Young Writers Society

Mireya had dug out the only black clothes in her closet for this. She'd looked through blurry eyes at her hangers, desperately pushing through them until she uncovered something that wasn't blue. All she had was a pair of old black jeans that now fit a bit small and a dark puffy sweater that didn't match it, and the knowledge that she looked ridiculous only distressed her further. She didn't want to look like the disaster she was.

She'd gone out twice this week since then. Once to tell Alistair, once to drink. Mireya had walked around the bar with tears streaming down her face, a drink in one hand and Andy's lipstick in the other, crying and asking everyone she ran into if they knew where the person it belonged to was. After that, she'd retreated into isolation again, her shame only heavier than before.

But she hadn't been able to hide forever. She was at Andy's funeral now.

Mireya pinched the ends of her now-blue hair, holding it in front of her nose and staring at it distantly. It took some getting used to, but it felt right. She could only imagine how happy it would've made her if the dye had arrived into her hands at a better time. Andy would've liked it, although she also would've complained it would make all the guys look at Mireya rather than her.

And honestly, Mireya couldn't give a damn about that now.

She saw someone take the pedestal at the front in her peripheral vision, and she straightened, wiping at her damp eyes. It was Alistair's brother-- Alan. Andy had shared his name for the first time just days ago. He was only here because Alistair was here, and Alistair was right next to her, sitting in a chair with his head bowed and jaw clenched. Tears streamed down his face slowly without sobs, distantly detached as his brother began the speech.

"Today we gather, our hearts heavy with sorrow, to honor and remember a life that was cut too short..."

But Mireya's vision was fogging, and with it, so was her hearing. She wanted to stay focused on these words honoring her friend, even if they were spoken by someone who didn't know her-- didn't even care for her. Yet Alan's voice only droned on wordlessly in her ears.

She restricted herself to tears and quiet sniffles as the speech went on and ended.

When it did, many people started filing out, passing the closed coffin with saddened eyes and hushed murmurs to the wood as they left. Mireya knew most of these people-- Andy's family, and Alistair's family, and a couple of suns like Wilson. Some people felt like they didn't belong, like Doctor Ashlund, who was here for a reason she couldn't understand. And some people felt like they weren't here out of any desire to mourn, like Shay.

When there was a lull in visitors at the front, Mireya shakily rose to her feet, moving on unsteady legs towards the coffin. She didn't really know why she was walking to it. The casket was closed-- and she didn't know if that made everything better or worse. Maybe she wouldn't see her friend scarred or wounded, but she wasn't going to see her friend again regardless of her state or appearance.

All that was before her was a plain wooden box with cheap hinges only designed to open once before staying shut forever.

Mireya tore her gaze away from the coffin, glaring at the perimeter of cypress trees that wrappped around the cemetery like a fence holding in death. This was wrong. There was no arguing it. Andy shouldn't have died, and she deserved to make it. She should be standing next to Mireya, complaining that no guy had given her any fun hair dye. She should've gotten to live longer.

So why did Mireya keep making excuses for the situation in her head?

A sick feeling settled in her stomach, and she couldn't stand there any longer. With tears on her cheeks, she withdrew among the guests.

They were all standing farther back from the coffin like they didn't want to be too close. Mireya quietly joined the group made up of Shay and Alan, but they were all too... lighthearted for this context in their talking. She didn't want to join the conversation, and she didn't really want to listen, either. So she kept her gaze on Alistair, who was now alone and was stepping towards Andy's coffin.

His back was turned, and she couldn't see him now. But she caught the way his shoulders were still slumped.

Mireya waited for what felt like an eternity for him to return to their group. She was here, Alan was here, Shay was here-- she was sure he'd come and find them. But when Alistair turned, he didn't walk in their direction. Instead, he walked in a straight line through the grass between graves, directly to the exit through the needle-like trees.

The three of them stared in confusion and some worry as he disappeared. He shouldn't be all alone, should he?

"He needs some time and space to process," Alan offered with a gentle voice, flicking his gaze between Shay and Mireya. "Still... it'd be helpful for him to have someone nearby." He paused, soft worry pooling in his expression as he watched his brother duck below the hill. "I can keep him company."

"No, I can," Mireya said, and she surprised herself with the firm stubbornness in her voice. "I knew Andy."

And she'd thought Alan was a square.

Alan stared at her with creased brows. "I knew Andy too," he murmured, then said more confidently, "And it's fine. We're brothers. It's no bother to me."

Something like anger flickered in Mireya's heart, and it wasn't even Alan's fault, but he was sparking it anyway.

"You didn't even like her," she said plainly. "You're not grieving. Half of you here didn't care about her when she was alive and don't care now that she's dead. The two of us at least share the pain that you don't know about for yourself."

There was a tense silence as confused worry seeped in his face. He hesitantly opened his mouth to reply, but Shay cut in before he could get another word.

"You're right," Shay agreed quietly, mustering a brief, sad smile. "You two had that together. Go get 'em."

"Cool," Mireya muttered, already marching through the grass.

She had to jog a little to catch up to Alistair outside the graveyard. He was in no hurry, however, on the walk back to the city walls. Each step he took was lethargic and dismal. Mireya caught up to his side, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Hey," she said worriedly. "What's going on? Why don't you want to go back with us?"

"I'm fine," Alistair said dismissively, brushing away her hand. "I'm going home. You should too."

"You're not fine. You're walking away from a funeral alone. Neither of us are fine," Mireya insisted.

He pressed his lips together and pointed a vaguely flat stare towards her, but did not comment further, ignoring her as he slipped past a pair of cypress trees.

"Okay," Mireya muttered. "Maybe I just don't want you going through this alone, alright?"

Alistair let out a long-suffering sigh. "It's been a long day. Go home, Mireya."

"We're outside the city," Mireya said stubbornly. "This is the road home."

He only sighed in response, once again resigning to a somber, marched silence.

Mireya stared at him disbelievingly, not knowing what to make of this. Had she... been wrong? Was she not the right person for this task? Did she not understand him as well as she'd thought she did?

"...Are you mad at me?" she had to ask faintly.

Alistair hesitantly peered over his shoulder, just barely catching her gaze. "...No," he sighed. "I'm not."

"Then what is it?" she pressed. "Because I know it's not nothing."

He rubbed his face, voice growing more tired and weary. "Mireya. Andy died."

"I know," Mireya said quietly. "But we're in this together. Aren't we?"

"She was murdered," Alistair snapped back.

Mireya narrowed her eyes at him. Rather than saying she knew that too, obviously, she threw up her hands in confused frustration. "Why are you saying this?"

Alistair tensed his jaw and frustratedly threw his hand in the air, his pace quickening. "I'm allowed to be upset because someone I once loved was murdered. Now, can you get off my back?"

Mireya shrank back a little, heart clenching.

"I didn't say you weren't," she said, very quietly. "I am too. And I..."

What was this? Why did he feel so inaccessible?

"It's like, we could both be there for each other right now, and you're shutting me out," she finished faintly.

Alistair slowed to a stop, turning to face her. He stood stiffly like he was in pain, the tired weariness holding on to him tightly. "Are you still a part of the Blue Suns?" he asked quietly, voice barely above a harsh whisper.

Mireya stared blankly at him, truly at the limit of her confusion. Why the fuck was this coming up again, and why now?

"Yes," she said, matter-of-factly, because it was obvious.

He averted his eyes, hurt from the single word of affirmation. And without commenting further, he turned away and resumed his broody walk in silence.

"Why are you asking that?" Mireya asked desperately, trying to resist the urge to curl up into a ball and cry on the side of the road as she caught up to his side. "You know this!"

And still, he ignored her.

She was so done with this.

Mireya grabbed his arm and immediately came to a stop, digging her feet in the ground. But he was about six inches taller and some non-negligible-amount-of-pounds heavier than her, so he actually dragged her behind him for a couple steps rather than coming to an immediate halt. Pebbles and dust skidded under her feet, but she held on until he came to a stop himself.

"Alistair Alvaro," she shouted. "Would you spit it out already and stop playing mind games, because I'm not going to get it if you keep stonewalling me!"

He was slow to react. Not quite pulling away, Alistair shuffled his feet to turn and meet her gaze. Despite him continually shutting her out and saying very little, flickers of his emotions had always been present. It was more than present now, exasperated hurt tensed in his jaw, his eyes glistening with held-back tears.

"Andy was murdered for being in the Blue Suns," he said shakily, holding his weak stare and not shaking out of her grip. "And yet, you're still in it. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Mireya felt her own eyes burning again as she stared at him, and the first thing she wanted to do was shout, How dare you?

He didn't understand. This wasn't like quitting a normal job-- the Blue Suns weren't a group one could just leave. Besides, it wasn't even their fault Andy had died; Mireya had made the mistake. No one else. And if Sparrow had to pick between a treasure and the life of one of his operatives, she was sure he would go with the latter.

That was to say nothing of the financial difficultes and danger leaving would put her in. She wouldn't have a way of making money, and that was even worse now, because she no longer had a roommate to split costs with. She'd just gotten promoted, she'd already put in so much work, she'd be disappointing so many people, and no one else would want her anyway. Going aywhere else was walking into a dead end.

And Sparrow had been sorry. He'd told her that personally-- one of the bouquets on the coffin, an arrangement of beautiful star-shaped blue flowers, was even from him. She was lucky to not be in trouble, and she couldn't let him down now.

But somehow, somehow, all of this was impossible for Alistair to wrap him head around. And now he was suggesting this, the death of her friend, all meant nothing to her because she wouldn't ruin her life to make a statement that helped no one.

Shaking, Mireya met his gaze with something like a quiet fire in her eyes.

"What it means," she said quietly, "is that leaving would be a luxury I don't have. Don't you dare imply it means anything else. You may think I'm choosing not to walk away for some selfish reason, but the truth is I don't even get to make a choice."

Alistair shut his eyes and took in a shuddered breath, hanging his head and averting his gaze. His messy hair shielded his face as he uttered, "You always have a choice," before pulling his arm out of her grasp and turning to walk away.

"No, I don't!" Mireya shouted, starting after him again. "What do you want for me, Alistair? To starve? To lose what little community I have? To make enemies out of my allies? Because for as long as you don't get it, that's what I'll think you're asking me to do!"

And he just kept walking.

"Well, guess what? I'm not doing that!" Mireya hollered, her voice cracking. "And you may think you're being good and noble for making the suggestion, but you may as well tell me to kill myself, because that's effectively going to produce the same result if I have nowhere safe to run to!"

Alistair's shoulders tensed, fists clenched at his sides. Then in a sudden violent motion, he whirled around with red-rimmed and glistening eyes, deep with fury and despair.

"I don't want you to die, Mireya!" he shouted, voice raw as tears streamed down his face. "Fuck Sparrow! He doesn't give a damn about you, or Andy, or anyone else who has died in his name!" His words came out in loud ragged gasps, each one punctuated by a fresh wave of tears. "People are dying, Mireya. And for what?"

His voice cracked, the fight suddenly drawning out of him. Stumbling back, Alsitair ran a shaky hand through his hair as he fought to control his breathing. "None of this-- none of this fucking matters," he mumbled harshly.

Then without another word, he turned his heel and walked away again, only leaving her with the weight of his heavy words.

Mireya stared at his retreating form, not realizing that he was going until he was gone. Her feet wouldn't move, and he was already far ahead on the path. Her thoughts wouldn't move. And yet, somehow at the same time, his words had sent her into a flurry.

Her eyes were burning with tears again.

She wanted to say he was wrong. That Sparrow did care, that Alistair was being stupidly worried about her wellbeing again, that he didn't know a damn thing when it came to the Blue Suns. She had all the words for it, ready to throw at him no matter how far away he'd gotten by now. But the sinking feeling in her gut-- and the lump forming in her throat-- kept her from speaking them out loud.

Shuddering, alone on the road, Mireya pressed a hand over her mouth to suppress the sob trying to rack itself into existence.

If she was next? There was nothing to do about it. She'd die alone with this sun on her arm, and somewhere, Sparrow would be telling someone else about how her death had been an honor.

Gods. Not this dream again.

"Enough already!" Alistair hollered into the vast sky, throwing his hands in the air. The wind pulled at his sleeves, nipping at his feet, growing more violent as he skipped the trivialities. "What is this bullshit? What are you trying to tell me?"

The wind grew stronger, fiercely blowing past his ears and nearly blinding his vision from sheer speed. But even with squinted eyes and his elbow shielding him, Alistair couldn't not see the fucking dragon hurling towards him again.

Fuck me, is this how I die? was his last thought before falling into acceptance that, yes, death by dreamy dragon destiny bullshit was not a bad way to go out. The bright light at the end of the tunnel confirmed his suspicions that he must have truly died. Fantastic.

Blinking away the dancing rays of light that blinded his vision, Alistair squinted at confusion when he came face-to-face with some random old woman in white.

"Oh my gods," he uttered in disbelief, openly staring at her. "Am I actually dead?"

"Death feels different," the woman said. "This, young Alistair, is still your life."

She extended a hand to him. Alistair found himself staring dumbly at her hand instead.

How did she know his name?

Oh no. Was he dreaming of gods? Did he die? Was this the afterlife? What was even happening anymore?

He pulled back his lips, growing weary. "Who are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"I am Renerre," she said. "First Dragon of Air, and master of its domain."

He nodded slowly, not sure what to make of that. "Oh... kaaaay," he drew out.

"And you," Renerre went on. "Are Alistair Alvaro, the chosen inheritor, destined to take my place in my stead."

And again, he wasn't following, because--

"You said I'm not dead, then?" he asked for clarification. "So is this still a dream?"

"You are still asleep," Renerre said. "And this is still a dream; but it is one we share, because our fates are intertwined."

Right. This dreamy destiny bullshit again. He slowly nodded, ruffling his hand through his hair.

Okay. Sure. If Alan told him this was his subconscious telling him that he had to listen to reoccurring dreams to get him on his "destined path"... whatever. He could listen to this.

"I knew you would be slow," Renerre said, tilting her head to the side. "But I didn't think you'd be this slow."

At that, he delivered her a flat look. "Inheritor. What does that mean?" he asked, ignoring her comment.

"There comes a day when every dragon is destined to die," she said. "Humans, in their warped perception of time and expediated experience of aging have always thought us immortal; but we are not truly so. We are made to live a millenium, and when that time and our souls have passed on, so does our magic."

Dear gods. His subconscious sounded like his mother when she went on about crystals and sage and fate.

"It passes on to an inheritor," she said more intently, staring him down.

That still didn't answer his question.

"Alistair Alvaro," she said. "You are my inheritor. You are to become the next air dragon."

He stared back at her, not reacting right away. Then blurted out, "What the fuck?"

"I know that someone of your infantile age would reasonably be overwhelmed by this," she said. "But that is not license for foul language."

"Now, hold on-- hold on a second," he went on, feeling the weight of anxiety when he realized that this once again felt way too real to be a dream. "What do you mean, dragon? I'm not a dragon. And you, you're clearly--" He waved his hand up and down, pointed towards her. "You know. Human."

Unless...? Well, he didn't know. Was this some kind of divine intervention? He had no clue.

"You are familiar with werewolves, yes?" Renerre asked.

Alistair furrowed his brows, frowning. "Yes?"

"They have two forms. One wolven, one human," she said. "Does that make them less of a wolf? Less of a human?"

"But you can't be born a dragon," he countered, feeling stupid for even saying this.

"Correct," Renerre said with the hint of a smile. "Dragonhood is a gift - one that is mystically determined. It is a part of one's being that is bestowed."

"Okay. Okay, then." Alistair slowly crossed his arms, nodding along. "I appreciate you letting me know, but I reject this gift. Sorry. I'd rather not become a shapeshifter dragon."

Renerre stared at Alistair blankly.

"You seem to misunderstand," she said. "I did not choose you, Alistair. My magic did."

"I... okay." He awkwardly turned his head, racking his brain for solutions to this make-believe, ridiculous problem. "Can it choose someone else?"

"If you reject this gift, it matters not," she said. "When I pass, the magic will be transferred to you."

Hah. Alistair couldn't wait to tell Alan that his subconscious told him that his destiny was to become a dragon. He was sure he'd never hear the end of it.

"You still don't believe me," Renerre said. "You're far too flippant of this responsibility."

Gods. Fine. Fine!

"Okay, whatever. Just give it to me. Get this over with already," he grumbled, throwing his hands in the air.

"To give it to you now," Renerre said, her expression darkening. "Would damn you to a fate I would not wish upon even my worst enemy. You are not ready. You won't even look me in the eyes like I'm real. You think I'm not flesh and blood?"

Alistair grimaced, feeling like now his subconscious was taking on his aunt's voice forever nagging at him to get a life and take things seriously.

"Are you?" he asked uncertainly, voice ending with a higher pitch.

With a severe stare, Renerre once again extended her hand. He stared at it, then back at her, then back at her hand-- then finally took it, palm flushed against hers.

And then he lurched forward, flying up, up, into the air.

Or rather... his bed. He was back at his bed, but sitting up now, his arm still extended, and--

"Oh my gods!" he hissed with panic, pulling away from the crazy woman's grasp as he brushed up against his headboard, staring at her with wide-eyes. "How the fuck--"

He couldn't even finish the question, now, pressed against his headboard as he stared at the very same old lady who haunted his dream, telling him about this dragon destiny bullshit. Only now it wasn't so dreamy.

"Do you believe me now?" Renerre asked, looking down at him as she stood tall. "Or do you still plan to live on in stubborn denial?"

"How-- why-- what?!" he sputtered out, panickedly glancing around his room, wondering if he left a window open, or...

There was a knock at his door. "Alistair?" Makena's voice said gently on the other side. "Do you have a visitor over?"

Oh, fuck me, this is just my life, he thought to himself as he bit down his tongue and then barreled out of bed, nearly crashing on to the floor to avoid touching the crazy old lady.

"No!" he said unconvincingly as his voice broke, rushing to the door. "Just me." For extra good measure, he locked the door, grimacing since he knew Makena, stupidly observant and so Type A, would notice.

Renerre began to drift towards the window, but her feet weren't moving.

She was levitating.

What. The. HELL was happening?

"Are you sure?" Makena said through the door, predictably unconvinced. "It's okay if you do, Alistair--"

"Nope, all good. I'll come out later for breakfast," he replied distantly, trying so hard not to panic from the sight of a levitating old woman in his room telling him he needed to be a dragon or some other shit he didn't really understand.

"It's lunchtime," Makena corrected.

Renerre drew the curtains shut.

Oh my gods, this is how I die.

On second thought...

Alistair hastily unlocked the door, quickly opening it and stepping out, promptly closing the door behind him. Makena stepped away quickly, protesting as he shoved her aside.

"Alistair!" she scolded, hands on her hips.

"Sorry, I just---" Gods, he was just glad that she pitied him enough from hearing news about Andy, because then she'd be all over his haunted room. He ran his hand through his hair, not knowing what to say. "You said it's lunchtime...?" he asked dumbly with a too high-pitched voice.

"Honey, who did you have in your room?" Makena prodded. "Mireya? Shay?"

"Oh my gods, no--"

"Aisling?"

"Aunt Makena, please," Alistair moaned in embarrassment, hiding his face.

She stared at him questioningly, reaching for the doorknob.

"No!" Alistair said too late.

She opened the door and let it it creak all the way open, leaving the two of them to peer inside to his ordinary, empty room.

The crazy old lady was gone.

"Alistair," Makena scolded gently again, though he didn't know for what. "There's no need to be ashamed of your messy room. Give me some of your laundry. We'll get it cleaned up."

Sure. Sure. He could roll with that. But he couldn't help but stare at the window with the shut curtains, wondering if he imagined it all and truly lost his mind or...

No. Was she real? This couldn't be real. There was no way he was going to be a... dragon inheritor. He was just some guy. There was no way. Right?



Work was... well, it was shitty. It always was.

Shay had been brighter than usual the past week. But today, he was in no mood to talk much. After all, some insane poltergeist lady was haunting his dreams and his room.

He already had made mental notes to do some research on the air dragon after this. But for now, he was left alone in his thoughts, shoveling away literal shit in a cage. The summer heat made everything so much worse, but this was his life now, apparently. To be haunted by ghosts and then shovel shit the very same day.

Ducking away in the backroom, Alistair absently grabbed a mop and bucket of water, turning on his heels and nearly bumping into someone on the way out.

"Sorry--" was all he uttered before he nearly dropped the bucket, fumbling backwards with wide eyes when he realized that this "someone" was the very same dragon lady who visited him this morning.

"We did not finish our conversation," Renerre said simply. "You fled."

"Oh my gods!" he hissed, pressed up against the wall before harshly whispering, "How did you find me?!"

"Your schedule is cyclical," she said. "You are not difficult to find."

"Why-- Who--" He snapped his mouth shut, easing his growing panic. He had some time to process the absurdity of everything, but frankly, he was still left with more questions than answers.

The first question that pressed against his mind was: was she actually real?

But instead of asking the question, Alistair took action. He hesitantly reached over and grasped her upper arm, freezing when it all felt...

Normal.

...Oh no.

Renerre stayed still and stared down at his hand, then looked up at him.

"I am sorry for startling you," she said. "I did not know how else to make reality clearer to you but to wake you to it."

Alistair clenched his jaw, pulling away as his mind buzzed with even more questions. "I'm so confused," he breathed out, swallowing his anxiety.

"That is expected," Renerre said. "If you would give me your evening, once you are done with your tasks here, I can answer every question you have."

Alistair nodded, feeling a weight drop in his stomach. "Okay. I can do that."

Renerre paused, pursing her lips as she looked him over.

"I am... not always good with people," she said. "I can bring a friend who is better at this. He may better dissuade your worries than I."

"Okay... sure." He felt his body stiffen some more, but he forced himself to relax his posture and his grip on the mop handle.

"It is done, then," she said. "At 1900, meet me outside of the west gate."



He was running late. To be fair, he was running late because he didn't want to show up smelling like shit, but Makena barraged him with chores to do before he left. It was her way to show love, he supposed, just like how it was his mother's way to show love by helping him along the way. Though how was doing his brother's neglected chores supposed to symbolize love while he grieved his ex girlfriend's murder, he had no fucking clue.

This entire meeting reeked of a trap. What the hell was he even doing? This was crazy. This was insane. He should have pitched the location instead, especially since she was bringing a "friend."

Whatever. If this was how he died, then he allowed "Idiot" to be etched on his tombstone for all to see.

He peered around the corner to take a peek at the west gate. As usual, there were small crowds of people clustered around the gate, but one tall and lean figure vaguely resembled Renerre, this time with a cloak. Plus, she was being weird, sitting on a stump like she was meditating. That seemed like her.

No sign of a friend, though...

Cautiously, Alistair approached the gate, noting the number of guards standing nearby. If there was any funny business, there were four on the ground and likely even more at the watchtower who would take action.

This was suspicious, but at least this was safe... sort of.

He slowed to a stop in front of her, not able to hide the apprehension in his face.

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't come," Renerre said unexpectedly, her eyes still shut. How did she realize this was him, he had no clue, but somehow, this was the least strange thing she had done so far.

"Sorry," was all he explained for being twenty minutes late.

"You shouldn't lie to a dragon," she said.

Well. At least she was honest. Even though he still held great skepticism about this dragon bullshit.

"Where's your friend?" he asked, glancing around.

"He has concerns for his safety, as I'm sure you do yours," she said, eyes still shut. "He is willing to meet further out of view, if you are willing to trust me."

Alistair tensed his jaw, narrowing his eyes at her suspiciously. It was strange talking to someone who wasn't even seeing him. "You realize this sounds like a murder plan," he said flatly. "Right?"

"What interest should I have in killing you?" Renerre asked, eyes ever closed.

"I don't know," he moaned.

"Had I wanted to," Renerre said. "I would not trail you along with theatrics. I have generations of power running through my blood. It would've been over months ago."

Alistair pulled back his lips to cast her an unimpressed look. For someone who said she wouldn't perform theatrics, she sure did say and perform a lot of theatrics. And as if she could read his mind, she opened her eyes to look up at him.

"How far out?" he asked.

"A mile," she said.

Gods, this was the worst idea ever. This had so many red flags written all over. He was tempted to say fuck it and just do this, but Alistair wasn't this reckless. And so after taking a deep breath and taking a few seconds to think it over, he proposed a new idea: that he pick the spot instead.

After all, if dragons were revered to be gods, they could easily find him, right?

Fortunately, there was a spot a mile away that he and Alan used to hike at, so he was already familiar with this area. Sitting by himself, Alistair waited at the base of the small pointed canyons, letting time pass him by as he sat alone with his thoughts, waiting for Rennere and her friend to arrive.

After an hour, he considered leaving early and calling it a day, but a shuffling of noise caught his attention before he could entertain the thought further. He immediately stood up, full attention on their approach.

The first person Alistair saw was Renerre. Jumping down the boulders that tucked in the landing with far more agility than expected of someone her age, she "flew" down from the several feet of height - levitating, again, as she floated down to the space beside him.

Just behind her was a very tall, very large man who only seemed to get bigger and taller the closer he got. Walking down the path Alistair had, the man watched his feet until he stepped out onto the flat ground. When he looked up, it was with one normal eye and one scarred eye.

Alistair tensed, hand behind his back to pull out a pocket knife if needed. Not that that would even do much, because this man seemed like he could kill someone with his bare hands.

"Hey," the man said with a smile, easing his intimidated thoughts. "First of all: I'm sorry about all of this."

"I'm not," Renerre said, to which the man cast her a wearied look.

"She's working on it," he said with a sigh. "Honestly, I'm impressed you bothered to come all the way out here and entertain her, because you really didn't have to. She's told me a little bit of what happened and it sounds like she really gave you quite the scare. Several times, no less. That wasn't her intention, but I know that doesn't mean much when it was communicated so poorly."

Alistair loosened his grip on his pocket knife, slipping it back in his back pocket, but keeping his hand behind his back. "Who are you?" he asked uncertainly.

"My name's Bo," the man said. "No hand-shakes from me, though. I know Renerre's already tried your trust with those."

That was an understatement. He exchanged a glance between them.

Renerre looked like she was content to let Bo do the talking. She stood a few feet behind him, with her hands behind her back.

Well, he now knew what she meant when she said that she was "not good with people."

"I know you must have a lot of questions," Bo said. "And we're happy to take the time answering them, if you want to stick around."

"I'm more confused than anything else," Alistair admitted, running his hand through his hair. "What do you want from me, exactly?"

"I know it hasn't come off this way from the start," Bo said. "But really, what we'd like to do is help you, if you'll recieve it. I know Renerre didn't deliver the information she's told you in a helpful way -- but it's not wrong. There's a lot the world still doesn't know about dragons, and our mortality is one of them. At some point, a dragon's life naturally comes to an end as they age out. Their lifespan just far exceeds that of humans. The tricky part is, while a dragon dies, their magic doesn't die -- it moves on to someone else. We don't know why the magic picks who it chooses, and I really wish there were better answers on that, but it does give dragons visions of who it picks before they pass on. When it showed who was next to Renerre, she saw you."

