"One of our runners," Uriah said. "I hope it went well. She's surprisingly cheerful, especially considering her recent issues."

Silas sat up a little straighter. "Issues?"

Uriah's brows shot up, and he leaned in with concern. "Oh, I'm -- I'm sorry, Silas. I thought she would've told you. She lost a considerable amount of money the other day. I believe she was attacked while meeting with a new client. It's been a rather unfortunate ordeal on all sides."

Silas paled. He knew the lumshade business was dangerous, but Ramona had always assured him she was safe and it was no big deal. "Attacked? What did they do to her?"

"I... will be honest and admit, I do not know the extent of the assault outside of what little she revealed," Uriah said quietly. "She seems to have a tendency to dismiss issues, especially when they are shameful in nature. But rest assured, we've done all we can to take care of her, now. Her brother Osmond has stepped in to help keep an eye on her to make sure something like that never happens again."

"I'm glad she's okay," Silas said, troubled. He wished she had told him what was going on, but at least Ossie had her back.

"It's just been chaotic," Uriah added. "I've had to sort out this debacle rather quickly, because I'm leaving for a week in three days . I wish it were not so -- if you desire to come again soon. But I will not be gone long, and as for the issue, well, now it's just a matter of balancing the --"

A knock cut Uriah's sentence short, and he raised a brow toward the door. Leaning back in his chair, he shot Silas a small smile. "Speaking of which, I have a meeting right now, but I believe you two already know each other."

Who would Uriah have a meeting with that Silas knew? An old blacksmithing client of his? Adonis?

"Come in, Caelan! We have a special guest," Uriah called.

Caelan?

As soon as he entered, his eyes landed on Silas. His smile remained unwavering as he gave a small bow to Uriah. "Hey, Silas! I was wondering when you'd finally show up."

Silas' mouth was open, but no words came out. Caelan . . . knew?

"You wouldn't mind Silas sitting in on our meeting, would you?" Uriah got to his feet, and Silas compulsively followed suit.

Caelan shrugged. "You're the boss. I don't have any problems with it, either." He walked over and sat on Uriah's other side like it was second nature. "Then let's get to it."

"Good," Uriah said. "Here's the situation: the Sticks' top runner took a heavy loss, and we're down 500 silver. I'm overlooking this mistake as a mercy, but we will have to compensate for it regardless. You trained under Adonis, so I believe I could trust you with some letter alterations, correct?"

Caelan's expression froze, with the exception of the tiniest tightening around his mouth and jaw. Then he blinked slowly and nodded. "I can certainly do that."

It was weird for Silas to see his ever-confident friend genuinely intimidated by someone else. Silas could smell Caelan's anxiety, and he realized with a start that Uriah, also a werewolf, probably could, too.

"That's what I wanted to hear," Uriah said, pulling a paper folder off the coffee table. "So, in the name of balancing the books, I've outlined the changes that need to be made in these notes. But it requires precision. This is correspondence with high-level clients outside of Sticks. I'll give you a moment to look it over."

Caelan flipped through the papers. He paused and leaned in closer, pointing at some of the words on one of them. "So, right here, we would want to . . ."

With the conversation turned away from him, Silas' head began to swim and he lost focus. His eyes followed the intricate patterns in the rug at his feet as a drop of sweat slid down his back. The vials in his pocket were absurdly tantalizing.

What was he doing here? He didn't belong in this office. This was the world of the Caelans and the Ivys - he might be Uriah's son biologically, but Silas was raised by a blacksmith. He needed to be doing something with his hands.

Uriah and Caelan stood. Silas blinked, realizing he had completely missed the rest of their discussion.

"Thank you, Caelan," Uriah said, shaking Caelan's hand. "I'm glad I can trust you with this."

"I'm glad to be of service," he said. "I'll get started on this right away. Let me know if you need anything else for this." He stepped towards the door.

"I'm going to head out too," Silas said, getting to his feet.

"Thank you for coming by, Silas," Uriah said with a smile. "It's been good to see you."

Silas smiled back, surprised. He'd expected greater resistance.

"You're always welcome to come by again," added Uriah. "I'll let the guards know so you never have another hassle."

"That'll be nice, thanks." He bowed his head and left with Caelan.

Caelan closed the door behind him and began to walk away from Uriah's office with a brief glance at Silas.

"Hey!" Silas said, half-jogging to catch up, "Wait a minute."

Caelan slowed his pace but didn't stop. "Are you planning to stay for a bit?" he asked, though he didn't seem entirely interested in Silas's plans.

"No, I uh--" Silas shook off the answer his friend didn't want to hear anyway. "Caelan! You knew?!"

"Yeah, I figured it out." Caelan shrugged. "It wasn't that hard to connect the dots."

"Does anyone else know?"

"Is it something you don't want anyone knowing?" asked Caelan. He raised an eyebrow.

Silas took a deep breath, feeling hurt and confused. "Doesn't matter anymore, I guess." Didn't Caelan care about him? Why didn't he want to talk about something as important as who his dad is? "Where are you hurrying off to?" he asked.

Caelan's jaw clenched. "To track down someone for making a mistake. One that requires me to clean up after her." He looked at Silas again and forced a relaxed smile. "Your secret is safe with me, friend. Uriah came to me to ask after you, so I doubt anyone else has found out. He trusts me, so I intend to keep that up." He sighed. "Sorry, I'd love to stay and talk, but what you heard just now is urgent business that needs my attention. Come find me next time you come by." With a wave, he quickened his steps down the hall.

"Darren!" Silas heard him call to a younger boy standing further away. "Do you know where Ramona is?"

The boy stood up straight and practically saluted. "Last saw her just outside the dorms, sir!"

Dragons above, they treated Caelan like an army general around here! Silas watched as he disappeared down the stairs, leaving Silas alone with his father's office at his back.

Silas felt miserable for taking the vials from Ramona when she'd just been in the middle of such hot water surrounding all of it. He had a vague understand that what she did was dangerous, but of course he'd had no idea she'd made such a critical mistake. She'd been let off the hook, but now Caelan was about to confront her, possibly in public, and the idea made Silas furious. Caelan and Ramona were friends.

Without another moment's hesitation, Silas slipped down the hall, following Caelan's footsteps.

Caelan reached an area outside of another building where many people were congregating and talking, relaxing, and playing games. He scanned the crowd for a minute before he started weaving through the throngs. He stopped at a large group and placed a hand on someone's shoulder.

Ramona's red hair cropped into view when a man moved his head down. She turned around, and her smile looked more forced than Caelan's, but Silas couldn't hear what she said over the chatter. He had to get closer. Muttering an apology, Silas brushed past a circle of friends and picked his way to a pillar nearby his friends, where he could watch from the shadows.

"I'm afraid I can't," said Caelan in response to her words. "I'm on official business from Uriah, and I need to see you for a report." His smile grew wider.

The eyes of every sun around them locked onto Caelan and Ramona, and Ramona's smile faltered.

"Oh, sure, of course! Benny, why don't you play in my stead," Ramona said, pushing a younger man into her seat as she got up. "Lead the way, Cae."

Caelan gestured back towards the direction he and Silas had just come from. "Let's go to my office," he said, and he glanced around at the other players watching. "Have fun without us," he told them. "I want to know who won later." He put up a hand in a small wave and stepped out of the crowd with Ramona.

Silas watched from a distance as Caelan and Ramona ducked back into the building with Uriah's office. Feeling more apprehensive about eavesdropping inside a building he barely knew, Silas steeled himself and followed.

Trying not to make eye contact with anyone, Silas didn't clock that the figure approaching the same doors was an old friend until they almost ran into each other.

"Silas?" Ossie paused in his path, blinking a few times before smiling. "What're you doing here? It's been awhile."

"Ossie." Silas smiled in between catching his breath. "It's good to see you. I'm just . . ." He faltered, not sure if he should pull Ossie into this after everything he already did to help Ramona. "Ramona needs me," he decided, waving to the door.

"Whoa, wait." Ossie grabbed Silas' arm and pulled him back sharply, then hesitated, as if realizing what he was doing. "Sorry," he said sheepishly, letting go of him. "Just... what's going on with Ramona?"

Silas was touched by Ossie's protectiveness, but felt suddenly even more apprehensive of letting him in on what was happening. He didn't want Caelan to end up with a black eye. But he also didn't want Ramona to get in trouble for something that wasn't her fault. Everyone makes mistakes.

"Caelan wanted to talk to her," Silas said. "About what happened. Didn't seem too happy."

Ossie frowned, before recognition dawned across his face. Silas wasn't sure he'd ever seen his face ever get even close to a scowl before, but he watched now as Ossie's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. He shook his head and muttered something incoherent under his breath as he pushed past Silas and headed straight towards the stairs, beginning a jog up to the second floor.

At least Silas didn't have to worry about navigating a new building anymore; Ossie seemed to know exactly where he was going. Silas followed at a brisk walk, side-eyeing the suns in the cafeteria who had glanced up from their meals. "Ossie!" he hissed. "Slow down!"

Ossie ignored him, weaving through the hallways with precision, until he reached a door that Silas could only assume was Caelan's--because without so much as a knock, Ossie burst through it. "You don't have the jurisdiction to punish her for anything!"

Ramona whirled around and Caelan looked their way with an expression that was somewhere between a smile and a grimace.

"I'm not being punished!" Ramona blurted. "Oss, it's fine!"

"Last I checked, Uriah told me this office was for my private use," said Caelan with a frown, looking Ossie up and down briefly before his gaze slid past him to Silas in the doorway. "I can't do my work in peace around here, Osmond?"

"I talked to Uriah personally," Ossie said, one of the hands at his side balling into a fist and then relaxing again. "She's pardoned. You have no right to do anything."

Ramona's eyes went wide, scanning Caelan, Ossie, and Silas with bewilderment.

"You what?" she asked quietly.

Ossie bit his lip, then let out a breath and said again, "I talked to him personally. He said you were forgiven completely. Which means no repercussions." This last sentence, he aimed at Caelan, tone hardening into stone.

A small smirk spread over Caelan's mouth. "I wasn't doing anything of the sort," he said lightly. "Uriah filled me in and gave me the task of fixing this." He shrugged. "I was just having a private talk with Ramona so we can make sure this doesn't happen again. Lessons learned for next time and all since she reports to me. I can't help if you misunderstand, but this is part of my job and hers."

Ramona jumped to her feet and held up her hands.

"Ossie," she said like a horse-wrangler, soothing his nerves. "I'm okay." She reached over and took Ossie's hand, patting and holding it firmly. "Everything is fine, thanks to you."

She dropped Ossie's hands, and Caelan stepped closer.

"I'm a little hurt that you think so little of me that you'd assume I wanted to punish Ramona," added Caelan. He looked into Ramona's eyes with perhaps the softest expression Silas had ever seen him make as he said, "I could never bring myself to do that to her."

It made Ramona blush, but with everyone's eyes on her, she dropped her gaze to her feet.

Silas could hear Ossie's breath catch in his throat, even from a few feet away. The room buzzed with a dangerous silence, as Ossie watched Caelan with the closest thing to pure anger Silas had ever seen him have. "I know what you are," Ossie said quietly, his voice hovering in a low gravelly hum. "I know the kinds of things you think. I don't care about your rank."

"Oss--" Ramona pleaded.

"Stay away from my family," Osmond said, so quiet it whispered through the room. "If you don't, I'll do whatever I have to. I don't care if I die because of it." Silas believed him.

Caelan looked at Ossie and sighed. "I don't know exactly what you think I am, but I am very sincere towards Ramona. To all of my friends, in fact, including you and Silas." He shrugged again and said, "But I have a job that Uriah trusts me with, so I'm trying to do that job while looking out for you guys, too. No need to jump all the way to saying you'll die." His voice lowered and he looked down. "You shouldn't talk about dying so lightly."

"I don't say anything lightly," Ossie stated.

After a brief silence, in which Caelan stared hard back at Ossie, he replied, "Then maybe you should think less of dying and try living for your loved ones instead. I'm sure they'd rather have you alive and with them than cold and dead in the ground." He adjusted his cufflinks, which Silas noticed were unique in that they were in the shape of dandelion flowers.

Caelan's voice grew light again as he said, "Well, if you have nothing productive to say to me, I have to get to writing some letters for Uriah." He smiled at Ramona. "You can go. Just be careful in the future and let me know if you need any help."

Ramona smiled faintly, and nodded at Caelan. "Alright," was all she said as she stepped out into the hall.

When the door closed, Silas was left with Ossie and Ramona in the hallway.

"That went well," Silas said.

"It actually did," Ramona said with the same small smile. "But... Oss."

Ossie was staring off into space, and she had to rest her hand on his shoulder to get his attention. "Thank you," she said. "You really shouldn't have done all of that, but... thanks. Okay?"

He stared at her for a moment, before he said, "I told you I'd take care of it. He had no right to try to confront you alone. Uriah said he forgave you, that should have been enough. He shouldn't have..." he faltered.

"He was just trying to fill in the blanks of some information," Ramona said. "Since he balances the books now. He's not my bully, Ossie. But you're a very good anti-bully, and I love you."

She patted his arm more intently. "Maybe a walk would help? Or a run? Blow off some steam?"

Ossie's eyes trailed blankly across the hallway, before they focused again. "Yeah," he said finally. "I've got someone I need to go talk to anyway." He turned back to Ramona. "I love you too," he said softly. "And I meant it. If he causes trouble... I don't know, he makes me... uneasy." He forced a long sigh, before he turned to Silas. "I'm sorry. Not the most fun reunion. But it was good to see you. And I'm glad to see you."

Ossie watched him sincerely. It looked like he genuinely meant it.

Silas nodded and gave a small smile, glad to be on Ossie's good side. "I'll see you around, Ossie."

Ossie paused and watched him for a second, then pulled Silas into a fierce hug. He stayed there for a moment, then pulled away, setting off down the hallway without giving Silas a second to react or say anything about it. When he disappeared, Ramona searched Silas's eyes with a look that was unreadable. Instead of speaking, she offered her hand, and tilted her head to the side.

Silas exhaled, shaking off the lingering tension in the air, and took Ramona's hand. "You okay?" he asked.

She didn't say yes or no. Instead, she squeezed his hand and led him down the stairs. With a few glances back at him, she brought him outside, around the building, and all the way out into the trees behind the base, far out of anyone's earshot.

It was then, that she finally released his hand and looked down at their shoes.

"I'm okay," she finally answered.

But it didn't feel like it was true. Away from the scents and sounds of the suns, the tang of fear was in her sweat, and her pulse was undeniably rattled.

"Tell me the truth," he said, gently.

Ramona scrunched her head down to her shoulders. "It's all just... really embarassing to talk about, Si. I made a big mistake and everyone else is paying for it. There's nothing okay about that, but I can't change anything."

"We don't have to talk about it," he said. "Everything's okay now. I'm sorry you went through that."

Ramona swayed forward and bonked her forehead into his chest.

"So does this mean you're a sun too?" she asked faintly. "Is that why you're here?"

Silas patted her back, trying to be comforting. "I'm not sure what it means, to be honest."

"Being a sun? Or being here?"

A huff of air escaped his nose, and a moment passed before he decided to speak. "There's something I should tell you, Mona."

If Caelan knew and Saoirse knew, it felt unfair that Ramona should be left in the dark any longer. She pulled away and looked up at him, blinking expectantly.

"Uriah," he said, before his throat became too dry and he needed to swallow. "Uriah's my dad."

Ramona stared at him, frozen in time. Then, like a bugle-horn, shouted:

"WHAT?!"

Silas slapped a palm over her mouth, stifling the scream and wincing so hard his shoulders nearly touched his ears for the second time that day.

Ramona wriggled backwards and sputtered: "How long have you been his son?!"

Four days later, Silas found himself back at the Blue Suns base. This time, he didn't even have to open his mouth and the guards were already ushering him in with smiles and friendly greetings. Word had spread down in the Sticks, too - he could hardly step outside without feeling like every pair of eyes was boring into him. On the afternoon he braved a trip to the general store, the streets were abuzz with excited whispers.

"It's him!"

"I always thought there was something different about that boy. . ."

"Is he still living in Sticks?"

"Delia must be beside herself."

Today, he'd left at daybreak to avoid the worst of the crowds. The wind was biting; he'd chosen one of his new tunics and it wasn't very warm.

Striding past the Suns enjoying breakfast in the cafeteria, Silas climbed the winding stairs two at a time. A guard had told him Uriah's suite was just down the hall from his office, on the right.

It was a different kind of panic that seized him this time in the same hallway. Before, he'd felt trapped, like he'd given himself over to some terrible, mortal mistake. Now, he was free to turn and leave as he pleased, but the anxiety lingered, even though Uriah was out of town.

Silas raised a gloved fist to the door, wondering what he was going to find on the other side.

Let the wolf be damned.

Squeezing his eyes shut and exhaling, he knocked.

"What is it?" a weary, feminine voice called.

He leaned forward. "It's Silas. I wanted to thank you for the clothes."

There was a long pause on the other side, and his mother's presence felt distant. Her scent stayed far off with hesitation, and Silas wondered if he should just go. She hadn't wanted to see him. She'd wanted him to take the clothes and flee with the wind, leaving no tracks for the wolf to follow. But instead, he'd walked right into the den.

