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."