Alistair's head was spinning. He sat on the edge of a flat boulder, collecting his thoughts and piecing together the logic. Though, it wasn't the logic that he was lost on. It was everything else. The unsaid implications and impact of everything.

"I probably should've started further back," Bo said apologetically, sighing as he too, took a seat a few feet from Alistair. "I know this is a lot to take in."

"Might as well start to when the dragons created the world," he mumbled with no emotion, tiredly rubbing his face.

Bo watched Alistair with his brows creased in concern.

"I could..." he said. "But I'm not sure that was a serious suggestion."

"It... yeah," he sighed, biting back the urge to be sarcastic again. Instead he asked seriously, "Is there any way to pick someone else?"

Bo's expression saddened.

"I remember when I asked the same thing," he said softly.

Alistair slowly pointed his stare at him. "Are you saying you're a..." It still felt so silly to call every day people dragons.

"A dragon," Bo finished for him. "Yes. I am."

Alistair slumped forward, elbows on his knees so he could bury his face in his hands. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. He wasn't even sure he believed in dragons, and yet, two were claiming to be one right here, right now.

"I know it's hard to believe," Bo said. "And I would prove it to you, but there are two main reasons I won't -- at least, not by shifting."

Bo paused, letting out a deep sigh.

"My dragon form is massive. And it's terrifying. You've been through enough today," Bo said. "The second reason is more serious, and part of the reason we've come to offer our help to you: dragons are not invulnerable, especially when they're young. Renerre and I have to be careful about using our power so as to not be suspected as mages -- but especially not to be suspected as dragons."

Yes. Alistair was following. He wasn't someone who felt the need to respond to every little thing, especially since he agreed with this logic.

And so he once again looked up with tired eyes to ask, "Are you sure it's me you're after, though? It's nothing against you, but I'm not even a mage. I don't have magic ties."

Bo pressed his lips into a small frown, shrugging. He looked back at Renerre. Hesitantly, she looked to Alistair, as if she too, shared in the anxiety.

"I saw many visions of you," she said quietly. "From the time you were a child... throughout your life. Until the present. I knew you weren't a mage, but it seemed the magic chose you all the same. It saw something in you that I didn't."

He wished he could understand, too.

"Are you sure it was me, though?" he went on. "I have an identical twin brother. What if it's him?"

That would be way more fitting, anyways. Alan always seemed to attract every single destined path.

"The boy I saw from the start was not your brother, Alan Alvaro," Renerre said. "I saw a lonely little boy, scolded by his mother, unskilled at music, unorganized, but strong, and hardy. He grew into a man who is unsure, cracks jokes to get by, but bears a bleeding heart for everyone he lets into it."

Renerre's levitating feet finally landed on the ground.

"Does that sound like you?" she asked.

Alistair wasn't sure if he was supposed to be insulted or flattered by her sentiments. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out right away. Averting his gaze, he grumbled, "I guess you didn't mix us up, then."

"I see more than the mere outside of a soul," Renerre said.

Bo glanced back at her, then back at Alistair. "We don't see souls," he said flatly. "She's just good at telling the difference based on mannerisms and other personality tells."

That was putting it nicely.

"So what--" he began, but faltered. Steadying his nerves, Alistair nervously ran his hand through his hair to help him think. "Okay. So what happens next? What does this mean for me?"

"Well," Bo said. "There are a few options. What's outside of our control is this: when Renerre dies naturally of old age, her magic will go to you. That experience can be overwhelming, and potentially dangerous, as you will be filled with a sudden surge of power you didn't have before."

Bo folded his hands together in his lap as he continued.

"What is within our control, is that we can help to prepare you before that happens by helping you understand what it's like to be a dragon. That includes preparing you with basic principles for how to control and use your shifting and elemental magic. What Renerre also has control over - for as long as she's still alive - is that she can voluntarily pass her magic over to you before she dies naturally, which can be a much less jarring process. The catch there, is that she would only do so prematurely if you consented to it, and when she does so, she would die peacefully."

Following. Yes. Alistair was following. But gods, did this feel so irrelevant right now, since he was hardly involved in this dragon business, and this still didn't feel entirely real.

"Okay, sure. But..." With a straight palm, Alistair chopped his hand through the air to indicate concepts in space. "Options. Next steps. Pros and cons." He hesitantly glanced at Bo. "Can you help me break this down in a way that's, I don't know... relevant, and easy to understand?"

"Sure," Bo said, offering a small smile. "We'll start with option one. Let's say you walk away from this conversation, you decide you want nothing to do with us, and you want to go about your life as it is, as normal. That will be sustainable for you for at least a year, and at most ten years. At some point within that ten year period, Renerre will die naturally, and you will -- suddenly, and without warning -- be filled with the full unfiltered magic of an air dragon. Of which, there is only one: and it would be you. Pros: you get to return to life as normal. Cons: that return is temporary, and one day you will receive power you likely will not know how to carry or manage, potentially with little assistance, depending on how connected you choose to remain with us."

A beat.

"Or rather, me," he said. "As Renerre would no longer be around."

Alistair was slouched forward as he listened, rubbing his face as he tried to hold on to the passing details. "Tempting," he murmured, "but not very smart. What's option two?"

"Option two," Bo began. "You could take us up on our offer: we take the time to prepare and train you for the magic that is to come. There is space in this offer to do the training at your pace, and when it is convenient for you. But, as it is with any of our options, that window of time will be limited to 1-10 years. We would do the best we could with the time we have with you so that you don't feel entirely unprepared when Renerre inevitably dies and the magic passes to you. Pros? You will have more tools in your metaphorical belt to manage the power you're going to inherit. You will also have the opportunity to connect with other dragons and mages who could come around you as support. Cons? You would have to disrupt your current lifestyle, open up to new people, and be willing to grow in many areas you may not have had to explore by not being genetically born into magic. We would also have to discuss how or when to discuss your situtation with your family, so that we could come to an arrangement that both honors them and protects you, since being a dragon comes with many risks."

It was the smart option, but not the tempting one, as it was highly disruptive and came with sweeping changes.

"Is there a third option?" he asked thinly.

"There is," Bo said. "But I'd argue that it's the worst one. I can tell it to you if you'd like."

"Sure," he sighed.

"Option three," Bo said. "Is that Renerre gives the magic to you now -- or soon, and you decide from there if you'd like our help. But to be completely transparent with you, that would be akin to handing a five year old a million gold coins and asking them if they want to go buy all of the candy in the world or purchase a good, well-balanced meal."

Alistair decided to not mention that he had off-handedly proposed this in the dream when he was taking none of this seriously.

"How do you teach magic to someone who isn't a mage?" he asked instead, figuring that they had no choice but to do option two. "That sounds difficult and, frankly, impossible."

Bo offered a small smile. "Difficult, yes," he said. "But not impossible. The good thing about magic is that it's an extension of your will and your emotions: those are things everyone has, regardless of magical capabilities. To use magic also requires your body: which is also something everyone has. You may not be able to put your magic use to practice until Renerre is gone, but you can prepare your body, your mind, and your heart."

Alistair hung his head to idly ruffle his hand through his hair again, feeling a stress headache beating against his head.

Gods dammit. Of course this had to happen to him.

"I know this is a lot to consider," Bo said. "So I don't expect an answer now. How about we meet here, around the same time, next week. I want to give you time to think on all of this."

"...Okay," Alistair said reluctantly, then glanced around, taking in the literal deserted surroundings. "But maybe we can meet somewhere less... far."

What were the odds that Alistair would be out smoking on his porch this evening? High. Pretty damn high.

Mireya was walking with much more caution than usual through the South End, taking cautious glances around every few minutes. It felt different to walk alone here now. She hadn't realized just how untouchable she'd felt until she'd learned she wasn't, and now she had no idea how to get that back. Maybe she never would.

Sure enough, the air directly in front of the Alvaro residence smelled familiar and hazy as she got close. Mireya was not tall enough to peek over the fence, but... well, you didn't need height to climb something.

She quickly scaled it, clambered over the top, and tumbled into the lawn on the other side. The first two steps were intentional. The last one... less so. She let out a surprised huff as she crawled onto her hands and knees.

"Mireya?" Alistair spat incredulously. Predictably, he sat on the porch, a lit cigarette in hand. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Your fence fucking sucks," Mireya grunted, getting to her feet and dusting herself off. "Don't you know anyone could just climb over this and break in?"

He frowned, pointing the cigarette towards the opening of the yard. "There's an entrance," he said flatly.

Mireya turned around. Sure enough, the gate was unlocked and hanging wide open. Huh. She hadn't seen that.

"Why do you even need that gate, if climbing the fence is so easy?" she asked, turning back to Alistair and folding her arms over her chest stubbornly.

Alistair stared at her blankly, no doubt questioning her. The smoke from the cigarette billowed into the night air as the firelight from the lamp flickered beside him. Sighing, he raised the cigarette and asked, "Do you want a smoke?"

"I could use one," Mireya said, stepping through the yard and joining him on the porch.

Wordlessly, Alistair offered a rolled cigarette to Mireya then leaned back against the porch beam. As usual, he stewed in his broody silence as he peered over the yard, inhaling a breath of the carcinogens. Mireya helped herself to one of his matches, then took a heavy drag herself once she had it lit.

"How long have you been out here for?" she asked.

"Since sunset," he answered. "It's the only quiet place in the house."

And the only place his aunt let him smoke. Not that it was the only spot he ever did, though.

"Are you... looking for quiet?" Mireya asked.

Because she was here to talk. And not to yap meaninglessly like they usually did. The note they'd parted ways on still made her feel sick, and she didn't want to sustain it for any longer. But maybe Alistair wasn't ready to talk.

Alistair took in a heavy breath, letting the smoke fill his lungs before slowly releasing it out of his mouth. "I don't know," he answered quietly. "I guess I'm just... tired. But I always am." He hesitantly glanced her way. "What about you?"

"My house is quiet," Mireya said, dropping her gaze to the cigarette between her fingers. "So... no. I'm actually trying to fill the silence."

He nodded, adjusting his position against the beam so he was turned to fully face her. He slung his arm on top of his bent knee and asked, "What's on your mind?"

Mireya took a deep breath, puffing on her cigarette again as she turned to him as well. She tapped her foot distractedly against the porch.

This really wasn't going to be easy.

"I just wanted to say, um..." she started faintly. "I told you I can't leave, but I don't think I've ever explained why."

Alistair sat still as the words sunk in. "Okay..." With slowed movements, he pressed his cigarette against the ash tray, turning back to give her his undivided attention. "I'm listening."

Mireya's grip on the cigarette tightened as she felt her shoulders tense. She didn't like telling stories. Especially not the first time. But Alistair had to understand. He had to see why she couldn't leave so he would stop hurting her by asking.

"About four years ago, there was this girl in the Blue Suns," she began quietly. "Her name was Chloe. She was a few years older than Andy and I, and she helped train us on a couple things. I don't know if I would say I looked up to her, but I certainly respected her. She was very focused, very effective at her job-- which was smuggling-- and she was good standing at a Six. Sparrow clearly favored her, but unlike a lot of the higher-ups, she didn't-- she didn't treat everyone below her like shit, you know?" Mireya huffed. "Which I appreciated, as a new recruit. Chloe wasn't what most people would call nice, but she did have a particular kind of kindness that's rare to find in someone who's been in the gang that long." She paused, looking to Alistair before again saying, "You know?"

Alistair nodded. "I'm following."

"Okay." Mireya nodded tightly. "Anyway, she... she went through a rough patch. The building she lived in was really old and shabby-- it made most South End properties look like the bougie manors over in the Estates-- and one night, while everyone inside it was sleeping, it just went and collapsed. Chloe lived, but she had to be pulled out from under the rubble after being trapped there for hours. After that, she was... changed. She was suddenly spazzy and skittish when she hadn't been before. She wasn't the best at her job anymore. And most relevantly, she couldn't handle being at the Gallery. Something about being underground frightened her when it never had before-- she seemed convinced the ceiling would collapse on her at any moment. And so, despite her history with us, she asked to do what a lot of people in her place would have done. She asked to leave the gang."

Mireya sighed quietly, taking another puff of her cigarette and blowing it out into the evening wind.

"I heard a lot of this from her personally. Because she was a valuable member, Sparrow first tried to entice her to stay. He offered her a raise, then a promotion. She said no to both. After plenty of going back and forth, he finally accepted her request and offered her a new, stable residence in Midtown as a retirement gift. She seemed so relieved when I talked to her last, but she mentioned that even when he gave in, Sparrow was much less resigned than she expected of him, given his resistance. Chloe found it strange. Still, I was happy she would feel safer somewhere else, and I bid her good luck."

Mireya bit her lip. Did Alistair see this end coming? Would he even realize the significance of it?

"I didn't hear from Chloe again," she said. "I figured she wouldn't be in a hurry to reach out to me, since we weren't really close, but I got curious and wanted to see what her new life looked like. So I went to her new address to pay her a visit a few weeks later." Mireya hesitated. "Except when I got there, I found that part of the apartment building was undergoing extensive repair. I asked the construction workers what was going on, and they said they were fixing a couple of units that had been completely destroyed. Apparently, an explosion was set off in one apartment, collapsing the ceiling of the unit below. The tenant there was crushed and killed under the debris. I didn't hear who, but-- but I knew it was Chloe. And I knew it went back to Sparrow somehow."

Mireya inhaled sharply, meeting Alistair's gaze desperately.

"You're not supposed to leave the Blue Suns, Alistair," she said quietly. "And if you do, you'll be made to regret it. Because all Sparrow asks for is loyalty, and by quitting, you're branding yourself as a traitor."

As she finished speaking, a moment of silence stretched between them, filled with their unspoken understanding and sorrow.

Alistair took a deep breath, and with a gentle tilt of his head, his gaze locked onto hers. "Do you want to leave, Mireya?" he asked softly.

Mireya faltered, unsure how to treat the question.

"I-- no," she scoffed defensively. "I mean, I've got no greater purpose in life. I'm not looking for anything different. And it doesn't matter what I want, anyway. The outcome's the same."

He quietly averted his gaze and softly murmured, "I think what you want does matter."

Mireya snorted. "Not here, it doesn't."

"Did Sparrow tell you that?" he asked.

"No!" Mireya exclaimed, looking at him disappointedly. "Gods, you're thick sometimes. Sparrow's not some uncaring tyrant. He just-- he does what he has to to ensure no one's going to betray us. And if it helps answer your question: I don't want to be the next person to do that."

Alistair deeply furrowed his brows. The short silence that fell between them was heavy with half-formed questions. "Shouldn't you be afraid of him, then?" he asked in a hushed tone.

Mireya stared at him blankly.

"...Why?" she asked slowly.

"Because..." He choked on his own word and then shifted position, crossing his legs beneath him. Emptily gesturing towards her, he silently begged for her to understand as he croaked out, "Because he'll kill you if you leave?"

"If I don't leave," Mireya said pointedly, "I have nothing to fear. Which is a much more comfortable position to occupy."

"You're not scared of being held hostage?" he asked more pleadingly, voice rising with anxiety.

Mireya paused, looking him directly in the eye with full seriousness.

"When's the last time the world was kind to you, Alistair?" she asked instead.

He took in a heavy breath, rolling his head to turn towards the empty lawn again. Crickets chirped as he once again resigned to his default state of broodiness. But instead of answering with snark, he instead murmured, "I thought it was when my friend came to visit me just now, but maybe I need to be more cynical."

He could've shoved a knife through Mireya's heart and she wouldn't have felt the difference. She dropped her gaze to the ground.

"A cage of gentle, safe hands isn't so bad," she said quietly, hearing a pained ache in her voice. "Because the world's not going to cradle anyone, even insincerely."

"I know... Trust me, I know."

Alistair sat still, distant gaze fixed over the lawn. There was the familiar pained ache in his voice that he shared with her, and even in the dimmed light, she could tell he was holding back. There was more he wanted to say.

"What is it?" Mireya asked softly.

Alistair let another short silence pass, the chirps of crickets filling the empty space between them. Finally, he took in a deep breath, still distantly gazing over the lawn as he said, "You know Andy beat the shit out of me... right?"

Mireya blinked, completely caught off guard by the question and how Alistair could've gotten there. She... Had she known? No. She'd never known anything.

But it wasn't rare for Alistair to have some kind of suspicious injury. A bruise somewhere, or a split lip, or sometimes even a black eye. Mireya hadn't always thought the most of them-- she'd gotten them too, and she knew they happened for a variety of reasons, most of which were difficult to explain. For a while, she'd had the thought that Alistair was getting in fights. She'd even offered to go beat them up once. But eventually they stopped happening, and it'd stopped being a concern of hers.

The small injuries had started to taper away around the time of their final breakup, though...

Realization struck her like lightning.

"That was her?" Mireya seethed quietly.

"...Yeah," he answered reluctantly, his thumb tracing absent patterns on his knee. "It's fine. That's the past, and I'm not trying to smear her name. She doesn't deserve that."

He paused, his next words more measured and carefully chosen. "I guess all I'm saying is..." Hesitantly, Alistair turned his gaze to meet Mireya's again. The sunken shoulders, the dark bags under his eyes, the somber lines etched around his mouth-- everything about him spoke of a weariness that went bone-deep.

"You can still love someone who has done shitty things," he said softly, fragile and raw. "And by itself... I don't think that's a bad thing."

Mireya bit her lip until pain was shooting through it. It wasn't fine, and she wanted to say that. And yeah, Andy could be a little shitty. She certainly had been to Alistair. It didn't make the loss of her any less acute.

"She never really deserved you," she muttered.

Alistair's gaze drifted upwards, his neck craning back against the weathered porch beam. "I don't know if I think about it that way," he murmured, words soft yet weighted. "I think at the time, we loved each other in ways that were unsustainable, because we needed each other. I don't know..."

He trailed off, momentarily lost in thought. "My dad did the same thing to my mom, and I saw a lot of it growing up. I think it's all one big stupid cycle of hurt. It's part of life." He paused, folding his hands on top of his lap. "But it doesn't mean you're forever trapped in it. I'd like to think I escaped, but maybe it's too soon to tell."

Mireya stared down at the ember-like glow on the tip of her cigarette, which was quickly becoming one of the brighter light sources around.

"Guess a cage of gentle hands is still just that," she murmured. "A cage."

"Do you see yourself in a cage?" he asked.

"I don't know." Mireya rubbed at her face with her free hand. "Maybe. If I am, I don't hate it. This far, I've always considered the tradeoffs to be worth it. But..."

She sighed, shrugging defeatedly.

"I'd rather die young in ten years doing someone else's dirty work than die the moment I take my first breath of freedom," she said, taking another drag of the cigarette.

"I'd rather you die from inhaling too many of my cigarettes," Alistair grumbled. "I also think you're being dramatic. You can still leave your cage and not die."

Mireya huffed a little, although she didn't find much humor in it. "And how do I do that, O wise man who I'm trying to save from turning all his brain cells to smoke by having a cigarette of his here and there?"

Alistair loudly sighed. "Maybe I'll pray to the dragons to come save you," he dead-panned.

"Great," Mireya said. "You do that. Until they show up, guess I'll just have to stick around."

"In all seriousness... I think I might know someone who could help," he said, sitting up straighter. "Do you trust me to help you? And... are you open to it?"

Mireya blinked at him, giving him a long look.

"...Oh, you're actually serious," she said, delayed. "You got a fairy godmother or something?"

"Yeah, something like that," Alistair replied, snark returning. "You know my mom's into the crystal shit. And I've been having divine dreams lately. I can basically speak to gods."

"Cool," Mireya said. "Tell them I want a million gold pieces."

"No. But I'll tell them you're looking for safety and protection. How's that?"

Well. Assuming this person wasn't a figment of Alistair's imagination, Mireya had no idea who in the world it could be. No offense to Alistair, but he wasn't exactly known for networking.

Still... He wouldn't have said it if he hadn't meant it.

"No promises about accepting their help now," she said, flicking some ashes off the top of her cigarette. "But if you want to reach out, you can."

"Here's the proof," Leilan said, slapping down an envelope onto the table. When he pulled his hand away from it, the stamp in the shape of a eight-pointed blue star was revealed. "We've got substantial evidence now."

Bo took the piece of paper grimly, his expression severe as he read it over.

"This is good, Leilan," Bo said. "This letter's from Sparrow himself."

Brows quirked curiously, Lyall flicked his gaze between the gravity on Bo's expression to the paper under his hand. Though the letters were turned top-sides to the bottom as he poured tea for the table, he managed to skim the neat scrawl.

He was not familiar with this Sparrow figure, nor the meaning behind the blue star. But he gleaned enough context from the tone of the meeting that, this was an unsavory figure dealing in some sort of illicit business.

Lyall cast his sister A Look as she furiously transcribed undoubtedly their every word. She only briefly caught his Look. Then promptly resumed ignoring him.

"They're communicating directly, then," Leilan muttered. "But he's not meeting with her, at least from what I know."

"You said he had a seven communicating with her for him, right?" Bo asked. "Rita?"

Lyall took mental note too. 'Rita, the seven.' Whatever the hell that meant.

"That's her name," Leilan confirmed. "She was the one who dropped this off. Barlowe seemed intimidated by her."

Lyall set the pot down with a quiet, mildly surprised clunk. Barlowe? The mayor?

"I would be too if I had the Full Sun's right hand breathing down my neck," Bo murmured. "This information is too important to keep quiet for long. With the election around the corner, Barlowe's probably fighting to sweep all of this under the rug and keep it quiet. If we can expose her, the Blue Suns will have to divert their resources to her aid -- or to her destruction: whichever is in their best interest."

Shaking his head incredulously, Lyall waved a hand for Bo's attention. "I'm sorry. Since when do you entangle yourself in city politics?"

"Since Ms. Barlowe started taking bribes from the Blue Suns to overlook human trafficking," Bo said.

Blue Suns? Human trafficking. And their mayor? Squeaky clean, neutral-to-a-fault Barlowe? Lyall figured her track record was a little too clean to be truthful for a politician - literal trafficking was just such an escalation.

This all only served to raise more questions.

Hild glanced up to cast him an unimpressed look. Lyall was too baffled to be insulted.

Bo raised his hand. "I'll take questions after," he said, turning his attention back to Leilan. "Exposing Barlowe."

Leilan's gaze flicked between the letter and Bo.

"How do we go about doing that?" he said. "If we turned to the press, we would need someone who we could trust to protect their source, was willing to put out a controversial story, and was reputable enough to have people listen to them."

Bo pursed his lips together. "And someone with a strong enough desire for justice to risk publishing this, knowing there could be backlash," he said.

"So we've ruled out every journalist in town, then," Leilan said.

Bo pursed his lips together, then slowly lifted his searching eyes to meet Lyall's in thought.

"Potentially," Lyall piped up, with a sneaking feeling he knew what Bo was thinking, "not every journalist."

"Are you sure?" Bo asked.

"Let me re-emphasize," Lyall answered, lifting both hands to slow this whole beast down. "Potentially. I'll have to run it by him first. But he's been chomping at the bit for a bigger story to sink his teeth into."

Sitting straighter, Hild set her pen down with severity. "This is far more than a simple opportunity for a shameless plug in, Lyall. This has far more vast repercu--"

"Apparently I haven't been clear enough," Lyall shot back, "about the sheer uncertainty of this to begin with."

"This is no small story," Bo said. "I'll trust you if you think Santiago would protect the source - if you're willing for that to be you."

"Who's Santiago?" Leilan asked, looking to Lyall.

"Who's Sparrow?" Lyall pleasantly asked in reply.

"The untouchable crime lord of the Blue Suns," Bo said.

Catching Leilan's attention, Hild pointed at Lyall and answered for him, "Fiance."

"And a journalist?" Leilan said, tilting his head.

"A damn good one," Lyall confirmed with a breezy grin.

Leilan smiled slightly. "Could he do this?"

Lyall nodded confidently. "It's just a matter of, will he? I'll have to pitch it to him, gauge how far he'd be willing to stick out his neck."

"We can work with that," Bo said. "At this point, he's our best option, so I'm willing to give it a try. I can talk more with you on how to pitch this and what exactly it is--"

The faintest of creaks down and around the corner of the hallway cut Bo's answer short. Lyall instinctively tensed. Hild swiftly tucked away her notes. Leilan was left for a moment confused and without explanation for the abrupt silence, until the dining room door eased open.

Mum slipped in, her sharp gaze already scanning their faces with a sparkle of intrigue. When her eyes landed on their guest, she broke out into a soft grin.

"This feels serious," she commented pleasantly, her curious gaze turning into one of inquiry as she looked to Bo. "Who's your guest?"

"This is Leilan," Bo said. "One of my friends. Leilan, this is Astrid - Lyall and Hild's mother."

Leilan dipped his head politely. "It's an honor," he said pleasantly, and while he was clearly genuine, it was also evident that he felt like he suddenly didn't belong here anymore.

Inclining her head likewise, Astrid only half-smiled. She was displeased.

"Tea, Mother?" Hild asked with a more fake smile, grasping at any semblance of normality.

Astrid kept her half-smile fixed in Uncle Bo's direction. "I'd rather a quick word, first."

Oh, gods, she was livid.

Bo was already getting to his feet. Lyall almost sent him off to his doom with a salute.

"You three are free to go about your day," Bo said. "I'll catch up with you later, Leilan."

Leilan smiled with a nod, but there was a flash of apprehension in his eyes. "Of course. See you soon."

"A pleasure meeting you," Astrid said over her shoulder, dismissively by way of bidding him farewell.

As Bo closed the doors behind them, Lyall cast their guest an slight smile in apology. "We'll have to find a more suitable corner of the city to further discuss anything," he softly explained.

"There wasn't much else to discuss as a collective anyhow," Hild said, rising to her feet.

Lyall strongly disagreed, there was much more he felt he should know about. For Hild's wellbeing, of course, but also... Well, now he knew a few people aside from Santiago who'd have an absolute field day finally setting fire to the weeds entangled in Ruddlan politics.

He sat to finish his tea alone, though, letting Hild properly show out her new partner and/or sidepiece.

The only time that James didn't have to worry about Deidra was at night; when she switched out with the night guard, and the night guard was prone to fall asleep on duty. It never happened immediately, of course, since the night came slow, but by the time 0300 rolled around, the air became heavy with sleep, and he could almost count down the minutes before he heard the guard's soft-patterned snoring outside his door - a telltale that he now free to move about his room without worrying that every faint footfall might be heard.

Safety was of the utmost concern, as Carter said. And safety they would have: on his terms, as much as was within his control.

He hadn't slept a wink (a common occurence) and when he finally heard the sound of peaceful sleep occuring on the other side of his door, he pulled his ear away from it and ever so gently stepped across the hardwood floors of his room on the balls of his feet.

Though walls were thin, he was blessing in this: the boards did not creak. Be it the quality of the manor of the newness of its age, James could glory in the fact that however much noise he made could only be to his own shame, and not of the house.