He waited, and finally, he heard her faint footsteps approach like she feared alerting him of her existence.

The door unlocked near-silently, and a shorter old woman looked up at him with a soft face creased with stress lines. Her wide eyes shone with tears, and her mouth fell agape in quivering surprise. Then her lips pressed together into a frown.

"You look so much like your father," she breathed, covering her mouth. "Silas..."

He, meanwhile, saw himself in her face immediately. In all the ways Uriah's features were angular and harsh, Delia's were soft and tired. It brough a lump to his throat. She had his skin tone and his eyes, and she even had Saoirse's nose.

"You listened to him," she said, quivering. "I thought I told you to stay away."

Fear and despair rolled off her in waves, but the love in her eyes was as undeniable as her paranoia and sorrow. It broke Silas' heart.

Then she snapped. The tears in her eyes rolled down her cheeks, and she let out a sob. With no reservations, she threw herself into his chest and embraced him tightly.

"My baby," she wept. "I thought I'd never see you again."

Her whole body shook with each wail, and though the noise was stifled by Silas' shirt, he could only imagine the sound travelling down the hallway. His mother grew weaker and weaker in his arms until her whole weight leaned against him, hardly holding herself up except to cling to him. When her tears finally subsided, she pulled away and held his arms, staring up with red eyes.

"Please tell me you're not like him," she said quickly. Desperately.

When he'd first read the letter, his mother's words about the wolf had stung; now, he felt only pity.

"I'm not," Silas said, offering a small, reassuring smile.

It was a secret he'd kept his whole life. Let it endure, if it meant sparing this broken woman from that lingering dread, if only for this moment. He knew Uriah would tell her himself sooner or later.

The relief that melted his mother's worry was his reward. Tears of grief turned to tears of sighing, and she smiled weakly in return, raising her hand to his cheek.

"Hana has blessed you," she whispered. It was strange, hearing any reverence for the distant gods in Sticks. No one worshipped them here.

"Your father isn't home," she said, softer. "Have you... eaten anything? You look weak."

He'd been through a lot in the last couple weeks, but he knew the sallowness of his skin and the gray under his eyes was from a different adversary. His other secret.

Silas clasped his hands behind his back. "Breakfast would be nice. If you have anything."

Delia's smile was small, but genuine.

"I will always have food for my son."

Nothing brought siblings together like digging a hole six feet deep. The earth behind their mother's house was exceptionally hard, frozen under a layer of snow and ice. In weather like this, a body would keep for ages, but it was wrong to display the dead. So they pounded the ground with shovels until it gave, and Ramona's fingers turned into icicles inside her gloves. The cold in the Sticks was always sharp, and so was the ache in Ramona's gut when Hoss lowered their mother into the ground.

It was a short-lived victory, followed by minutes of prolonged shoveling. The sun was starting to set by the time Dolly Drier was one with the earth again. Gods knew it'd been a long time coming.

Some people died of old age, but Ramona's mother died of a broken heart. Life rubbed her smooth like a stone under water, and after six years, there was no more resistance.

Ramona took a step back between her brothers.

Together, their breaths formed a cloud over the freshly dug grave, and Ramona dared to lean her head on Hoss's shoulder. She was as tall as him, now.

"What do you think she'd have said?" Ramona asked softly. "If she'd had the heart to say goodbye?"

She slipped her hand into Ron's, pulling him close too. He couldn't speak, so she didn't expect his answer.

"I don't think she'd have said a damn thing," Hoss said quietly.

It was the kindest thing Hoss could've said, because what he really should've said was what was true. Hoss had raised Ron. Ramona, too. Dolly stopped being a mother after Simon died, because she gave up on being a person. She just looked away when things were broken.

The back of the house looked worse with a mound by its foundation. The wood paneling had been rotting for years, but Ramona never stopped to think about its disrepair. Her brothers were grown, and she was grown, and it was right to grow out of the house you grew in, like a plant in a new pot. It just felt strange, to grow out of caring, too.

"I'm cold," Ramona finally said, when neither brother offered comfort.

Hoss put his arm around her, and Ron leaned in, but their silence suffocated her.

"Let's go," she said, leaning over to kiss Ron's forehead. She hadn't done that since they were kids. "Get your things."

Ron let go with a sigh and trudged around the house while Ramona's gaze drifed to her side. Hoss looked haggard for 25. He was an undeniable force of nature, powered by youth, strength, and confidence, but the weather in his eyes was overcast, and the lines of both their parents' absence cut down each side of his face.

Ramona reached to brush the discolored cicles under his eyes. Hoss never looked so far away in his life.

"I think she would've said she's sorry," Ramona whispered.

"It wouldn't mean anything," Hoss said, like a dam against the river.

"It would if you let it."

Hoss closed his eyes and rested his face against Ramona's glove. She wondered if, as much as she bore the face of her father, if she sounded most like her mother. But she'd already forgotten what her mother sounded like.

A tear dripped down Hoss's cheek, and she wiped it away. This was the only time she'd seen Hoss cry, and it was in relief.

Ron returned to two statues in the dark, eager to move.

The walk back to the base was frigid and fast. Mother could've died any time of year, but she chose to go during the coldest week of the winter. Sure, Ramona would've given up too, if she had three kids who would care enough to bury her quickly. It was too bad she wasn't more like her father, in that way. There were no children of her own to freeload off of.

"This is it," Hoss announced, when they stood inside the lobby of the dorms. This time of night, most people were hurrying over to the hub for dinner. It was warmest in the mess hall when living bodies filled the room.

Ron's tired eyes traced the corners of the ceiling, like he'd been expecting something bigger. Something novel. But the dormatories were efficient, not grand. Ramona patted his back and tilted her head to the side.

"Stay in my room for the night," she said. "We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."

She took his duffel bag and made eye contact with Hoss. The attempt, however, fell on a vacant gaze, so she tsked sharply.

"You two get food," she said. "I'll catch up."

Finally, Hoss turned into the man she remembered, and he led Ron out to the center of the base towards the sound of music and the warmth of the hearth. Ramona dumped Ron's things on her bed down the hall and followed suit, but didn't try to find them in the crowded room.

Jovial drums and flute melodies matched the pounding of dancing feet at the edge of the floor. Steaming stew bubbled with floating carrots, potatoes, and beef shank. Bowls were passed from the kitchen buffet to the tables around the room. The fireplace at the back was blazing red, and every window was misty from its breath.

She spotted Jean at the back of the room, and the pull was magnetic. The wall of chatter melted away when she slipped off her gloves, slid onto his lap, and surprised him with a kiss. His low laugh was static in her ears when he pulled away.

"Gods," he muttered, rubbing her hands between his fingers. "Someone needs to warm you up."

"Have you eaten?" Ramona asked.

"Not yet."

"How's your appetite?"

Her hands traveled down his back, and he pulled her in closer. He laughed inside his chest as he lifted her off the stool. No more words were needed as they escaped through the back door, ran with hearts racing through the snow, and slipped back into the dorms while things were quiet. His was the third floor bedroom with a view of the hill, overlooking Sticks.

Head against Jean's shoulder, long past the mess hall's dining hours, Ramona stared through the foggy window at their cold, muddy home. Even in someone's arms, all of the warmth in Jean's body didn't warm the picture. Somewhere between making mud pies and drug runs, the streets of Sticks stopped feeling like a playground, and everything was mire.

She traced her fingers across Jean's chest.

"Hey," she purred.

Jean opened his eyes and ran his fingers through her hair.

"I think you're wonderful, you know that?" she murmured.

"You could stand to say it more often," Jean grinned. The scar that clipped his upper lip tugged it unevenly, like it always did, simltaenously repulsive and charming.

For three years, she'd spent almost every weeks' end with him, selling shade by the lakes. All that time, and she still couldn't look at his crooked teeth. His skin was overheating, and she pulled away with sweat.

"You in a hurry to go somewhere?" he asked when she grabbed her clothes.

"I'm not hurrying away from you, if that's what you mean."

"You know the other ones won't wait for you like I do," he said, reaching for her wrist. She gingerly slid off the bed to pull up her trousers.

She smiled for him, tying her jacket back around her waist. Then she brushed the curly hair from his temple and plopped a kiss on his head.

"Cats need to roam, loyal friend," she whispered.

Their own adage, used against him, but tonight she felt she deserved it. Jean sighed and retreated to the warmth of the covers while she slipped out again to the cold.

She didn't want any more comfort. She just wanted peace.

And she found that, reliably, sitting outside Ivy's shed, watching the dim firelight filter through the rims of the doors and windows. Sometimes, she could even see Ivy's silhouette when she moved from her workbench across the room, always to grab something quickly, and go back again. It was as close as Ramona could get to Ivy when she tinkered, and it was her favorite silent show.

It took her three hours to think: maybe Ives ought to know that her mother died. But not in a selfish way.

She never did tell Ivy about Simon. That kind of news spread faster than a wildfire because people were happy he was gone.

Her neighbors had forgotten about Dolly. Maybe Ivy assumed Dolly died a long time ago. It would be easier to think that, wouldn't it? Nicer. She couldn't imagine burdening Ivy with it now, with all Ivy had to bear under Uriah's tutilage. She was always working herself to the bone. Nine years, and she never broke pace.

Still, it was a nice thought. It would've been nicer if Ramona could imagine Ivy saying "sorry," instead of an: "Oh."

Was that all Ramona's imagination could come up with? After almost twenty years of friendship?

Silly Ramona. You're imagining conversations in your head again. At least she kept it to herself, though. She knew how much she'd said aloud over the years, and she could never take any of that back.

Her fingers were going stiff in the cold, and Ramona knew she should leave. Ivy's distant, crouched shadow was the closest thing Ramona would get to a hug, and yet, she clung to it, like the frost eating at her skin. Just a moment longer, and maybe she would find the courage to knock on the door and say something. But that courage died a long time ago.

She moved from her perch on the cobbler's roof and slid down the chimney's outer wall. Years of practice turned the motion into an effortless leap, and no sound was heard but the light crunch of snow when her boots hit the ground. It was later than she would've liked, but she'd slinked through many nights in pitch black darkness. No one was was moving out and about. Not with another snow coming in tomorrow.

So she hurried. This time, less worried about staying quiet, and more worried about staying warm. She forced herself to run uphill, fighting against the snow, the incline, and the pain that every frozen joint supplied. The air inside her lungs was like knives, but she pulled up her scarf, wrapping the lower half of her face. Take it or leave it: this was her life, now.

Orphaned. Finally.

Her nose began to drip uncontrollably, and Ramona paused in her run to wipe it in her scarf, aching when she bent over.

She was feeling the regret for leaving after dark. Too late now. Always too late.

Straightening up with a huff, Ramona sniffed and wrapped her scarf tighter, pulling her hat down the sides of her face so the fur touched her jaw. She shook her hands to coach herself through the last half-mile, but a crunch in the snow behind her made her freeze.

Slowly, she looked over her shoulder, in fear of the worst. And it was, indeed, the worst.

What could've been a bear, or a wolf, was instead Caelan.

The four she never got to know more, who'd pined for her a total of once. She'd fumbled that years ago, but she could never figure out what made her crumble until now.

Standing in the moonlight, somehow, Caelan managed to look perfect. Not just in the way a rose could be perfect when cared for just right, but like a masterpiece, chiseled from the finest rock. He was the only diamond dug out of the mud of the Sticks, and she was just like every other girl who'd admired him from afar, except she wasn't always that far. They used to be friends in a real way before all of her mistakes. Now they were friends in the faux way, where adults passed each other in the hall and said hello without meaning it, and shook hands over a good deal. They pretended things were forgiven, because pretending was the way forward, and she smiled, because it was easy.

His eyes locked with hers, and she felt like she'd been caught with her pants at her knees, pissing on the forest floor.

Sorry almost flew from her mouth for no reason, but he beat her to the punch.

"Hey, Gingersnap," he said with a small smile. His voice was quiet. "Couldn't sleep?"

All of her blood rushed to her face so quickly that her skin stung.

"No," she agreed. "I..."

She traced his footprints down the hill. From Sticks, Caelan only had one place to leave at this hour. Everyone knew he was seeing Cassia.

"I thought a run would tire me out enough to sleep," she finished. "But it became more miserable than anything."

"I see," he replied. He stepped through the snow to her side. "Then may I join you? Maybe it wouldn't be quite so miserable if you had someone to walk with you, at your own pace." He held out a hand to her.

Something slipped in Ramona's mind. Between desire and grief, an icy wedge began to melt just enough to make sense of her hand meeting Caelan's, with her glove in his glove.

He looked down at their joined hands, and he said with a chuckle, "Your hand is freezing. I can feel it straight through our gloves." He stepped closer and pulled their clasped hands into his coat pocket. It was warm.

"Sorry," she finally said aloud. "You don't... have to..."

But she couldn't find it in her to pull away. She leaned in instead. "Or that."

"Or that," echoed Caelan. "Which way?"

"Just the dorms."

They walked towards the dorms, and the crunch of their steps filled the silence. Ramona couldn't think of the last time she went so long without speaking in someone's presence - even with Ron, she filled the space. But as her fingers thawed in Caelan's heat, she didn't feel the need to say a word.

She stopped herself from leaning her head on his shoulder. His only fault was that he wasn't perfectly tall enough for that.

Caelan looked at her steadily, keeping in step with her. "Something's been bothering you today."

"Yeah," she admitted. "It's fine. It'll pass like it always does."

"It's true that it'll pass eventually," he said, "but that doesn't mean it's fine."

Ramona shrugged and offered a weak smile. "I know you're just trying to be polite, Caelan, but you really don't have to ask how I'm doing."

She didn't expect him to care. He didn't have to. More than anything, she'd rather he drop the subject entirely. He knew what it was like to lose his mom, and he lost her a lot earlier than Ramona did. So she couldn't complain for all the extra years she'd had, even if they were spent watching her mother rot.

Slowly.

"You're sweet to say something, though. I appreciate it."

Caelan gave her a sideways glance that seemed to say that he wasn't convinced, but he didn't pursue it further. He sighed, and his breath came out in a small, wispy cloud. "You win this time. But if you ever need an ear, I'm here to listen." He stopped and turned to face her. "I'm serious, kitten, you don't need to hold everything so tightly and all by yourself."

Ramona sputtered a surprised laugh.

Kitten? What, was that the line he used on ladies all the time? She couldn't believe that worked. "I like it better when you call me gingersnap," she teased, squeezing his hand.

Caelan squeezed her hand back and leaned in closer. "My favorite gingersnap," he said, his voice and face utterly devoid of laughter, "I'll admit I misspoke there, but I can't help but feel like you're just using that as an excuse to sidestep this conversation."

Her smile faded, and she looked at their hands. Her eyelids grew heavy, and the cold ate her cheeks, numbing past the point of feeling. In the back of her throat, she coaxed out a feeling she couldn't put to words.

Caelan was nice, but not kind. The dissonace that echoed in her soul sounded a warning she couldn't bring herself to care about. This was her lot; on one side of caring. Caring more, seeing less, and only getting tiny moments that felt real. It was what she lived for. It was all she had. She didn't want to face the possibility it was all a lie.

And yet.

"I don't think you've ever been invisible," she said. "Have you?"

Caelan didn't speak, and Ramona was surprised to hear the sadness in his voice when he finally replied, "I have. More than you know." He let out a short, breathy laugh and shrugged. "You never would have guessed, huh?"

"No." She looked up. "But we've drifted apart. There's a lot I wouldn't know."

Caelan tilted his head. "Do you want to change that?"

The wedge in her heart fell through.

Grief and desire slammed into each other like cinderblocks, crashing and crumbling. Ramona dipped her head and pressed her lips into a frown, buried under dark, unforgiving, plumes of dust.

"Not unless you mean it," she whispered.

"What can I say that would help you to trust me?" he murmured back.

She bit her lip and it cracked. Iron wet her gums. Her heavy sigh filled the gap between their faces with a cloud.

"I feel like everyone's moving on without me," she confessed. "And I can't do anything to keep them. No one blinks an eye if I'm there or not, Silas only comes by for a hit, Ossie only comes by to keep me in line, Ivy only remembers I exist when I remind her, and my brothers..."

Her head fell forward. "I can't handle more disappointment. I'm tired. And as much as I want to think you could change that, I..."

Ramona's eyes stung. The cold was dry.

"I don't want to put all of this on you. I shouldn't have said anything." But her voice was starting to break. "I promise, I'll be back to normal in a few days."

Caelan pulled her into his arms, and when he patted her back softly, she imagined herself breaking. Weeping in his arms, like that would make her special. Special enough to be noticed. Special enough to be worth living for.

"It's okay," he said. "You don't have to be strong at this very moment."

Her face hurt against his wool coat. She couldn't cry, so she hugged him tightly.

"My mom died today," she croaked. "You're the first to know."

Caelan took in a sharp breath. Then, after a second, his arms tightened around her and he leaned his head against hers. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She hugged tighter.

She was sorry too. She didn't do enough, and none of them did. When her mother gave up, they gave up and waited. Children, flocked around their mother's carcass, wished for her to die faster. Caelan never talked about his mother's death, but she couldn't imagine him resenting her the way Ramona resented Dolly. What kind of person did that make her? The only person she trusted to say was locked inside a shack.

"I wanted to tell Ivy," she whispered. "But I couldn't bring myself to interrupt her."

"Why is that?" asked Caelan.

"Because she's always working. Some secret project she's been working on for years for Uriah," Ramona said. "That's all I can put together of it. She's always meeting with him, in her shop, or asking me for extra parts. And always too busy for anything else."

Caelan said, "Sounds like she's not being very fair to you. You deserve better than that."

"It's not her fault," Ramona murmured, pulling away. "She's just doing her job."

"And taking advantage of your kindness while she's at it. Why should she benefit from you caring about her while you're left feeling like you don't have anyone you can rely on?"

It was the same reason she'd still cared for her mother, when she was still alive.

"Because I love her."

"Of course you do," said Caelan. The space between his brows crinkled together. "Because that's who you are. But Ramona, your love shouldn't be measured by how lonely it makes you feel. There's not one reason why you shouldn't receive as much love as you give to Ivy, or anyone else."

As kind as his words were, for the first time that night, she wanted to go to sleep. In her heart, she knew she didn't agree with him, but having to explain that meant gutting herself right there.

Worse, than being caught pissing in the snow.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she said quietly. "I won't stop being there for my friends."

"I didn't say anything against you doing that." A soft chuckle escaped between Caelan's words. "It's one of the loveliest things about you. But you have to take care of your own well-being, too. Let me be there for you. Why don't you join me for dinner or even a late-night snack once a week?" He gestured at the air around them. "I hate to think of you spending more nights wandering out in the cold like this. Not after . . . now that your mom's gone." He shrugged and looked down as he shoved some of the snow with the toe of his boot. "I know how that feels."

The cloud of dust in her heart reached her eyes, and she didn't want to see through it. No one wanted to be with 'Lona Mona' except Jean. This was the only true invitation she'd had in years. Running away would rip her wound wide open, and she was already bleeding.

"It would be nice," she squeezed his hand once more. "To be with someone who understands."

Too sad to let her shame touch her, she leaned forward again, and put her head on his shoulder. With her eyes shut, she whispered: "Okay."

Caelan held her close again and leaned his own head against hers. It was a comfort she didn't want to leave.

"Just remember that I'm here for you," he said. "I'm always here to listen. Anything at all."

Always, wrapped her in warmth she'd never known, and she held Caelan like a promise.

Adonis was at the base.

It wouldn't have been shocking on paper, but for all his years with the Suns, Adonis never made a habit of trekking out of Sticks. It wasn't something Ramona noticed until his presence caused a stir. There weren't any senior Suns that stayed in the Sticks past their prime but Uriah, so when Adonis walked into a gaggle of youths and marched up to the second floor, Ramona could only assume it was important. When the guards finally turned away to whisper: What brought him here? Ramona did the only thing her muscles knew to do.

She hid and followed.

It was embarrassing, how addicted she was to intrigue. She held her breath and waited for the guard at the top of the stairs to turn the corner, watching Adonis disappear. She waited again for him to look back, inch down the stairwell, and share his marvel with the guard at the bottom.

That was her window, where she stepped out of one hall, up one flight, and into another.

This was all something she knew could put her in hot water. Penalized, for eavesdropping on the man who raised her best friend, her sister by anything but blood, practically family. The only thing Adonis cared about was Ivy. The only thing he lived for was her. Was he here about his daughter?

The door to Uriah's office closed with a soft thud.

Ramona had never been on the top floor of the Hub. She always knew Uriah's living quarters were over their heads, but she'd never gone past the common rooms, nevermind to the third floor. That's why she was still a Two.

She ducked under a table, beneath a candelabra. The downside to being tall meant she had to crunch into a ball to fit in its shadow as she pressed her ear against the wall.

Some of the conversation was muffled. Then she cupped her hands.

Uriah said something that sounded like a greeting, and Adonis's response was flat. Uriah's next question, however, was enunciated clear as day.

"35 years of loyal service, and you've never requested a meeting before. What brings you to my office?"

There was a daunting, delicious silence.

"I believe you know already, sir." From how he spoke now, it was hard to believe there was a time in Ramona's childhood where Adonis's voice didn't sound like it was being weighed down by an anchor, too heavy for any emotion beyond weariness. "It's about my daughter."

So it was about Ivy.

"Then please," Uriah said neutrally. "State your piece."

There was another pause.

"You're an observant man, Uriah," Adonis said. "Which is why I know you're aware of what she's going through. What she's being put through. She's getting bled dry by her work, and although that should concern you, it seems to please you."

The next silence drew out even further and Ramona would've died to see the unspoken exhange. The essays behind every look. The furtive, tense glances. The confidence. The insecurity.

"I understand your plea," Uriah said. "But I worry your concerns are a result of your own discontent, superimposed, onto your daughter."

A beat passed where Adonis was too slow to speak.

"I know the suns have held out on you for too long, Adonis. A man of your skill and caliber deserves more for everything you've given us, so... here's an offer, and apology for it being too late. In the Suns's center - Dagger's Heart, in the Outlands - we would be honored to position you as the Ace Forger for one of the Sevens who lives there."

Ramona was surprised to hear a laugh burbling from Adonis. It was not the soft kind he'd save for her when she'd said something silly as a child. It was dry with disappointed scorn.

"Uriah, please. You don't believe I need that and neither do I." Adonis let out a quiet scoff. "I'm a family man. I've only been content with where I've been all this time because my kids are here. You're not taking me away from them."

"Is that a refusal of my offer?"

Uriah's words were like unsheathed steel.

"It is." Adonis's reply met them as a firm, unyielding shield. "With all due respect, I'd like to get back to why I'm here. Not what you'd like this conversation to be."

"Then let's talk about your daughter," Uriah said. "And how you're holding her back."

"Really?" Ramona had never seen Adonis bristle, but gods, she could hear him doing it now. "The only thing I've been pulling her back from is the premature burnout you want her hurtling herself into."

"You have to acknowledge that Ivy is an adult now, capable of and entitled to making her own decisions. Becoming her own person. Your desire to control her is inappropriate and what is 'best' for her is not for you to decide. It's hers. I'm trying to do you both a favor by sending you away."

"You don't just stop being a father." There was something knowing about Adonis's retort. Adonis was referring to Silas. "I've learned from my mistakes as one. I've lost one child to you already, and you didn't hear a word from me then. But I refuse to make it two."

"I take it you would not receive my condolences now, as you never did then," Uriah said with an edge she couldn't place. "Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do for you or your daughter who remains. At least, nothing within your scope of demands. Seeing as you've refused the promotion, and we've reached an impasse and grave misalignment of interests, I think it's time you retired."

"Do you now." Adonis spoke the words more through his teeth than through his tongue.

"As of now, you will be removed from the position of Ace Forger for the foreseeable future. As a show of gratitude for your years of loyalty, we will provide you with a comfortable pension to make sure you are taken care of."

"It's always a show with you." Adonis let out another laugh, this one even hollower than the first. "There needs to be one so people forget you're taking from them. You'll take from Ivy, you'll take from Caelan, you'll fucking take from all my kids just like you did with Juni. I just wish I'd seen my own place on the damn food chain." Adonis was breathing heavily now, practically seething behind his words. "There's nothing out there that can satisfy your hunger, Uriah. One day, you'll choke on it. And it's going to be one quiet funeral."

"Did that feel good to say?" Uriah asked. And for the first time, his question was goading. The formality of his tone melted into something unsettling.

Something sinister.

"Gods damn it, it fucking did." Adonis sounded weary and aching with relief at once. "I'll see myself out. Enjoy your starvation."

The heavy wooden doors of the study creaked open and fell shut loudly, without a hand to guide them closed.

Ramona became one with the wall as Adonis marched down the stairs. She still couldn't see much, but the huff of his angered breath and the thump of his heavy footsteps was clear.

The air around the office held its breath, and Ramona, too, couldn't catch hers until she snuck back downstairs, blending into the traffic coming out of the mess hall. It was surreal, piecing together things she never should've known. Things that made her stomach turn sour. She'd only heard Adonis get riled with rage over four people in her life, and that included Juni, Ivy, Ossie, and now Caelan. She didn't know why she wanted to - and wouldn't - hear her name.

She had parents. They were dead. The hard truth was that Adonis was never going to replace them, and no one ever could.

When she stepped into the foyer, her blood boiled.

Adonis was storming out, and Ivy was walking in.

Ivy stopped in her tracks as she saw him, a pleasant smile flickering automatically to her face that stilled into confusion a moment later. Adonis didn't slow, and his hands were fists at his sides-- but as he passed her, he kept looking at her until he couldn't look back that far anymore. Until the last moment, Ramona could see the anguish in his eyes so clearly she swore she'd have it committed to memory.

Ivy's clueless smile was nakedly revealing. She didn't know how deeply and profoundly she was loved.

She didn't know at all.

Ivy scanned the hall, searching for something with growing fervor, until her gaze landed on the person Ramona always wanted her to look for first in a crowded room-- her.

Hurriedly, Ivy wove through tables with the grace of a cat like there was a rope around her waist pulling her to Ramona.

"Hey, Mona," Ivy said, with a faint laugh. "Why is-- do you know why my dad's here? I mean, you know everything."

"Adonis?" Ramona asked dumbly. "Well, I saw him go upstairs past the guards, but... I'm not allowed up there like you are. If I had to guess, he met with Uriah. I don't think he works directly with anyone else here."

Ivy was wearing a frown she reserved for only her most baffling puzzles. "But he never meets with Uriah. Or anyone."

"I know!" Ramona echoed. "I don't think I've seen him up here the whole time we've been Suns. Is that odd?"

"Very," Ivy murmured, and it was as if Ramona could see the gears in her brain turning.

"Have you ever asked him why?" Ramona asked.

"Why he's not here?"

"Yeah," she said. "I guess I never thought about how he lives in Sticks until now. Like, I know I used to, but most of us don't. It's nicer out here. But I guess you don't either."

Ivy waved a hand, but it wasn't in dismissal of the question. More like there was something in the air she was trying to articulate.

"It's... I don't know," she said. "I think he thinks he doesn't belong here."

Ramona pondered that thought for a moment, and considered Adonis's anger. His rage. Every cutting word he hurled at Uriah, and how Uriah just took it, unfazed. She imagined that, if she were Adonis, and that was her reception, she wouldn't feel welcome either. Then again, she didn't lose a daughter.

Or a sister...

"What's Uriah like?" she decided to ask. "I've never actually met with him since I got recruited, and that was years ago. Nowadays he always sends someone else."

"Ah." Ivy chuckled, like she wasn't expecting it. "He's... polite. Quietly intense. Has a way of making you eager to please him." A beat. "Not the kind of person I'd expect Adonis to like, honestly."

"Maybe why Adonis doesn't come here much," Ramona murmured.

"Maybe." For a moment, it sounded like Ivy was about to say more, but she blinked, and the spell broke, replaced by another smile floating to her features. "Were you headed somewhere?"

"Not really," she said. "It's been a quiet week, with all the snow. You?"

"Anything but quiet, honestly. This is the first time I've left the workshop in three days. At least there's plenty to burn to keep the cold out."

Something felt familiar. A pang in her heart interrupted it.

She missed this. And she didn't appreciate it, did she? She didn't realize it took Adonis vouching for Ivy to understand how truly overworked Ivy was. Always, Ramona longed to be with her, when what Ivy truly needed was rest. She turned to Ivy with her full attention - pushing aside the things she shouldn't have known.

Had Ivy's eyes always been dull like that? It almost looked like she was wearing makeup beneath her eyes, at this distance. When was the last Ramona saw Ivy this close? When was the last time Ramona thought about how much Ivy carried - like Adonis did. When was the last time Ramona went to bat for her?

What did Ivy need? If she couldn't catch a break, then--

"What would make you happy, now that you have a moment for yourself?" Ramona asked earnestly.

"...Do I have a moment?" Ivy let out an almost-sheepish laugh, glancing over her shoulder. "I don't know. But I could stand to get some food."

Ramona grinned. "Then I bet you're going to love the morning special, Ives."

Ivy tilted her head, matching the smile. "Really? Alright, I trust you. Lead the way, then."

So Ramona took her hand.

Forming a 'personal business' relationship with Mr. Lowe paid off in more ways that just money. He was able to introduce Caelan to a bank outside of Sticks, unaffiliated with the Blue Suns, where he could keep money and assets safe and ready for him when he finally escaped from this town.

The process of squirreling all of his riches away to the bank without anyone noticing was excrutiatingly long. Every week for the past three years, he had sent a small amount of money away in a nondescript envelope hidden among the letters going out of Sticks, mostly Blue Suns forgeries.

He was in the middle of sealing one of these envelopes when the door to his office burst open. He had to muster nearly every fiber of self-control and unflinching steel in his being to not jump and very obviously try to hide the envelope. Instead, he folded the top flap over neatly and proceeded to pour the wax and seal it as he glanced up at the intruder.

"It's not like you to come in without knocking, Darren," he said.

Darren was panting and red-faced as if he had sprinted across the entire complex to find him. "It's Uriah," he replied between gasps. "He's looking for you. I saw him talking to Wilson."

Wilson Song was the resident tattooist. Caelan couldn't help sucking in a sharp breath. Darren was easily excitable and could just be jumping to conclusions. But it could also mean something for Caelan.

He slipped the envelope into his pocket and stood from his desk. "All right, I'll go see him now."

He couldn't help but walk quickly down the halls and up the stairs to the third floor. When he reached Uriah's office door, though, he paused.

What lay beyond this door for him this time? Could it really be the next promotion Caelan had been working for? But what might it cost him to be promoted so soon? No one as young as twenty-one had ever been promoted to Five, to his knowledge.

He set his shoulders and lifted his chin up. Well, regardless, it was something Caelan had worked for and deserved. The faster he got there, the faster he could achieve his ultimate goal.

He knocked on the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Caelan. I heard you wanted to see me."

A pause. "Good. I was hoping you'd come quickly. Come in."

When Caelan opened the door, his eyes instantly fell on Wilson, sitting at the desk with her tattooing supplies spread out across its surface.

This was for real.

Uriah was sitting on one of the couches, looking out the large window facing Sticks. The sun was streaming in, warm and bright. There was a steaming pot of coffee on the middle table, the aroma permeating across the room.

Caelan came in and closed the door. He stood there, waiting for Uriah to tell him to sit, but no such order came.

"Adonis is retiring," Uriah announced.

. . . What?

Uriah looked over to him, but something had changed in his countenance. Maybe part of it was Caelan reeling on the inside from the sudden news about Adonis, but the way that Uriah looked at him seemed more friendly, or like they were almost equals.

"You're the most qualified to take his position," Uriah went on.

Caelan's feet felt like they were encased in lead as he stepped forward and gingerly sat on the couch across from Uriah. "You want me to become the Ace Forger?"

"Only if you will accept it," Uriah answered.

"I'm grateful to accept," said Caelan, "but it's so strange to think it's no longer Adonis's position. He retired so suddenly." And without telling anyone?

Without telling him?

"I'm sure that, while growing up, it felt like Adonis was a permanent fixture," Uriah said, eyes set on the rooftops of Sticks. "And he could've been. But there comes a time in every leader's life where they have to recognize where experience is needed, and where it's holding back new potential. Sometimes, to move forward, you have to make space for something new."

Caelan nodded. But on the inside, it sounded to him like Adonis's retirement wasn't exactly voluntary. Something must have happened to make this change occur after so many years of him serving in the role.

"At the end of the day, Caelan," Uriah continued. "Everyone in the Suns is in it for themselves. It's just a matter of time and discretion until they show it. Adonis has made his choice, and I'm discharging him. Quietly."

That was true, but to hear Uriah say it so openly was jarring. It was like a new side of someone who had seemed for several years to be an untouchable, unreachable figure high above. And Adonis . . . He had never indicated that he had any major ambitions, ever. What happened between the two?

"I see," Caelan replied. He leaned back in his seat and said, "Well, I've got some big shoes to fill, but you can count on me." For as long as you've got me, that is.

Uriah's mouth mouth curled into a smirk, and he met Caelan's eyes with a sense of understanding; Uriah may not have known Caelan's plans, but it was like he knew they were both creatures driven by their own interest. And for that, Uriah trusted him.

"Wilson," Uriah called.

She lifted her needle.

"Go on, then," Uriah said with a tilt of his head. "You're one ray closer to a sun."



Caelan burst through the door of Adonis's house. "You retired?"

His words caused Adonis's head to snap up from where he was standing at the kitchen counter, holding up a freshly steaming teapot. It was easily the most used item in the house; half the tea brewed here had been for the purpose of making paper seem aged, a baseline skill for any forger. But today, the spout hovered above a mug, already prepared with a filter paper and loose tea leaves that smelled of bergamot. It wasn't a tool of work anymore.

Come to think of it, that wasn't the only thing that had changed here. A pale red rug, tasseled at the edges, covered the floor just inches from Caelan's shoes now. New linen curtains adorned the windows, turning the sunlight's glare into a gentler glow. And was that... a potted cactus on the counter, right next to his elbow?

"Good afternoon to you, too," Adonis said with calm amusement, finishing the pour and briefly turning around to pull a new mug off the shelf behind him.

"What . . ." Caelan shifted on his feet as he looked at the scene in front of him. Even Adonis himself looked different. Was he actually glowing, or was Caelan imagining things?