Gingerly, he climbed atop his bed. The blanketed and curtained window had been dismantled days ago by the house maid for cleaning, and James hadn't bothered recreating it for this reason. Less shuffling, less noise, and less hassle. The window itself was simple: a latch, a push, and the cool air came in.

He paused for a moment to let the fresh night air touch his face as he keenly scanned the side of the house. The wall was embraced by a vine-covered trellis that spanned the two-story wall, and Kirk's bedroom was two windows down. The climb was not impossible, but the feat would be to make it across without breaking the trellis under his weight, catching the attention of the ever-present militia watching the Cypress and the manor, but most importantly: avoiding waking Ingrid, whose room was the only true barrier between his and Kirk's.

Sure, James could use the hallway. Perhaps, he could risk sneaking out his door, lock-picking Kirk's door, and somehow, in all of it, not waking the guard.

But where was the fun in that?

This, for all its risks, felt more secure. He'd grown not to trust the hall, or the manor, and feared even the softest of footfalls would carry across to Carter's room and wake him. And nothign would be worse than being caught sneaking out by the man who was already determined to torture him with surveillance.

Independence. This was about independence, exerting whatever agency he had let, and most of all finding out if Kirk was willing to conspire with him against the king. Because Shane was convinced it would be so, much to his visible dismay.

Holding his breath, James reached around and grabbed onto a foreknown secure hand-hold along the trellis's interlaced wood panels.

He'd done this once before.

That was going down, though. This was across. Untreaded territory. Far be it from him not to try.

He slowly and carefully held his hand steady as he brought his feet down, holding onto the side of the windowsill for security. So far, no noise but for the faint skiff of his feet and hands against wood and leaves. Pausing for assurance, he scanned the alley between the manor and the Cypress once more.

Clear.

He checked again. Still clear.

Permitting himself to breathe again with measured, controlled breaths, he willed his body to relax and moved onward again. He moved his foothold, then his hand-hold, and so on and so forth. The movements themselves were simple: but the apprehension was of the trellis's constitution, and he found himself hesitating once more as he trellis swayed for but a moment by the framing of Ingrid's window.

Sucking in his breath, he ever-so-slightly leaned forward as the faintest pap of wood against stucco was heard, and he remained as still as possible for what felt like an impossible amount of time.

No further noises heard.

He slowly moved his arm, reaching for the edge of Ingrid's window frame. With one quick, swift movement (of which he knew he had to be confident) he pulled himself across with his arm.

One tap of his foot against the window's lower shelf, and he propelled himself to the other side of the window. His other hand caught and controlled his movement by grabbing the other edge of the window, while his other hand caught a grip on the trellis.

With much strain on his arms, he was able to make the movement fluid and the impact minimal. He "fell" against the trellis wall like one would lean into it, and once again, paused for good measure.

He saw a flicked of movement in the corner of his eye. A guard, outside the Cypress, making their round about the building. Knowing he had nothing going for him but the darkness of night, his intentionally dark colored clothing, and the shadow of the alley on his side, he stayed as still and quiet as possible. Without moving his head, his eyes followed the guard to their furthest extent until they walked out of view. In tense agony, he had to wait until they returned into view on the other side of his head.

From the corner of his eye, he finally saw them heading around the back of the Cypress.

Their movement hadn't paused for a moment. No suspicion had been raised. The disappeared around the Cypress's backyard, but James waited an extra minute to be sure.

Then he began to carefully climb across the trellis to Kirk's window.

He moved faster this time, knowing the guard might circle back again, and not wanting to risk a second spotting. Now, when he reached Kirk's window, he leaned out into it, aware that it was incredibly creepy and unsettling to now be staring into Kirk's room, where James could see him sleeping.

Now to see if Kirk was paranoid too.

James tested the window to see if it would pull open, or if it'd been locked. Dissapointingly, it didn't budge, and James knew he could not force it open without making a greater noise than he could afford.

Pressing his lips together, he lightly tapped on the glass.

Please still be a light sleeper.

Kirk began to stir. James tapped again, only twice. Enough to be recognized as human.

With increasing anxiety, James watched as Kirk rolled over to face the window. His bed was tucked to the side of the room and the head of the bed was against the window's wall. James couldn't see Kirk's head to tell if his eyes had opened, but with one last worried tap, Kirk finally sat up.

The moment Kirk's eyes met James's, James felt the fullness of how utterly ridiculous he looked by how bewildered Kirk's expression turned. Brows furrowed, mouth slightly agape, and eyes squinted, Kirk only stared for a few seconds.

Wanting to get inside before the guard came back around, James widened his own eyes and pointed to the latch with great emphasis. Kirk blinked rapidly and shook his head, quickly coming to the window to pop the window open. Before any words of explanation were exchanged, James crawled inside as silently as he could. Kirk backed away - which James was grateful for, because Kirk was lacking a shirt and proper shorts. Not his fault, of course, since he had not way of knowing James was going to intrude, but he'd had enough of the locker room feel from school.

Not that any of that was relevant.

Kirk shut the window as James crossed the room and pulled a blanket off Kirk's bed and tossed it at him.

With a huff, Kirk caught it and let it unfurl in his arms.

"I'm about to explain," James whispered, holding up a hand as Kirk opened his mouth to speak. "I won't take much of your time."

Kirk blinked. "Okay," he said slowly.

And Kirk's tone made it abundantly clear that everything about James's actions was weird.

He was right, of course, but it wasn't helpful to address the weirdness of it at the moment. That could happen later. James didn't want to be here longer than he needed to be: that was just more chances he'd get caught.

James walked back over to join Kirk by the window so he could keep his voice as hushed as possible.

"First I must ask you," he said. "How much are you willing to risk for the opportunity to dismantle everything Blackfield has built?"

A pause. Kirk stared at him - his bewilderment shifting to increasing severity.

"Or, if not that, at the very least, legitimately compromise the foundation of it," James said. "For all that it's worth."

"Tiberius," Kirk said in a low whisper, reaching out to touch James's shoulder.

James swatted Kirk's hand away. "Touching is unneccesary," he muttered indistinctly.

"Tiberius," Kirk said again, relinquishing his reach. "What are you talking about?"

"I can't tell you if you can't answer my question," James retorted harshly.

"I'm not going to agree to something without knowing what it is," Kirk responded.

"But if I tell you and you refuse how can I trust you with knowing?" James whispered back.

"You came to me," Kirk whispered back, pointing his finger into his palm. He then turned his palms to the ceiling. "You went to the trouble of getting this far and you won't trust me?"

"What are you willing to risk?" James asked again, knitting his brows together tightly.

Kirk huffed, but relented with a touch to his forehead, flaring his hand out as he spoke.

"Everything," he said, barely audible. "Alright? I'm -- gods know I am already."

James blinked. What did that mean?

"No, you're giving me something more first," Kirk demanded.

"You're clearly alluding to having some sort of--" James tried anyway.

"And so have you," Kirk said. "So we're on the same side, then. What is it you're trying to accomplish?"

James pressed his lips into a thin line, but did not argue.

"In short: I plan to steal the king's secret records of the history of the calamity and the war on magic," James answered. "It has since be rewritten, but he holds proof of the truth. I cannot divulge the details at this hour for it would take too long, but Blackfield played a very active hand in the orchestration of the war and spinning a narrative against mages. He is not the hero he seems."

Kirk listened intently, and leaned away with a heavy sigh for a moment as he took that in. Some drawn-out seconds passed.

"...Okay," he finally said. "And you want me involved."

"I need a diversion," James said.

Kirk quirked a brow.

"I have a plan in place," James said. "I need only someone to temporarily take the fall -- long enough for my plan to play out in its entirety, and for me and my team to leave King's Peak. But short enough that you would be aquitted under any real investigation."

"You need a fall guy," Kirk echoed, tilting his head down as he met James's eyes.

"A temporary fall guy," James emphasized.

"And your plan--" Kirk began.

"You can know more of once you tell me what it is you're alluding to," James said.

Kirk huffed through his nose, but it was clear he wasn't truly affronted; more amused that his same tactic was thrown back at him, despite the intensity of the subject matter.

"I'm developing a lumshade anti-serum," he said.

It was far less words than James supplied by way of explanation, yet it took twice the time to process. Frankly, James had only learned of Kirk's inner intentions some weeks ago (and it had only just become enough time to say weeks in the plural form). He'd still been reeling from that. This, on the other hand, was an absolutely monumental ambition. Of all people, Kirk was the most capable, and the most reliable for this sort of invention.

This must have been new.

"For how long?" James asked.

"I've been dreaming it up for months," Kirk said. "But have only had the unction and resources to pursue it until recently. And no, I'm not at liberty to oblige more detail, nor are you for your..."

Kirk spun his hand as he searched for a word.

"...ordeal," Kirk said, like he settled for it. Though it wasn't the most apt descriptor, it was sufficient enough. For all the trouble this plan was giving James, it certainly was an ordeal.

"Fine, then," James said. "We have our own projects. I won't pull you into mine if it distrupts yours. What you're doing -- that needs to be done."

"I don't see why I couldn't manage both," Kirk said.

"But if something goes wrong--" James said.

"You said it's only temporary," Kirk said. "Right?"

James nodded. Slowly.

"Then we will play it through as many times as we have to to make sure that it's foolproof," Kirk said. "And assuredly temporary. A blot on my record means nothing if it's wiped clean just as quickly, and I don't intend to stick around forever either."

James furrowed his brows at that, unsure of his meaning.

"I don't expect to stay the king's alchemist forever," Kirk said more clearly. "With my current trajectory, I see it wise to plan a natural transition anyway."

James swatted the air.

"Sure, sure," he said. "Naturally."

"So, yes," Kirk said with more finality. "I will be your diversion."

James nodded. "Right. Good," he said.

"Now, let's sit," Kirk said, patting the hip-height windowsill.

James glanced at the window. Out the window. The guard was circling around again.

James reached for the curtain and pulled it shut. It blocked out the moonlight.

"...Ooooor that," Kirk said faintly.

"We speak in the dark like real men," James said.

"I don't think darkness has anything to do with--" Kirk started.

"Fine, we'll cut to the plan," James said with a roll of his eyes that Kirk couldn't see.

"I'm not nearly awake enough for this," Kirk said.

"Too bad. It's this, or we find a way to knock out Deidra," James said.

And they both knew Deidra was two heads taller than both of them and built like an ox. Nothing they tried to take her down would be subtle.

Kirk was silent for a long pause.

"Fine, I'm awake," he said.

"Good. Now listen close."

Right after shoveling overgrown bird shit all day probably wasn't the best time to check in. But the heat of the stadium had dried Shay's brain down to the size of an actual bird brain, Mireya's place was on the way home, and "a better time" to visit probably won't exist for awhile anyway. So, it just made sense in the moment.

Though, it'd only been a couple days since the wake. Was it too soon? Fuck, what do you say to a grieving woman only two days after a wake? "How are you?" No! That was fucking stupid.

With an awkward grimace, Shay tapped on the door anyway. Carefully, as if the door would crumble to dust if she so much as breathed on it wrong. "Mir?" she softly called. "You home?"

There was some silence for a few moments. Then the door creaked open. Mireya's face, first wary, then confused, poked through the gap.

"...Shay?" she asked confusedly. "What are you doing here?"

"Yeah, it's just me," Shay said, offering an apologetic grin. "Just wanted to stop by, say hi."

"Oh," Mireya said, and she sounded surprised. "Uh... thanks. Do you... do you want to come in or something?"

"Are you up for company?" Shay asked in response, voice softening with uncertainty.

Mireya paused, then shrugged. But she didn't seem as indifferent to the idea as the gesture signaled.

"Sure," she said quietly, stepping aside.

Hesitating at the door, Shay opted to first toe off her shitty boots and leave them outside. Then she ducked in.

The living room was standard for South End - cheaply slapped together walls with cheaper stuff slapped over them to make them look nice. The stuff she assumed Mireya and Andy had put in the place would've lent a cozy feel; instead, it felt a little cluttered from a slow-growing mess scattered across the room.

Shay glanced over to the tiny kitchen in the far corner, where dirtied dishes were stacking up in the sink. Making a mental note to start there in a moment, she followed after Mireya toward the sitting area of the room.

Then had to abruptly stop when Mireya unexpectedly flopped down onto her back on the sofa. She effortlessly filled the Mireya-shaped dent in the cushions, and Shay wondered if that's where she was when she knocked.

"Had dinner yet?" Shay asked, casting her an empathetic look.

Mireya paused, poking her head up. "Is it that time already?"

Oh, man.

Shay took the armchair adjacent to the sofa, resting her elbows on her knees. "Almost," she answered. "I was about to hit the empanada stand a few streets down from here. I can grab some for you too?"

Mireya's brow furrowed with surprise.

"Really?" she asked. "You sure?"

Offering a warm grin, Shay nodded emphatically. "Yeah, of course dude!" Patting her knees with determination, she - Well, she stopped and looked back to Mireya more seriously. "Anything I should avoid? Food-wise? Like, sensitivities and shit."

Mireya stared openly at her.

"...Crab," she murmured after a weirdly long delay.

...Okay. Cool. Crab wasn't usually used for those anyway, but sure. Shay made note.

"Awesome! Steer clear of the crustacean," Shay chirped, hopping up to her feet.

Mireya nodded, but the uncertainty in her eyes wasn't gone.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked quietly.

Expression blank, Shay stood frozen, blinking down at her with a hint of the same uncertainty.

"If it's an allergy," she started slowly, "then... so you don't, you know. Have breakouts and/or your throat close up on you?"

"No." Mireya shook her head. "Well, yes, but-- I mean the fact that you're getting it at all. For me."

Realization settled heavily in her gut, and Shay couldn't help but sadly frown a little. She knelt down by the sofa, so that she was closer to Mireya's eye level.

"Has anyone been by to see you?" Shay asked quietly. "Since I last saw you?"

Mireya withdrew into the couch a little further. "No."

Well. It had only been two days. Ali was also grieving, so he physically and emotionally couldn't be as available to check in regularly. And Andy was... Yeah. But something about it, coupled with Mireya's surprise at such a simple gesture, felt fucking unacceptable.

Silently, Shay reached over and lightly rested a hand on Mireya's shoulder. She almost said "sorry" too, but that felt like a useless thing to say, so she shut her mouth as she gave it another moment's thought.

"I'm going to wash up while 'm out too," Shay opted to simply explain. "Then be back with eats, okay?"

Mireya nodded, and for a moment, gratitude flashed in her eyes.

"Okay," she said quietly. "Thank you."

Shay smiled gently at her. "Of course. I've got you, man."



Shay wasn't sure what Mireya's appetite looked like. But she knew for herself, she'd need at least two of those little oval baskets full of those meat pies. So she wound up getting four, just to err on the side of caution. Oh, and she asked about crab, also for caution's sake. The exclusion of it specifically, which earned her an odd look from the vendor.

Back at Mir's, the two sat on the sofa together with a righteous pile of fried dough stuffed with meat sitting between them. Shay sat low, feet propped up on the short living room table, and her shoulder getting wet from her still-damp hair from her hasty two-minute wash-off at home.

Glancing sideways, she quietly took in the dark circles under Mir's eyes, the raggedy shape to her usually neat yet bouncy hair, and the invisible weight that pressed down heavily on her shoulders.

"It tastes so fuckin' good," Mireya mumbled through a bite, wiping at her eyes. Sometimes, good food was enough to make you a little teary.

Shay smiled, endeared yet saddened. "Fuck yeah," she agreed, already chowing down on her fifth. "You want a mean meat pie? Leo's your guy."

"Thanks, Leo," Mireya said, still attacking the food bite by bite. "I had no idea I was this hungry."

Chewing slower, Shay watched her for another moment. Then asked, "When did you last eat?"

Mireya frowned slightly, still chewing. "Today," she answered, leaving it at that.

Well, it was something. Still, Shay decided she ought to check in frequently from here on out since most of Mireya's 'sustain yourself' signals were getting blocked.

Shay gave the apartment another cursory glance. "Did you go out to eat?"

Mireya shook her head, wiping her mouth. "No. I, uh, cooked something low-effort."

She glanced towards the full sink.

"...And did not do the dishes since," she added. "Hope you, uh, don't mind that."

"Nah." Shay waved a hand, then finished off the empanada. "I can leave dirty dishes for days, man. I don't mind." She brushed off her hands on her pants, then sat even lower with her arms loosely folded arcoss her stomach.

"You seen the Al's lately?" she asked, voice a bit quieter. Paused, then amended, "Ali, I mean."

"Oh, yeah," Mireya said, licking the tip of a finger. "I interrupted his smoke break and fell over the top of his fence."

Shay blinked. "Shit. You good, man?"

"Yeah, it was fine!" Mireya said quickly. "I climbed the fence. Mostly to show him how easy it was to do and that maybe his family should build it a couple feet higher. You know, to keep out the climbers who aren't as benevolent as me."

Shay snorted. "Well, how are the benevolent ones like you going to get in then?"

Mireya paused, then sighed. "I hadn't thought of that. Probably the gate, which is so much more boring."

"Can still be cool," Shay countered with a shrug. "You just got to get creative."

"What, like... dancing through it instead of walking?" Mireya asked.

Closing her eyes, Shay breathed out another laugh through her nose. "You know what? I'd pay good money to see that. And the look on Ali's face."

Mireya grinned faintly. "He'd be so fed up with me before I even said a word."

"Just make sure I'm there too," Shay said, playfully pointing at Mireya. "Or else you'll have to boogie in a second time."

"Hey, I'd be willing to do it more than once, if it doesn't work out the first time," Mireya said.

Shay grinned a bit wider, then felt it gradually fade as her thoughts lingered on their friend. She hadn't seen Ali at work. And when she dropped in yesterday, it was Alan who caught her up on how he was doing. Which was, still snarky and broody as ever. But... more weighed-down.

She wouldn't say anything, of course, because Mireya was right. She didn't know Andy the way she and Ali did. Still, she felt justified for being angry with the deceased, for treating people poorly while she was still alive.

So it was hard. It was hard to watch it weigh on Ali, especially when things were kind of starting to take a turn for the better for him. It was hard to see Mireya in shambles over it, especially since she and Shay were only kind of friends. It was hard to find the right things to say. The Andy nuances, aside from she was basically preying on lonely people to feed her ego, were a little lost on Shay.

She fought the urge to look around the empty-ish apartment again, just to keep from being rude. So she looked at the table under her propped-up feet.

"Aside from Ali," Shay started. "...Who you got?"

Mireya blinked. "Like... in terms of people there for me?"

"Yeah." Shay shrugged a shoulder in a, yeah, kind of meager attempt to keep this conversation feeling light...ish. "Like. A network, you know? Who's around for you?"

Mireya didn't answer for a moment as she dropped her gaze to her empty plate. She seemed more... embarrassed than sad.

"It's... not really a network," she said. "Aside from him, I don't really know. Which is kind of a lot to put on him, because--" She trailed off. "You know."

"Yeah," Shay murmured in understanding, "I know." Crossing her ankles, she idly tapped her toes together. "Three's a crowd, though, if you wanted to count on me too. And I think that counts as a network."

Mireya slowly blinked, looking up at Shay again.

"...I still haven't figured out why you're doing this for me," she said, lifting up the plate.

Shay mirrored her slow blink, unsure of what to make of that. "What's there to figure out?" she asked gently. "I want to make sure you get through this relatively okay."

"Yeah, but--" Mireya shrugged uncertainly. "I don't know. I just figured you didn't like me all that much because you didn't like Andy."

"Oh." So Shay hadn't been as discrete about that as she hoped. "I mean... No, I didn't like her," she answered honestly. "But I was able to keep that separate from you. I think..."

You're pretty cool, but that didn't feel right to say right now. Or could it be? Or Shay was overthinking. Gods, and she never overthought things.

So she swallowed that down, and finished, "You're cool. You were still good to my buddy, and I liked that."

Mireya nodded twice. Just barely at first, and then a little more visibly.

"If I could..." she said quietly. "Yeah. I'd appreciate seeing you more, too."

With a small, warm smile, Shay bobbed her head in little nods. "How does noodles sound for tomorrow, then? I know a guy from Goulon who makes the best cold noodles."

Mireya smiled a little at that too. "Sounds incredible."

It had been a long night. Cyrin was slipping quietly through the estates, and despite being tired, they were unwilling to lose stealth by giving into the urge to trudge home.

They'd returned with Tula from a mission not long ago, where they'd spied on a caravan of Sparrow's trafficked mages being transported into a caravan leaving the city. Their orders had been clear-- they were there to watch, not to rescue. And they had learned-- such as how the caravan was southbound, possibly en route to the Moonlight Kingdom, and how the next transportation would be at the same time and same place next week. But it hadn't felt worth it, seeing those mages herded and packed like cattle while the two of them watched helplessly, seething in the shadows.

There was nothing left to do, though. So they'd headed home, and they were now standing in front of the Bridger mansion.

Cyrin peered up at their window. There was no sense in using the front door: yes, it was late, but he didn't want to run the risk of running into anyone on the way to his room. Lorelei sometimes enjoyed wandering the mansion with a glass of wine at night, and Cyrin had never been a sympathetic figure in her book. Anything she saw would go directly to his father.

Luckily, climbing through their bedroom window was just about the easiest use of their most-developed skill.

They scaled the wall in a matter of seconds, perching on the windowsill as they fished around in their pocket for their magnet. Cyrin didn't leave their window unlocked when they weren't home-- they didn't want anyone else sneaking in, after all-- but they had a failsafe method of opening it from the outside. They placed the magnet against the frame outside of the lock, slowly and carefully dragging it to the side. They heard the metal bolt underneath click unlocked, and they turned the handle, slipping inside quietly.

Cyrin let out a quiet sigh as he faced his bed. Okay. Time to go to sleep and do it all again the morning--

"I would really like a conversation with whoever taught you that," a familiar voice sneered in the darkness.

Cyrin nearly leapt out of his skin. He almost reached for his knife, just barely stopping short. He couldn't pull a dagger in his own home-- and he knew who this was.

A match struck in the darkness. The glow of the thin, spindly flame revealed the stark smirk on Casper's face before his elder brother reached over to light a candle resting on the dresser beside the doorway he was standing in. Shaking out the match, Casper stepped out of the way, slamming the door behind him with enough ferocity that the flame trembled. Cyrin tensed, feeling trapped the moment it was shut, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to push past him and open it again just so he'd have an escape route.

"You've been leaving the house at dusk most nights now," Casper continued smugly. "You're not obvious about it, but you never get back until a couple hours before dawn. One might think you're sound asleep all that time, but then you never get up before noon at best." He raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like someone's not in their bed after all."

Cyrin simply clenched his jaw, at a loss for words. Casper had noticed? Normally, his brother wouldn't give a damn about what he was up to. But somehow, it didn't shock him as much as it could have. Casper was always looking for his mistakes.

"Got anyting you'd like to explain to me?" Casper said, still smirking.

"I don't have to explain myself to you," Cyrin said firmly, finally breaking their stupified silence.

"Perhaps not. Which is why you can pick between explaining yourself to me, or to Father." Casper shrugged, but his grin betrayed how much he was enjoying this. "I hope you'll forgive my little investigation. As you know, he's considering which of his children to hand the emerald trade over to. His impressions of us may greatly sway his decision."

Cyrin wanted to groan. They were so tired of all the talk of emeralds. It was an open secret that their father was on a slow path to retirement-- a path that was paved with small instances of delegating portions of the vast Bridger mercantile empire to people around the family tree. One year, some cousin would get the silk trade; another year, some aunt would take over the wines. This time, it was emeralds, and Magnus Bridger III was scrutinizing his three eldest children, trying to determine which was up to the task of controlling the business-- and who had the best chance of outpacing the Santiago family, the other merchant power in town.

There was an issue with this, though. Cyrin wasn't even trying to inherit it, or any form of business, for that matter. Allison was the best candidate behavior-wise, but her acting career demanded her time and effort. And Casper... was Casper. Insanely motivated to participate in the business, but holding a million red flags that Cyrin suspected even their father was starting to see.

And Casper just had to always be the one on top.

"I don't give a damn about the emeralds, Casper," Cyrin said plainly. "You can have them."

Casper shook his head, sighing at him in disappointment.

"See, this is exactly what I've been telling Father about," he said, sneer growing again. "Laziness, no motivation, no desire to put in effort towards growing the business. You're worthless. I can't believe he's considering you."

He was? Cyrin couldn't believe that any better than him.

They thought about it for a moment and realized: Casper should be the top candidate in their father's mind. If he wasn't, that meant something happened that had irritated him and made him reconsider. Casper was in hot water with his father.

And he was trying to get out of it by making Cyrin look worse.

"Does it really bother you that much?" Cyrin asked flatly.

"Does what bother me?"

"That you've been licking Father's boots for years while I haven't put in an ounce of work for him, and yet I'm still the better candidate in his eyes?"

The smug expression on Casper's face instantly hardened into a vicious death glare. He seemed like he was comtemplating the payback period on ripping Cyrin's throat out right here.

"Not for much longer, you aren't," Casper said darkly. "What's got you sneaking out like this? What don't you want us to know about?" He narrowed his eyes. "Drinking?"

"Oh, that is rich, coming from you," Cyrin scoffed.

"Say what you will, but I at least have the dignity to do it at a private party and not act like a hooligan at a bar," Casper snapped.

"Your logic's nonsensical. The public doesn't care about how much you're drinking-- they're all doing it, too. But somehow, getting wasted among the rich and powerful you're hoping to impress and network with is the civilized action."

Casper ignored them, only stared more daggers at them. "Is it that?"

"No," Cyrin said plainly, although they thought to themself, Just not this time.

"Then what?" Casper pressed. "A secret relationship Father wouldn't approve of, perhaps?"

Casper was clearly shooting in the dark for things they could be guilty of. But before they could answer, Cyrin had a sudden, unpleasant realization. Casper thought they were up to something scandalous whenever they snuck out-- and although he wasn't wrong, his guesses were nowhere near "robbing our neighbors to financially support a mage resistance" or "spying on Nye's most fearsome gang on the resistance's behalf". But the more of these specific guesses Cyrin denied, the closer Casper could get to determining the truth. And if that happened, it would all be over. Casper wouldn't keep their secret in a million years. Being overlooked for an inheritance would be the least of their problems.

They hated it. But they had to pick something to 'confess' to so they could keep him off their scent.

"That's none of your business," Cyrin answered.

From the way Casper's smug grin spread over his face again, he clearly thought he'd struck gold.

"My, you've been rebellious," Casper mused. "What plebeian did you make the fatal error of falling for? Whose bed have you been in?"

"I'm not answering that," Cyrin snapped, using defensiveness to cover up the fact that he really couldn't think of a person to be having a make-believe forbidden love affair with. Any name or face he knew-- even the past partners or hookups he'd actually had that his family wouldn't like either-- suddenly sounded like a terrible lie to use.

Casper whistled mockingly. "Oh, is it that bad?"