Adonis smiled faintly as he filled the second mug, gesturing around loosely. "Thought I should start treating the place more like a residence. After all, that's its purpose now."

"But . . . what happened?" asked Caelan. "There has to be a good reason. You're still as capable as you have been for years."

Adonis considered this for a moment, his fingers-- clean of ink for the first time in ages-- drumming a serene rhythm on the counter edge. "What did he tell you?"

He meant Uriah. It was more than obvious. Caelan hesitated as he recalled the Six's words. At last, he replied, "That sometimes, a leader needs to know when experience is holding back new growth." He looked down at his shoes.

Adonis hummed softly as he reached for the jar that contained the rosehip tea, sprinkling a generous portion in the mug that was clearly to be Caelan's. He didn't sound surprised.

"I didn't retire so much as I was... dismissed," he said. "But honestly, I should have left years ago. I feel lighter than I have in ages."

"Why did he dismiss you?" asked Caelan. If Uriah could dismiss someone who had served so skillfully and faithfully for years like Adonis, maybe that meant that he was willing to eliminate anyone he deemed to no longer have enough value. And if he ever found out what Caelan was doing in secret . . . He suppressed a shiver.

"I came to speak with him about Ivy." Adonis's tone remained even, but it wasn't so light anymore. There was a tinge of bitterness in his words. "I said some things I should've said long ago-- said I refused to lose another child to him and his demands. I knew he'd find a way to punish me for it, but I didn't expect to feel so... relieved." Adonis shook his head. "He's taken enough already. I've got no excuse for how long it took for me to say it'll never be enough for him."

Caelan swallowed hard. Of course, it had to have been about Ivy. But Uriah had gotten rid of Adonis because Adonis tried to defend his own child.

But did Ivy even know? Would she even care?

"Do you need any help?" he asked with a little hesitation. "You see, Uriah called me this morning to promote me to Ace Forger . . . to replace you. I could--"

Adonis let out a small chuckle, nudging the mug Caelan's way. "I couldn't ask that of you, kiddo. I've saved up plenty-- and if I'm not mistaken, you've been doing the same."

"Yeah," said Caelan, and he stepped inside and picked up the cup.

"Good. Maybe you'll finish what I couldn't." From the almost wistful note in Adonis's voice, it didn't sound like he was talking about the job he'd just inherited.

Caelan took a sip of tea. "What do you mean?"

"You used to be rather vocal about wanting to get out of here. While you've said less about it in recent years, rather sensibly..." Adonis shrugged, cupping his hands around his mug and blowing at the steam rising from it. "You've built yourself up quite high here in the meantime. But you still want to, don't you?"

He'd rarely spoken about what was effectively treason to the Suns-- and yet, he was speaking freely. Supportively, even. This could be one of the few places where the walls didn't have ears anymore.

"Yes," admitted Caelan. "You mean, you wanted to leave Sticks?"

"Oh, I had plans to, when I was young. Nothing more than grand notions, really. The kind of dreams life gives to one who can't find purpose in where they are." Adonis waved a hand. "But then I did find it, when I became a father. Perhaps it's for the best-- I think I was blind to the fact that most of the things I hoped to leave behind would have followed me anyway. Wherever I went, I would be there. There's no road I could take where I could get around that." Adonis paused, sipping at his tea. "But that doesn't have to be your story. You're wiser than I was at that age already. As long as you're braver, too-- and I think you are-- you'll fare far better than I ever could out there."

Caelan ruminated over Adonis's words. He tried not to think too hard on the part about things following him rather than being left behind in Sticks. Somehow, a pang of something uncomfortable--could it be guilt?--twisted inside of him at that. Instead, he smiled, straightened his shoulders, and focused on the encouragement.

"Thanks," he said. "I think I've got a fighting chance, at least."

"I'd wager you've got more than that, kiddo." Adonis raised his tea in a toast.

Caelan raised his own teacup in response. He looked around again. "So, what are you going to do now?"

Adonis lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, glancing around the small home. His gaze lingered on the potted cactus for a second.

"It's the first time in a long time that I don't have to do anything," he said. "I never really thought I'd ever get to have that. Now that I'm here... I'll have to find a new passtime, learn another skill." He paused, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully. "Maybe gardening. You think I could be a gardener?"

Caelan shrugged. "Why not?" Though not something he would've chosen for himself, it was a good hobby, especially for surviving Sticks. At least Adonis wouldn't starve--if he grew vegetables. There wasn't anything Adonis put a hand to that he wasn't good at.

"This little guy here is my trial run. Hopefully he survives me figuring out how much to water him, but-- well, I've got plenty of time ahead to learn that. I'm not that old." Adonis reached up to scratch his head with a small smile, ruffling the starts of graying hair for emphasis.

Raising an eyebrow, Caelan asked, "So, how much have you been watering it?"

"I got it this week, so it's been three times since then." Adonis paused, almost nervously. "Is that frequent enough?"

Caelan blinked and covered his mouth with a hand.

"Not enough?" Adonis sighed, before Caelan could qualify his reaction of horror in the right direction. "Shit. Four? Four times a week? Is that it? Don't say five."

Caelan exhaled hard through his nose. "You water it when the soil layers under the surface get dry."

Tentatively, careful to avoid the slender spikes around it, Adonis prodded the dirt in the pot with the tip of his finger. It did not look remotely unmoisturized.

"...I've bloody overdone it, haven't I," Adonis said after a moment.

"Yeah." Caelan rubbed the back of his neck with a hand. "I've got a book on local plant life, if you want to borrow it . . . ?"

"I probably should take you up on that, before I end up writing the one on local plant death." Adonis huffed a chuckle, but his expression sobered quickly, and the laugh died out almost as soon as it had started. Something bleak had taken ahold of his features.

Odd. "Is something wrong?" asked Caelan.

Adonis gestured at the cactus again, but he wasn't really looking at it anymore. The look in his eyes had turned distant, almost glassy.

"I can't even take care of a plant properly," he murmured. "No wonder I can't do anything for Ivy."

Oh. Caelan looked at his shoes. He fought the tightening of his jaw muscles and shoved his hands into his pockets. "You've done plenty for her."

Ivy, Ivy, Ivy. Everything Adonis had just been through was for Ivy. Not a hint of awareness on her part for all his sacrifices, let alone a word of thanks. What had Ivy ever done to deserve a father like Adonis? Her father was alive and well and he would always fight for her, and she took it all for granted. Ivy was so lucky, and it meant an infuriating amount of nothing to her.

"If I had, then she wouldn't be this close to ending up like..." Adonis swallowed whatever he would've said next, instead waving his hand helplessly at some unspeakable weight hanging in the air between them. "It's not enough, and yet it seems like she'd rather have me doing nothing at all. I don't know where I went wrong."

"Well, sometimes you do all you can," said Caelan, "but it's up to her to make her own choices, even if they may not be the best ones."

His answer didn't seem to register with Adonis, who leaned over the counter more heavily, teacup now forgotten beside his splayed hand as he braced himself against the surface. Caelan watched his shoulder rise and fall slowly with a deep sigh.

"I... know that the two of you aren't close these days," Adonis said quietly, like he was ashamed of what was coming next. "That you never really were to begin with. But... do you think you can see how she's doing, from time to time?"

And now Adonis was asking Caelan to help her. Caelan swallowed the bitter retort on his tongue. "I'll keep an eye on her," he said at last. At least he could promise that--it was the truth, after all. He was already doing it anyways. It was what Adonis would want to hear.

A hollow but grateful relief spread over Adonis's face as he nodded, hanging his head a little lower. "Thank you," he murmured.

Caelan couldn't find anything else to say. How could he, when it felt like the air had soured at the mention of Ivy?

"Well," he said, "I've got to go. See you later." He turned and opened the door, and he stepped out before Adonis could call him back in. If he would care enough to do so.

Caelan stormed away, tamping down the feeling crackling under the surface of his mask.

One thing was certain. In Adonis's eyes, Caelan could never hold a candle to Ivy. And why should he? She was his actual, official child, after all. It was natural that he would love her most of all, more than the stray neighbor's kid. No matter how he claimed that he saw Caelan as a son.

Caelan caught sight of his childhood house and he beelined for the door. The key was already in his hand before he reached it. He unlocked the door and pushed his way in. He slammed the door behind him and turned the lock in place.

His eyes scanned the room in a frantic haze. Caelan felt as though he had been overcome by a blind fury, like the berserkers in the book of legends he had read so many years ago. He wanted to overturn the dining table, break the chairs surrounding it. But the side of him that always held him in restraint settled on seizing the pillow on his bed and throwing it as hard as he could onto the floor. Dust flew up in clouds as he got down and punched the pillow over and over.

His logical side noted that he was crying. Caelan gritted his teeth and funneled all of his thoughts into anger.

Why? Why did some people have everything, while those who had nothing would treasure the very things that the others counted as worthless?

It was always Ivy getting in his way.

He dug his fingernails into the seams of the cloth and tore the pillow apart. The straw stuffing burst across the room.

It was at that moment that Caelan sneezed. He blinked, and he looked down at the mess around him. There were still bits of grass and dust particles floating in the air, while the pillow covering was hanging off his fingers in shreds.

He let go of the torn cloth and wiped the tears off his face. Then he got off his knees and stood, taking the broom from its corner to begin sweeping the signs of destruction together.

He felt calmer now, and a wave of cold focus washed over him. It was true that Ivy didn't deserve the extent of care that Adonis showed her. It was also true that she stood in the way of all of the things he wanted in life. She had Adonis's full affection, and she vied for Uriah's favor in the Suns. But he wouldn't let her succeed in taking away his ultimate goal, not when achieving it was almost in his grasp. Whatever she was doing, he wouldn't let it get in the way of him leaving Sticks for good. He would take her down and he would get out.

That was the only way forward, now.

"So," said Caelan, "What have you been up to this week?"

Ramona's heavy sigh filled the air between them with a cloud of breath. The snow was starting to melt away into puddles of slush and mud, making the view look dreary from the forgotten picnic table at the edge of town.

"To be honest," she said. "Outside of 'sales,' I've mostly been tailing Ivy."

Hearing that name so much was starting to grate on Caelan's nerves.

"Hmm," he said as he took a bite of food. "Tailing?"

The bowl between them housed fresh bread rolls - still warm, and stuffed with meat. Ramona tucked the blanket over the side to keep the heat in.

"I've been... trying to keep an eye out for her." Her sideways glance betrayed her explanation. "I've just got a feeling, you know, that she's um. Well, she needs it."

Caelan wondered what Ivy would do if she found out what Ramona was doing this whole time. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "What's going on?"

Ramona picked up a roll and stuffed her face with it. Cheeks full, she shrugged with no innocence, one push away from spilling.

Caelan kept his eyes on her and waited.

"It's just that--" she said through chewed food. "She gets up every morning, right, after staying up all night, and I just hear her tinkering away quietly, over and over again with the same -- see, I can't even look in the windows, though, because she's got them covered, and I thought maybe that was necessary for whatever work she was doing, but then she's got a light in there. And I say, okay, it's fine to want a lamplight, but why create the dark? I know Uriah's probably got a whole laundry list of projects but it can't be that secret. Wouldn't he have her work on the base, then? Wouldn't it need higher security?"

She finally swallowed her food and buried her face in her hands with a groan. "I know she's got the place rigged to blow if someone so much as pulls the door, but...I used to think she worked out there because of Adonis. Now that he's, well, you know. I don't know what to think."

Caelan nodded, but his mind was filled with tension. What was Ivy doing in that workshop of hers, all by herself? That didn't sound like Suns work.

"I just wish I understood her," Ramona whispered through her fingers. "And I feel like she's a stranger more than ever. I don't know how to fix it. I don't know if I can."

Caelan took another bite, giving himself time to think. The silence hung between him and Ramona as he chewed. "That must be frustrating for you," he said after swallowing. "But it's not your responsibility alone to fix this. Something is, evidently, taking all of her attention, but it doesn't exactly sound like the things Uriah has asked her to do."

She stuffed her mouth with another roll, and looked off into the distance with her brows straight as a line. "What would she be working on if it's not for Uriah?" She sounded like she didn't believe it was possible.

"Is there anything else you know about her project?" asked Caelan. "Maybe we could connect the dots if you remember anything she may have told you. I'm a little worried that she may be getting herself into something dangerous--more than just working with explosives, I mean."

"She's asked for extra supplies," she said. "Copper wires, filaments, casings. Nothing special in an out of the ordinary-for-Ivy sort of way. But what would she get into? That's what doesn't make sense. She hardly sees anyone, Caelan. She barely sees me."

He nodded and rested his chin on one hand. "That's a bit of a mystery, then. And how long has this been going on?"

Ramona turned her head to him with the deepest look of condescenscion he'd ever seen. Her brows arched like bird's wings. "Have you paid attention to anything?"

Caelan raised an eyebrow back at her. "I'm a busy man. I don't have time to think about her whereabouts on the regular. You tell me."

"Caelan. She's been like this for almost ten years."

"So you think she's been working on this secret project of hers for a decade."

Ramona threw up her hands and shook them towards the sky. "I don't know what I think! I just think she's a work obsessed gremlin who hasn't seen the sun for ages!"

"Well, that I agree on," replied Caelan. He shrugged. "But surely there was a time where you started to notice that things weren't the same anymore between you two. I would imagine that is where all this began."

The pause that followed as effectively somber. Ramona dropped her hands into her lap and stared at the table, traveling somewhere far away behind her vacant gaze. The sadness she wore under humor became a garment, and it creased the lines of her face, under her eyes. For a moment, she looked ten years older -- like her mother, as he remembered her from their childhood.

"Maybe I've been a bad friend this whole time," Ramona whispered. And it became apparent that she didn't remember when things had changed, or else she'd have said so. "I missed something, didn't I?"

"Hey," said Caelan in a softer tone. He reached over the table to cover her hand with his. "I didn't mean it that way. You've been a great friend to her. It's been a long time in the making. I just thought that maybe I could help you put some clues together that would help bridge the gap between you two." He straightened. "I'll tell you what. Keep keeping an eye on her, and if you think she's doing something that puts herself in too much danger, let me know. I can probably do something to step in, now that I'm a Five." He gave her a reassuring smile.

"Thank you," she murmured. "That's really kind of you."

"Don't mention it," he said. He pushed the basket of rolls toward Ramona. "You're more than welcome to keep the rest. I'm afraid I have to go now." He stood and came around the table to put a hand on her shoulder.

"Hang in there," he murmured. "I'll see you around."

"Alright."

As Caelan left the picnic table and headed back into Sticks, he reviewed everything Ramona told him about Ivy's activities in his mind over and over again. He turned her words over as if he could study every angle. What he concluded was that he needed to find out for himself what exactly Ivy was up to--relying on Ramona's 'surveillance' wouldn't be enough.

It was obvious that Ivy was making something--something not at Uriah's request, but for her own purposes. It was bound to be big. Why else would it occupy her every waking hour outside of her Suns work? Such an uncontrolled, unknown variable was not ideal for Caelan's plans. What if it ruined everything he had worked so hard for? At the same time . . . perhaps he could use it to his advantage. Ivy never did things halfway. He could escape under the cover of her explosion and the Suns would be none the wiser as to where he had gone.

Caelan started to allow his plans to spin in that direction when the fragrance of flowers wafted over him. He was passing by the one flower cart in the town. Though most of the townspeople only bought flowers when there was a funeral, the cart was firmly kept in business by the extravagant weekly purchases of one man.

"Only the freshest bouquets for my wife," Uriah always said.

Caelan walked up to the cart, eyes roving over the blooms. His gaze fell on the section of lilies, and he bent his head closer to smell them. A face came to mind as he soaked in the strong, sweet scent.

"One dozen white lilies, please," he said to the flower cart's owner. He couldn't hold back a smile as he paid and took the wrapped up flowers in his arms.

Perhaps it was the lilies' heady smell that made him feel as though there was an extra spring in his step as he went on his way. Forget the day's troubles for now, he decided. He had been promoted to Five, and he couldn't wait to see the delighted sparkle in her eyes when he appeared on her doorstep with a beautiful bouquet of flowers meant just for her.


My Newlywed Cowboy Husband is Actually the Cold Duke of the North, I Accidentally Married the Enemy Emperor, My Savage Romance, Even the Wolf Lord Falls in Love, Leave Me Alone, Sir Knight! . . .

Warm by the fire, Caelan had almost fallen asleep staring at the nonsensical titles of the books on Cassia's shelf when he felt her hand smoothing the hair on his head and he heard her say, "So, Caelan . . ."

"Hmm?" he replied after he grew a little more awake. He blinked his half-lidded eyes and he turned slightly to look up at her. His position lying on the couch with his head resting in her lap was far too comfortable to be sitting up just yet, though he suspected he'd have to sooner rather than later.

"It's really impressive that you got promoted to Five," she began, "and I'm proud of you for that. You've worked really hard these past few years." She snapped the book she was reading shut. Caelan's eyes involuntarily fell on the title. The Time I Got Spirited Away by the Evil Fairy Prince.

Hearing that recognition of his achievement from her felt extremely good, but the way that she was framing her sentences made Caelan wary. What was Cassia about to say?

"I know you're very popular in the Suns and Sticks. And why wouldn't you be? You're handsome, and you're kind to everyone . . . maybe so kind that some people would misunderstand."