"There's nothing bad about it," Cyrin said sourly. "And if you, Father and Lorelei wouldn't all clutch your pearls over it and whine about caliber, maybe I'd actually use the front door."

"And then what?" Casper laughed. "Stand in front of us and give us a speech on the merits of 'true love'? Give me a break."

Cyrin didn't know how to say that was a speech that they really didn't know how to give.

"No, I'd be fucking normal about it," they said. "Like as if I belonged to a sane family."

Casper chuckled lowly. "Trust me. No bitch is worth it."

Cyrin gave him his most unimpressed Really? look.

"Good thing I didn't trust you anyway," he deadpanned.

Casper's expression was dripping with fake pity. "You may not see it now," he sighed, "but I'm calling it now. This is how the golden boy of Ruddlan falls. Some ordinary girl."

It was entirely irrelevant right now, but the spark of irritation Cyrin felt at Casper automatically presuming they were a woman when he hadn't said a word about them made him want to change the gender of his completely imaginary partner.

"You'd be wrong, actually," Cyrin said dismissively, walking over to their closet and just wanting this to be over. "If it happens, it'll be a much-less-than-ordinary guy."

"Did something give the impression that I cared?" Casper snapped. "I don't care how it happens. Only that it does."

Cyrin rolled their eyes.

"Look," they said, pushing aside some hangers in search of nightclothes to wear. "You don't intimidate me. I couldn't care less whether you snitch to Father about this or not. You could tell him I killed a man and I wouldn't blink. Enjoy your emeralds. Just leave me alone."

"Oh, this isn't just about the emeralds," Casper said. Cyrin knew to be worried at the evident delight in his voice. "Your lack of caution is alarming for someone who could be on their way out of the family."

Cyrin paused, slowly turning around to face his brother again. He felt his heart thudding in his chest.

"What did you say?" he asked carefully.

"We can all tolerate flings," Casper said breezily. "Yes, you're not so sneaky about that. A serious relationship, however... That's different. If you're intent on being a disgrace, it may just be a good idea to cut you out before it spreads to the rest of us, no?" He let out a thoughtful hum. "Nothing personal. Father's the one who's been complaining about you for months."

Cyrin set their jaw, staring him down. Maybe their father was displeased with their involvement or lack therefore of in family affairs, but Casper had said earlier that he'd been telling him all about their negative business qualities. They had no doubt that if this was on the table, Casper had quietly pushing for it for some time now.

"Funny," they said lowly. "I could get disowned in the future, and he still might choose me to get the trade. It seems to show that you're needed, but definitely not wanted."

"And you're neither of those," Casper said simply, picking up the candle and putting a hand on the doorknob. "Have fun talking to Father."

Then, without another word, he left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Cyrin in darkness.

Cyrin's hands shook as he clenched them into fists by his sides. After a minute passed, he found it in him to move and crack open the door. Just enough to see it hadn't been sealed shut.

This was not a battle he wanted to pick. He didn't want to fight just to stay in his own family. He didn't want to scramble to hide his resistance connections to a family of magical blood that had long stopped caring. He didn't want to have to choose a side.

Cyrin could live without his father and stepmother. He could certainly live without Casper. But he wanted to see Allison make it big on the stage. He wanted to see Camilla live out her dreams of becoming a doctor. He wanted to see Magnus grow up.

But they couldn't give up on their mission, either. Not when this was just a battle in their life and there was a war taking place in these streets.

A headache flared up at the same time that their heart clenched. Cyrin closed their eyes as they pinched the bridge of their nose, shoulders sinking with the exhaustion of a busy night that had just set in.

This couldn't go any other way, could it?

There was that smell again.

Lyall bounced a heel as he waited. Adjusted the strap of his bag when it made the tension in his shoulder near unbearable. Checked his pocket watch for the seventh time in the past... Damnit. Only two minutes. Glanced back over his shoulder, tilting his head up to stare at the towering columns of the performance hall. Trying to keep from looking as restless as he felt.

Alan was normally very punctual. Early, in fact... When he wanted to be. The variable was either the presence of any number of other human beings with whom he felt compelled to swap life stories, or the simple fact that it was only Lyall waiting on him right now. Cheeky bugger.

Lyall was normally more patient. He was in no position to judge. He was constantly skidding in last minute, just barely making casual appointments. And he always encouraged being sociable. Connection was the life blood of human survival, and whatnot.

But this scent. He'd caught it a few times by now, all in entirely random and unsuspecting places throughout the city.

There was a new werewolf in town. He couldn't decide if this was a cause for excitement or alarm. The paranoid part of him, instilled by his's family's tense and abrupt exit from the Isles and Mum's own constant fears, insisted he be wary.

Gaze drifting back down toward the front doors of the building, he saw at last Alan's approach. However tardy he may had been, he brought with him a small wave of relief from Lyall's worrying. He raised a hand to wave, but frowned having caught a glimpse of the smallest hint of a foreboding expression.

"Do you still want to go?" Alan asked, skipping greetings and even having the audacity to reach over and straighten Lyall's collar. "You know you don't have to come if you don't want to, especially with the amount of 'high brow' and 'snobbish' meetups I take you to."

Instinctively hovering a hand over Alan's, Lyall stood still to let him fix what wasn't even broken. He took the opportunity to assess his friend. This was the third time that he found the scent within close proximity to Alan - and Lyall actually meant to ask about the first time.

There just hadn't been a good time or place to do so, yet. They couldn't seem to really catch each other truly alone anymore, especially with the bustle of summer in full swing.

"Nonsense," Lyall lightly insisted with a grin, "you generously invited me. I shall accompany." When Alan was too slow in withdrawing, that was when he lightly swatted his hand away. "You really took your precious time on said 'high brows' and 'snobbery' in there. It's a wonder that you would still want to go."

Alan dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand, pivoting away and gesturing for Lyall to follow. Two paces down the cobblestone path, and he already whirled around, walking backwards. "Life's about other people, Lyall. Of course I make time for others." Palm facing up, he pointed a hand towards him. "Case in point."

Lyall grinned flatly as he followed closely after. "I'll concede." Peering around his friend, he kept a watchful eye on the road at Alan's back. "You still haven't explained your peculiar taste in some of these other high brows, by the way."

"You mean the King's Hand? You've met some of them already, haven't you?" Alan twirled back around, stepping into step beside him. "Which, by the way, you haven't explained how you're acquainted with them."

"Hawking," Lyall corrected with a furrow of his brow. "But, by all means, explain those connections as well. Last I checked, there's not much crossover between musicians - however renowned you may be in this small pond - and that number of ambassadors. Let alone all at once."

Alan cast him a flat look at that, abruptly turning a corner to take the shortcut alley towards City Center. "You know you don't have to be a politician or doctor to meet other politicians or doctors, right? Besides, Ruddlan isn't that big. You're bound to run into others."

"Maybe not geographically--" Lyall stopped himself short of an unrelated tangent. He patted a hand to his own chest. "I only came into contact with them because I was assigned to one of them. That happened naturally." He pointed his hand at Alan. "So what did you do to orchestrate such connections? Or am I to believe that just happened to fall into your lap, within a week or so of the Hawkings' son?"

"Yes, quite so, that's what happened, because we're just friends. Outside of music, there was no orchestrating," Alan said, voice light but eyes sharp as he turned to Lyall. "Why are you so focused on Shane in particular, anyways? You've asked me this at least several times now. What do you have against him?"

Not this again.

"I don't have anything against anybody!" Lyall huffed, slowing down to throw his hands skyward in exasperation. "You're hiding something, and I want to know why."

"Lyall, I'm not hiding anything!" Alan said with a feigned laugh.

"And now you're lying to my fucking face," Lyall groaned in disappointment.

Alan shook his hand and facepalmed, a weary sigh escaping his lips. "That's also something you keep saying," he muttered with bewilderment, now his turn to throw his hand skywards. "Why?"

Lyall came to a complete stop now, fixing a baffled look on the back of Alan's head. "Because I can't seem to get a straight answer out of you whenever I ask!" he exclaimed.

"Okay, fine. Fine!" Alan relented, voice carrying more annoyance than desperation. His shoulders sagged as he let out a long-suffering sigh. "Ask me anything. You're my best friend, Lyall. I'm not trying to hide things from you."

"Bullshit," Lyall spat, waggling a finger in Alan's direction. "You still haven't explained your new friend from the gallery either."

Alan openly stared at him, processing. "My new..." He quietly scoffed, a mix of disbelief and amusement coloring his tone. "You mean Conway? The person I told you about a few days ago?"

"Unless there's an eighth new friend you failed to mention entirely," Lyall challenged in a nonchalant tone. "Lately you've had this..." He waved both hands vaguely up and down at Alan. "...these traces of someone on you." He scanned the alley, ensuring it was just them. Then settled for, "Someone who's like me," anyway, for good measure. "And that first made an appearance on the same day of your little meet-cute, and keeps cropping up ever since."

Alan furrowed his brows, hearing the weight of the unsaid implications. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died on his lips. Instead, his gaze darted away, focusing intently on their path through the City Center. "I honestly don't know anything about that," he murmured, turning back to Lyall to scan his face. "Is this a bad thing, though?"

The confusion in Alan's eyes, Lyall could read as genuine this time. It dissipated his irritation with him in an instant. If only temporarily. Lyall let out a huffed sigh through his nose and quietly confessed, "I don't know."

Alan quietly studied him again. "You okay?" he asked softly with genuine concern. "I can tell this is bothering you."

"I just..." Lyall drew in a breath, and scrubbed his hands over his eyes. Then turned his palms up in inquiry again. "I just don't understand any of it. Nothing's adding up."

"But that's the nature of life, isn't it?" Alan replied with a gentle smile. "I think it's our life's journey to understand--"

"Oh my gods," Lyall drew out in another groan, "do not get all philosophical and wishy washy on me."

He threw his hands upward once more, just in case Alan hadn't yet caught on to just how done Lyall was with all this. Then he stalked ahead of him so he didn't have to look at his stupid face anymore. "Fine. Don't tell me anything," he groused.

"Lyall, I want to tell you things," Alan said defensively, quickly meeting him at his side again, worried gaze piercing through him.

"You've made that very clear," Lyall cut in breezily.

"I just don't know what you want to hear from me," Alan shot back, frustration crackling in his voice. "You keep pushing down anything I say. It's like you're expecting some kind of different truth." Growing more stressed, Alan ran his hand through his hair, mussing it up. "I don't get it," he murmured. "I don't know what you want from me."

Stopping short and turning to face him, Lyall fixed him with a hard, searching look.

He didn't get it either. What wasn't Alan understanding? There was only one 'truth' that could exist, and Lyall just... He just knew that wasn't what Alan was giving him.

"Then forget it," Lyall sighed, glancing over his shoulder to where the alley fed back out onto the main road. The, turning back to Alan, he reached up and nitpicked the ends of his hair until it was back in place. "We're out of time, anyhow."

Alan lowly groaned in dismay, pushing his hand away. "Just behave yourself," he grumbled, neatly sweeping his hair back in place.

"Try not to choke on anymore death nuts," Lyall uttered back. A pause. "I'm sorry," he said solemnly. "Death nut, singular."

"Oh my gods. Shut up," Alan said flatly, rushing ahead to cross the street. Ahead, he lifted a hand and added with a raised voice, "You're banned from talking until we're inside."

Lyall hastened after him with an indignant huff. "There he goes," he declared stubbornly, "straight into the embrace of an eternal slumber! Have you ever seen a more tragic exit from a more tortured soul?"

"Yes!" Alan huffed after crossing the street, whirling around and throwing his hands in the air, clearly annoyed. He jabbed a finger against his chest. "Because I have to deal with your dumbass!"

Lyall swatted his hand away with a shamelessly smug upward tilt of his chin. "Takes one to know one, doesn't it?"

Just as he was about to slip past him, Alan grabbed his tie and stomped towards The Three Seasons door, dragged him along. Audibly gawking at him, Lyall stumbled close after.

"Shut the fuck up and come inside," Alan barked, swiftly letting go before pulling the door open. With a fake smile, he grandly gestured inside with a broad sweep of his arm, motioning for him to enter first.

Holding onto the door, Lyall planted his other hand between Alan's shoulder blades and unceremoniously shoved him inside. "Ladies first," he shot back just as pleasantly. Not very maturely, no, but Alan brought this side out of him.

Alan scoffed from offense as he stumbled inside, sharply looking over his shoulder with a dismayed frown. "You are the absolute worst," he mumbled with a shake of his head, briskly walking away. A new plastered smile was already overtaking his face as he caught sight of The King's Hand.

Right. Best foot forward.

Fixing his tie, Lyall put on his most charming smile and sauntered after.



Fonzi was, in a word, fun. Lyall enjoyed his company, truly. They talked about anything and everything. Lyall could express interest in what the man did without having to pry for details in an overeager manner. He could nudge a little about his former patient, Tiberius, just to indirectly follow up on his recovery. Fonzi would give him entire stories from their shared pasts in response, with nary a hesitation. Especially once the buzz of their drinks began to kick in.

He enjoyed Fonzi's company about as much as he enjoyed chatting up his favorite market vendors in the Upper City, or the bartenders at Stella's. It was easy because they didn't really know each other. And Lyall got the sense that Fonzi felt cast aside for the most part, in favor of his colleagues who actually made the King's court.

Lyall kept an eye on his own alcohol intake, if only to retain the information long enough to relay anything of value to Santiago. His first article on the King's Hand had since flown off the printing press and into the hands of the public, and Santiago had since moved on. Lyall just couldn't shake the guilt of not getting back to him sooner on it, as he'd promised. So, late was better than never, right?

From his vantage point at the bar, Lyall could glimpse his friend sitting with the Hawkings' son at one of the tables. And he didn't have to worry about Fonzi noticing his attention being so split, because he was too busy chatting up the woman behind the bar.

The two were at an impasse. Alan made it clear, he didn't want Lyall to know. He had to understand, though, that was precisely why Lyall had to push for the why's.

Alan was right, of course, being a musician of his high standing was bound to lead him into the company of other 'high brows'. That wasn't an outlandish scenario in and of itself by any means.

What bothered Lyall more was, yet again, what Alan refused to be forthcoming about. If he couldn't tell Lyall, of all people, then what else was going on behind the scenes? What was the hidden motive for all of these new connections happening in such quick succession?

The Conway connection, Lyall had since set aside. Alan genuinely had not known about that, so Lyall was alright with investigating another time.

Fonzi mentioned that Mister Shane Hawking grew close with two members of the King's Hand since their arrival. Multiple times. Playfully hinting at the romantic overtones with the alchemist of the court, even. But Alan mentioned Carter Haddon by name, one of the members who had very little to do with Hawking. Carter himself confirmed he sought out Alan to personally invite him for drinks out.

And yet... How did Alan even have time enough to network like this? He always claimed to be so busy. With school, the orchestra, with Lara, with work - as a secretary, of all things. A secretary! To whom?

There was a common denominator somewhere in this mess of a web that was Alan Alvaro's life. Lyall just couldn't find what the hell it was.

He set down his drink, politely excusing himself. Fonzi hardly paid his exit much mind, so Lyall felt free of any sense of obligation or remorse in leaving for Alan's table.

Standing behind one of the extra seats between Alan and Hawking, Lyall said by way of greeting, "How're you liking the live music? This band plays here fairly frequently, yeah?"

Lyall had interrupted whatever lull of conversation they were having, but Shane looked his way, offering him a pleasant smile of recognition. Alan, in comparison, was less enthused, his pleasant stare thinly disguising glaring daggers threatening for him to take his leave.

"Lyall. Hello," Alan said with an amicable smile. He ignored Lyall's question and lightly gestured towards him. "Shane, you remember Dr. Lyall Ashlund, right?"

Shane smiled softly, dimples flashing in his cheeks. "How could I forget?"

"Of course he does," Lyall chirped in agreement, casting Mister Shane a polite smile of his own. "I knew him first, after all."

"Right. Of course. Because you know everyone in town," Alan said behind a pleasant smile.

"Because he's my patient," Lyall agreed amicably.

"Speaking of patience," Alan cut in with a flourish of his hand, "I'd love to hear your take on music, of course, being the perfect time to do so-- but I was just learning about Shane's latest history paper." He paused. "Which you are more than welcome to listen to as well."

"Oh, you don't have to," Shane said with a self-conscious laugh. "I think I'm boring him."

"Nonsense," Alan said, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. "You're not boring me. Lara studies history too, so the subject intrigues me. I like hearing your takes on history."

Lyall had heard more variations of that one blanket reassurance than he could count.

I love listening to you, Alan always said, I admire how you think. You have a way with words, please tell me more.

Empty. Empty responses, that brought nothing to the table.

Maybe it was more appropriate for the start of a new connection, but it never failed to rub Lyall the wrong way. It sounded like Alan, it always sounded sincere, usually got people to open up more and more. But Alan himself never really... said much of anything in those instances.

Biting his own tongue, Lyall took the chair between them. "Do you publish?" he asked, turning a vaguely curious glance Mister Shane's way.

"Here and there," Shane confirmed. "It goes hand in hand with pursuing a PhD. Lately, it's been a lot of research. Did you do any of that?"

"Research?" Lyall echoed. "On what's already been done. A doctor in a very different sense from yourself. I studied to follow proper protocols and pre-established procedures, not to pioneer." He gestured to his ass of a friend beside him. "I believe Alan is rather in a good middle ground in that regard. Wouldn't you say, Alvaro?"

Alan shot him a feigned grin. "Yes," he agreed pleasantly. "Quite."

Shane didn't seem to miss the acting. His pleasant, cheery expression didn't budge, but there was a spark in his eyes that suggested he was paying close attention-- and taking in quite a lot more than he was indicating.

Lyall turned another chipper smile Shane's way. "Has he told you about his improvisational pieces? With talent like his, the man should be composing." He smiled, a bit cheekily, at Alan next. "Conducting in the very audience of royalty, even."

"I've only heard his rehearsed performances, but they're incredible. I agree he could take his performances far-- although I'm selfish, so I hope he stays," Shane joked.

"I couldn't agree more," Lyall said, even as something about the sentiment put the slightest strain on his jovial front.

"You're both flattering me," Alan said with a wave of his hand. With a warm smile, he folded his arms on top of one another, facing Shane as he added, "But I'm not going anywhere, so I guess I'm stuck with you."

Lifting his glass, Lyall slowly drank down the unwarranted tightness in his chest, actively fighting the urge to knock back his wine in an undignified manner.

"Good," Shane said with a laugh. "But I've never said a compliment I don't mean, so just know that you could."

Alan hummed. "When entertaining the dream of playing for an audience of royalty, I imagine the setting to be at the Moonlight Kingdom. But Lettera also sounds like a fine option." He curiously tilted his head at Lyall. "What do you think, Lyall?"

Lyall carefully set down his glass. Frankly, a bit at a loss now that Alan was playing into this. "Either are perfectly fine options in their own rights," he managed to smoothly answer. He tilted the glass a little bit Alan's way. "What draws you to each of them to begin with? Why not, say, the Isles?"

"No reason," Alan answered, tracing his fingertip along the rim of his glass. "It's just a silly dream." With a brighter smile, he picked up his glass and lifted it between them for a toast. "But there's no reason to not toast to the dreamers, for those who think big and shoot far."

Grinning back, Lyall furrowed a brow ever so slightly at him. But pleasantly toasted Shane's way, "Right, to all the big thinkers in our company!"

"Cheers to that," Shane said with a smile as he raised his glass, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

Instead of drinking, however, Lyall set his cup down again and angled himself more toward Hawking. "You know, Alvaro's actually failed to fully regale me with the tale of how you two big thinkers even met. What's the story?"

"Oh, it's really quite forgettable," Alan answered instead. "We don't need to get into that."

Shane scoffed in amusement. "No! You mean to tell me you've been sitting on a good story this whole time?"

"You've been holding out on me!" Lyall accused with a playful laugh. "Typical!"

"Not holding out or hiding anything," Alan corrected, faking a pleasant smile as he locked eyes with Lyall. "I just think it wasn't worth sharing."

Shane's expression, for the barest moment, seemed to sink a touch at the implication.

"You agreed it was memorable," he said, with a weaker laugh.

"Well, he's been lying to me all day," Lyall said airily, waving dismissively at Alan. "I can only trust you for an honest account of this."

"I haven't been--" Alan faltered, casting him a miffed flat look. Relenting, he sighed and flicked his hand towards Shane, loosely gesturing towards him. "We met at a coffee shop. There was a small kerfuffle, and--"

"What kerfuffle?" Lyall interrupted. "Spare no detail, please and thank you."

"--and I broke my violin," Alan finished anyways, ignoring his instructions. "So we fixed it. End of story."

"That was a dreadful retelling," Lyall commented, "especially from you."

Alan shot him a withering glance, eyes narrowing with greater hints of silent agitation.

Shane shook his head at Alan. "You can't just leave out the part where you nearly cracked my skull open. This is not fair reporting."

Lyall openly gaped between the two. "What? How did you, epitome of grace, manage to do that?"

"Great question. It is one I need another drink for to answer," Alan said hastily, pushing his chair backwards to stand. "Another drink?" he asked between them after swiping their empty cups, but didn't bother to wait for an answer, already moving towards the bar. "Yes. A refill. Be right back."

As he left, Shane kept smiling, but it weakened a little with every second. Lyall felt a quick pang of guilt at the way the Hawking's courage visibly faltered. Mister Shane had long caught on that he'd been caught in the middle of something, he could tell.

"I don't think he wants me to tell that story," he said.

"You'll have to excuse his fragile ego," Lyall gently teased in an attempt to reassure him. "And I promise, he'll survive an embarrassing story or two. He's quick to forgive, and sometimes quicker to forget."

Shane nodded, forcing his expression to lighten a little. "Yeah. Well, maybe he's right to say it's not worth sharing, but I can try to make it interesting anyway."

Lyall offered a warmer grin in turn. "Historians are oft masters of compelling retellings. I'm all ears, my friend."

While Hawking gave a far more honest retelling than Lyall figured Alan would - habitual omitter of truths he'd become - Lyall split his attention between the story of their first meeting, and Alan making his way to the bar.

While the musician chatted up Kirk, the alchemist, during the wait time, Lyall could mentally put together a picture from Shane's rather entertaining anecdote the mental image of Alan actually physically falling down a set of stairs and flattening the young Hawking in the process. From there, there was something about Alan's usual luthier being very familiar with the Hawkings, and fixing his damaged instrument free of charge for it. Amazing that Shane had been able to convince Alan to accept it.

Had that been Lyall, the pest would have simply laughed at his face and smugly paid his own way.

The glasses had been filled, but Alan was not standing beside them. Lyall glimpsed his friend heading even deeper into the building. Where the restroom was hidden in the back.

Well, that figured. The one opportunity Lyall could find to catch him alone, and it was...

Actually. Alan knew what he was doing. He did this on purpose. Bugger.

Not long after he disappeared around the corner, Lyall found a good moment of rest in the conversation to bring up their since-abandoned companions still at the bar. He took advantage of the fact that their drinks left them easily content in either of their absences, and, as discretely as he could, dipped out for the back of the establishment as well.

Wretched places, Lyall thought bitterly, the backsides of establishments. In fairness, it was clean. Regardless, smells tended to linger. The latrine was always used more often than it was scrubbed down, after all.

Pinching his nose, he tapped on the door where he knew Alan had gone. "Alvaro--" was all he managed, before the door swung open and he was dragged inside by his tie yet again.

He smacked at Alan's hand with both of his. "Will you stop doing that?" he hissed.

Alan reached around him to lock the door, standing upright against the tiled wall and sternly crossing his arms. "Dammit, Lyall. What are you doing?" he scolded, arms already uncrossing to fly into the air, his flailing nearly hitting Lyall due to the confined space. "Can't you behave yourself for one day? You're being nosy again!"

Lyall flailed back, trying to reclaim what little bit of personal space he could manage. "I could ask the same of you, you uncooperative ass!" He pressed his back against the door. "I ask the simplest questions, and what do I get in return? Constant deflection! Weaponized misdirection!" Leaning forward again, he jabbed a finger at Alan's chest. "You know I'm easily distracted, you little shit!"

Instead of simply smacking away his hand, Alan shoved him to the side, gripping his shoulder and forcefully steering him towards the toilet. "Sit your ass down," he growled, firmly pushing him downwards onto the seat.

"Oh my gods!" Lyall barked, utterly appalled as he fought Alan's hold. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Sit down and listen to me already!" Alan shouted, voice echoing off the small bathroom's walls. He wrestled against Lyall's stubborn resistance, attempting to pin him on to the seat with surprising strength. "I'm not hiding anything from you! I just like my privacy, okay?"

Relenting to Alan's grip on him, Lyall planted a foot on the pipe under the sink across from him - because the restroom was that small. He grunted as he leaned back against the wall, trying to leverage a bit of space between his own ass and the fucking toilet.

"Bullshit," he growled, glaring up at Alan. "You ask me about my life, I ask you about yours." He managed to point between the two of them. "Equal exchange, Alan."

"Seriously?" Hands still firmly planted on Lyall's shoulders, Alan tilted his head back, repressing a tired groan. "No. I'm not a transaction, Lyall. And neither are you to me. I want you to tell me things because you want to tell me. And I'll do the same to you. Are you seriously keeping score?"

Between the pressure from Alan's hand and the awkward angle he had to jam himself against the pipe on the wall, Lyall winced at the slight twinge in his shoulder. "Alan, that's the problem," he answered with a sigh. "You don't want to tell me."

Alan searched his eyes, his grip loosening. Even though he was no longer pushing Lyall downwards, his hands remained on Lyall's shoulders like an anchor. "Okay," he sighed, voice a mix of resignation and tentative trust. "I'll tell you. I want to tell you. I don't know exactly what you want from me, but I'll answer your questions. What do you want to know?"

This was not at all how Lyall wanted to talk about this. But, if this was what made Alan willing to share? Fine. So fucking be it.

Lyall tried adjusting his own position into some semblance of comfort. His foot slipped off the sink pipe, and he landed back on the seat with a yelp.

"You asshole," he muttered, switching support from one foot to the other. Which put his leg between both of Alan's.

Thank gods for door locks.

"You're omitting something," Lyall began. "Something that links you with all these ambassadors - all practically at once, and you cannot deny the timing is peculiar upon closer inspection." He gestured to his right side. "The King's Hand? Fine, they're new and hitting all the big tourists' spots. Which includes and is certainly not limited to, the performance centers where you play."

He dipped both hands over to his left side. "Then there's Shane Hawking. Who, granted, you still attend the same uni at the moment. And, furthermore, perhaps your paths may have come alongside each other in passing in the past. But never once had you reason to actually reach out to him - and I can more than reasonably deduce you initiated, since Hawking is too timid to do so himself. You have more than enough friends to fill your time as is, not to mention the need to prioritize Lara above most others, and he's been here for more than this summer, and the last, and the one before that. So why now, at the same time as the King's Hand?"