"Misunderstand what?" asked Caelan.

"Your intentions. Or, at least, haven't you noticed the way that all those women look at you?"

Caelan scrunched his eyebrows together. "When did you see me in town?" They only ever met at her parents' mansion. When did she start following him around again?

Cassia flushed. "Recently. But you didn't notice that they all look like they want, well--"

"I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary," replied Caelan, frowning. Of course he noticed. He was used to it after all this time. "Did they look like they wanted to kill me? Like, they were jealous that Uriah trusts me?"

"No." Cassia's own frown deepened. She sighed. "Anyways, I heard rumors that you've been spending a lot of time with that Ramona girl lately."

Where was she getting her information from? Caelan felt a rush of irritation. He had hoped to keep his meetings with Ramona as secret as possible, but he supposed that was difficult since he was quite high-profile in Sticks. Even his naive, isolated--Even Cassia was hearing about this now.

"Ramona? Do you know her?" Best to play ignorant for now.

"Well, not personally," said Cassia. "I've seen her come by here, sometimes, to pick up the products." Her lip curled in distaste. "I know you've worked closely together before."

Caelan sat up. "Are you trying to imply that Ramona and I have something going on between us?"

"No," answered Cassia quickly. She looked away at the fireplace, then at the lilies sitting in a vase on the table next to her. "I just don't like that she's getting so close to you."

But her increasingly pouty expression said that did have a problem. She looked so . . .

Caelan laughed and squished her cheeks gently between his hands. "I didn't know you had this side to you. You look so cute when you're jealous."

"Caelan, I'm being serious!" Cassia grabbed his hands and tried to pry them off her face, but he didn't budge. The slight whine that snuck into her voice along with her muffled speech from his hands pressing into her cheeks didn't help her case.

He couldn't help but smile as he leaned in to kiss her. She instantly melted into his arms. When he pulled away, he nestled up against her and said, "Ramona's just one of the friends I grew up on the same street with. Her mother died recently, so I've been trying to look out for her. She's not exactly popular in the Suns."

Cassia interlaced her fingers with his. "You really are just too nice, huh?" she murmured. Caelan could feel her shoulders droop. "There really isn't anything else going on between you two?"

"Nothing else," said Caelan. "I don't need anyone else but you." He brushed a soft kiss on the back of her hand.

"Okay. I trust you." Cassia brought his hand to her lips in return and said, "I'm so lucky. I get to be loved by Caelan Rhett, the best man in all of Sticks."

Caelan felt an odd pang. Of course, it was hard to believe anyone could say what Cassia just had with a straight face, but he really wasn't the 'best.' He was good, but not in the good person sort of way. (He was a self-aware person, after all.)

It was strange to suddenly think that. It was also somewhat strange to know that she still thought of him so favorably, even after they had been together for the past few years. Being so isolated from the rest of the town must have been the reason she was able to keep such a naive outlook.

Cassia extended her left hand in front of her with her fingers splayed and studied it. After a moment, she mused, "Should we do something?"

"Do what?" asked Caelan. Unlike her earlier insinuations about Ramona or the other Sticks women, he wasn't sure what she meant this time. All he could do was play along.

"Something special," she replied. "Something permanent."

"Like a tattoo?" he teased.

Cassia laughed. "You know that's not what I mean."

Caelan laughed with her. Cassia didn't say anything else and just leaned her head against his as they both basked in the luxurious warmth of the fire.

What an enigma she could be at times.

Somehow, it had been a month since he'd been home. Ossie hadn't meant for it to be that way. In fact, it wasn't even that he'd been particularly busy. Somehow, the time had just... slipped away. While the monotony of his schedule had begun to drag on him slightly, he found himself feeling lighter than he'd ever felt before. A couple years ago, he never could've dreamed that no longer talking to Ivy would have improved his life, but now that he had had some time away from her manic bloodlust, he'd felt freer--less guilt-ridden, somehow. Beau, dead in the ground, had gone seven years without his brother's gaze and reassuring touch, carrying him in the dead of night.

He felt horrible to think it, but that, too, was a weight gone. He hadn't dared imagine it when he'd been younger, but now, with healthy siblings--and extra ones, at that--, Ossie could almost imagine a world in which he had made up for his sins. He lived now not for Beau, but for Mabel, for Grace, for Ramona and Hoss and Ron. He lived for the other Suns, who trusted him and who, he knew now, had been spoiled by a few rotten apples to the lot.

Osmond was good, he had decided.

He was good.

Still... a month since being home. He tried to reason those two facts against each other. It hadn't felt like so long ago, that he'd spent every waking moment of every waking day with his siblings at home, caring and cooking for them, bathing them and trying his best to do what little schooling he could, though it wasn't as if he had much knowledge to draw on. It had been a long time ago though, hadn't it? He didn't know what to talk about with them now. What did they do, during the long days and nights when he was gone, working and providing for their family? What did they like? What were the things they giggled about?

He remembered Grace only a few years ago, snatching his bandana from his head and holding it gleefully just out of reach--a glimpse of Mabel in the kitchen, a similar garment wrapped around her hair. Grace exclaiming that she would "hit you dead," and Mabel's accompanying snickers. It hadn't been that long ago, had it?

Yet his hair fell to his shoulders, tied back loosely, and he hadn't worn a bandana since... since when? His conversation with Uriah about his hair, but how long ago had that been? Not that long ago surely, right? But that conversation was to defend Ramona's slipup, and that had all but been forgotten at this point.

Time was odd this way. And so here he was, standing at the door of his childhood home, feeling suddenly too big and bulky for the frame of the door, and he found himself knocking. Knocking, as if he didn't live here anymore. Ossie grimaced at the feeling in his stomach this elicited, a tight pain, quick but sharp.

"Whoooo is it?" a voice sing-talked as it trailed towards the door. Ossie smiled faintly, feeling some of the worry ease. He still knew Grace. He still knew the way she sounded.

She opened the door, and paused. "Ossie!" she said, surprised. "We didn't know you were gonna be here."

She'd grown taller, still, in the last month or so since he'd last seen her--an inch at least, and her frame was beginning to fill out. Hadn't she just been a stick? Hadn't they both just been sticks in the bathtub, splashing each other and crying at the cold?

"Yeah," Ossie said. "I just wanted to swing by. I dunno how it took me so long, I've been busy."

Grace nodded, a movement that tilted the entire upper half of her body back and forth like the cuckoo bird of a clock. "Yeahhhhh," she said, drawing the word out over an awkward couple of seconds. "Yeah, busy, that makes sense."

Ossie nodded awkwardly in return. Oh, dragons above. Was this what they were now? Was this what being a brother was now?

"Grace!" He could hear their mother call from the other room. "Who is it?"

Grace rocked back on her heels, wincing, before she took a deep breath and proclaimed loudly, "It's Ossie!"

There was a long moment of silence--one he wasn't used to, when it came to his mother. If she had something to say, she said it quick. She also tended to have a habit of stomping through the house when she was home, which is why it startled him to watch her walk, near-silent, in soft, flat shoes to the door. Her hair, pulled back in a bun, grayed at the roots, and wrinkles set into her face a serious look only emphasized by the frown she wore.

"Osmond," she said shortly, then seemed to lose her words for a moment. He didn't say anything back, for fear he might accidentally interrupt her. "Osmond, I..." He watched as his mother sighed, a hand on the doorframe and another on the small of her back. She turned back towards Grace, who lurked just beyond her shoulder, watching every move. "Go wait in the other room," she said softly.

Grace shot Ossie an apologetic look, before she slunk off. Soon after her disappearance, Kyle walked into the room, until he, too, stood between Ossie and the home, just on the other side of the door. The uneasy feeling was back, trickling in slowly and nauseating him. What is going on?

His mom opened her mouth again, and began, "Os--" And then her voice cracked. She glanced away. Kyle placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Osmond," he said carefully, "We... think it's best if you don't come here anymore."

The words took a few seconds to catch up with his brain. He didn't quite understand. Not... come here anymore? Not come home? "What?" he whispered.

"We love you," Kyle said, "but you cannot come here anymore. For the good of your sisters."

"For their good?" Ossie echoed faintly. "Like I'm... for their bad?"

"We warned you to stay away from the Suns," his mother said suddenly, a sharp snap before she took in a deep breath and steadied herself against her husband. "You're too far in," she said, as if stating something both hopeless and irrevocably true. "We can't help you. They've--they've infected you, somehow. And Osmond--" She paused, hand half-way reached out to cup his face before she caught herself and closed her eyes, pained. "If I could trade my arms, my legs, myself for you any day, I would. But I can't. And we can't let you get them sick. We can't."

Here, he found his voice. And with it, a rising tide of--yes, anger--righteous and anchored in Hoss' words only a few years ago: that anger rose when you wanted to protect people. Ossie didn't want to hurt anyone. His parents now wanted to hurt people. To hurt him, and his sisters, by taking them away from him. He had not been his mother's--not for a long time. Not her arms, her legs, her nothing. And here she was, thinking she could take away the only things in the world that mattered to him? His family?

"I'm the one who's sick?" He snapped. "All I've ever done for this family has been to protect Mabel and Grace! I did more of the raising than you ever did, and you think you can take them away from me?"

His mother's expression hardened. "You have done nothing but expose them to more dangers!" she exclaimed. "To allow the Blue Suns into this household, under this roof!"

"The Blue Suns are what SAVED Grace, they're the ones who got her the medicine!"

"The Blue Suns didn't do that, you did!" his mother cried hysterically. "And I thought then that maybe, just maybe, that meant I could get you back too, but you didn't save her! You traded your life for hers!"

"So what if I did! I'd do it all again!" Ossie yelled, hands clenched into fists at his side. Over his mother's shoulder, Kyle stiffened and slid to the side, as if prepared to fit himself between the two of them.

Instead of escalating further though, Ossie watched as his mother's posture sagged. "I know you would," she said tiredly. "You were always too loving for your own good, Osmond. And it's damned your soul."

Somehow, that pained him more. He felt stripped naked, then, ashamed and suddenly on display. Paranoia crept up the back of his neck and stood his hairs on edge. Was he being watched? Was everyone around to see the fall of the brother, the brother only, because really, what else was he? A guard? Just another word for a brother in arms. Who was he, without knowing he was doing it to protect Mabel and Grace?

He felt rabid, a feral dog trapped in the corner of an alleyway. His eyes flickered over their shoulders, to the rooms he recognized. Something in his heart broke, knowing Grace and Mabel were just out of reach, just out of sight.

"Osmond," Kyle said in a low, grounded voice, "It's time for you to leave now."

He felt the instinct, then, to snap, to snarl, to bite at heels until they cowered in the corner and he took his sisters, because really, who did they think they were? But that instinct was very un-Ossie-like, and along with it came a trickle of fear, leaking from the cracked vase of his heart. "Mom," he said softly, trying just one more time. "Mama, please--"

She turned away. "Go," she said. "Now."

His hands clenched into fists as he took a few stumbles back from the door, his entire frame shaking. Maybe the world was shaking. Maybe a quake would collapse the house in on itself, the whole street, swallow him whole, cover him in dirt. He'd be next to Beau.

They closed the door.

How could he breathe so much but still not feel it? Faintness crept at his vision and the edges of a cloudy mind. Deep breaths, but fast. Gulping, like water, like he was dying of thirst, and he knew he was breathing, so why couldn't he feel it?

The streets shook beneath him. Maybe it was just the pounding of his heart. Drums pounded in his ears, and the faint sound of a song cut sharply off mid-verse: "I'm not yours anymore--"

Humming. Not as vicious as a word as it felt in his head, like a high-pitched buzz that wouldn't leave. Breathing, don't forget to do that.

Hurting them? He was hurting them? He'd show them--

Breathe, breathe, breathe, feel the heartbeat in your chest and match the tempo, match the rhythm, keep it going, the song isn't over yet.

What had they told Grace and Mabel about him? What lies had they been fed, would they fear him now? Would they think he was bad? He couldn't bear that, he couldn't handle if they thought he was bad when everything he'd done was to make sure he wasn't, to make sure he was GOOD.

Spikes of pain, in his chest, and the drumming. The drumming, getting... louder?

He'd been wandering. He froze mid-street, head tilted towards the town square, only a block or two away.

"They all bleed!" A call.

"They all bleed!" Its echo. What was going on?

In the town square, chaos seized a hectic crowd as adults grabbed their children and fled, elders hobbling to the nearest shelters they could find. It was the musicians he'd seen--how long ago? Had it really been years by now?

Maybe the music hadn't been in his head after all.

The lead musician, the woman with a lute in her hands, was singing at the top of her lungs, despite the half a dozen or so Blue Suns members marching through the crowd towards her and the other musicians.

What had the musician done? Ossie surged forward, grabbing one of the Suns by the shoulder. "What happened? What did they do?"

"Uriah said to get them out!" the boy responded.

Ossie's eyes shot over to the woman, still singing defiantly. "Oh, the blue and the black and the colors in-between--"

Uriah said to get them out. Uriah, who had forgiven Ramona an extensive loss of money and goods, had said to get the musicians out. Uriah, who said family was important, unlike Ossie's own mother who cast him out at the slightest sign of trouble, who wouldn't let him see his sisters again. Uriah, who protected Ossie's sister when he asked.

His fists shook at his sides with the rush of adrenaline. Whatever these musicians had done, Ossie could not imagine the horror of it. With a sudden surge of righteous anger, Ossie moved to join the others. The musicians had to go.



Ossie walked towards the office, his head buzzing as his thoughts raced sluggishly. He knew he should feel worried--nobody was ever called to speak to Uriah without good reason--but in the aftermath of being kicked out of his home, nothing seemed to matter much anymore. He'd dreamed of Grace and Mabel every night for the last... had it been a week already?

Needless to say, he was running on less than low sleep and... nothing. He was running on nothing.

He raised his fist and knocked at the door. The sound sounded delayed to his own ears, and he blinked a few times before focusing on the sounds around him. Not delayed, really. Just his mind, then. He needed to focus. He couldn't go into a meeting with Uriah unprepared.

The door opened for him. "Osmond," Uriah said pleasantly. "Are you alright? You look a bit pale."

"I'm alright, sir," he said, trying to make himself at least a little presentable. "You asked to see me?"

"Yes, come in," Uriah welcomed. With a sweep of his arm, he pointed to the sitting area, where biscuits and tea sat on the table. "I have some thoughts I want to share with you."

He trailed after him, sitting awkwardly on a chair much nicer than he was used to.

"Help yourself." Uriah gestured to the table.

Ossie took a single biscuit, but didn't eat it, just waited for Uriah to speak. He didn't feel like it was a good idea to refuse a kind offer.

"You've been a faithful son for some time, now, yes?" Uriah asked. "How many years has it been?"

Ossie stared at him for a long moment, feeling a sudden rush of grief threaten to swallow him. "I'm- I'm sorry, sir?" he stammered. "Go," he heard the echo of his mother's voice. "Now."

"Perhaps I should be more explicit," Uriah smiled. "You've been an excellent guard, and you're someone I consider worthy of my trust. You've proven over time how devoted you are to the Suns, and I wonder if you've ever thought of promotion."

The relief hit him like a brick wall. Sun. Not son. He had been a faithful sun for some time. He felt some of the tension leave his shoulders immediately as the tiredness swept in and the adrenaline cooled. "Honestly, sir," he said carefully, frowning to think about it for the first time. "Not really," he admitted finally. Promotion hadn't been on his mind... ever, had it? He did what he did to protect those he cared about, not for a title.

"Really? Not even with Caelan's new position?"

His frown deepened. "No, sir. I'm certainly no Caelan."

"Of course not," Uriah assured him. "But if you don't mind me asking: what is it, then, that drives you? If you're not reaching for more spires, what's pushing you towards excellence, young man?"

"My... My family." Ossie faltered again. "I do everything for my family, sir. I want to protect them." Dragons above, he might throw up.

"Ah. And that includes your sisters, yes?"

"Yes." The lump in his throat felt like it was choking him. He had done everything for them. Everything. For them and them alone, and his mother and-- and Kyle, a man who wasn't even his biological father-- they had the audacity to tell him he was hurting them? That he was no good? All he ever strived for was to be good!

"Is something wrong, Osmond?" Uriah asked gently. His brows knitted in concern.

"I, umm..." Ossie swallowed, trying to push back the swell of emotions. "I'm sorry, sir, it hasn't been the easiest week."

Uriah leaned forward and offered a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

He couldn't bear this. The kindness. It cracked the vase inside him, the one holding in the flood, and suddenly he was blinking back tears as he reached a hand to swipe at his eyes. "My mother," he said finally. "And step-father, they don't want me going home. Or talking to my sisters anymore."

He buried his face in his hands, then, as if that could stop the wave of helplessness from washing over him. He pressed his palms tightly against his eyes until spots danced behind them. Breathe, just breathe. Don't become a burden to the six of the sticks, that's just embarrassing.

"Oh, Osmond," Uriah cooed. "I'm so sorry. It is tragic when parents don't understand."

After taking a couple of deep breaths, he raised his head. He needed to stay calm and composed. "Thank you, sir."

"I know it is no replacement for what you've lost, nor can it heal the pain your parents have inflicted," Uriah said. "But, Osmond... the Blue Suns are your family now. They always have been."

Family. It always came back to family, didn't it? And hadn't it been a couple of years now, that he had thought of the Suns as family, of his sisters as family? All of them, more family than his mother or step-father had ever been? But to hear Uriah say it-- it was like Hana's healing hands. Holy. Untouchable. Something of myth. Previously not quite known, like the doubt had always been there, the little voice in the back of his head saying, "Maybe you are really bad, maybe you're awful and you should just die, you should've died instead, Beau should be here instead," and sure, the voice had quieted over the years, but it was still there, wasn't it, and here it was, that most revered thing: silence. The stillness of a mind, being reassured he was cared about. He was backed up.

He wasn't alone. And he never had been. The emotions flooded forth again, this time more positive, loving, loved. The Blue Suns were his family now. They always have been.

Uriah offered the handkerchief again. "I will not forsake you." It was said like a gentle benediction, and a promise.

Ossie took it. It felt like a blessing. A fortune-telling, laying out a happy future in front of him he'd never thought he was going to get.

Silence passed by. Exalted. Reverent. It didn't feel sticky. It didn't feel slow. It just felt like itself. It felt like certainty.

"What are you feeling right now?" Uriah asked.

Ossie hesitated. He was feeling so many things. Still, one word jumped out, higher and stronger than the others. "I feel... right," he said. "I know I'm supposed to be here."

Uriah smiled, and the whole of his being radiated warmth and safety. "You know, of all the men who've come through the Suns, I've yet to meet someone as pure of heart as you. There's one role I haven't been able to fill... but I think you're just the person I'm looking for. Someone worthy to be called family. A son."

Ossie thought of his father, who left. Who called him all sorts of things. Of Kyle, who told him he needed to leave. Uriah... wanted him? His breath caught in his throat.

"I've been seeking someone to look after Silas," Uriah said. "Not just a bodyguard, but a mentor, a friend, and a brother. Someone who can teach him how to defend himself, to find his passion, and encourage him to grow. Do you think you could do that for me?"

He answered without hesitation. "Of course, sir."

Uriah reached across the space between their seats, setting his hand on Ossie's shoulder. "I will always appreciate the respect. But one day, I hope you can think of me as your father."

That brought a smile to Ossie's lips, despite everything. A small one, but there nonetheless. "You won't regret this," he promised. "I won't let anything happen to him."

Uriah smiled wide. "I don't believe you will."

The letter had arrived several days ago. Ossie had never expected it would take a lot of courage to work himself up to go visit Adonis--who had written him asking that he stop by sometime whenever he was free--but now, he felt so removed from childhood that he felt almost like a myth. He had looked up to him so much. He carried the wooden lute around with him everywhere, still.

That sense of childhood fear was setting upon him again. It felt almost too much to hope for that Adonis wanted to see him. Not that there was any reason he wouldn't want to specifically, but Ossie had never felt particularly important to any of the adults he'd grown up around. So to be sent a letter personally-- and what if he somehow failed? What if he did the wrong thing, and then Adonis also said he was bad?

He thought back to when he'd confessed his dreams of hurting his siblings to Adonis, and how Adonis had said that dreams did not reflect who people were. He wondered if Adonis still believed that. Maybe that was just something he said to convince himself after a bad dream, or maybe he just said it to quiet a needy child. Or maybe... he meant it.

That was probably the most terrifying option out of the three.

He hadn't been to this house in a long time, and as he walked up the path, it felt smaller than before, though he knew logically it must be because he'd grown. And now, far too late, a thought of panic rushed through him: what if Ivy was here? He knew, realistically, that a couple of years ago, she hadn't slept at home in ages, and Ivy was not the kind of person to change. But still, the possibility...

Should he turn back?

But Adonis wanted to see him. To see... him. Warmth flooded his chest then, nervous and fast-paced. Adrenaline? Hope?

He pushed past the fear and knocked on the door.

"Come in," a voice called from inside-- one that sounded years older than the last time he'd heard it.

It took him so instantly back to being little that he had to blink a few times before he could gather himself enough to say, "It's Osmond. Ferrer? You, uh... sent me a letter?" as he opened the door.

Immediately the lingering smell of tea hit him, and he had the feeling that if he'd walked in with his eyes closed, he could've determined whose house this was out of any building in Sticks. Most of the familarity ended where sight began, though. The space held more color than he'd ever seen in it in the form of plants, a rug, and a green accent wall that looked freshly painted. The counter was clear of paper and ink, something Ossie couldn't process until he vaguely remembered hearing somewhere that Adonis had retired.

But the most vivid shock came when he registered the graying, pale strands running through Adonis's hair, above a smile that hadn't changed a day.

"I'm a man in my late forties, not a dementia patient," Adonis joked, a nostalgic warmth sparking in his eyes as he waved Ossie over. "There's only ever been one you, Ossie."

Ossie smiled shyly, feeling overcome by the embarrassment of a version of him ten years younger. "I don't know if that's a good thing or not."

"It's one of the best things there is." Adonis motioned again, in invitation to join him at the table. "Sit, sit."

He did--awkwardly--as he watched the idol of his childhood stare through eyes adorned with more wrinkles than before.

"Heard you got a new ray or two," Adonis commented. "Hopefully it's not too lonely at the top, right?"

Ossie shook his head and smiled. "Not anywhere near the top," he said. "And..." He paused, then thought about it truthfully. "Not lonely either," he said finally.

It was half-true, wasn't it? He didn't have his sisters and it was tearing him apart, but he had friends, and besides, he was trying not to think about the conflict, at least not until he could wrap his head around it. He had other siblings too, more than he'd had before. Other guards--friends? Yes, he'd probably call them that.

Adonis nodded in what looked like faint relief. "Good. That's the trap I see the people in your shoes walking into the most-- I'm glad to hear you seem to have avoided it."

"Well, I'm just a guard," Ossie said, watching Adonis as he reached a hand into his pocket to fidget with the lute. "I'm around other people all the time. I'm not doing something smart like you did."

Adonis let out a quiet huff, in apparent dismissal of the compliment, before humming in contemplation. "Really?" he asked. "That's their loss. But I suppose my days of pointing out their mistakes are over-- not that I spent enough time doing it in the first place."

"I don't think it's their loss. I'm good at being big and holding a weapon. I don't know that I'd be much good for anything else." He smiled again.

Adonis didn't say anything immediately, but Ossie watched as his head titled further and further to the side-- and with it, his expression sobered until only a heavy sadness lit his eyes.

"...Please don't tell me you actually believe that," Adonis said finally.

The change in tone startled Ossie, and he blinked a few times, feeling a heavy sense of dread settle on his chest, like a weight pushing down. Somehow, he'd disappointed him. He didn't know what he'd done, but he'd done it, like he'd been terrified of. He couldn't handle this-- not when he'd only lost access to his sisters a couple of days ago and his life was still reeling.

"Umm..." Ossie bit his lip, then shrugged as a sense of shame washed over him. "I don't really know much else besides watching my siblings. And I'm not really able to do that for the Suns." Or for anyone... he added silently.

Adonis blinked, and another period of silence fell over them. Ossie couldn't remember the last time he'd said something that had made Adonis stunned. Couldn't remember the last time Adonis had been stunned, period. He felt nauseous.

"You're more than a caretaker, you know," Adonis said slowly, like he couldn't run the risk of Ossie not catching the words. "You do know that, right?"

Ossie frowned, then smiled nervously. "I, um..." He felt like no matter what he said, it wouldn't be the right answer. He didn't know what Adonis wanted. Was there something he'd taught him that Ossie had forgotten? Some skill he was meant to know that he wasn't mentioning? "Yeah," he said finally. "Sure."

He couldn't bear to disappoint him. Maybe a small lie wasn't bad, when you did it because you loved someone.

It didn't seem to have convinced Adonis, though, who only dropped his gaze to the table-- or, in particular, the dust that had collected over on Ossie's side of it. It looked like it had been gathering for quite some time. Something like shame had swept into his eyes.

"Right," Adonis murmured, without a trace of belief in his voice, before clearing his throat and starting anew. "Well, I'm sure you'll see the opportunity to do something new soon enough. You're still happy with your choice to join, I take it?"

"Yeah," Ossie said slowly. "Well, Mabel didn't die because of the Suns. I'd never take that back, no matter what."

"True. Their power to save is second only to their power to take away-- I'll give them that." Adonis looked up, studying him once more. "How's she doing these days? Still in good health?"

Ossie glanced down at the floor. "Yeah, umm... yeah, I think so."

"Think?" Adonis echoed, caught off guard.

"Yeah, I, uh... I don't really go home anymore," he muttered, feeling another wave of shame heat his cheeks.

He couldn't see him, but he could almost hear Adonis putting it together in the silence. Whatever lightheartedness had lingered in the house seemed well and truly dead now.

"Is it Kris?" Adonis asked at last, with a sad, knowing tone.

Ossie didn't respond, but the silence was enough.

"Shit. Ossie, I'm so sorry, I--" Adonis sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I'd offer to talk to her, whatever it is, but her and I-- I'm sure she wouldn't hear it. I don't know specifics, but I know you don't deserve that."

Something about hearing that--hearing that from him, of all people, stung Ossie's eyes and tightened his chest. He shrugged and swallowed, trying to push back the lump in his throat. "It wouldn't be your problem to handle anyway."

"You're not my problem, Ossie. You're not a burden of mine either. You're someone I care for, and that means I want what's right for you." Adonis shook his head, sorrow eclipsing his wrinkled features. "That includes this."

"Thank you," Ossie whispered. He didn't know what to say. It wouldn't get his sisters back, and he couldn't be a burden to Adonis. He clearly was stressed enough as it was.

"It feels late to say it somehow, but you're always welcome here. You never stopped being welcome here." Adonis waved a hand around loosely at the house, which suddenly felt smaller. "I'm not sure what I can offer that you'd want, but... you want something from me, it's yours."

Ossie shook his head. "I don't need anything," he said slowly. Nothing that Adonis could help him get, anyway. His sisters? Beau? It wasn't like Adonis had control over the dead--or the living, for that matter. "Besides, I don't think you need anything else on your plate. You just got to stop working. I don't think I should give you more." He added a half-smile, and tried his best to look like he felt it.

"But do you want anything?" Adonis pressed. "I'm not in danger of having too much going on. If anything, it's the opposite. It's... well, it's quiet now."

Ossie nodded uncomfortably. He knew what that meant. He hadn't seen Ivy in a couple of years, and he was thankful for it. He was worried if he had, his heart would leap out of his skin and either push him to run away or to go against everything he knew to be good and apologize, say he didn't mean any of it at all. "I don't know," he said finally. "When I want things, they tend to show why I shouldn't have them."

Adonis furrowed his brow, and Ossie wasn't sure how much of that he understood. Maybe none of it. Or maybe all of it. Either way, there was still a question in his eyes-- one that got voiced.

"Why do you say that?" Adonis asked gently.

"I think just... sometimes," Ossie said slowly, "I love things or people. But they're not good. And I'm good, so I can't have them."

He watched as Adonis's concern morphed into a conflicted frown. It didn't look right on him. "And those would be...?"

Ossie paused, suddenly realizing the dangerous territory he was in. Ivy was on his mind, of course, but he couldn't say that to Adonis--especially not when Adonis might be the only one who had even a chance of swaying her towards a different path. "Like the musicians," Ossie said. "In the square. I liked their music, but Uriah said we needed to get rid of them. And Uriah wouldn't say that without a good reason, so I helped get rid of them. Even though I liked the music, they were still bad."

Adonis let out a quiet scoff, but the scorn didn't seem to be for him. Even so, it took everything inside Ossie to not shrink down in his seat.

"Oh, he had his reason for it, I don't doubt it," Adonis muttered. "Though I'm less inclined to excuse it so swiftly."

Excuse it? Ossie wasn't excusing anything, just stating facts. Uriah said the musicians had to go. He wouldn't have done that unless they were bad. "I just mean that I'm trying to be good," Ossie said. "I wasn't always good, but I'm trying to be now. So if I know something isn't good, I make sure I do the right thing. Or I try to, anyway."

"Did you know the musicians weren't good, Ossie?" Adonis asked simply. "Or were you told by someone you trusted?"

He frowned. "Well, I knew it because someone I trusted told me. But I still knew it. Those aren't different."

"They are if you trust the wrong people--" Adonis inhaled deeply through his nose, releasing it as a sigh. When he spoke again, it was calmer, but it held a new note of resignation. "I'm sorry. Never mind. Forget I said anything."

Somehow, that made Ossie feel way worse. His hand reached into his pocket and felt the wooden lute. Adonis had told him he asked good questions. That he did things perfectly when he tried them, that he did good work. There had been a time when what Ossie said was what Adonis was looking for. Now though, he had the sickening, crushing feeling that he didn't know how to give what Adonis wanted. It felt almost like...

Like you are putting too much on him, Ossie thought sternly. Like you aren't a little kid anymore, and he shouldn't HAVE the burden of telling you he's proud of you, or that you've done a good job. That you've asked the right questions and given the right answers. That's not his responsibility.

So why did he still feel nauseous?

The wooden lute was in his pocket still--a reminder that at one point, he had succeeded. At one point, it had been real.

"Okay," Ossie said quietly. He didn't know what else to say.

Adonis rubbed his hand over his face, looking almost equally crushed. Whatever was on his mind, he seemed to be missing the words.

"Just... think for yourself," he said at last. "Question where the needle of that so-called moral compass of his points. While you still can."

Adonis could have slapped him in the face and it would've felt less painful. So that was it, then. He wasn't going to tell Ossie anything anymore. This was Adonis telling him for certain that he was on his own.

It was one feeling to want to protect others from the burden of yourself. It was another feeling to be told by someone that they were rejecting the burden of you completely. Like his mother, stopping him from seeing his sisters. His step-father, who didn't stand up to her.

He swallowed back a lump in his throat as his vision blurred. He blinked the tears back and stood quickly. "Thank you," he said. "I'll get out of your hair, I'm sure there are things you'd rather be doing than getting caught up with me."

"That's not true," Adonis said, almost before the words had finished leaving Ossie's mouth. "I'm not trying to get rid of you, Ossie. I just--"

He sighed once more. Ossie swore he could hear the dust falling off the shelves in the silence that followed.

"I can't and won't make you listen to me," Adonis said. "That would be an insult to your intelligence. But I worry about who you choose to hear out instead sometimes."

"I don't understand." Ossie's voice cracked, and he struggled to hold back the helpless feeling washing over him. "I don't choose who to hear out. I just... I just listen to the people who talk to me."

"And I regret not having done that more." Adonis watched him with the pain of someone who feared it was too late-- someone who was fighting for it not to be.

The realization nearly knocked him off his feet. Adonis thought that... Ossie was bad. "I don't understand," Ossie whispered again, because all other words had left him.

"I mean that I don't blame you for seeking comfort elsewhere. That's only natural. What I wish I'd done was be there so you wouldn't have to look in those places. That's my own damn fault." Adonis raised an imaginary glass with a faint huff, as if offering a bleak, rueful toast to whatever flaw of his he found responsible. "You were all just kids. Not anymore, of course-- but that was the hardest part of watching this all happen. I shouldn't have been merely watching."

This felt like it was about more than just Ossie, now. You were all just kids. But everyone was kids at one point, right? And it didn't feel that different from being an adult. It was the same responsibilities--cook, look after those you care for. He'd swapped watching his siblings for watching rooms to guard them, but he didn't know how there could be some big difference there--something innate in him that had changed for the worse.

He'd done everything he could to do good things. He left Ivy because she killed a farmer, and he didn't deserve it. He joined the Suns to save his sister's life. Even now, he was helping Ron learn to fight, to stay safe. He'd be doing it for Silas soon too. What was he doing that was wrong?

"I'm sorry for taking up your time," he said finally, glancing down at the floor. "And for making you feel bad. You shouldn't feel bad. You're a good person."

"Don't apologize." Adonis waved his hand. "It's not you. I'm an old man with his head in the past, and I've got nothing but time."

Nothing but time. Nothing. And he didn't want Ossie either. Adonis wanted his nothingness, just like he wanted his time. Well, as much as it sent his heart racing and made the little boy inside him want to break down crying, Ossie would give him that. He would give Adonis what he wanted, because it would be selfish to not. "Thank you for the letter," Ossie said, "and for wanting me to visit. I hope you get the time and peace you wanted when you retired."

"Of course. Please don't feel as though you need a letter in the mail in order to swing by-- my door's still open to you." Adonis bowed his head.

Ossie tried his best to give a smile, but the pit in his stomach grew deeper instead. He knew he wouldn't be back--not when Adonis thought he wasn't good. Why would he want Ossie to come back, if he thought he wasn't good?

"You'll let all the bugs in," he joked, then scratched the back of his head as he moved towards the door. "Goodbye," he said, turning to look back at him one more time. His childhood hero, who he had always adored, and now who, he had the sinking feeling, did not believe in Ossie in the slightest. "Thank you again. For everything. I, umm..." He pulled the wooden lute from his pocket and said, "I still carry it everywhere."

Adonis's gaze dropped to it, eyes widening in recognition. A soft smile split his face, and Ossie had the thought that he hadn't ever seen him this touched before.