Lyall pointed at the ceiling, for no other reason than, he ran out of directions. "Not to mention, the fact that you shouldn't even have the time to spare to begin with. You mention work so often, yet manage to barely explain anything - I don't even know what you do for work? Where the hell do you go?" He spread both hands in an incredulous shrug. "You have hours' worth of rehearsal more than a few days a week. You still visit your family. You've been sneaking off to that godforsaken gallery more often lately and-- Just. How the fuck?" He shook his hands at the ceiling. "Why?"

Alan's defiance crumbled with each new point of logic thrown at him, the heated flame inside of him flickering away, only leaving him with smoldering embers of resignation. He sighed deeply, his chin dropping to rest against the top of Lyall's forehead in a gesture of defeat. Lyall felt himself deflate too, and he let go of the tension he held in his shoulders.

"Lyall, you brilliant, stupid man," he mumbled into his hair after a short stretch of silence, his breath warm and tinged with fondess and frustration. "You're right... like always. There's some key context you're missing."

Alan pulled away and retreated, weakly kicking at Lyall's foot to make space. He pressed himself against the doorway, arms crossed. A troubled, contemplative look washed over his face as he studied the same pipe that Lyall had clung to moments before.

"It's not that I don't want to say," Alan continued, his voice low and heavy. Then added more quietly, "Rather... I'm not allowed to say it."

Turning to sit sideways on the toilet, leaving space between his shoes for Alan's, Lyall stared up at him with open concern. "Why?" he asked, more pleading than anything now. "Who is it? What is happening? I want to help you."

Alan's hand dragged across his face, fingers digging into his furrowed brows. The troubled look in his eyes deepened, the reluctant indecision apparent in his face. He pressed his lips together, hesitating to answer, but the silence was telling: he felt unsafe to say.

He knew it. Lyall knew something had been wrong.

Craning forward, eyes searching Alan's in earnest, Lyall picked up Alan's right hand and held it firmly in both of his own. "I can keep a secret, you know that." He gently shook their hands for emphasis. "You can trust me, Alan."

"I know... I know," Alan murmured back, faintly grazing his thumb over his palm. Another weary sigh escaped him as he tilted his head back against the door, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Okay. Have you ever wondered..."

Trailing off, he abandoned that sentence and started anew. Suddenly, he dropped to his knees before Lyall who was still perched on the toilet. Eyes ablaze with newfound grit and determination, Alan blurted out, "Barlowe pays for my tuition. I work for her."

Lyall blankly stared back at him. Parted his lips to say something, but no words came to him. Clamped his mouth shut again. Then exclaimed in disbelief, "The mayor?"

"Yes, the mayor!" Alan barked, throwing both hands in the air.

"Why?" Lyall cried. "When? What--"

"I told you! She pays for my tuition," Alan answered indignantly. "She has been from the beginning. Hell, she helped me get into school."

She paid for his tuition.

Barlowe was essentially sponsoring him? But Alan felt he couldn't say anything--

Oh gods.

"She's paying you off," Lyall concluded, feeling a flare of anger. "What is she having you do?"

"Don't get riled up," Alan said flatly, bumping his fist against his knee. "It really hasn't been that bad." He paused, frowning as he turned away in thought. "If anything, it's kind of been... uneventful."

Lyall grasped his friend by his shoulders. "'Hasn't been'--" Was Alan not understanding his own situation? Did he not grasp the weight of the pickle he was in?

He shook himself back to his senses. He had to think rationally about this. Alan was right, don't get riled up.

Folding his hands together, Lyall pointed his steepled fingers toward his stupid friend. "What does your work for her entail?"

"Just... you know." Alan hadn't even properly answered yet, but he fully deflated, collapsing forward and clutching on to Lyall's leg, pressing his forehead against his knee. "Political things," he mumbled into his pants, so muffled that it was almost incomprehensible.

Lyall's brows furrowed as he rested a hand over the back of Alan's head. Trying to wrap this whole thing around his own head. Because, by gods, did Alan know how to drop a bomb.

"'Political things'?" he quietly echoed, lightly carding his fingertips through Alan's hair.

"Political things," Alan confirmed, sighing with his whole body. "I give her information. What she does with it, I don't know. She gives me a few people to talk to every year, and I write a profile about them in a documented report. That's it. She doesn't tell me to do things, really. Just talk. Or... do whatever I can get information, I guess. That's up to my own discretion."

He turned his head, cheek pressed against Lyall's knee instead. Lyall let his hand rest over his ear.

"Though, I guess," Alan continued, lost in thought, "technically, I'm also the administrator to her secretary. Which is kind of a bullshit job, if you ask me, because her secretary is already so on top of things. So I basically go in to do my 'real job' like once a month, and just clean her desk organize papers, for the most part." He paused, putting his full head's weight against Lyall's knee, which cut through his cheek and garbled up his next words. "Though, I feel like the secretary undoes all my work anyways..."

"You're a spy," Lyall concluded, a bit delayed. He looked down from his reflection in the mirror to the side of Alan's face. "Oh my gods, Alan. You've been a spy for the fucking mayor this whole time."

"What?" Alan suddenly sat up straight, meeting his eyes. "No. I'm not a spy," he said indignantly. "I just..." He circled his hand in front of him, trying to find a word in the air. "...Write reports about people."

Lyall grabbed his face in both hands, forcing him to meet his eyes as he seriously repeated Alan's own words back to him, "You report to her the activities and personal details of politicians - her direct competitors - you otherwise would never talk to, without their knowing. You are, by definition, a spy, Alan."

Alan pressed his lips into a thin line, loosely holding on to his wrist. "Semantics," he mumbled, leaning his head against Lyall's left palm.

"No!" Lyall firmly countered. "Not semantics, that is the textbook definition!"

"Well, that's not how Barlowe frames it," Alan countered weakly, melting towards the floor to ease away from Lyall's grasp.

"How does she frame it?" Lyall asked, holding him in place a touch more firmly. Alan was not going to just shrink away from this reality. That was probably how he wound up in this position in the first place! Then didn't wait for an answer, "Because you just 'ooze natural, magnetic charm that any reasonable person can't help but open up a little bit too? Oh, it's just a question here, just taking a bit of interest there. What's the harm in a few minute details?' Well, listen to me, Alan: Knowledge is power, and you have no idea the potential ramifications that could come of sharing a few, seemingly mundane personal details. You have power even Barlowe doesn't hold, and you--"

Lyall finally let go, just to throw his hands to the ceiling in utter bafflement. Yet again. He sank back against the wall with a somewhat resigned sigh.

Folding his arms, letting a silence lapse between, he then started to think.

He was relieved Alan felt able to share this. It wasn't that Lyall completely believed him out of his depth. He simply wanted Alan to not struggle through this alone anymore.

Now that Lyall knew, they could come up with a way to get him through this with minimal damage, together.

In the stiff silence that passed, Alan crumpled, sliding down the wall to huddle on the grimy floor. He pulled his knees against his chest, elbows perched on top.

The silence stretched until it was interrupted with a series of impatient knocks against the door.

"Taken," the two of them said at the same time.

Alan glanced up at his friend, a quiet huff of laughter escaping him before he quickly fell back into their somber reality.

"Barlowe holds power over me, Lyall," he said with a heavy voice. "I can't just quit. I only have to do this for another year."

With his face tilted up to the ceiling, Lyall scrubbed a hand over his face.

The meeting with Leilan came back to mind. Barlowe appeared neutral and affable - as all good politicians did - and with a clean record, to boot. But, just like every other politician who held the public's best interests at heart, she had skeletons she had to have been desperate to bury. Apparently... a lot of them. Inaction was oft worse than having a direct hand in wrongdoings.

Lyall shifted the list of priorities in his mind: he had to get this Blue Suns story to Santiago, ASAP.

"Well, I guess you're not wrong about me spending time with Shane," Alan continued, thinking out loud. "Barlowe assigned me to spend time with him and the King's Hand. She didn't tell me to find specific information... just that I should get information. I assume it's politically motivated. I don't know. I have no idea what she does with the reports. Maybe even nothing."

Lyall straightened again, absently fixing a contemplative gaze on his friend. Then pulled him up by his hands to get him off the floor, where gods-knew-what had been.

"Weaknesses," Lyall answered. "What she holds over you, she wants to hold over everybody. And, in what is evidently your line of work as of years ago, knowledge is more than power - it's currency." He let go of Alan's hands, and pressed one to his own heart and went on, without hesitation, "I have some things on Tiberius that could tide her over in the meantime, and Fonzi has been nothing but generous with hints at other underlying tensions within their collective." He tilted his hand Alan's way. "You just keep your head down, do what you've been doing. You've made it this far, and you're right. You're almost out of the woods."

With a furrow of his brows, Alan searched his eyes, hand still glued against his chest. "What are you saying?" he murmured. "Are you proposing that you do my job for me?" He frowned, shaking his head. "You know I'm not going to let you do that."

"For all the times you let me copy off of you in school?" Lyall asked pleasantly. "Yes, you fucking are."

"That was school," Alan said flatly. "No one gave a damn back then. This is real life, Lyall."

Tilting his head, Lyall grinned wryly back. "And in real life, people give way too many damns. Moreover, this is your life. If there's a time to offer anyone help, it's in times like these."

"So let me get this straight," Alan began matter-of-factly, pressing his palms together to point them towards Lyall. "You don't have all the time in the world, and yet..." He tilted his head down, raising a brow. "You have all the time in the world to talk to 'high brow' politicians for me?"

Lyall narrowed his gaze slightly at him. "Ah," he said instead, "I've finally found a flaw in your own juggling act. You're too busy rubbing elbows with near-royalty to ever attend a RADICAL meeting yourself. That's why I hadn't heard about them once until the night of." He lightly poked Alan's shoulder and sing-songed, "Well, you fucking hypocrite."

"Oh, I'm the hypocrite?" Alan barked back, bumping his fist against Lyall's knee. "Have you ever considered, maybe, I'm trying to get you involved in RADICAL not because I think it's high-status, pretentious, whatever other bullshit you keep spewing--"

"Delusions of grandeur," Lyall helpfully supplied.

"No!" Alan groaned. "But because I want you to follow your damn passions!" Annoyed, he he slumped back with his arms crossed, but then immediately sprang to his feet, hovering over him with arms spread. "But when I present it that way, you cower and say you have responsibilities and obligations or whatever other bullshit excuses you hide behind! So I have to drag your ass to meetings just so you can find joy again!"

Rising to meet him at eye-level - as close to eye-level as Lyall could manage - he tilted his chin up defiantly. "So, do we have a deal?" he asked instead. "I give you information for Barlowe, in return for more of my very limited time given to RADICAL?"

"This is a terrible deal," Alan muttered, crossing his arms.

"Beggars cannot be choosers," Lyall said flatly, holding out an expectant hand.

But instead Alan countered, "Lower your hours at the clinic."

Lyall gave him an unamused look. "I'll talk with Mum about it."

"And also spend more time with her. I mean it, Lyall," Alan said with a gentler voice, searching his eyes. "This is the most important person you can give your time to right now."

Tilting his chin down a point to cast him a more serious look through errant strands of hair, Lyall wiggled his hand pointedly. "Deal or not, Alan?"

"To clarify..." Alan lifted a finger just in time for Lyall to drop his hands to his sides with a groan. "You help construct my report for Barlowe, and in return, you not only get involved in RADICAL, but you also lower your clinic hours and spend time with your mother." Satisfied, he tilted his head. "How does that sound?"

Lyall let out a breath through his nose. "Would you like it in writing."

Alan tapped his chin, lost in thought. "Maybe I should add something else. Sweeten the deal."

"No!" Lyall stuck out his hand again. "It's already three to one, Alan!"

With a grin, Alan snapped his fingers. "Oh, I know! You become less of an asshat." Not awaiting a response, he grabbed Lyall's hand and gave him three happy shakes. "It's a deal."

Just when Lyall's expression couldn't get any flatter. "Deal," he weakly agreed, giving a faint grin anyway and one last shake of their hands for good measure.

Another sharp rapping sounded on the door beside them. Lyall ripped his hand out of Alan's.

"Are ya done necking in there?" someone huffed moodily from the other side.

Alan hummed softly, a playful smile tugging his lips. He extended his arm over Lyall's shoulder to rest his palm against the wall, jokingly leaning in and saying with a sultry voice, "What do you think? Should we give them a show?"

Leaning back with an unamused grin, Lyall splayed a hand over Alan's face and pushed him away, purposely smudging the lens of his glasses in the process. Alan immediately scoffed and batted his grip away with both hands.

"I refuse to snog in the restroom," Lyall said flatly, unlocking the door. "I have standards, thank you."

Shane scanned the courtyard with a quick sweep of his gaze. No one was out. The cicadas were loud tonight, covering the sound of his footsteps, and the restfulness of a warm spring night had fallen over the campus. Ahead, the willow tree's branches swayed in the salty air, beckoning him forward. With another look around, and a smile on his lips, Shane kept going.

He snuck over the lawn, spotting a figure sitting against the tree while hugging their legs to their chest. Right, it was only him and Eve tonight. Raya had only just gotten off work and needed to sleep, and Jordan had a test the next day that Shane had urged him to study for instead of meeting here. There would always be tomorrow.

Shane reached into his pocket as he sat down next to Eve, holding out a stack of rice cakes wrapped in a napkin to her with a grin.

"I snuck these out of the food court," he whispered excitedly.

But instead of meekly accepting the snacks with thanks, Eve abruptly stood on her feet, stiffly towering over him. "There's something I need to tell you," she said with a shaky voice, uncertain with fright.

Now concerned, Shane faltered, tucking the snack back into his pocket as he got to his feet.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly, smile falling as he held his arms open to see if she wanted a hug.

But she aggressively shook her head, biting her lip and taking a step backwards. "I came to say goodbye," she said with a hitch in her voice, almost on the verge of tears. "I can't see you anymore. I'm sorry."

It was, quite possibly, the last thing he expected to hear. Shane felt the air get briefly knocked from his lungs as he stared, chest tightening, at her.

"You're... what?" he breathed. "What do you mean, you're saying goodbye?"

Eve withdrew within herself, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. She turned her head away, her long hair falling over her shoulder to partially shield her face. "I'm sorry," she said softly, stifling a sniff. "Mother said we can't see each other anymore. She's pulling me out of school tomorrow. I'm sorry..."

Shane shook his head, unable to believe it.

"She can't be serious," he said. "We graduate from here in months. Almost weeks. She can't just..."

The words died on his tongue as he looked at Eve pleadingly, feeling his heart starting to race from panic the longer she didn't deny this was happening.

Was this all over him?

"Why can't you see me anymore?" he whispered.

"Shane, please," Eve cried, furiously wiping her glistening eyes with the back of her wrist. "I'm not supposed to cry. I can't help it..." Biting back sobs, she loudly sniffed and swiped away the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

Shane hurriedly unwrapped the napkin from the rice cakes, holding it out to her so she could use it as a tissue. But she turned away, fiercely shaking her head with her head in her hands.

"Of course you can cry," he said quietly, defeatedly lowering the napkin. The longer he watched her, the more he felt like he wanted to cry too. He didn't understand why she suddenly wasn't accepting comfort-- here, now, when she needed it and he might too. "Why can't you?"

Eve sniffed again, peeking through her fingers. "I'm getting too emotional. I'm sorry," she said softly, dragging her fingers down her face to wipe the last traces of tears. "That's it. I have to go back now. Mother's expecting me."

"But why?" Shane pressed, hearing a desperate quiver in his voice. "Eve, I-- I don't understand. Why can't you stay, and what has it got to do with me?"

"I--" Eve immediately faltered, biting her lip and tightly crossing her arms over her chest again, like a tight hug. "I don't really get it either, Shane. This is outside either of our control. Our parents got into a political fight. And this is how it ends."

Something clicked in Shane's head as he kept on staring pleadingly.

"This is because of the election, isn't it?" he whispered.

Eve's parents were mad at his family. That didn't surprise him. What did shock him-- what angered him-- was how they were ruining Eve's life by tearing her away from her at the worst possible time because of it. All out of bitterness.

Shane took a shaky breath, feeling his own eyes starting to brim with tears.

"You're my best friend, Eve," he whispered. "You can't just go because someone wants to play with your life like a pawn against your wishes."

Eve's features tightened. There was a subtle tremor in her jaw as she bit back her lips, betrayed by the impact of his words. "This 'someone' is my mother, Shane," she said more firmly. "And father, too. They're not playing with my life. They're my parents."

"They don't seem to want what's good for you, because this isn't what you want," Shane said urgently. "You have so many people over here who love you and want the best for you. What about my mom? What about my dad? What about Raya and Jordan?"

What about me?

"Of course, but--" She faltered, staring at him with complete disbelief, no longer stricken by frightened grief. Pleadingly, she hastily waved her hand between them, begging for him to understand. "They're my parents, Shane! I can't just leave them."

"But you can leave us," Shane said quietly, through a shuddered breath. "Even though we've been more of a family to you than they have."

"What?" Eve breathed out shakily, a bite of anguish present in just one word. "That's not how this works, Shane. That's not how any of this works. I know I've already earned your family's love, but that doesn't give me the right to abandon mine. You can't just abandon someone when it's convenient."

"You can't just force family to cut all their ties and move across the world over a grudge, either," Shane said desperately. "Does that sound loving to you? Or does it sound self-serving and resentful? They know we're friends, Eve. And they don't care about that."

"Life doesn't revolve around you, Shane!" she blurted out with a raised voice, barely pausing for breath. "I know they're not perfect. They make mistakes. But they're my parents, and I love them." Angry heat rose to her cheeks, her hands trembling with desperation as she shot him a heated glare. "I'm not going to abandon them over this! I can't just leave my family to join yours! I'm not Jordan! That's not how any of this works!"

Shane flinched, physically recoiling an inch as an invisible barb pierced through his heart. He'd thought... he'd thought she might consider them as her family more than her birth parents. Gods knew they'd acted more like it. But he'd been wrong. Dragons above, if these last years weren't enough to show her parents weren't good for her, what would? He didn't want her to find out the hard way.

"I don't think the world revolves around me," he said faintly. He'd never expected to have to defend himself that way. "I just... I don't want to stand idly by and let them hurt you."

"They're not hurting me!" Eve shot back defensively, voice rising. "I'm sorry, but this is what needs to be done. I can't betray family just to spare your feelings. That's not how the world works!"

"This isn't-- this isn't about my feelings," Shane retorted, as helplessness began to sink in.

"Is it? Because you're making this about yourself. You're letting your feelings get in the way of our friendship again," Eve said more coldly. Her shoulders squared and her spine stiffened as if she were bracing against an unseen force.

Shane swallowed thickly, staring her down, but it was difficult because he had to wipe his eyes of fresh tears.

"It's all about you," he said desperately. "Don't you wish they would listen to you? Don't you want them to give you some of their time and effort instead of always demanding it from you? They are hurting you. It's broken my heart to see it happening all these years. And if they get to keep doing it, there won't be a friendship to argue over." His voice wavered. "They'll just separate us forever."

With stormy eyes, Eve bristled, clenching her jaw. "I was going to suggest that we keep in touch, but maybe it's best that we don't," she said lowly.

It felt like a blow to the chest. The color left his face and the air was knocked from his lungs as Shane stared at her, in disbelief of what he'd heard. Distantly, he had the thought that he was watching something break before his eyes in real time, like a crack spreading slowly over glass, moments away from artfully falling into pieces.

"What?" he whispered.

She turned away, hair partially obscuring the tight lines of her frown, but doing little to hide the storm of emotions raging beneath. "Your feelings are selfish, Shane. It's best for both of us to move on." She sharply whipped her head around and locked eyes with him, pointed and strict without any hints of regret. "Do you understand?"

In that moment, Shane wasn't the promising young adult, the top student ready to graduate high school with his life all planned out for success, with the most important person to his heart standing in front of him. He was just the small kid who couldn't make friends.

And he couldn't answer with anything other than what that tiny, scared voice in the back of his head was screaming at him.

"No," he said quietly, shivering even though the air was warm. "No, I don't."

A stiff silence fell between them. That was, until Eve nodded once and lowly said, "Goodbye, Shane," before turning to hastily walk away, not turning around once.

Panic struck like lightning. In the wildfire of burning thoughts, one struck Shane with full force: there would be no moving on. Not in the way Eve wanted. Friends could be replaced, even lovers, but how did you replace a sister? That love was hers only. He couldn't give it to anyone else. And if she didn't want it anymore, he had to keep holding it for the rest of his life.

This couldn't be it. This couldn't be it. If it was, he'd sink under the weight of love that had nowhere to go.

"Please don't hate me," he whispered, just loud enough that he knew she could hear, as tears blinded his vision of her walking away. "Please don't let them make you hate me."

But Eve didn't turn. She didn't even slow down. She just kept on walking in a straight line towards the dorms without another look his way. This was going to be his last memory of her, and she didn't even want him in the moment.

Shane didn't remember how long he wept under the willow for. All he knew was that eventually, the cicadas stopped chirping.

A knock on the door startled Shane from where he was, alone in the kitchen, putting away the last of the dishes.

He looked out the window above the sink. It was late, already dark out despite the summer sunlight hours, and he wasn't expecting anyone. Maybe his parents had forgotten their keys? No, that wasn't like them, and their diplomatic dinner should be going even later. Which meant it was probably one of the King's Hand.

Shane quickly dried his hands with a dishtowel, but before he even left the kitchen, he heard Shrimp meowing loudly and pawing at the door. He was only that eager for friends and family. Setting the towel back on the drying rack, he made his way to the front door, scooping up the energetic Shrimp before opening the door.

He almost didn't recognize Eve with her hair down.

Shane froze, and if Shrimp hadn't been clinging to him too, he might've nearly dropped the cat. Eve had... changed, in ways that felt evident but not discernable. She looked older now-- five years older. It wasn't just in appearance, either. Even though the cool, stony look on her face matched her expression the last day he'd seen her, it still felt alien for her. He didn't remember her that way.

He opened his mouth, but for a long, terrifying second, no sound came out.

"Eve?" he finally breathed.

"Shane. Hello." Eve's body went rigid, already showed signs of panic, hands fluttering nervously in front of her. "I know how this looks. I know how we left things. I know, that you know, that we both know--" She faltered, biting her lip as she teetered on the edge of full-blown panic. With a shuddered breath, she thinly asked, "Can I come inside?"

Shane drew in a painful breath, realizing that he was standing frozen in his doorway. Shrimp was wriggling in his arms, extending a paw out towards Eve, and if he didn't feel so terrified Shane might've had the presence of mind to pass him to Eve. She'd always liked Shrimp. But as it was, he could only find the courage to quietly say the words, "Of course."

As he moved aside for her to step in, he realized she'd never seen the Cypress before. It may have been different from the Willow, that cabin on Sugar Bay where they'd both spent eight summers of their lives, but it probably felt like... a home for the Hawkings. Whatever that meant exactly. She'd recognize furniture style and cherished items and the comforting aesthetic his family went for in each of their three properties.

Shane went over to the living room, shakily taking a seat in one of the armchairs and setting Shrimp in his lap. Silently, and while trying to hide the fact that his hand was trembling, he invited Eve to sit in the other with a small wave.

"You really did show up," he said quietly. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Don't they have a fixed meet-up point?" Lyall prompted as they cleared yet another flight of stairs. He hadn't been in the uni's art center for a little bit, so the layout was fuzzy to him. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that they'd been wandering aimlessly for the past half-hour.

"Yes, and I'm taking you there," Alan assured for the third time with worryingly inflated confidence. Stopping beside the closed door, he whirled around and grandly gestured for him to go in first. "It's just in here."

Holding his tongue, Lyall cracked the door open and hazarded a peek. No signs of life. Not recently, anyhow. Dust particles wafted through the air, lit up by beams of bright sunlight pouring in through the tall windows. Canvases of all sizes, with art works of varying levels of completion leaned against every wall, until the walls themselves were barely visible.

Lyall cast his friend a flat, unimpressed look. "A lively scene," he monotoned.

But did Alan have the good grace to admit they were lost? Of course not.

"It's just through here," he chirped, swinging the door open wide. "Come along." Before Lyall could protest, Alan breezed past him, unfazed, as if strolling through the art storage room was all a part of his grand plan.

"We're just passing through," Alan shrugged, waving dismissively at their surroundings.

"Alan." Lyall followed after at a more doubtful pace, committed to seeing this 'grand plan' through. "If you don't know where you're going, just say so. That way we might return to ground-level and consult the gentleman cleaning the floors."

"I know where I'm going," Alan assured for the fourth time now, again with the same stubborn sense of inflated confidence. Squinting ahead, he made a vague sweeping gesture with his hand. "We'll get to the other side first."

Suppressing an amused huff, Lyall reached up and tugged Alan by the back of his shirt to stop him. Alan merely sputtered out his protests as he stumbled to a halt, his mask of unearned confidence melting into an indignant pout.

"The past thirty-six minutes have made your navigational skills quite evident, yes," Lyall said pleasantly, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Why are you even in this group? You can't even find them."

Alan gaze settled onto a towering canvas leaning against the wall, its surface a kaleidoscope of shimmering hues. His brow furrowed, arms crossed defensively. "It's not like I go every week. I only really attend if I'm asked to," he murmured, suddenly tearing his gaze away and marching ahead again. A quick wave beckoned Lyall to follow. "Anyways, it doesn't matter. Let's keep going."

Delayed, Lyall followed Alan's gaze up the canvas. Truthfully lingering on the oddness of his lacking answers rather than the colors. "Well, thank goodness I thought to ask you, then," he eventually decided on, tone casual. "Lest they go another week without their..." Pursing his lips, he trailed after his friend again and asked cheekily, "What exactly do you contribute to RADICAL? Paragon of perfect attendance that you've become."

"Music," Alan answered flatly with an unamused tilt of his head towards him. "Nothing major. I don't fully know what it's being used for or why, but occasionally I write them songs and play for them." He shook his head, dismissing the thought with a wave of his hand. "That's not important. This is about you, not me." Gaze sharpening, he furrowed his brow and fixed his full attention on Lyall. "Have you given any thought about what type of work you'd be doing with them?"

It was a little tiring at this point, but Lyall didn't know how not to continue this volley of unenthused glances. "Isn't that the point of this visit?"

"I was thinking you'd enjoy writing," Alan answered anyways, humming in thought. "Or maybe Santiago has biased my thoughts." He shrugged. "There are a few journalist students who are writing articles, though. So there are a lot of opportunities there."

Lyall quirked a brow in genuine interest. Indeed, students specializing in journalistic research in the city college usually had doors opened to them into prominent printing presses. Like the Ruddlan Read.

"I actually would rather enjoy a thorough look into Santiago's world," he conceded, "to better understand the ins and outs, his joys, his frustrations. It should give us a few more things to talk about in our day-to-day."

"Ah, that's right!" Alan brightened, eyes alit with mischievous glee. He clapped a hand on top of Lyall's shoulder, leaning in close enough for Lyall to catch a whiff of his day-old cologne on his neck and violin rosin dust that clung to his hair. "I have to ask again: how has life been now that you're living with the man of your dreams?"

The question alone prompted a rush of excitement. The novelty of a new space to call his, the freedom of no longer being beholden to anyone else's schedule but his own. Lyall felt a broad grin overtake his own face, letting his weight shift to bump his shoulder to Alan's side. He slowed his pace to a near-stop by one of the windows, and let the sunlight call back to mind the image of just earlier this morning. The warmth of a new dawn, illuminating the peaceful face of his husband-to-be as he slept on beside Lyall.

He'd stayed over at Santiago's plenty of times before. What felt different now was the certainty that Lyall would wake up to that same view tomorrow. That he'd have a lifetime of it. Their future was finally tangible.

"Better than I could have possibly hoped," Lyall answered his friend. "I mean, I had only just moved in, so it's still rather a bit hectic. Things will settle soon enough, though, and then we'll have true freedom to really enjoy each other's company."

"That's fantastic news, Lyall," Alan beamed, lighting up with genuine warmth. He gave Lyall's shoulder an enthusiastic shake, as if trying to physically transfer his excitement. "But I hope you do take the time to really enjoy each other's company. You've moved in together, after all. That's something worth celebrating with each other."

"Trust me, we've celebrated." Waving an arm to shrug his friend off with a laugh, Lyall pushed at Alan's back to place him ahead again. "Now, you're absolutely sure where you're headed? I'd like to get back to him within a reasonable timeframe."

"Yes. It's just up ahead," Alan claimed once more, stepping back into a rhythm.

"Right," Lyall hummed with a more feigned grin. "Master navigator of all things art. As of a week or so ago. Truly, I'm impressed."

Alan shot a look over his shoulder, eyes narrowing and nose scrunched. "What are you going on about this time? I'm always surrounded by art."

To their left, Lyall gave another unfinished, more chaotic in composition, canvas a cursory glance. "Thanks to... Conway, was it? Has he granted you more gallery knowledge since?"

"He hasn't told me anything about your shared commonality," Alan answered amicably instead, predictably not directly answering his question. "I don't think he will, since that's very personal. But I can let you know if I learn of anything."

But, they had met again. With every intention to keep doing so.

"You don't have to," Lyall countered. Then casually added, "I don't need you to spy on him for me."

Alan let a short silence pass between them. He glanced over his shoulder, a hint of a fond smile pulling at his lips before pulling his gaze away to admire the unfinished canvases scattered along the wall. "So, why do you want to know?" he asked casually. "This is the third time you've asked about him now."

"Oh, you've been counting?" Lyall said in mock flattery.

"And you haven't?" Alan shot back playfully.

"It's nice that you notice," Lyall answered in kind.

"I can say the same to you," Alan replied smoothly.

"I'm merely curious." Lyall stopped short of the door at the other end of the hall. "Which you may accredit to my blossoming new career in journalism."

Ahead, Alan rested a hand on the doorknob, peering over his shoulder to deliver a flat look. "Well," he drawled, the single syllable heavy with unspoken reservations. "Just so you know, there's no rush to go back. I crossed paths with Santiago this morning and told him you were going to stay late and join RADICAL."

Taken by mild surprise by the sheer audacity, Lyall could only sputter incoherently in response.

Swinging the door open, Alan grandly gestured inside with a sweep of his arm. "Which you can find just inside this fine staircase, upstairs, one more flight of stairs."

Lyall's expression fell with un-amusement once more. For the aimless and endless wandering in a building Alan refused to admit he was not familiar with, and the weaponized topic switch. Still, he obliged and bounded ahead with a mumbled, "This better be the last one, or I'll be heading out early."

This was really it, then. The moment Shane had long thought of, but never truly expected. Eve was standing in front of him-- changed, but still Eve.. And for all the words he'd written to her over the last five years, he found himself near speechless now.

This imagined moment had weighed on him suffocatingly for nearly a quarter of his life, and he wasn't prepared for it.

Eve wouldn't sit down, despite his invitation. She instead stood in front of the other armchair, wringing her hands out in front of herself. The tension in her shoulders resembled that of a taut string with too much weight hanging on it.

But the moment they'd come to a stop in the parlor, the string snapped, and Eve began to speak at a break-neck pace.

"I didn't want it to happen this way," she said quickly, like she was trying to get out the words faster than she could say them. "For the longest time I thought it'd be better if -- my parents told me it was for the best, and I was young enough that I believed them. I didn't know what else to do. I thought you'd moved on -- I hoped you would. It was so long ago -- I never wanted to, but I knew if I tried to stay in touch with you while under my parents' roof it would only cause trouble for both of us. They had a path set out for me, and I didn't think I could break from it. They never -- you know what it was like, with them. I didn't get to have a choice, and for many years after I still felt trapped in the plans they'd made for my life. I tried to create as much distance between us as possible between us so that you could heal and forget about me. Coming back into your life again -- I didn't want to hurt you again. I still don't want to."

Shane's mouth felt dry. This was too much to keep track of-- too much that didn't make sense. And none of it answered the question that kept echoing through his mind.

Did you ever hate me?

"I believed it would be best when I said goodbye to make a clean break," Eve picked up again, hardly leaving a breath for Shane to think any more. Her hands, at this point, were clamped onto each other. Her knuckles were turning white from the strain.

"You and your family had only ever been good to me, but I knew that couldn't possibly last," Eve went on. "If my parents caught wind of -- the problem was -- it wasn't going to work. We would be too far, we wouldn't be able to keep it secret, and it was safest and best for both of us to part ways. I thought the easiest -- the best way to do that would be to ensure that you'd hate me."

Shane bit his lip. But he hadn't hated her. He'd never been able to do anything but love, even when he wished that love would turn to something else.

"Because I knew you, Shane. You'd be able to forgive me, but if -- if that door was left open, you'd never move on. And it only would've gotten harder. I couldn't do that to you."

Eve took in a rapid, shaky inhaled breath. Her body was visibly trembling and her eyes still glistened with tears yet to fall. It was as if she was forcing herself through this: an explanation, an offering. Desperate to clear the air and say her piece.

"I'm sorry for how I left things," she said, softer. And it was clear her throat was tightening as her voice grew small. "I never thought that -- after all these years, you'd still think about me. I thought, by now, you'd have forgotten, and coming back into your life would only make things worse, like tearing open an old wound. I didn't know -- hadn't calculated for -- you still -- I --"

And it was then that her voice finally choked up. Lips trembling, she pressed them together tightly as her voice was swallowed up by a suppressed hiccup. Her eyes filled to the brim before tears finally dropped down her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze to the ground.

"I'm making it worse," she whispered, hoarsely. "Aren't I? I knew it'd be too much."

Just like that last day, Shane had the urge to hold out his arms and wrap her in a hug until the tears stopped. But something in him crumbled at the thought that she might refuse it again.

It was all he could do to downcast his gaze and stare intently at the floor, hoping that if he looked at it hard enough, this burning in his eyes wouldn't become anything more.

"I could never hate you, Eve," he said faintly. "I thought you'd know that. I wasn't capable of it-- not even if you were."

Eve's eyes shot up to him, wide and full of pain.

"I don't hate you," she said quickly, barely above a whisper. "I never have. I -- not once, in all these years could I -- I still care about you, Shane. I -- I always have."

Shane shuddered a little, as something icy cold took hold of his heart. It should've helped to hear it. It didn't quite.

"But there was no better option than letting me think otherwise for the last five years?" His voice cracked. "Would it have been the end of the world to-- to reply to one letter?"

Eve stared at him, her eyes still wet with tears.

"Letters?" she asked, sounding shocked and confused.

Shane slowly looked up again. It didn't overwhelm the pain, but it was his turn to share in the confusion. Some slow, horror-like realization was creeping over him.

"I... I never got any letters," Eve said faintly. "I -- I never saw any. Where did you send them?"

"Just-- to your parents' address in Goulon," Shane said quietly. "I sent fourteen. Over-- over almost two years."

And he'd written more than that.

Finally, Eve sat down. Slowly, with a heavy exhale, she fell back into the seat behind her with her brows furrowed in distress as she looked out into the room and held a hand to her forehead.

"My parents..." she said faintly. "They... they must have..."

She didn't need to finish. The pricking in Shane's eyes was nothing compared to the stabbing ache piercing through his heart as he pressed a hand to his mouth.

All of that. All that time bleeding himself out onto ink on pages, desperately hoping that the next letter would be the one to finally break her out of her silence, and she hadn't even gotten to see them.

"I thought you'd... I thought you'd actually done it," Eve said. "Stopped trying, like I'd -- told you --"

Her voice knotted up again, and she held her hand over her mouth as fresh tears began to fall.

"I'm so sorry," Eve said behind her hand. "I didn't know."

The tears had finally made it to Shane's eyes, and instinctively, he knew he had only seconds--or words-- to go before there would be no holding them back.

"I thought you were ignoring them," he whispered. "Throwing them out, maybe, to send a silence louder than words. So I sent one more, saying it would be my last."

His throat tightened, and he wanted to stop there. But he knew he couldn't.

"I stopped sending them when I never heard back. I didn't stop writing them," he said helplessly. "There's-- there's a whole damn drawer upstairs full of them."

Eve looked up, her mouth still hidden behind her hand.

"You... still write letters?" she asked, barely audible.

Shane drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

"The most recent one is from a week ago," he said quietly.

There was a stretch of silence, as Eve looked down to the floor, beginning to wipe her eyes.

"Would you ever... let me read them?" she asked.

Shane wasn't prepared for the deep feeling of shame that sank over him. They were for her-- but they'd also been for him. They'd kept him sane, barely. And if she didn't know already, he didn't want her to see the deep pit of despair he'd fallen into.

"You don't have to," Eve said quickly. "Sorry. I know it's been -- I don't deserve that. Neither do you. To -- you shouldn't have to."

Shane shook his head, just barely.

"They're yours," he said thinly. "It's just... I don't think you'll like them."

"You really don't have to give them to me," Eve said again. "I don't want you to feel forced to."

"I don't," Shane said quickly. "It's not that."

"Alright," Eve said, but there was a stiff, brief pause.

Even five years later, she still couldn't stand long pauses.

"I know you must have a lot of things to say yourself," she said. "And questions. I know you have questions, and -- you should -- you can ask them."

Shane lifted a hand from Shrimp to wipe at the first tear sliding down his cheek.

"How long have you been in Ruddlan?" he asked quietly. "And how long ago did you learn I was there?"

Eve bit her lip.

"I've... lived around Ruddlan for the past three years," she said.

A beat.

"I learned you were doing your schooling here soon after I moved," she said.

So she'd been aware from the start, then. Shane's heart sank a little further.

"I've kept tabs on you since the day I knew of -- but I -- I didn't want to burden you with my presence," she said. Her hands returned to her lap, wringing together once more.

"You wouldn't have," Shane said softly. "You would've been..."

The only spark of hope he'd felt between then and this summer, maybe.

"If you've been watching," he started quietly. "I don't know if you know."

Eve stared at him a bit blankly, her gaze searching for understanding.

"I'm... sorry," she said quietly. "Know what?"

The burning in Shane's eyes increased tenfold suddenly. He couldn't help but sniff pitifully as he turned his head to the side, as if that could somehow hide the tears streaming down his face.

"Eve, Jordan's dead," he whispered.

There was a long pause. Uncharacteristically long, for Eve.

"Shane," she finally said. "I... I think I have some... relevant information you should know."

Her response was so unexpected-- so unfitting, for all the grief he felt, that his head spun back to her.

"Jordan survived the attempt on his life," Eve said softly. "He's alive."

One heartbeat went by. Two heartbeats. Three, four, five. Then Shane sat up straight, staring directly at her with enough disbelief to last him a lifetime.

"What?" he croaked.

He'd meant for the word to sound clearer, but it got strangled by the myriad of emotions shooting through him all at once.

Eve stiffened, and sat up straighter to mirror him. Her expression quivered, teetering on the edge of composed to distressed.

"I know he would've wanted to tell you himself," she said. "And I -- I don't know if I should be the one who's told you. He's -- I guess -- I know he's wanted to see you but -- I don't know if I should speak for him."

"He's--" Shane inhaled sharply, gripping his armrest to keep himself steady as a wave of dizziness hit him. "Where is he?"

Eve stuttered.

"Here," she blurted, before clarifying. "In Ruddlan, I mean. He lives in -- south end. The -- the south..."

Before Shane could let that sink in, Eve blurted once more.

"He surprised me too," she said. "I mean -- I thought he was dead. I guess your father didn't tell you, but he -- he let me know of Jordan's passing. You can imagine my shock when we ran into each other some years later."

Shane didn't have time to process that. Any other moment in time, that would've been a shock. But he didn't have the capacity to be caught off guard by anything else at the moment.

"I don't believe you," he whispered.

But he didn't think that was true. He didn't think it sounded like it, either. It was the only way he could grapple with-- this.

Eve pressed her lips together tightly, and her brows furrowed just as deep.

"I... I know this is a lot," she said quietly.

"Why hasn't he..." Shane started.

But he couldn't finish the question.

"Would you want to ask him?" Eve asked.

Immediately, with utmost certainty, he knew that he couldn't handle the answer. No matter what it was. Any reason that would cause his little brother to hide from him was sure to rip his heart in two.

He had the presence of mind and just enough time to move Shrimp aside before hunching forward to sob with his head in his hands.

A few long, agonizing seconds passed before he felt Eve's hand on his shoulder.

"Can I...?" she asked, her voice cracking.

All Shane could do was nod faintly, squeezing his eyes shut as his shoulders shook with more sobs. Eve wrapped her arms around his shoudlers, pulling him in. He could feel her own cries shaking in her chest, but she still held him tightly.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there," she said. "I should've been there when you needed me."

Shane wrapped an arm around hers, but rather than being comforted at her words, they only sent another barb through his heart.

"None of this was necessary," he whispered, the words coming out strangled.

Eve didn't have a response for it right away. After a few seconds passed, she pulled away from the hug, reaching up to wipe her own eyes.

"You're right," she admitted faintly. "But I don't know how to change what's already happened. I can't."

She took in a deep, shuddered breath, and then got back to her feet.

"I don't know if you want me back in your life," she said. "And I wouldn't blame you if you don't want to see me again. But if there's anything I can do to make it right, again... please let me know."

Another sob rattled through Shane, more quietly this time. He wiped uselessly at his eyes.

He didn't know what there was to do. Maybe it was nothing. But some voice in his head was screaming at him that he wasn't fine leaving this as it was.

Shakily, he got to his feet. Then, moving with a mind of his own-- but in a way that indicated she should follow-- he made his way over to the kitchen. Hesitantly, she followed.

They always had rose oolong tea on hand. Blinking through blurry eyes, Shane turned on the stove under the kettle before reaching for the jar of tea. So that she could see what it was, he lifted the lid, spooning it into the teapot before he took two mugs down from the cupboard and set them on the counter silently. He could see how Eve's expression softened when she realized he'd kept her favorite tea in their home, despite her long absence. She'd never even been here before. But Shane hadn't thought he could live somewhere without a trace of her in it.

"These last few years..." he started weakly. "I feel like I've been living through an island fire. I don't know how else to describe the feeling of a match being thrown over the shoulder just as everyone leaves the shore. It's like-- everything's been burning, and I'm the only one here to witness it."

Eve had settled by the kitchen table, standing stiffly beside it with her fingers in knots.

"This whole time?" Eve asked faintly.

"It was... bearable," Shane said quietly. "For a time. While I still had Jordan. Everything truly fell apart when he di--"

No, he couldn't say that anymore. Shane struggled with the right word before he realized he didn't know what to substitute in his place.

"He died," Eve offered. "As far as you knew... he was dead."

Shane nodded tightly.

"Yeah," he murmured, choking up again as a fresh wave of tears rose to his eyes.

It wasn't something he could wrap his head around. If Jordan had escaped death, how had he done so, and why hadn't he found his way back to them? It wouldn't have been impossible-- not in Eagle Bell, and certainly not in Ruddlan, years afterward and hundreds of miles away from where it had happened. But Shane had moved here, and Jordan hadn't showed himself.

Maybe his brother really had wanted to run away.

The thought broke his heart all over again.

"Shane... I wish there was something I could say to make all of this better," Eve said softly. "I never wanted to cause you this much pain."

"I know." Shane drew in a sharp, painful breath. "I know now. But I'm never going to get the worst years of my life that could've been entirely avoided back."

Eve fell silent and looked to the floor. Whether it was from guilt or she was simply at a loss for words, Shane didn't know.

He should've stopped talking there. But he didn't know how not to be honest.

"I really wondered if life was worth living for a while," he whispered.

With heartbreak clear in her eyes, Eve looked to Shane with her mouth pressed into a pout.

"Because of me?" she whispered.

"Not-- not you." His heart clenched with guilt at the false assumption. "It'd be utterly wrong to blame it on you, or any one person in particular. It's my own damn fault for losing anyone who might've cared."

"No it's not," Eve said. "Shane, you weren't the one who left. I did. I -- I pushed you out, because I was more afraid of my own parents that I --"

Her voice caught, but she pushed through this time, swallowing hard. "I love you, Shane," she said, tears welling in her eyes again. "I wish I'd had the courage to let that win, over... everything else. But I didn't. It wasn't your fault."

Shane took a deep breath that turned into a weak sniff.

It had only been two days since he'd had a glimpse of a sign that Eve might not hate him. It was only minutes since he'd learned Jordan was... alive. Somehow. It still hadn't sunk in fully, and Shane knew it wouldn't happen here. Maybe it only would if he actually saw him.

"I love you too, Eve," he said softly. "Whatever you did, you've never left our hearts."

"And you never left mine," Eve said, her lips trembling as tears began to fall down her cheeks again.

Shane opened his mouth to say more-- what, he wasn't yet sure-- but the kettle started whistling. Quickly, he turned off the stove, lifting the teapot off and pouring the tea into their mugs.

"Can I... tell my parents you're here?" he asked quietly.

Eve stared at him, swallowing.

"Right now?" she asked.

"Well-- no," Shane said, with a shake of his head. "The earliest I could would be tomorrow."

"Oh," Eve said with a sigh of relief. "I-- yes, you can tell them. I don't know that I'd -- I need some time."

She swallowed thickly again before quickly adding: "But I do want to see them again."

"They would too," Shane said, sliding her mug over the counter to her. He paused before adding, "You said-- you said my dad already told you about Jordan?"

Gingerly, Eve took the mug in her hands, holding it close.

"Yes," she said softly, sniffling as she lifted a hand to dab her eyes. "He sent a letter, after I'd moved out and was living on my own."

"He never told me he'd done that," Shane murmured, watching the steam rise from his mug.

It made sense. His father wouldn't want him getting hurt further, and he'd known about Shane's failed-- no, sabotaged-- attempt to communicate with Eve in the past.

"Maybe he thought..." Eve started. "I don't know why he didn't."

"Did you ever write back?" Shane asked.

"I was too afraid to," Eve said faintly, looking down into her mug with regret.

Shane nodded slightly.

"He probably just didn't want to disappoint me, then," he said quietly.

"I guess not," Eve agreed just as quiet.

Gods. Shane couldn't stand to think about all that had been lost anymore. He blinked new tears away furiously.

"How... how is Jordan?" he asked quietly.

Eve glanced up at him, but quickly looked away.

"He's... alright," she said hesitantly. "He... he's been wrestling, more recently, with wanting to reach out to you and your parents. It's been on his mind."

Shane nodded faintly, though he didn't know what that meant, or why he was hiding from them at all. All he could do was hope that if it was his fault, something could be done about it.

"Do you want me to talk to Jordan?" she asked. "If he knew you knew... I think it would remove his hesitations for seeing you again."

"Please," Shane said, just above a whisper. "I've missed him so much."

Eve nodded. "I'll tell him."

A fresh tear fell from her face, this time hitting the floor at her feet.

Shane followed it with his gaze, feeling his chest tighten. Before he could think twice or regret it, he set his mug down on the counter, holding his arms open in a silent offer with baited breath.

Eve looked up, meeting his eyes with a tearful gaze. The moment their eyes met, her expression broke. She hastily set the mug down and rushed forward to embrace him tightly, crying into his shoulder.

"I missed you too," she sobbed.

Shane hugged her tight as the kitchen blurred into a watery haze in his vision. His heart hurt impossibly, but there was something less terrible about it now. He let the tears roll freely.

"I did too," he whispered, choking up. "And I want my best friend back in my life."

"I want that too," Eve said through sniffles.

Shane hugged her closer, taking a shuddered breath. There would be no getting those years back. And he wasn't sure how long it would take him to recover from the damage they had caused him. Even with his friends by his side.

But for the first time, he had a chance at rebuilding. And he planned to take it.

Bo's days were getting busier. When he wasn't at the Ashlund's helping take care of the kids, or otherwise touching base with Astrid for steps forward for her health and the care of her children, Bo was, essentially, in meetings.

Said meetings happened all over Ruddlan, at this point. Sometimes he'd be running out of the city to meet at the base. Sometimes it was outside the city walls, somewhere more nondescript. More rarely, now, was it at Flora's house ever since Alexander had been tailing his kids, which he still didn't have a hold onto, but had to let it be for the time being. Despite how nosy Alexander was being, Bo still had bigger fish to fry: now, with a heist to plan for the Moonlight Kingdom's golden boy, and still, with the blue suns poaching every mage caught within a 50-mile radius of Ruddlan.

It was the former that he was ironing out with Caspar that afternoon. Things were so touchy between Eve and Tiberius, and despite Eve's agreement to work with them, it was clear she was going to make it difficult. Emotionally, at least, and that wasn't conducive to the best teamwork. Bo knew she was doing it to protect herself more than anyone else, but it still made it challenging when trying to plan. Mostly because Caspar was the one being sent on Tiberius's behalf -- but he learned that, at least for the time being, that was probably for the best, because now Tiberius had eyes on him at all times.

Political drama always got so... personal. It gave Bo a headache, but he felt for the poor man. Somehow, though, despite all of the challenges, Tiberius was still recruiting help.

Caspar told Bo the news that Kirk was going to be included in the plan as a temporary scapegoat. A red herring, really. It was the perfect time to let Caspar know, in return, that Kirk was already working with them at present to develop an antiserum for lumshade. It always felt a bit like a dance, trying to get everyone on the same page while also keeping secrets, but it had become his life, now.

Fortunately, his conversation with his friend eventually turned to lighter things - away from work, and into things of enjoyment. Eventually, they landed on the subject of Flora and her son, Finn, when dinnertime started to roll around.

With a bit of suppressed amusement, Bo agreed to teach Caspar how to speak sign language to communicate with Flora.

Out of courtesy (because Flora was present), he decided not to press for the why. Pleasantly, after learning a total of three words - yes, no, and thank you - Caspar was invited to dinner with Flora and Finn. Mostly because Finn's excitement over someone else learning sign exploded into an invitation for more teaching, but this time, from Finn to Caspar.

Wishing Caspar good luck with learning sign from a five-year-old, Bo excused himself for his next meeting for the day.

He could smell the young dragon to be outside before Alistair even approached the door.

For the fun of it, Bo went to answer it before Alistair could knock. A split second before Alistair's knuckle tapped the wood, Bo opened the door with a faint grin, trying not to take too much pleasure in Alistair's surprise.

Especially because he didn't seem pleasantly surprised at all. Rather, Alistair's face contorted into what could only be described as a pained grimace. His raised fist awkwardly remained hovered in the air.

"Alright then," he muttered, his hand retreating to rake through his hair. "I didn't go to the wrong door."

"Sorry," Bo said, more sincerely.

Seemed Alistair was more the melancholic type. Less inclined to find this kind of happenstance funny, and more wearying. Noted.

"One of these days I'll learn your humor," Bo said. "Though evidently, not today."

He opened the door wide. "Some of my friends are having dinner in the dining room, but we can meet in the basement for now. It's quiet down there."

Which was meaningful to say, because Finn's excited gesturing and explanations could be heard all the way out to the entry room Alistair was walking into.

"Sure," Alistiar uttered, stepping in and peering past Bo. Although he didn't comment further, he seemed to be more of the observant type, first eyeing the decor on the thin table along the wall, then peering past Bo when Finn screeched explosion sounds.

"My friend's got a little boy," Bo said as he led Alistair down the hall. "Very expressive kid."

Just in time for Finn to wail out more explosion noises.

"Uh-huh," Alistair simply hummed in agreement as he followed, gaze following the direction of the noise.

Bo smiled fondly in the direction of the dining room, but nodded his head in the opposite direction. They turned down the hall where the bookshelf had been pushed aside so the doorway to the basement was open.

"If you hate the heat," Bo said, leading the way down and glacing back at Alistair. "You'll love the basement. It's a lot cooler down here."

Alistair simply pulled his lips back as a feigned smile as he followed after him. "Right," he drew out slowly, clearly holding back his own sentiments.

As they were both still very new to each other, Bo kept from teasing. But it was quite tempting when he could sense Alistair was withholding quite a lot; even if it was just an attitude. Bo knew he wasn't pleased with any of this, and he completely understood why. He'd been in Alistair's shoes not too long ago.

At least, not too long ago for a dragon. But for Alistair, it was a lifetime ago. For now.

Bo's heart felt a little heavy, knowing Alistair would soon have to face the complications of a long life as well. It was not an easy burden to carry. And it was only one of many that came with being a dragon.

They made the rest of the long descent to the basement in silence. As they walked along, Bo reached up to touch the wick of each sconce on the wall to light it with a spark, leaving a trail of light in his wake so Alistair could see. Fortunately, when they stepped down into the small room at the bottom, one lamp was already lit, so there was dim light. Not wanting to show off, Bo made the effort to walk around to every other lamp and breathe each candle to life.

"If you want to take a seat," he said, sparking the last lamp in the corner. "You're free to. Whatever you prefer. The couch is well-loved but still comfortable."

After some hesitation, Alistair leaned against the armrest of the couch with his arms crossed. "Will this be a long talk?" he asked.

Bo shrugged. "I guess that depends on you," he said. "You've had time to think about things, yes?"

"Yeah." Alistair paused, silently tapping his finger against his elbow. "I have." Another pause. "But it's not like I have much of a choice."

Bo sighed, walking over to the couch and sitting on the opposite arm. The couch groaned beneath his weight.

"Not really in being a dragon, no," he said.

"Or a mage," Alistair muttered.

"But you have a choice in how it happens," he said. "Which... I'm glad for. For your sake."

Alistair flicked his eyes towards Bo. Although he didn't comment further, he seemed to silently understand and pick up what Bo was not saying: that not every dragon had this choice, and Bo was one of them.

"I have a condition, though," he said instead after lightly clearing his throat. "As in, for your proposal. There's something I'd like to ask of you before I do all this."

Bo tilted his head and raised a brow. "What's the ask?"

Alistair nodded, releasing a sigh. "I have a..." Visibly frustrated, he repositioned his seating angle against the armrest and ran his hand through his mussy hair, pulling his lips back. "Well, this might be an odd request, because it's entirely random, but..." He hesitated, glancing Bo's way again. "If I give you a name, are you able to offer protection to them?"