"I--" Adonis's voice cracked unexpectedly with emotion, and he cleared his throat, raising his hand to his sternum. "I didn't know you'd kept that."

"It's the only gift I've ever gotten," Ossie said, sincerity uncorking another wave of sadness. "I think about that every day."

The lines around Adonis's eyes crinkled further, with equal parts solemnity and wistfulness. His next breath sounded shaky.

"I'm glad it made a difference," he murmured. "Truly."

Ossie hesitated for a moment, then whispered, "Could I... can I hug you?"

Adonis spread his arms in an instant, standing up to face him. From his glistening eyes, it seemed the silent answer was more than a yes.

Ossie moved forward and embraced him. He couldn't tell if he was trembling, or Adonis was. He didn't say it outloud, but he knew in his heart that this was goodbye. That's what was best for Adonis. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying to feel the moment. Live in it, before it was gone.

Finally, painfully, he pulled away. He couldn't look him in the eyes. "I'll see you later," he said as he walked to the door, not letting himself look back.

He knew he wouldn't.

The air was crisp as Ossie's boots scraped the dirt of the outdoor training grounds. It cut to the bone.

"She told me to leave," Ossie grunted as he swung the glaive sharply at Hoss' figure, watching him deflect. He'd come to look forward to this time of the week--the time when he got to not only practice with a skilled opponent, but catch up with his brother. It was a time he could let the emotions loose. The anger, and the pain.

"Damn," Hoss empathized, pushing Ossie back with a jut of his glaive. "I always knew Kris was a bitch, but I didn't think she'd do that to her own son."

Ossie hesitated for a moment at the words, just long enough for Hoss to take advantage with another jut. He jolted backwards to avoid the cut, then said, "I don't know... I didn't feel like she..." he trailed off. "I mean, she did so much for me," he finished as they traded blows back and forth.

"She's your mother, Ossie," Hoss defended. Their blades clashed and swung into the ground. "She's supposed to do things for you. At least, a decent parent is supposed to without holding it over your head like that. Don't make excuses for her."

"I guess I just feel like I did a lot of things for them too, you know?" he said, taking a brief moment to wipe the sweat off his brow with the collar of his shirt. "Like, I did so much for Beau and for Mabel and for Grace. And I wanted to, I don't mean I didn't want to, I just..."

Hoss planted the staff of his glaive into the ground with a sigh, as they both took a break to breathe. "Listen. It's not your fault. You were as good a brother as you could've been. Gods, you practically carried your family. The fact that she's so fucking ungrateful is disgusting. I thought I had shitty parents, but at least my mother never spat in my face for being the parent my father never was."

He was so unused to feeling defended in this way--like he actually had done the right thing, and someone else was in the wrong--that it took Ossie a moment to process it. Almost disbelieving, he said quietly, "Yeah. I guess you're right. She kind of did spit in my face with that. And then to say I was hurting them, when all I've ever done has been for them. I joined the Suns for them, to get Mabel the medicine she needed. And now I'm bad for it?"

Hoss scoffed on Ossie's behalf. "You have every right to be angry."

"I am," Ossie said slowly, before he frowned. "I am angry."

"And the fact that Kyle didn't even defend you?" Hoss shook his head. "Dragons above. What a dead weight. I'm sorry, Oss."

He nodded, glancing at the ground before wiping a stray drop of stinging sweat out of his eye again. "Yeah, well..." He glanced up. "Something good happened from it. I guess, if you could say something good happens from that."

Hoss raised his brows. "Yeah?"

"Uriah wanted to meet with me yesterday," he said. "And I guess he knew something was wrong. I mean, I'm not very good at hiding it. But he wants me to look after Silas. Not just guard him, but protect him and basically just... be a brother to him."

Hoss huffed through his nose and smiled, offering Ossie a hand. "Shit, man. That's a huge act of trust. Uriah must really like you."

Ossie smiled softly, but inside him, he felt warmth radiating. He took Hoss' hand, and Hoss pulled him into a hug, giving him a pat on the back as he said softly, "He basically said he hopes one day it'll be like he's my father. Guess we'll learn what that's like--having a dad," he added with a laugh.

"I'm glad you got a silver lining, Oss," Hoss said when they pulled away. "You deserve that much. And Uriah's not a bad guy to have on your side. He'll war against anyone who messes with you, for sure."

Hoss' words brought a sense of relief with them, like a weight lifting from Ossie's shoulders. Because he was right. Ossie hadn't really been messed with, but this was another layer of protection, not for him, but for those he cared about. If Uriah cared about him, and Ossie cared about someone else, then Uriah would help protect them too because that's what family did.

"Us," Ossie said with a smile. "Anyone who messes with us."

He thought of his mother, over a week ago now, talking about how he put his sisters in danger by being in the Suns. The argument seemed so silly now. Instead of the imposing figure of his childhood, he saw instead the giant in his memories was just a woman. A person. One who was wrong. He was bringing infinitely more protection for them here, even when he wasn't allowed to see them now, than he ever would have if he hadn't joined. Still, some part of his brain felt like some day, some day, she would thank him. She'd see he was good, and she'd come back. Say she wanted him.

Hoss laughed and punched Ossie's shoulder, lightly. His gaze traveled past them, and he pointed to their brother, Ron, who walked in rather doe-eyed with a training shortsword in his hands. It was surprising, seeing how much Ron had grown from the little boy playing in the mud to a nearly full-grown man, just short of 18. When he came up to Hoss's side, Ron's shy smile reminded Ossie of Ramona, and his freckles were just as dark as hers.

"Looks like it's time to kick ass," Hoss joked, shaking Ron's shoulders.

Ron, far more meek than any of their siblings, nodded with a shy grin and a small wave.

"Let's see your moves," Ossie said with a smile, shooting a glance at Hoss again before focusing on Ron as he lifted the shortsword.

Ron took in a deep breath and stepped back, checking his stance. With a focused gaze, he came in fierce, fast, and daring. It was so uncharacteristic that it was like Ron became a different person when their swords clashed, and Ossie smiled as he deflected the blow. Ron came alive when he was in here. He had confidence, a spirit of eagerness that lit when he held a weapon. It filled Ossie with a sense of pride, to know that he was able to be a part of Ron feeling that way. He was a good brother. He protected his family, didn't he? His mother was wrong. She was wrong.

Ron deflected a blow, and Ossie spun his sword around Ron's, bringing it to the ground. He stopped just before Ron was disarmed, and the two stepped back with lingering smiles.

"I like this," Hoss said, clapping his hand on Ossie and Ron's shoulders. "Three brothers, strong as they come. Between the three of us, Mona has nothing to worry about."

Ossie smiled. Brothers. Now that was something he hadn't fully gotten growing up--not in the way this was, anyway. With Beau, it was always Ossie protecting him and never the other way around. With Hoss and Ron, it felt more like... someone also had his back. He liked it.

Hoss pulled his hands away to pick up a training sword, spinning it in his hands. "We should keep an eye out for Caelan, though. You've been seeing him with Mona too, haven't you?"

Ossie nodded slowly, wiping away a bead of sweat tracing its way down his forehead. "Yeah. I've seen them together. They..." He trailed off with a sigh, using the collar of his shirt to wipe more sweat out of his eyes. "I don't know. He tried to... well, I went to Uriah to help Ramona with something, and even after Uriah said it was okay, Caelan tried to pull something."

Hoss froze. "Pull something?" Ron, who had idly been swinging his sword back and forth in loops around his body, paused to watch them.

"Yeah," Ossie said. "He took her into his office to scold her or something, even though she was already pardoned. And on top of it, he's acting weird to her. Weird in a way he shouldn't when he's her boss. Flirting, or something like it. It just feels off," he said finally.

"No way am I letting that cheating little bitch knock up my sister as a side-chick," Hoss scoffed. He stuck the sword in the ground. "He's already tried and failed with half the sluts in Sticks."

"I love Ramona," Ossie said slowly, "but she doesn't seem to... I don't think she really sees danger. And I don't wanna stop her from just existing, but also how do you protect someone who doesn't see danger?"

"She's too trusting," Hoss said. "And one of these days, she's going to get pregnant and think it's the guy's fault. I don't know what she's expecting, flaunting herself. That's why we need to keep an eye out."

Ron nodded in wholehearted agreement, and placed his sword in the ground in a gesture that mimicked what Hoss had just done.

"Isn't there anything more we can do, though? To stop it before it happens? I really don't like Caelan hanging around her the way he is."

Hoss sighed. "I wish we could just beat the shit out of him to teach him a lesson, but he's Uriah's little pet. I don't want to anger the boss-man." He spun his sword in his hand. "Uriah doesn't really get involved in people's personal drama anyway. At least, not this sort of thing."

Ossie nodded, frowning at the floor as he placed his sword on the ground. "Well... family is the most important thing to him, too. He would understand that, don't you think?"

Hoss pursed his lips. "Caelan got promoted, right?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I think so. I don't really pay much attention to that stuff."

"With his new role, Ramona probably needs a new supervisor. I could ask about taking Caelan's place. Then he'd have less reasons to bother her."

Ossie nodded again. "Someone so high up shouldn't have to worry about checking up on individual sellers," he said, the wheels in his head spinning.

Ron's eyes lit up, and he patted Hoss's shoulder. It seemed to be all the affirmation Hoss needed.

"I'll request a meeting with him, then." Hoss tilted his head. "Oh. Looks like your student's here too."

Ossie turned over his shoulder, then smiled widely. At the edge of the fence, looking slightly uncomfortable but taking everything in, was Silas. "You found your way here!" Ossie beamed. "I didn't know if you might need someone to lead you or anything."

Silas clambered over the fence and stood near Ossie, an arm crossed over his chest in a pose Ossie remembered from when Silas was a kid. "I've watched some people training here before," he said, shrugging.

Hoss put an arm around Ron. "Well, you're not watching anymore," he said. "And Oss is a great teacher."

"Well, I don't know about that," Ossie said softly, scratching the back of his head. "But I'm always happy to help."

"Then get to it and start helping," Hoss laughed, clapping his hand on Ossie's shoulder. "I've got my hands full with Ronny-boy. Come on."

He led Ron away with a nod, and Ron fumbled with his sword as he followed Hoss to the other end of the grounds, where the tarp-tied dummies were lined like scarecrows ready for slaughter.

Silas' shoulders relaxed. "Now, I'm warning you," he said, "the only time I've held a sword was in the smithy."

Ossie laughed. "I hadn't touched any of this stuff until I got here. It's easy to pick up once you start. Just grab a training sword, we'll use those."

After weighing a few options in his hands, Silas picked one of the wooden swords from the rack. "It's light!" he said.

"It's mainly for younger teens training," Ossie said, "since that's when most people start. Gotta build that muscle." He gave another smile, then said, "You ready?"

"Nooot really," Silas said good-humoredly.

Ossie laughed. "That's, uh... that's fair. We'll start out slow. Here, mirror me!"

It didn't feel like it would be hard to view Silas as a brother, now that they were face to face again. It didn't feel hard at all.

Saoirse sighed. This all would have been a lot easier if Delia had been willing to work with her. Suns, it would’ve been easier to just have her cooperate at all. For better or for worse, Delia was Uriah’s wife. She would’ve been easiest way to get close enough to him.

It was a pain that she’d shut Saoirse out. Inconvenience aside, it had hurt more than she’d ever anticipated. Saoirse couldn’t remember ever meeting her aunt. She didn’t know if Delia shared her mother’s eyes or smile, if they even liked any of the same things. Silas had described her. It hadn’t done much to help.

Grief settled like a thorn under her skin, the barb long-since worn down.

Saoirse let out another sigh, shaking her head. There was no use in dwelling on it. No, better to focus on her end-goal. Uriah wasn’t going anywhere; not unless Saoirse did something about it.

It would be nice to have Silas around. Even just to talk to. The truth was that Saoirse missed her friend. It felt like he was spending more time with Uriah these days, no matter how much Saoirse hated it. She’d need his help to do this right. It was just a matter of figuring out how to get it.

Saoirse started with the facts.

First off -- Uriah was a werewolf. He’d killed before, and he would kill again if Saoirse got in his way. She’d need to find a way around that, whatever the means.

Secondly -- Silas was a werewolf too. Saoirse could use that against him --would have to, probably, even if it left a bitter taste in her mouth. He liked Uriah too much. It was the only real leverage she had.

Last of all, and maybe most important -- Silas was afraid. He knew what werewolves did – what they were capable of doing. It was why he was still a lumbum. Like it or not, it kept the Wolf in check. At least that’s what he said.

Saoirse paused, scratching the back of her head. If lumshade could keep Silas’ wolf away…

She grumbled a curse under her breath. Saoirse knew where to get lumshade; everyone did. But the stuff she could get a hold of wouldn’t help. Ramona didn’t sell the stronger stuff. At least not the kind that Saoirse needed. She needed the kind –no, the strain– that the Defense Against Magic Guild bought.

Lumshade with some kind of sedative mixed in... It'd be an easier death, much kinder than Uriah deserved. But, more importantly, it’d be a more believable death. Saoirse could lace a knife or a dart and get the job done. Make it look like an accident for long enough to figure out her next move.

She knew Uriah's routine well enough to know where she could strike. There was a window in his study -- he even liked to watch the sunset.

Saoirse could throw far now. She wouldn't need to get all that close.

Still, getting her hands on the sedative strain would be difficult. Finding it? Easy enough. But breaking into the Lowe’s place was stupid at best, and Saoirse didn't quite have that big of a death wish.

Before, she might've asked Silas, but nowadays?

Saoirse sighed.

This was all a lot easier said than done.


Saoirse found her friend late in the day. It was not entirely by accident. Watching the Suns had become a part of her routine, as much a chore as checking and resetting her traps.

Saoirse knew their faces, now - at least some of them. Not to mention their routines.

It was a slow process. Not all of the Suns were stupid, but even their smarter members were bound to let things slip. A courier dropped a letter. A guard left a window unlocked.

She didn't like that Silas was a part of it. She let him know as much, "Fancy seeing you here. The Suns let you out for a stroll?"

Silas visibly jumped. In all her years of hunting and trapping, Saoirse had become as silent as a ghost on the forest floor, rolling the heels of her feet to her toes so stealthily not even a werewolf heard her coming.

"Gods!" he whispered in relief when he saw it was her. By the dust on his clothes and the sheen of moisture on his forehead, she knew he had to've been training. "Ever heard of saying hello? From a distance?"

"Hello," Saoirse said. "Wait, one sec-" she took a step back. "Hello!"

Silas rolled his eyes but cracked a smile. "It's good to see you, cuz. Heart attack and all."

"Good to see you too," Saoirse smiled. "We've both been too busy. I feel like we hardly get to talk anymore." She dug around in her bag for a moment and pulled out a canteen. "Here. You look dehydrated, cuz."

"What would I do without you?" He took it and poured some water into his cupped hand, splashing it over his face to wash off some of the dirt. "What brings you out here?"

Saoirse's expression grew serious, as if a bit of the light had left her eyes. "I wish I could say it was just to say hi." She paused, almost hesitant. "I need your help with something."

Silas looked over her shoulder, where the walls of the Sun's base was still within eyeshot. He pointed a thumb behind him, questioning eyebrows asking if they needed to go somewhere more private.

Saoirse nodded and led the way. By now, she knew these woods like the back of her hand. There was a spot not far from there -- a crop of trees with low branches and brambles she'd flattened into a nice hiding spot.

Crouching under a low-hanging branch, Silas lowered himself to the ground, but not all the way since the brambles were tangled with thorns. "Are you in trouble?" He took one last swig from the canteen and handed it back.

"Not anymore than usual," Saoirse said. She took the canteen and put it back in her bag, then sat down. A slight wind rustled through the trees. "I have a plan for how I'm going to do it."

Silas was still.

Saoirse took a deep breath and began to explain.

Uriah liked to watch the sunset from the window of his study. It was large and fairly unobstructed -- not to mention within range of one of Saoirse's throwing knives. Uriah liked to keep the window open in the evenings. Saoirse would knock him out and sneak her way in to finish him off.

"I need you to find out the quickest way to his study without alerting the guards," Saoirse said. "And I need lumshade, before winter ends. Not the kind Ramona sells, the kind the guild uses to hunt down werewolves - the strain has a sedative in it. It's the only way we'll be able to take Uriah down."

Silas wasn't looking at her but at the ground, which was mildly concerning: she couldn't get a good read on how he was digesting this information. "And you need my help," he said, snapping off a piece of bramble.

"I know it's a lot," Saoirse said. "I wouldn't ask if there was any other way."

Silas was silent for several moments, poking at the bramble's thorns. "What do you want me to do, ask my dad to get some for you?" His tone was barbed with sarcasm.

"Maybe not for me," Saoirse said, after a moment. "Maybe Ramona's supply just isn't cutting it anymore. I bet he'd loooove that."

He tossed the bramble at her. "Oh, shut up. I've quit that crap." He shot her a morose look. "Mostly."

Saoirse seriously doubted that, but she didn't bother saying it. "I don't need a lot," she said instead.

"Oh, good," he replied. "Getting a little bit of the ultra-impossible-to-find secret serum should be a piece of cake."

"Oh, I'm sure," Saoirse said, narrowing her gaze. "You're a smart guy, Silas. I'm sure you'll figure something out."