"Depends," Bo said. "Likely yes, though."

Alistair nodded once more, idly ruffling through his hair. "She's in the Blue Suns and doesn't feel safe to leave. I don't have any specific solutions, but she told me this after I met you. And because you're... you know..." He vaguely waved a hand towards him.

"A very powerful person regarded as a god by most of the world," Bo finished for him. "I'm aware."

Alistair shifted uncomfortably on the armrest again. "Yes. That." He nodded once. "Yeah. I don't have any specific solutions, but..."

"I could probably help out your friend, but I might need to know more about her situation," Bo said. "The Blue Suns are a highly organized and cult-like criminal organization, and they've been a thorn in my side for decades, now. I'm very familiar with their inner-workings, but getting out of it is incredibly difficult. The best options the resistance has been able to offer those who've tried to escape the Suns are relocation and reidentification. I don't know how deep your friend is, but I assume if she's reached the point of wanting out, she's ready to cut ties. What I'd need to know is just how many ties she's willing to cut."

Alistair shifted weight for the third time, holding back obvious tension. "Well..." he began with a higher-pitched voice, but quickly cleared his throat to start again. "Um." He glanced towards the staircase, vaguely gesturing a hand towards the door. "I hope it's okay that she's outside waiting. So if you want to find out..." He heavily dropped his hand along his side. "Yeah. She can answer all that."

Bo raised his brows as he glanced to the stairwell leading back upstairs.

Hm. He'd anticipated a possible threat to security with Alistair, but it also hadn't worried him. Alistair was being cautious and had wanted to be careful from the start. Bo figured he might bring a friend, or something of the sort to feel a sense of safety amongst strangers. He didn't blame Alistair in the slightest for doing so. In fact, he was just glad that Alistair was the kind of person who'd actually let a trusted friend be involved in all of this. That was a good sign.

"Had I known you'd brought her with you," Bo said with a small smile. "I'd have invited her in from the start. I'm sorry if you felt nervous about it."

"It's fine. I don't think she'd appreciate going down strangers' basements," Alistair deadpanned.

Bo snorted.

He liked this kid.

"Then she's a smart lady," Bo said. "Do you think she could be persuaded after you tell her how boring it is?"

"Maybe not boring," he muttered in reply, shrugging a shoulder. "But she could be persuaded if I tell her god lives here."

Bo burst out into laughter, holding his stomach as he leaned forward. This kid was hilarious. Bo's laughter rang out, echoing off the stone walls of the basement a little loudly. Stifling his own laughter so it wasn't obnoxiously loud, Bo wheezed and wiped his face, shaking his head as he forced himself to recover and match Alistair's deadpan delivery.

"Yes," he said, waggling a finger to Alistair. "Tell her that and I'm sure she'll buy it. If you really want to sell it, tell her she'll get to 'see god' if she comes down."

Alistair quietly huffed a laugh, the faint traces of a smile present on his face. The tension left his body as he pushed himself off the couch, nudging his head towards the staircase.

"I'll be right back, then. Shouldn't be too long."

"Sure. I'll be here, amplifying my godliness," Bo said.

Alistair huffed out more air, glancing at Bo like he was about to comment further, but then smiled faintly and shook his head before turning away to go up the stairs. In the time it took Alistair to get his friend, Bo managed to fill the room with buzzing energy enough that when he inevitably shook said friend's hand, they'd get a little static shock. Just enough to zap 'em in a friendly manner, like if he'd rubbed his feet over a carpet for several minutes.

Bo watched curiously when he heard two pairs of footsteps returning down the stairs. A young woman followed in after Alistair with a shock of short, blue hair. More notably, her Suns tattoo was visible on her arm, right over her bicep.

She was a three. Something about the ink smelled... fresh. It was still healing.

She'd been promoted recently, then. That, he understood, could be enough to give a low-ranking sun a wake-up call. Leaning off the couch and walking over, Bo nodded to Alistair and his friend with a smile.

"Hey there," he said, looking to the young woman. "My name's Bo."

He offered his hand. With a glance at Alistair first, she accepted it and shook it. To her credit, she didn't flinch at the static shock. Still, he couldn't help but laugh a little inside.

"Alistair said you were god," she said.

Bo let out a singular "bah" of a laugh. "He really said that?" Bo asked, looking to Alistair with an amused smile.

Alistair released a long suffering sigh. "I just told her that I've been having divine dreams leading up to you," he said with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

"Not my fault I took you at your word," the blue-haired woman huffed.

"Well, not leading up to me," Bo said, holding a hand over his chest. "But the divine dreams part is true. Regardless, I think the real reason Alistair brought you down here to meet me is because I could be of some help to you. He's told me that you're looking for a way out of the Blue Suns, right?"

"Oh, yeah." She straightened. "I'm Mireya. Nothing really important with them... just robbery and the like."

Bo shrugged. "That's about what I'd expect a three to be up to," he said. "How long have you been running with the Suns?"

Mireya shrugged a shoulder. "Oh, like... five years?"

"A significant amount of time," Bo said. "Can I ask why the change of heart?"

For the briefest moment, a flicker of something pained showed in Mireya's eyes. Tension was also present in Alistair's frame as he averted his gaze.

"Well, this guy has been bugging me to leave for ages now," Mireya said in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood, nudging Alistair with her elbow.

"Sounds like you have a very good friend," Bo said, softer.

"More recently, though..." Mireya started, then abruptly stopped.

"Someone close to us died recently," Alistair offered in the ensuing silence. "Also a Sun."

Bo's eyes were saddened. "I'm so sorry," he said.

Mireya shifted uncomfortably, dropping her gaze. It seemed she didn't really know what to do with the sympathy.

"Want to sit?" Bo offered instead, tilting his head towards the couch. "I have a few questions for you."

"Uh..." Mireya shrugged. "Sure. Yeah. Why not."

Bo nodded and walked over to the couch, sitting on the end. Mireya sat cross-legged on the other end, keeping a slight distance. Quietly trailing behind, Alistair sat on on the same spot previously: on the edge of the couch armrest with crossed arms.

"Do you have family in town?" Bo asked.

Mireya shook her head. "Just me."

"Any living family that the suns know about?" Bo asked.

Mireya hesitated for a second of thought before shaking her head again. "No."

"So the only person we need to get out of this is you, then," he said, with a short glance Alistair's way, who only nodded once in silent affirmation. "I hope you're not set on staying in Ruddlan. With Sparrow's frequent residence here you wouldn't be able to stay undetected."

Mireya frowned slightly at that.

"Where would I stay, then?" she asked skeptically.

"There's a few options," Bo said. "What we're looking at as your safest bet is changing your identity and your location. You might have to switch up your look, as well."

He was looking at her blue hair in particular. Having significant identifying features was not desireable when trying to hide from a massive criminal organization.

Mireya pouted.

"But I just got this look," she said. "Do you know how hard it is to get your hands on blue hair dye?"

"I know a gal who could change it to a different color for you," Bo said. "If you like other colors besides blue."

A beat.

"You have to admit, blue is a little on the nose," Bo said.

Mireya looked blankly down at her outfit-- which was overdyed navy jeans, a ruffled aqua blouse, and sparkly blue earrings that looked to be made of sea glass. She was a blueberry.

"I don't exactly like other colors," she said.

Bo blinked. "None? None at all?"

"Do you really need a second favorite when there's clearly a best one out there?" she remarked.

"You can always wear black," Alistair said straightfacedly.

Mireya wrinkled her nose. "And then get no bitches like you?"

Alistair simply let out a long-suffering sigh in reply. He was clearly used to this.

Bo huffed out of his nose. "I hope this isn't the hill you want to die on," Bo said. "I hear you -- you know what you like, and you don't have to abandon anything blue entirely. I'm just pointing out the fact that you've drenched yourself in the very color of the gang you're trying to escape. And the hair is too identifiable. People will be able to spot you in a crowd, which isn't what you want."

Mireya wilted disappointedly.

"...Fine," she muttered.

"Hey, at least your hair is something you can change," Bo offered. He gestured loosely to his missing eye. "Some things you can't. It'll be easier for you in the long run, I promise."

"Have you ever considered an eye patch?" Mireya asked. "You could look like a pirate."

"I did for a while," Bo said with a shrug. "I also tried a mask. I try to switch it up as I can, you know."

Alistair cleared his throat. "So, can you help?" he asked, loosely gesturing towards Bo.

"I think so," Bo said. "We can figure out where in Nye you're going, but it'll depend on a few things."

"Well-- hold on," Mireya said, holding up a hand. "I don't even know who you are, besides supposedly being god."

Bo looked to Alistair. Alistair simply looked back to him for answers.

"Ah, I see he gave you no further context," Bo said. "Apologies. I was mistaken."

"No, he's too damn obtuse and enigmatic," Mireya deadpanned.

"I figured Bo would better explain things," Alistair said with a flat look her direction.

Bo waffled his hands in front of him in a loose shrug. "Regardless, I can explain myself now," he said, setting his hands back in his lap. "We'll make it short and sweet. If you know anything of the resistance, then you know we're very quiet and keep our heads down. Our primary initiative is to help save and relocate mages who are at risk, but we also help others in situations like your own: like-minded folk in bad situations who need a new start. I've been working with the resistance for many years, now - longer than anyone else currently in the field. I'm open to more prying questions but there are some things I'm not at liberty to share because the nature of our work is very secretive for the safety of those involved."

Mireya slowly turned back to Alistair.

"Dude," she said. "The people you meet when you stop acting like a loner."

Alistair facepalmed, releasing yet another long-suffering sigh. "Oh my gods, Mireya," he mumbled, dragging his hand down. "That's your takeaway?"

"How could it be anything else?" Mireya objected.

"To be fair," Bo said. "We're very new aquaintences."

Alistair threw his hand towards him. "Yeah, I barely know this guy."

Mireya looked back to Bo. "Well, if you've really been in the resistance that long, can you drop the skincare routine, or is that the secretive information you're talking about?"

"Mireya," Alistair groaned.

Mireya threw up her hands. "It's worth asking!"

"She's got a point," Bo said, looking to Alistair with a grin. He held up his hand by his mouth and whispered to her: "Drink lots of water and moisturize."

Mireya gave him a thumbs up and pantomimed writing that in a notebook.

"Listen, I don't want to be in here any more than you do," Alistair said wearily, patience growing thin. He ruffled his hand through his air and thinly added, "Can we move on, please? Action items, maybe? Next steps?"

"How far from Ruddlan are you willing to move?" Bo asked, obliging Alistair's impatience.

"Do I have to?" Mireya asked. "Do you guys really live in plain sight here?"

"The resistance?" Bo asked. "Yes, but -- that takes years of establishing someone undercover, sometimes. The thing that makes this all tricky is you've lived here for a long time, so people know you, or know of you. Even if you changed your name and your hair, the suns here in Ruddlan would still recognize you. You can't change your face."

"Andy's family would welcome you. They're in the Isles," Alistair answered for her. "Would you consider moving there?"

Mireya hesitated, then shrugged. "I guess," she said, a little unhappily.

Bo's face softened. He could understand the resistance to change. It was a big one, and thinking about how much she would have to lose was overwhelming if she committed to this choice.

"Are you open to starting over somewhere new, and meeting new people?" Bo asked more gently.

Mireya looked down.

"I've already had to do that," she said.

Bo's heart sunk, feeling saddened on her behalf.

"It sounds like there are a lot of people here that you'd miss," he said.

Mireya bit her lip, very much not looking at Alistair, especially since he rested his somber gaze on her. "Yeah."

Alistair set his hands on his lap. "Are there alternatives to moving?" he asked instead. "Is it even possible to leave the Blue Suns but not leave Ruddlan?"

Bo's heart sunk even deeper. "It's... very, very difficult to do," Bo admitted quietly. "The way it's currently run under Sparrow... he would have to be out of the picture for there to even be a chance."

Slowly, Mireya looked up, meeting his gaze again.

"What do you know about him?" she said. "You know his name. Most people don't."

Bo straightened a bit. "I know about many of his ongoing projects," he answered. "Many of which are hidden from his lower ranking suns. I'm aware of how he came to power, and how he's kept it, and I know of who he used to be, before he found it."

Bo paused and leaned back into the couch.

"And I know he's a prideful man, though he'll do and say anything to seem otherwise," Bo said. "That's how he lures in people of far higher caliber than himself. In all ways regarding his character, he's a charlatan."

Mireya was silent for a minute. With furrowed brows, Alistair was drinking every word as well. This was new information to him, then.

"How did he get to power?" she asked.

"He convinced someone to kill the former Full Sun for him, and then killed them as a framed act of vengeance on the former Full Sun's behalf," Bo said. "Therefore, making himself look like a hero, and quickly gaining the loyalty of the suns as he then rather effortlessly took the empty position."

Mireya let out a quiet, tired sigh.

"...He does need stopping," she muttered as if she were relenting on something. "And I don't know how anyone's going to do it."

Bo quirked a brow.

"It's something I've been looking into personally, for some time," Bo said.

But he hadn't had someone on the inside...

"Hold on," Alistair said suddenly, readjusting his position on the edge. He lifted a finger, turning his head back and forth between them. "Stop... Sparrow? The leader of the Blue Suns?" He vigorously shook his head. "You can't be serious. This isn't why we're talking."

"Mireya said she wanted to explore other options," Bo said. "This is one of the other options."

With both hands, Alistair pointedly gestured towards Mireya. "This is about keeping her safe, not a murder plot on the ringleader of the most dangerous gang in all of Nye. I don't see how this is relevant."

"Is that what you want, Mireya?" Bo asked.

All this time, Alistair had been adamant that Mireya leave town. That was the safest option. But any time it was brought up, Mireya seemed resistant and unenthused by the suggestion.

"There's no way. There has to be a different option," Alistair said adamantly before she could answer.

"Alistair," Mireya said-- not sharply, but firmly. "Safety is a myth. At least, we'll continue to speak of it as though it's a legend as long as Sparrow reigns this city."

"'Safety is a myth'?" he echoed incredulously, throwing a hand towards her. "Mireya, there doesnt exist a more dangerous plan than this!"

"I haven't suggested anything yet," Bo said.

"You're hypothesizing it," Alistair shot back. "Both of you are. And I think it's a bad, bad idea."

"Mireya," Bo said, looking to the young blue-haired girl. "Alistair, as your friend, understandably values your safety over any greater mission. I too, want you to consider the safe route, as I don't want you to offer yourself for anything without weighing the cost. You don't have to turn your attention to Sparrow. Others can work to do that for you."

Mireya was silent for a few moments, showing that she was thinking.

"If I leave," she said. "I won't feel safe for the rest of my life. I'll never be able to come back. But if I could stay-- if I could do something-- I might just be able to do something for my home, and fight for my own safety."

Spoken like a true fighter.

"You can stay safe and not do anything," Alistair said firmly. Then added more softly, "Don't be a hero. No one is asking you to do this. It's not worth it."

Whether it was worth it -- that was only up to Mireya to decide. She had to decide if she believed stopping Sparrow was worth it whether it'd work or not, because success was never guaranteed. Bo looked to Mireya.

"I'm not a hero," Mireya said. "I'm just someone who doesn't want to say goodbye to her friends."

"They're not mutually exclusive," Alistair said with a more strained voice, jaw clenched tighter. Desperation bled into his voice, raw and unfiltered. "You don't have to be a hero, and you don't have to say goodbye to me. You can do both."

Mireya faltered for a moment before just barely shaking her head. Her hands, resting in her lap, were shaking.

"I'd be happy to pass on the heroism," she said. "But it would mean leaving-- for possibly forever. It would mean saying goodbye. It might mean never seeing you again. And there's not a lot of things I would stand up to Sparrow for, but that's one of them."

Before Alistair could say anything more, she turned to face Bo squarely.

"I'll do it," she declared. "Whatever you're imagining."

Alistair didn't comment further, instead resigning into quiet defeat. He visibly deflated, shoulders hunched as if he were under an invisible weight. His gaze dropped, fixated on an insignificant speck on the floor. Bo's heart ached for both of them. This wasn't an easy decision to make. He let out a sigh, but met Mireya's gaze with determination.

"Then it's time to get into the weeds."

Time ticked by slowly after Eve left. So did every thought in Shane's head.

He speared a blackberry with his fork, lifting it up from his plate, but only stared at it disinterestedly. The berries were fresh from the market-- his favorite food in the world, second only to coffee-- and yet, he had no appetite for breakfast. He already felt weighed down with the knowledge he held.

Jordan was alive. Not just that, but in Ruddlan.

He hadn't been able to sleep all night. Every time he rolled over or tried to close his eyes, he'd be hit with another memory. He'd see Jordan fleeing through snowy streets, or something even older, of a time when he was small-- Jordan holding up a green beach pebble to compare it to his eyes, Jordan being spun around in their father's arms, Jordan proudly clambering through the branches of that willow tree. It had haunted Shane to know he'd never get to see him grow up. Now, it haunted him that Jordan had grown up, and he'd missed the chance to see it.

He'd been turning over the mechanics of how the escape could've happened, too, and although he'd never dared hope for it, he had to relent that it would've been possible to survive. They'd never seen Jordan's body-- it had been enough to hear the eyewitnesses of a large crowd say he was dead, and he would've been left to float down the river. Even if they'd recovered his body, they wouldn't have been allowed to bury him honorably on a family plot. Instead, they'd planted a flower bed of posies in the Aspen's backyard, dressed in black. Shane had thought bitterly at himself that Jordan deserved a better funeral. Now those flowers were just flowers.

His parents were at the dining table with him, talking warmly about the pleasant dinner they'd had the night before. Every so often, they'd turn a soft glance his way, noticing his silence. Shane knew how this went: they knew something was on his mind, and they were giving him the time he needed to open up about it. If he couldn't do it himself, they would gently encourage him to speak. But he didn't want to make them do the work of asking.

Slowly, Shane set his fork back down on his plate. At the soft clatter of metal on porcelain, the conversation between his parents gradually fell silent. Their gazes turned to him, gentle and concerned, and he froze for a moment, unsure how to start.

"I... have something to share," he said stiffly. "A couple things."

His father extended an arm across the table, offering his hand reassuringly. Shane took it.

"What's on your mind?" his mother prodded gently.

Shane swallowed, dropping his gaze back to his plate. He'd been the one to break the news of Jordan's death, knocking on their bedroom door in the middle of the night, covered in half-melted snow. He'd been just as wordless then as he was now.

"First," he said slowly. "Eve's in Ruddlan. And she's been here."

His parents exchanged a quick look. Neither of them seemed shocked, and he remembered that somehow, his father had found Eve's updated location. He didn't know exactly how he felt about that, but he knew he didn't blame either of them for not telling him. He knew it would've hurt him-- and as he was learning, all that pain had been unnecessary in the first place.

"Did you talk?" his father asked softly.

Shane nodded faintly.

"Yeah," he said. "She-- Kirk was the one to find her, although Tiberius might've met her too. She agreed to talk with me, and she showed up yesterday night. Apparently, there's been... some misunderstandings."

He looked back up at them, taking a deep breath.

"She really didn't want to do what she did," he said. "She knew where I was, but didn't dare reach out because she hoped I would move on. She thought I had. All those letters I sent-- she said never even saw them. Her parents must've been withholding them from her."

A pained look spread over his father's face. His mother's eyes turned dark with sorrow.

"Gods," his father murmured sadly.

"I'm not surprised," his mother said, with a quiet sigh. "The Zhaos took a strong reaction to your friendship and decided that bridge needed burning too when it should've only touched our relationship with them." She paused, then quietly added, "I'll always regret that you two got caught in the crossfire."

Shane bit his lip.

"So, she thought I hated her," he said. "And I thought she hated me, which-- I'm still wrapping my head around the fact that she doesn't. We both know now. But there's no getting that lost time back."

His father squeezed his hand.

"That might not be something you can do," he said softly. "But you do have the chance to try again. Do you both plan to?"

"Yeah," Shane murmured. "Yeah. I just think it'll-- take some time. To get back to something more normal, I mean."

He had the trust issues this had given him to get over now. And while he wouldn't say he had to find it in him to forgive her-- he felt as though he already had-- he knew he had to take his time. This wouldn't be simple. They each had real pain to work through, and just because none of it had needed to happen in the first place didn't meant it was irrelevant.

"You'll get there," his mother assured him. "You both want it to happen, and that's enough. It will all gradually follow from there."

Shane nodded, thoughts drifting to the other piece of news he had to share.

"Second--" he started, but he lost his voice suddenly, choking up as he had to look away again.

He could tell his parents had caught on about this being the more concerning information. Their full attention was on him as he struggled with the words.

"Jordan," he managed, forcing himself to look back at them. "Eve said he's-- he's alive. He survived."

He saw their eyes widen with true shock this time. His father's mouth slowly hung open-- Shane couldn't recall the last time he'd seen him openly gawk. He watched his mother stiffen, shoulders rolling back and spine straightening. There was a pleading look in her rapidly glistening eyes.

"Are you sure?" she pressed after a too-long silence.

"Eve couldn't be cruel enough to lie about this," Shane insisted. "She says he's here, in Ruddlan. He's been in hiding."

With a shudder, his father pulled his arm back, burying his face in his hands. Shane caught the quiver of his lip just before it was covered.

"How?" his mother asked, her voice wavering in that one word.

"I don't know," Shane said weakly. "I didn't hear. He found Eve, and he knows we're here, but he hasn't-- he never--"

He couldn't help it. His voice cracked, and his eyes burned again.

"Why is he hiding?" he whispered tearfully. "From us?"

He heard a muffled sob from his father after he spoke, his shoulders shaking from it. His mother reached over to put a hand on his shoulder, but from the way she held him there, it seemed to be every bit as much for her sake as it was for his.

"He could be afraid, Shane," she said softly. "That might be all."

Shane shook his head, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "We're supposed to be safe. What if he doesn't trust us to protect him anymore? What if we let him down, and he doesn't-- he hasn't come back because he thinks it'll happen again?"

His mother's expression turned even more pained, and he regretted planting the suggestion in her head immediately. But it had been living in his mind all night and all morning.

"Jordan's choices... are his choices," she said, in a voice quieter than she probably meant to speak in. "But we shouldn't presume what they are, or what reasons he might have for making them, without any information."

Shane knew this. He knew this, reasonably. But it didn't silence the aching fear that had his heart locked in a chokehold.

Slowly, his father looked up, his face already soaked with tears. The few times Shane had seen him so distraught-- all of which had been with the last several years-- always rattled him. It felt so wrong for the optimistic hopefulness he always carried himself with to dissipate.

"Can we see him?" his father asked in a croak.

"Eve said she'd talk to him about meeting," Shane said quietly, heart sinking. "She seemed to think it wouldn't take much convincing."

His father nodded shakily, without the tears ever slowing. His shoulders slumped, then shook again with another quiet sob. His mother leaned over to wrap him into a hug, and he immediately sank limply into it. Something ached in Shane's heart, and he stood up, looping around the table to stand behind their chairs and hug them both at once.

It had never been clearer than in that moment that they were only three-fourths of a family.



"Investigations are still ongoing about the existence of his brain," Shane said affectionately, scratching between Shrimp's ears as the cat sprawled out with his belly exposed, wriggling and purring wildly. "I'll let you know."

Kirk huffed, leaning against Shane's shoulder as they sat on Shane's bed, propped up against all of his pillows.

"I eagerly await your findings," Kirk murmured.

Shane placed his free hand over Kirk's, brushing the back of his hand with his thumb as he offered him a smile.

"Speaking of findings," he said gently. "You don't have to share details, but how is your experimenting going?"

Kirk reached over to scratch Shrimp's side. "Not a lot of progress yet," Kirk said. "Mostly failures. But even failures are progress. You don't know what'll work until you rule out what won't."

"That's right," Shane agreed, sinking against him a little more as Shrimp purred louder. "And you'll find it soon. It's bound to happen."

"We'll just see how many times I have to fail before I succeed," Kirk said. "If it's anything like my other experiments, it'll be hundreds of times before I get it right."

Shane hummed softly. "That's more than fine. Especially since it seems like after one failure, you don't take long to try again."

"I supposed I have that working in my favor," Kirk said with a smirk. "I never know when to quit."

Shane smiled softly, pecking a kiss to Kirk's cheek.

"I really admire that about you," he said.

"It's a blessing and a curse," Kirk said with a shy smile.

Still smiling, Shane stayed close, letting the peace of the quiet room settle over him further. Taking a deep breath, he shifted so Kirk's head was still on his shoulder, but he was on his side facing him instead of on his back.

"How do you do it?" he asked curiously.

"With stubborn willpower and tunnel-visioned determination," Kirk said, then turned to rest his head against Shane's. "Basically, I can't stand the thought of failing entirely, so I have to try until I succeed."

The two of them were different in that sense, Shane thought to himself. Kirk couldn't bear living in failure, and Shane didn't know how to drag himself out of the ruins. Until recently, he thought he'd lost the ability to try again entirely. He still didn't know how to give all the second chances he would need to soon.

"I could stand to learn that from you," he said softly.

"It does come with drawbacks," Kirk said. "Not knowing when to quit... when sometimes you ought to."

Shane hummed quietly, raising a hand to run his fingers through the tight, short curls of Kirk's hair.

"Have you ever failed to spot a lost cause before?" he asked.

Kirk hummed in thought, and was slow to reply.

"...It took me a long time to," he murmured.

Shane nestled a little closer, leaving Shrimp as the only thing between them. He met Kirk's eyes with silent, gentle invitation to show that he was listening if he wanted to elaborate.

"It feels wrong to admit it," Kirk said. "Because... he's still my friend. Sort of."

Shane didn't really know who he was referring to. If he meant someone in their group who he already knew, that could only be three people. His gut was telling him it wasn't Tiberius.

So he went out on a limb and softly guessed, "Carter?"

Kirk let out a sigh. "Yeah," he said sadly. "I feel like... I just never seem him being real, even when there's an opportunity."

"I can see that," Shane admitted quietly. "I've had chances to get to know him, but I don't think I've learned anything about him."

"I don't think I have either," Kirk said sadly.

Shane blinked.

"Nothing at all?" he asked softly.

"I mean, there are things I know about him," Kirk said. "Surface level things. And things I've picked up on from observing. But..."

Kirk sighed. "It's weird. I think he only ever confided in Tiberius. I don't know why."

Shane looked at him sadly. That didn't feel right, for the length of time Kirk and Carter had known each other.

"We all know how that's going, though," Kirk said, quieter. "So... maybe I dodged a bullet."

Shane nodded, just barely.

"I think you did," he said. "From the little I've witnessed of them... I'd hate for that to have happened to you."

Kirk softly pecked the top of Shane's head. In return, Shane wrapped his arms around him in a gentle hug, now that Shrimp had dozed off and wasn't demanding pets. He took a deep breath.

"I don't know if this is foolish of me," he said quietly. "But I met with Eve, and she might not be the lost cause I worried about."

Shane could feel Kirk's posture shift, more alert.

"She came by?" he asked.

Shane nodded, breathing in deeply before speaking again.

"Last night," he said. "There's been... a lot of false assumptions on either side. We both thought the other hated us. She didn't really mean a lot of the things that I took to heart from that day. She thought I'd listened to her and gave up on staying in touch, I thought she was ignoring my attempts to reach out. In reality, her parents made her do everything, and then they intercepted every letter I sent her. She never even knew I was writing to her."

"Wow," Kirk breathed softly, taking it all in. "Was it... relieving? How are you feeling about it?"

"There's some relief," Shane said quietly. "I'm glad to know she never hated me. But mostly... it weighs on me that none of this ever needed to happen, but it took its toll all the same. There's so much to rebuild and heal for both of us. And things won't ever be what they could have been now if nothing ever happened."

"There's a lot to grieve," Kirk agreed softly.

Shane nodded faintly. There was. And it wasn't the kind of grief he was used to.

"Have you decided that you want to rebuild?" Kirk asked. "With Eve."

"I think so," Shane said. "And I think she has too. It's just... it's going to be slow. It's like I have to learn to trust her all over again."

"Does that scare you?" Kirk asked softly.

"Yeah," Shane said softly. "She was kind of the first person-- after family-- that I grew to trust. Part of me wondered if I was wrong to, for a time after she was gone. I felt like I didn't have a baseline for how I could make new meaningful connections if the time I thought was a success ended up falling apart so completely."

"Did you ever make any meaningful connections after she was gone to tell the difference?" Kirk asked.

Shane hesitated a moment, looking deeply into his eyes.

"Not until this summer," he said. "It's like... it's like you've taught me how to feel safe around someone again."

Kirk's hand went up to brush Shane's cheek.

"I think we've done that for each other," Kirk said quietly.

Shane leaned into the touch, taking another deep breath as he pressed their foreheads closer together. It seemed like that was all he ever wanted to know. Forget history, forget the mysteries of the world-- he wanted to rest in the knowledge that he brought the same warmth and light to someone that they brought to him. And hearing it directly gave him peace of mind like he'd never known before.

He made himself the silent promise that for as long as he was allowed to be, he'd remain a safe space for Kirk. Kirk deserved that. To have the honor of providing it-- to be the one trusted with his fears and secrets, to be the first person turned to for comfort, to have that special place in his heart that felt synonymous with haven and home-- was something Shane wanted to truly earn through everything he did. He knew better know than to take someone incredible for granted. And finally-- finally, after years of deciding he'd never be enough-- he had a glimpse of hope in sight that he could work to be worthy of someone. Kirk made Shane want to be the best version of himself that he could be, and he wanted to be good to him. He wanted to make his life better just by being in it.

That wasn't all he wanted, though. Shane also wanted to love.

It was a quieter thought-- one that stayed in the subconscious more often than it voiced itself-- that nevertheless guided countless of his other desires in life. He wanted to love and to let himself love so deeply that he didn't know what to do with all his love. He wanted to love in a way that it could never be doubted how much he cared. He wanted to love and know that his love would always be welcome, because he was loved just as much in return.

And here, looking into Kirk's eyes, Shane had to consider the possibility that he could be falling in love.

He'd always expected the thought to fill him with fear. Sometimes he even imagined it with dread. But in this moment, this quiet and safe moment separated from the rest of space and time, he felt only peaceful joy.

"I hope we keep doing it for a long time," Shane whispered.

"Me too," Kirk whispered back.

Shane felt a soft, faint smile spread over his face. His heart felt heavy and light at the same time, balanced between the hope this moment gave him and the sadness he still felt elsewhere. Sometime, he'd share about the warmth he felt-- when he was brave enough to say it. But for now, there was something else weighing on him.

"Kirk?" he asked quietly after about a half-minute.

"Yeah?" Kirk asked softly in return.

Shane took a deep breath, knowing he'd need every bit of air he could fill his lungs with to get the words out.

"Jordan's alive," he whispered.

There was a beat of heavy silence.

"Alive?" Kirk echoed in disbelief. "Have you seen him?"

Shane shook his head, biting his lip.

"No," he said quietly. "But Eve has. He's... he's been in hiding along with her."

"They know of each other, huh," Kirk murmured. "That's... so they've both been hiding from you guys, then."

Shane felt his face fall. It was exactly that. It just hurt to hear it spoken.

"I should be happy," he whispered. "It is-- I am happy, I know I am. It's good news. But all I can focus on is how much this hurts."

Kirk hugged Shane tightly to his chest.

"Let it hurt, then," Kirk said softly. "You don't have to push it aside."

Shane took a shuddering breath, nestling closer to him. It was safe to do that here-- something that he didn't just know, but felt in his bones.

"I just don't want it to be my fault," he whispered. "That he hasn't come back."

Kirk brought his hand up behind Shane's head.

"It's not," Kirk whispered.

"How do you know that?" Shane asked faintly.

"I just... do," Kirk said with more conviction than Shane could understand.

Shane let his head fall weakly onto his shoulder.

"I really want you to be right," he said quietly. "I'm just... I might see him, and I'm so scared I'll hear otherwise."

"Can you give him the benefit of the doubt until you hear it from him himself?" Kirk asked gently.

"Yeah," Shane whispered. "I can try. He's always been... he was always the sweet, understanding type. I don't want that to have changed."

"Maybe it has, and maybe it hasn't," Kirk said. "But whatever the case, you're going to make it through this. I know that."

Shane held him tighter, feeling the slightest of sad smiles pull at his lips.

"You're too reasonable," he murmured affectionately. "I can't overthink around you."

"Is that a good thing?" Kirk asked.

"Yes," Shane said, a little more seriously-- because he did want Kirk to know this. "I didn't know my mind could go calm like this."

Kirk huffed faintly by Shane's ear. "I guess that's a good thing, then," he said.

Shane tilted his head to press a soft, sleepy kiss to his lips.

"You're a good thing for me," he said quietly.

"I think we're good for each other," Kirk said. "You make me softer."

Shane smiled a little wider to himself. "And you make me stronger."

Every damn day, Alistair woke up glad that he wasn't a mage. Yet.

This is absolute griffin shit, he thought to himself every day as he shoveled literal griffin shit. I didn't ask for any of this.

Especially because every damn day, he couldn't escape people in his life looking down on him. Alistair didn't care if he disappointed his mom, or his aunts, or his uncles, or Rennere-- who, honestly, he should be harping on for not understanding the fundamentals of human behavior-- but damn, was he getting tired of this. Tired of being in people's radar.

Couldn't everyone just leave him alone with his shit? Gods. Everyone needed to get off his back.

It was magic this, dragon that, understand this, know that. Yes, Alistair agreed to do this. Yes, he was trying to be reasonable and practical about this dreamy destiny bullshit. But gods, did he hate doing this.

Especially because Rennere wanted to teach him magic... when he didn't even have any.

"I know. I know. I know!" he frustratedly said during one especially hot summer day, a mile away from Ruddlan where sandy hell existed.

"Shifting happens at will," Renerre said. "You can't just shift on accident! If if happens it's because you decided it, whether consciously or not!"

"But I can't fucking shift right now!" he yelled for the dozenth time, throwing his hands in the air. "I can't just practice shifting!"

"But if you just think about--" Renerre began to say, also throwing her hands up into the air.

A small puff of air hit Alistair's face as she did so, but her movement and her words were quickly cut off by Bo's arm coming between them, gently pushing her hands down to her sides.

"Renerre," Bo said steadily. "This isn't how it happens."

"Isn't how what happ--" she started to retort, but Bo's gaze turned steely.

Had Alistair not known Bo, he may have been intimidated. But at this point, he'd seen too many of his goofy smiles and relaxed demeanor, he hardly considered him a threat in this setting.

"Fine," Renerre said, taking a step back.

"Head home for the day," Bo told her.

"Your little refuge is not my home," Renerre said.

"Then to the little refuge it is," Bo said. "Because the last thing we need is a giant dragon taking to the skies for the whole city to see."

"I can just go home," Alistair offered instead. "We can cut this session short."

Bo gave Alistair a wearied look. He only sighed in reply, falling back to sit on the edge of a rocky ledge and holding his head in his hands.

"I'm already going," Renerre said, turning on her heels as she marched off beyond the rocky bowl they'd found to 'train' in.

And, always faster than her apparent age, Renerre clambered effortlessly over the rocks and disappeared quickly, leaving Alistair and Bo alone in sandy hell. Bo let out another sigh as he turned to Alistair and plopped down on the rock beside him.

"I'm sorry she hasn't been helpful," Bo said softly. "It's... hard to get people like her to change."

"It's fine. It's not your fault," Alistair murmured, rubbing at his face. Grains of sand that were previously stuck on his hand now itched against his face from the friction. "I just don't know what she wants from me. I can't do what she's asking."

"She's having a hard time accepting the fact that her life is about to end," Bo said, quieter. "I know that, for all beings, mortality is something you have to face, inevitably. But... for her, she'd lived hundreds of years thinking it would never come. It's only in the past hundred years that any of us have learned dragons don't live forever."

Fantastic. Now Alistair couldn't make death jokes without it falling flat. One more thing to stress about.

Bo looked over to Alistair, shrugging one shoulder.

"It's more real for her, now, that she's feeling her body age in ways it never has before," Bo said. "It happens to everyone. But I think the fear of it is intensified for someone who's lived in a sense of security for so long, such as her. I'm not telling you this so you'll pity her. Just so you can understand a bit where she's coming from."

"Oh my gods," Alistair groaned, pushing his hair back and digging his fingernails into his scalp. "This is going to be a thousand years of hell."

Bo's gaze saddened, but he didn't respond with humor like he usually did. Instead his gaze dropped to his feet.

"I wish this could be easier for you," he said. "But some things... the difficult things... they come anyway. The most I can do for you is try to be around when it does, so you don't have to bear it alone."

"Yeah..." Alistair sighed, turning his head away and idly scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah."

"I don't know if you've already picked up on it," Bo said after a pause. "But I'm not the first lightning dragon."

Alistair stole a glance his way. "That was obvious to me, considering you don't look as old as Renerre."

Bo huffed lightly through his nose, and he smiled, just a little.

"That's... well, that's another thing," he said with a sigh. "Dragons, for whatever reason, stop aging somewhere in our early 30's. So... then we just look young and beautiful forever, I guess."

"Yay," Alistair said with no enthusiasm, his dead-eye stare settling across the sandy expanse.

"It's not until year 900-something that you finally start getting wrinkles and sagging skin and all of that fun stuff," Bo said. "Things to look forward to, you know."

"Great," he continued to deadpan.

"Best thing about it?" Bo said. "I never get tired of hearing what people guess as my age. It honestly just gets funnier, the older I get."

"Yeah, am sure that doesn't get old at all," Alistair said, flashing him a sour look. "Yes. Pun intended."

Bo looked to Alistair with one of the most restrained but gleeful smirks he'd yet to muster.

"Much appreciated," Bo said, patting the rock beside him.

Alistair glanced up towards the direction Renerre left, half-expecting to see her outline in the distance if she were a normal person.

That was high hopes. He saw nothing.

"Where do you all stay?" he asked questioningly.

"Dragons?" Bo asked. "Or do you mean the resistance?"

"Uh." Alistair sat up, elbows against his knees. "I didn't realize there was a difference. Where did Renerre go off to?"

"A secret base where a bunch of mages and folk in the resistance hide out, unbeknownst to all the Ruddlan hunters and whatnot," Bo said. "She's not strictly tied to it, but I am, and since she came here for you and all, she doesn't have many other options."

He paused, pursing his lips in thought. "Though, she could just sleep in a tree somewhere, that really wouldn't be the most hospitable option."

Okay. That was unimportant. But something Bo said earlier pricked at him, so Alistair re-winded his thoughts to ask, "Renerre came here for me?" he asked more slowly.

This wasn't entirely new news. But there was an implication that it meant she left her previous spot to come here. Whatever her home was... he didn't really know what that looked like, and who was there with her, if anyone.

Bo looked to Alistair with raised brows. "Yeah," Bo answered. "Well -- it only made sense, for her. She's coming into the last season of her life. Change was inevitable, and finding you was important."

"Did she... leave a home behind? And people?" Alistair asked.

Bo pressed his lips together, and his brows furrowed as he looked out ahead of them, into the sandy expanse.

"I guess... that's what made Renerre a bit different from the other dragons," Bo said, softer. "She never had a community of people around her. But from all I've heard, especially from the other dragons who've known her the longest -- she never let them. She's always been more of a hermit, coming out only when necessary. The other dragons said they always missed her, but it'd been so long they learned they couldn't force her to do anything."

Bo sighed.

"Still," Bo said. "It's sad. I can't imagine spending most of a millennia alone. There's so much... joy, and life, and love to be experienced with others. I wouldn't want to miss out on all of it."

It was sad. And Alistair couldn't lie: he also wouldn't want to spend a considerable amount of time with Renerre, either. But surely there was someone out there who more than tolerated her... right? Had she truly lived a millennia and not have met anyone who loved and cared about her?

"Renerre never let them," he repeated slowly, "or she did, but then stopped trying?"

"I think, for her," Bo continued. "She stopped trying. For all dragons, we hit a point early on within the first hundred years or so where we have to make a choice. It hits hard, when you begin to lose those close to you. It's hard to open up your heart and choose to love again, knowing that you'll lose. You have to decide if you want to prioritize protecting yourself, or if you want to connect with people again. Neither are wrong, because protecting yourself is human nature, but you have to count the cost of it. For Renerre... the cost was over 800 years of isolation, undoubtedly joined by loneliness and pain."

Bo brought his hands together in his lap as he slouched forward, looking down to the ground again.

"There's a saying my mentor told me," Bo said. "Shared sorrow is half a sorrow. Shared joy is twice the joy. When you close yourself off to connection, you bear the fullness of your sorrow alone, and your joys are never multiplied."

Bo glanced at Alistair, offering a small smile full of sadness, underscored with a hope in his eyes.

"I know she doesn't have much time left," Bo said. "But... I'm trying to love her for where she's at, as long as she's around. I think she's worth that much, even if she doesn't know how to give it back in return. I never knew her much until this point, but... I guess she kind of feels like long lost family. It would be a shame to give up on her before she goes."

Alistair felt his head sobering with this new information. He felt sorry for Renerre for isolating herself for so long, across so many years, completely alone. Though, more than anything, he was afraid.

Fuck. A thousand years is a long time to live.

"I guess I'll try to go easy on her next time," he said softly. "She's been away from friends and home for a while."

"Yeah," Bo said. "A long while."

"But she had a family..." Alistair glanced towards Bo. "At some point. Right?"

"I guess... that's the one thing that makes the first generation of dragons different," Bo said. "They didn't have parents. But... they had each other."

Alistair wrung his hands, pulling his lips back. "What about you? Is your family still around?"

Bo looked down at his hands with sadness. Before he said a word Alistair already knew the answer.

"I was born shortly before the War Against Magic," he said quietly.

Alistair did the mental math to estimate his age. That would put Bo at around... a hundred years old, then. Gods. That was a lifetime.

And at the turning point that Bo mentioned every dragon makes whether to include and connect to additional people in their life or not. It was a difficult decision to make after the first wave of loss.

"My parents both died in the war," Bo continued. "It's like I never met them. One of the things the winning side did was they kidnapped a bunch of children who'd been born to powerful mages. I ended up being one of them."

Well. Alistair did not expect the conversation to turn to this.

"Damn," he accidentally blurted out, barely audible.

Bo looked to Alistair with a weak smile, and he laughed through his nose. "Yeah. What a way to start, right?"

"I guess you've really lived a life," Alistair murmured. "And it's still only begun."

"If I'd been capable of making jokes when I was say, three years old, I might've told you I could only go up from there," he said.

"I guess... I just don't get it," Alistair sighed. "You were born to powerful mages. And I assume you became a dragon during a pivotal turning point of the world. And you're a natural leader..."

Bo snorted. "Natural," he said. "Sir, you should've seen me when I was your age. You would've hated me."

"But at least you had magic," Alistair countered. "And powerful magic, at that."

Bo turned to give Alistair a flat look.

"Not everything about having powerful magic is positive," Bo said. "I hurt a lot of people in my youth on accident because I didn't know restraint."

Alistair stared down at his hands, feeling the tension in his words. He couldn't even imagine the pain and sorrow that must have came from that. And that was only one part of the hell childhood that he went through.

Bo's expression softened, and he let out a sigh.

"You probably think I was a shoe-in, or should've been, to be an inheritor. On paper, I probably was," Bo said, looking back out to the hills of sand. "But... I needed to do a lot of growing before I became worthy of the title. And even today, I'm not sure that I am. But I'm able to carry it better today than I could back then. I think that counts for something."

Alistair scrubbed his hand through his hair, feeling like he was on the verge of vomiting out his insecurities. He knew Bo was trying to help, but he seriously paled in comparison.

"I know you're trying to help, but--" He paused and cut his hand through the air, palm facing up. "Bo, I'm just some guy. I don't belong here. I don't want anything to do with magic. I don't want to be part of any resistance. I'm just here, suffering, because of 'chosen one' destiny bullshit." He glanced back at him. "No offense."

"None taken," Bo said. "You should've heard what I said to Iqar, when he came to me in a dream. Granted, I was twelve at the time, but I still knew how to curse."

"I get that, and again--" Alistair held up a hand-- "not trying to offend, but you could be saying you talked about griffin shit, and it still wouldn't change how I feel." He sighed deeply, growing more weary. "I'm not up for this, Bo. I really don't think I'll be able to make any impact. I don't even know if my magic will be great. I just don't think I'm the best candidate for this role."

"Who said you had to be great?" Bo asked, turning to look at him.

Alistair broadly gestured around and flatly said, "I'm taking trainings for magic I don't even have right now," he deadpanned.

"No one said you had to be good at it," Bo said.

"And I probably won't be," Alistair affirmed firmly.

"Not at first, you won't," Bo agreed. "No one ever is. This whole idea of someone being 'a natural' is a myth."

Alistair knew that. Gods, he knew that. He heard this so many times already, and this wasn't at all why he was bothered.

Releasing a heavy sigh, he leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands again, absently raking his fingers through his hair. "I don't want to do anything, Bo," he muttered. "I don't really care to be good at anything. I have never wanted to be anything and have never wanted to do anything. That's all."

For once, Bo didn't seem to have any quick quips or sayings. Instead of telling Alistair he should change his mind, Bo just nodded solemnly, and fell to silence.

He may have said nothing, but Alistair could hear his thoughts.

Alistair heavily sighed again. He dropped his arms to drape along his knee but remained keeled over, his hair falling across his forehead.

"I know what you're thinking," he sighed. "I'm not depressed. I don't think so, anyways. I've always been this way. I have friends I care about, and I have a family I love. I even entered a new relationship recently, and it's actually good. But I'm pretty much just going to keep existing until I don't." He paused, grimacing at the thought before uttering, "Which is a thousand years, I guess."

"A relationship, huh?" Bo asked after a beat.

Alistair huffed out of his nose. Of course the goofy one-eyed leader chose this subject to run with.

"Yeah," he replied through another sigh. "Just last month, before shit hit the fan."

"The shit being the dragon things, right?" Bo asked.

"Mhmm."

"Are they nice?" Bo asked.

"The dragon shit? No. But my girlfriend?" Alistair angled himself upwards, leaning forward on his elbows. He shrugged a shoulder. "Eh. I'm probably nicer."

"Shocking," Bo said.

"What?" Alistair said with a raised brow. "You think I only attract nice girls?"

"No," Bo said. "Surprising that you could be nicer."

"Well..." Alistair averted his gaze again. "Not me. I still think I'm too nice for people sometimes."

"How so?" Bo asked.

Alistair grimaced, feeling the itch to smoke a cigarette to calm the growing anxieties from the shitshow of his life this month. He bounced a knee, exhaling loudly. "I'm a fucking doormat," he said flatly.

Bo pursed his lips together, nodding slightly.

"You did agree to come meet Renerre out at an isolated secondary location pretty easily," Bo murmured.

"Well, first of all," he began defensively, "she appeared in my fucking room. Then at my job. She wouldn't leave me alone!"

"Yeah, that was her bad," Bo said. "But still."

"It was absolutely insane. I don't know why I agreed either." Alistair raked both his hands through his hair. "I guess I didn't care too much if an ominous woman appeared in my dreams just so she could take me out to the desert to kill me."

"Do you think there's anyone that would miss you?" Bo asked.

"Well, yeah," Alistair answered. "My brother. My family. Girlfriend. Friends. I'm not alone."

"But you'll make spur of the moment decisions as if you are?" Bo asked.

"Sometimes. That's what happens when you're young and dumb." Alistair vaguely gestured towards him. "Which you can attest to, apparently. Maybe I'll check back in when I'm a hundred years old, too."

Bo offered Alistair a small smile.

"I'll look forward to that," he said.

"Yup," Alistair said, popping the 'p' in great exaggeration. "Sounds great."

There was a brief pause.

"I still do stupid things, by the way," Bo said.

"Unsurprising," Alistair deadpanned.

Bo smiled a little wider. "It's just that now, I do it on purpose."

"How nice," Alistair uttered, still with no enthusiasm.

"One of these days," Bo said. "When you get your wings, I'll have to show you all of the stupid stunts you can pull of when you can fly."

Alistair shook his head. "No thanks. I'd rather stay on my feet."

Bo stared at him for a moment, slowly raising his brows with a grin.

"You know you're going to be the dragon of air magic, right?" he asked.

"Mmhmm. I'm going for irony." Alistair glanced back at him. "Mind if I smoke a cigarette?"

Bo huffed. "Go ahead."

Alistair hadn't planned on smoking in front of either Bo or Renerre, but now he had to for the bit. Though he had to admit: he was long-due a cigarette at this point. All of these trainings stressed him out so much.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled his box of cigarettes and matches out, striking the match along the backside of the box first. Lighting the tar and taking his first breath always sent a sense of calm inside of him.

"About the lifespan of dragons," he started slowly, smoke billowing beside them. "Can they get sick?"

"They can," Bo said. "Though, it's a lot harder for us to."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Dragons heal and recover inhumanly fast," Bo said. "So if we get sick, then we're really sick."

How nice. So it seemed that Alistair could retain his smoking habit for a thousand years and be fine. Finally, some good fucking news.

He didn't comment further, instead taking in a drag of the smoke and doing the mental math on how many cigarettes he'd smoke at year one thousand. "A metric fuckton" was what he settled on, especially if he needed to smoke a little more every month to tame the addiction.

"You can still get hurt, though," Bo said. "You won't be invincible."

Alistair paused, stealing a hesitant glance his way. He didn't know what to do with that information, but he supposed it was good to know. "Alright then," he murmured.

"I say that mostly as a warning," Bo said. "But also to add on this advice: be very careful of who you tell. There's a reason dragons haven't shown their faces since the war."

Alistair stopped bouncing his knee, faltering at the thought. "Should I..." he began, trailing off to tap the ash away from the cigarette. "Should I even tell anyone?"

"I don't want you to feel like you can't tell anyone," Bo said. "But whomever you do confide in, you should have confidence that they will take the time to understand, but also will understand the importance of keeping it secret; as well as have the ability to keep it. There are people out there in the world who want to kill dragons. And have."

Alistair fiddled with the cigarette, feeling antsy again despite the nicotine rushing through his veins. He thought about the people he would like to tell. It was everyone in his life he was more open with: Alan, Aisling, Mireya, Shay... Did he trust them all? Did he trust them with his life?

He did. But what about ten lives? Alistair felt a weight pressing down on him again, traces of dread filling his stomach.

"What if... it accidentally gets out?" he asked absently. "Say I tell someone, and it inadvertently gets revealed to someone I don't know or trust. Things like that."

"That's when you lean on the people you've told to protect you," Bo said.

"How many people have you told?" Alistair asked.

Bo looked down at his hand, counting with his fingers. It didn't take very long.

"Three," he said. "Not including other dragons."

"What's their relationship to you?" Alistair asked.

"Two of them are my best friends," Bo said. "The third died a long time ago. She was my girlfriend at the time."

Alistair stared into his cigarette, watching the ash droop before falling into the sand by his feet. He felt the dread in his stomach pool even more, opening into his blood. This same subject had crossed his mind multiple times as he was kept awake trying to process and make sense of all the implications of becoming a dragon.

"I take it that romance isn't on the agenda for most dragons," he said softly. "Sorry. That's rough."

Bo tilted his head to the side with a sigh. "It's true, that you can end up watching your partner age, while you stay the same. Jess died suddenly, though."

Bo looked over to Alistair with a sad smile. "She was an air mage, too."

Alistair faintly nodded. "Still a tragedy, all the same." He paused. "Did her passing change your outlook on things?"

"I'd say so," Bo said. "I don't think it made me opposed to romance forever, but it definitely made me more careful about who I give my heart to. I'm probably more careful than I ought to be, but... I can't rush my heart into being ready. So it is where it is."

A beat.

"It also admittedly gets really weird looking for love when you're twice most people's age, if not more, and then the ones in your age bracket are a few years away from biting the dust," Bo said. "But hey. Not your dilemma yet, at least."

Alistair thought talking about this would help, but it only made him more nervous. "Yeah..." he sighed, exhaling the smoke he breathed in from the drag. "Yeah. Okay."

"I know that's a whole 'nother can of worms you probably didn't anticipate opening," Bo said. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine," he muttered. "It's good to know, I guess."

"I guess," Bo agreed softly.

Alistair couldn't bring himself to keep the conversation going. He was perfectly content in saying nothing, doing nothing-- just sitting, with another dragon, thinking dragon thoughts, all while smoking addictive tar that was bound to kill him early if he wasn't so-called destined to do great things.

"Have you ever tried meditation?" Bo asked after a long silence.

The question was so out of left field, Alistair couldn't help but cast him an odd look. "No?" he replied questioningly.

"It's a spiritual discipline most mages learn, early on," Bo said. "But you don't need to be a mage to learn it."

He huffed out a puff of air, shaking his head and pulling the half-spent cigarette to his lips. "You think I'd benefit from that, then," he concluded. "Why?"

"Sometimes it helps break the cyclical thinking in my head," Bo said. "I just thought maybe it could help yours."

Alistair furrowed his brows. "You think I have cyclical thinking?"

"You've been worrying about the implications of all of this for days, now, right?" Bo asked.

"Well, yeah. I'm walking into a thousand-year journey. I can't not think about what comes with that."

"If you want to start a journey that long, it helps to have some tools along the way to sustain your heart and mind in the midst of it," Bo said.

Alistair sighed. "Sure. I can give it some consideration, along with all this other training."

"I think we can be done for today, though," Bo said with a faint smile. "You seem pretty tuckered out."

"Mmm... yeah." Alistair squinted towards the sky, noting the position of the sun. It couldn't have been past late afternoon or early evening. "I could use a nap."

And not wake up until tomorrow.