Silas laughed, but there was no mirth in it, only incredulousness. "May I remind you, cuz - this is your plan to kill my dad."

Saoirse scowled. His dad, who'd killed her mom. "You're a good person, Silas," she said, voice cold. "A good wolf too, but do you think anyone else in this place will believe that? They hate me and my hunts feed half of them." Saoirse's eyes burned, angry tears threatening to surface. She ignored it and doubled down. "All it takes is one rumor, cuz."

"Are you threatening me?" Silas scoffed.

Saoirse crossed her arms over her chest. "You've already gotten what you need from him. He's shown you how to control the wolf?"

"Somewhat," Silas sulked.

"I'm sure you'll get the hang of it," Saoirse said. "You're a fast learner. I doubt you'll need his lessons soon."

"Sounds like I won't have a choice." He cracked a piece of bramble between his fists. "So. How am I supposed to get this secret serum? You thought that far through yet?"

"Can't be much of a secret if I found out," she said, the picture of nonchalance. "Ask Ramona. You're friendly, yeah? I'm sure she'd love to help you out."

Through a curtain of black hair, Silas' eyes narrowed, calculating. Then a huff of air escaped his nose and he looked away. "What'll I even ask her? Is she supposed to think I'm gonna use it?"

Saoirse shrugged. "Maybe there's werewolves around. Your dad's worried and wants you to have some. Can't ask around himself -- he's got a reputation to keep."

Silas arched his eyebrows. "Not bad. That could work." He tapped his chin in thought. "She knows I have bad dreams. Could even say I had a bad dream about it, that it could've saved my life but my pockets were empty."

"That could work too."



Saoirse checked what traps remained, emptying and resetting them as if on autopilot. It was a quiet walk home. The forest was as alive as it ever was in Sticks, but it wasn’t an especially productive night. Each of her traps was empty.

Saoirse tried not to worry about it. She’d had a good hunt earlier in the week, and Riley was set to come home tonight. His latest trip had been a long one. She knew he’d have brought something back with him.

Saoirse wrinkled her nose at the thought.

Ugh. She could already smell the fish...

Riley was waiting for her by the time she got back. She gave him a bone-crushing hug. It was dark out but it wasn’t very late, and she was a little surprised that he'd arrived so soon. As surprises went, it was a pleasant one.

"I’m just surprised either of you are home this early," Saoirse said to Riley. Her step-father was usually still working when Riley got home, helping her sisters deliver the clothes they laundered -- but tonight he was here, mulling about somewhere in the back of the house. Working, presumably. "Guess he missed you." Their sisters hadn’t waited up.

Riley swatted at her arm.

"Just take the compli--"

Another swat.

"Rude," Saoirse grumbled.

"You started it."

"I did not start it, you started-- I'm not doing this." Saoirse said, cutting herself off. "I'm literally an adult."

Riley was laughing.

Saoirse was too, despite herself.

“I still can’t believe that.” Riley said, after a moment. "You're, like, twelve."

Saoirse tossed her hunting bag at Riley's face. He fell back with an undignified shriek, rolling around to try and get away from it. Saoirse had cleaned it recently, but it didn’t seem to matter. For someone who's job involved processing so much fish, he was surprisingly squeamish around blood.

“Gods,” Riley said. “You’re such a little—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Saoirse said. “Missed you too.”

They lapsed into silence, and Saoirse took the opportunity to go and put her shoes on the rack. Ciara would have a fit if she saw that Saoirse had tracked mud through the house. Not that she was ever the one to clean the floors...

A shrill screech came from the kitchen. Saoirse froze, momentarily startled, before Riley spoke. “Sorry,” he said, getting up from the sofa. “Forgot I put the kettle on. Let me get that.”

Saoirse nodded. She took a seat in the chair across from the sofa and shook her head, trying to clear the worst of her nerves.

The sound cut off abruptly. Riley returned a moment later, carrying two mugs of tea. “Here,” he said and passed one to Saoirse. “Dad said you’ve been coughing more. Maybe this’ll help.”

The tea smelled earthy and vaguely medicinal, though a bit mild. Dandelion root and mullein -- Saoirse would recognize it anywhere. An old remedy their mom used to make whenever one of them got sick. She couldn’t remember ever liking it, but she still gathered the herbs whenever she could. Old habits, or something like that.

She took a small sip.

“Long day?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Saoirse said, groaning quietly. “Just -- I dunno. It’s complicated," she sighed. It wasn’t as if she could talk to him about her murder plot. "And the traps were empty, which is great.”

“We have enough food, Saoirse.”

“I know, but we can’t eat stock-fish forever.”

Riley looked tired, his shoulders weighed down as if carrying some great burden. “Saoirse,” he said. “Don’t you think it’s time to leave?

“...is there honey in this?"

“Don’t change the subject.” Riley said, scowling. He set his mug down on the floor by their feet. “You know as much as I do how things are here. It’s not safe—”

“Nowhere is safe!” Saoirse said, narrowing her eyes. “Tempest isn’t safe and neither is the coast. Those ships mangle people, Riley, you’ve told me yourself.”

“The ships don’t hold a grudge,” Riley said, louder this time. “They don’t hunt you down like an animal.” He took a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. “I don’t want to fight, Saoirse, and I don’t think you do either. I just – I don’t want to lose you too, Saoirse.” His voice broke. “I can’t.”

She didn’t meet his eyes.

Riley took another deep breath before asking, “When are you planning on leaving?”

Finally, Saoirse looked up. It was almost painful to meet her brother’s gaze. Riley's eyes were red and rimmed with tears, his face blotchy and tense. She hadn’t even realized that he’d started to cry.

“I…” Saoirse looked away, swallowing the wave of nausea rising in the back of her throat. She loved her brother and she didn’t like lying to him; she just didn’t see any other choice. Uriah needed to pay. “Soon.”

She offered no further assurance.

“Saoirse.”

“Thank you for the tea, Riley," she said, standing up to leave. “Good night.”

Silas twisted the toe of his boot into the mud so he'd have better traction for the next strike. It was a warm day and the back of his neck was caked with dust and sweat. Rolling the pole of the battle axe in his palms, he turned the wooden blade toward the ground so that its pointed tip was aimed directly at Ossie.

Opposite stood Ossie, red hair to his shoulders pulled back in a ponytail, the same smile he'd had since they were kids. He stood with a glaive in hand, watching Silas expectantly as he prepared to make a move. It was funny--how people had the same exact face they'd always had, even if they were a completely different person. Even if nothing was the same anymore.

Unblinking, Silas watched for a muscle twitch and listened for a quickened pulse.

After a pause of silence, Ossie struck, feet and arms moving quickly together to complete the attack. An odd thing to see, knowing how uncoordinated and awkward Ossie had been when they'd been younger.

Silas jutted his weapon at just the right time, catching the head of the glaive in the hook of the axe. The hollow sound of wood striking wood echoed off the stucco buildings. Silas twisted the axe, pulling Ossie and the glaive along with it, then jabbed at Ossie's undefended side, striking the shoulder of his gambeson.

The small handful of Suns that were leaning against the training ring cheered. Silas knew Ossie was going easy on him, but still, he was getting better at defending himself, and that strike had felt good.

How much better would he be in another year? Two?

A dark cloud passed over his mind. If Saoirse's plan played out as she hoped, he'd never find out how much better he'd be. Before he knew it, everything as he knew it would come crashing down: the nice clothes, the warm bed, the protection of the region's most powerful man. With Uriah's death, Silas would be back at zero, nothing more than an orphan again.

Releasing a grunt of frustration, Silas made a horizontal sweeping slash at Ossie. The blade glanced off the glaive's pole, jabbing the haft of the battle axe back into Silas' ribs and sending a jolt of terrible pain up his body.

Silas dropped to his knees with a yelp, cradling his midsection. He knew instantly that his ribs were broken.

Ossie rushed toward, the glaive dropping and ringing in the dirt as he knelt by Silas' side. "What's hurting?" Ossie said, and just like that, Ossie the friend was gone, replaced by the boy who had carried a sick brother in his arms through the streets in the dead of night.

It hurt to breathe, so it'd certainly hurt to talk. Silas grimaced and shook his head, fighting back tears.

"Okay," Ossie said. "We're going to get you to Uriah, then, and we'll call a medic from there. Can I help you stand?"

Leaning on Ossie's strength, Silas got to his feet and hobbled toward The Hub, vaguely aware that people had stopped to stare. The pain was blinding, and the flights of stairs that stretched ahead of them seemed impossible, but Ossie was shouldering most of Silas' weight, so despite the long walk, he managed to avoid putting all of the pressure on his torso as they traveled.

Somehow, they made it to Uriah's office. Uriah was quick to usher them in.

"Osmond. Silas," Uriah said. "What happened?"

"We were sparring, sir," Ossie said as he eased Silas into the room. "I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure how it happened."

"It's fine, Osmond. It happens all the time. Getting hurt is part of learning. Here, let me--"

Uriah took Silas's weight, and Silas went from Ossie's arms to his father's steady grasp. It was the closest thing he and Uriah had ever had to an embrace.

"Thank you for bringing him here, Osmond," Uriah said with a touch on Ossie's arm. "You can be on your way, now. I will take care of him."

"Of course, sir," Ossie said, glancing down at his arm before giving a pained smile. "I hope you feel better, Silas." He walked to the door and slipped out.

When the door shut behind them, Uriah led Silas to the back of his office.

"Come along, then," he said. "You mustn't suffer longer than necessary."

Confused as to why they were hurrying directly toward a wall, Silas was baffled when Uriah parted a curtain, revealing a passageway he'd never seen before. It was a shortcut to the Pretorius suite, something Saoirse would love to know about. There was a short hallway before they stepped into the sitting room. Uriah pulled a lever, and the back of a bookshelf slid to the side, sealing the secret entrance.

The sitting room was perfectly clean and dust-free, as always, but it was his father's intolerance that drove Delia to tidy in every breathing moment, especially in Uriah's absence. The sitting room boasted the same tall windows as the office, but in here they were covered by thick green curtains, and it took his eyes a moment to readjust to the dimmed light. Delia was seated on the chaise, reading a book by lamplight. Of course, the book was abandoned as soon as she saw Silas cradling his side.

Uriah, in turn, abandoned him. "Wait here," he said, crossing the room with long strides. He disappeared into the bedroom.

"Silas," Delia jumped to her feet. "What happened?"

But he managed no reply, because Uriah came back in as quickly as he left, this time with a little girl at his side.

Silas thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but no, that was really a little girl, small and lean, standing no higher than Uriah's elbow. Her long black hair was tied back with a bow, and her dress was orange, and frilly. The look on her face was too guarded for someone her age - no more than ten or eleven - and transparently aware of the man's hand on her back, pushing her forward. Her feet stopped short of Silas by just a few feet, and Uriah motioned for Silas to sit down.

"Silas, I would like you to meet our new ward, Cari Sonora," he introduced.

The girl stared down at Silas' side, but flashed a smile. "I'm here to heal you, Mr. Silas," she said.

Silas lowered himself onto the foot of the chaise, the pain forgotten as he looked at his parents for an explanation.

"Cari is a healing mage," Uriah said. "We've taken her in to shelter her after the tragic loss of her family, but when I asked her to help, she was happy to repay her gratitude."

Without asking, Cari reached out gently, and put her hand over his. Silently, she looked up at him, waiting for him to move it.

"Think of her like your sister." Uriah smiled.

In the 18 childless years between Silas' birth and his homecoming, Uriah and Delia had never adopted a child. Was Uriah suggesting he'd adopted this little girl, now? Why?

Delia looked uncomfortable, but when Silas met her eyes, she nodded. He lifted his hand from his side, grimacing. He had to admit he was relieved they had a healing mage under their roof at this moment.

Cari laid her hand over the wound, and Silas watched the little girl close her eyes, take a deep breath, and purse her lips. For a second, he felt nothing. Then, the palm of her hand started to glow with a pure, warm light, almost pulsing under her skin. He could see through to her veins, peeking out like scarlet shadows as light traveled from her skin to his. A permeating warmth gripped his flesh like a hand. It tickled, and itched, and ached. At the same time, a rush of relief coursed through him as the pain began to dissipate, and it was only a matter of seconds before it was gone entirely.

Cari shuddered a breath as she pulled her hand away.

Looking pale, she took a step back and swayed. Uriah knelt beside her and held her shoulders.

"You did marvelously, Cari," he said gently. Softer than he'd ever seen him.

Cari only nodded as she met Silas's eyes. Where just moments ago there had been a congenial sweetness, Cari's face was now painted with a sunken pallor. Silas couldn't help but wonder if she wasn't as happy to help him as Uriah had implied.

"Are you alright?" he whispered. Gods, she was so young.

Uriah met his eyes instead of Cari. "Why don't you get some rest," Uriah told her. "And return to your bed for now."

Cari nodded. "Yes, papa." But her words were stiff like wood, and she turned away with her head hung low, avoiding Silas's gaze.

Uriah did not move until he'd watched the door close behind her, and then he looked to Delia. "Join her, won't you. I'm sure she'd appreciate a mother's gentle care."

Which everyone in the room knew to be no suggestion. Delia bowed her head as she left with grace, but it made the room feel cold in her absence. Uriah sat down on the couch beside Silas, and leaned in to meet his eyes.

"This is becoming a pattern, Silas," he said quietly.

Silas blinked. "What is?"

"You hurt yourself because you lack control. Training your body and training your mind are of the same principles: practice and discipline. And you've yet to become your own master."

Master was a term he used often to mean having control over the wolf, like it was a misbehaving dog.

"This, my son, is how you will overcome the fear of the wolf within. It's not a beast, Silas. It's a part of you, and you are not subject to it. It is subject to you. Assert your will. Your dominance. Take authority over your inner man and your inner wolf. Take authority over yourself."

Delia wasn't in the room with them, but Silas imagined she was listening at the door. Let the wolf be damned, she had said to him all those years ago. How was that any different from what Uriah was teaching him?

If both his parents believed the same thing, in their own very different ways - that the wolf part of him was bad - then of course it had to be true. His parents were as different as the sun and the moon. Then why did he have a seed of doubt?

Saoirse.

Saoirse loved both halves of him.

Twisting in his belly now was a different kind of pain: disappointment. There'd been a part of him that was still holding out hope that his werewolf dad would be different from everyone else, but ultimately, Saoirse had been right, not Uriah.

"You're right," Silas told him anyway. He'd learned by now that it was pointless to argue. Best to say what the Six wanted to hear - something Delia, too, knew all too well.

Uriah patted Silas's knee with a small, supportive smile. "You'll get it with time. I'll see you later, at dinner. Until then, I have business to attend to."

Uriah pulled the lever and disappeared through the secret passageway, the bookcase clicking shut behind him.

Not for the first time, Silas wondered if Uriah was training him as his son, or as his prodigy, a thing that merely furthered his ambition. Was he acting out of love, or out of patient investment?

Silas was becoming more and more convinced that he'd walked himself right into a trap. Just like his cousin had warned.

A minute later the bedroom door opened and Delia reappeared, a trepidation in her step that Silas was used to: there were some days, like today, when she wasn't just afraid of her husband, but of Silas, too.

Silas attempted to reassure her with a warm smile, but she didn't meet his gaze at all and instead picked up the book she'd been reading, sitting at a different chair to stare at the pages.

Silas' first instinct was to get up and leave, just as wordlessly, but a blistering curiosity kept him glued to his seat.

He'd never confided in his mother. Not really. Ever since she'd discovered his terrible lie that he really was just like his father, there'd been a wedge driven between them before trust was ever given the chance to take root.

Still, there was love, as well as a mutual understanding, in the space they shared beneath Uriah's shadow.

"That little girl . . ." he began, voice low.

Delia's gaze flicked toward Silas for a moment before returning to the book. She didn't move.

"Why is she really here?" he finished.

The book snapped shut and Silas flinched. A flush of color had returned to Delia's cheeks.

"Your father," she began, "has been arranging this for a long time. He's always wanted to procure a healing slave, but only recently discovered one on his last venture. He tried especially hard to do so for you."

"A healing slave?"

"He took her, Silas. Just like he does with everything else he wants."

The hair on the back of his neck bristled as realization came over him. "He kidnapped her."

Delia nodded.

Silas jumped to his feet. His retort was louder than he'd intended. "And the tragic way her family died? Was it him?" He pointed at the bookcase.

"I don't know why this would shock you," Delia snapped. "You already know what he's capable of. You've seen him take matters into his own hands before."

In a flash Silas remembered Aunt Celia's face, but the harder he tried to hold onto the memory, the more it muddled with her sister's and Saoirse's, and the face of the snarling wolf on the cover of the book he burned.

Noticing the tang of salt in the air, Silas was jolted back to the present as he realized his mother was crying.

"Please, Silas," she begged, clinging to the book in her lap with white knuckles, "just maintain the ruse that she's family, and keep your father happy. Then we'll all have peace."

Peace.

How could there be peace with a slave under their roof, orphaned by Uriah's hand?

Delia reached out for him and Silas stepped back, sickened. She'd become so calloused towards the actions of her husband that she wouldn't even intervene on behalf of a child.

Glancing back at Cari's door, Silas made a silent vow that he'd never be the same.

"Enjoy the family dinner," Silas seethed as he stormed out into the hallway. He'd sleep at the smithy tonight.