They went on like that—her picking at his leftovers as he ate, both swathed in awkward silence—until the meal was done. He licked the stickiness from his fingers, and she watched, a wall building in her throat. All the words she was sure she'd prepared to say were gone.

Seeking a way to avoid staring for too long, her gaze drifted to the discarded pipe set beside his thigh. Though she'd seen reasonably similar instruments before, usually carved by a man with too much time on his hands and solemnly blown in long, laboured notes at the side of the street, this one's shape was decidedly foreign. Its end billowed out like a pressed skirt, wide and flat. The thin read nestled into the other end had the aged look of something used time and time again. Even the shade of the wood was unfamiliar, a red-tinted sepia that matched no tree she'd ever seen before.

It had never occurred to her that beastfolk would care for such things, but when his eyes slid to follow where she looked, deep affection blossomed within them. Wariness clipped its edges as he snagged her gaze. "You will take it?"

She stole a breath, aware of how tight her lungs were beginning to feel, and managed to shake her head.

He fingered the edges of the empty plate in his lap. Long, pale bangs fell in front of his eyes, shielding them. "You were angry—"

"I was worried," she said quickly, stumbling over the words. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped. I know this must be..." She rolled her tongue around her mouth, hands wriggling under her legs and then back out again. The base of one heel dug into the other. "Hard."

Hard was a small, simple word, and it felt stupid to say. She wanted to kick herself—really kick herself, not the pathetic ache of her feet pressed together as the pressure increased.

While she chewed her lip, she dared to peer across at him. His ears twitched downward again, caught in perpetual motion as the thoughtful look on his face darkened.

"What is it?" she asked, latching onto the question and holding tight when it lifted his head. "The, ah..." She flicked a glance at the pipe again.

He scratched a spot beneath one of those long, drooped ears, ruffling the whitish hair nestled there. "I... do not know what you would call it."

"Pipe?" she offered tentatively. It didn't sound right. Frowning, she dug deeper, selecting an older word. "Flute?"

"Flute," he echoed, nodding slowly. "I like that word."

He did have such a soft voice, despite the rolled, growling twang of his accent. She tried a smile. "It's a lovely flute."

His fingers drifted along the flute's length in a light, careful caress, and his lips tweaked in a distant smile. Like the trickling sunlight, it was bright but quick to wane. His nostrils twitched with his slow, laden sigh. The scrunch of his shoulders diminished his size, draining the brief, gentle peace he'd held and reshaping it into a far heavier sadness. The pain seemed to gush from nowhere, but it had a raw, unmasked nature that felt so unfamiliar it hollowed out Raya's chest.

Her throat was dry. With difficulty, she summoned back her voice. "I'm sorry," she repeated, ashamed she couldn't find anything more to say. It sounded stilted: a small, callous murmur when he needed far more than her empty apologies.

When he didn't reply, her guilt pooled into the air in the shape of icicles. Her room wasn't cold, but a shiver looped her spine all the same, tying aching knots around her bones. It would be rude to leave. She couldn't flee, but the sheer weight of emotion wrapped her throat and threatened to choke her.

Some selfish part of her writhed. She'd saved his life. She'd brought him a meal, put everything at stake in her pledge to protect him. That part asked how much more he wanted her to give before he'd stop wallowing in what he couldn't have, things that were out of her control. It wanted her to truly be angry.

The thought made her wince. She wished it wasn't so awfully loud. Her tongue stung from how hard she bit into it, but even that wouldn't chase it away.

"This home is small."

She jerked towards the sound of Corvin's voice, tense.

Lips pressed into a thin line, he scanned each corner of the room before finally lifting his gaze to hers. "Do you not find it small?"

Awkwardly, she shrugged. "It isn't that small, really. Some houses are... smaller." Words that meant nothing. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, heart flapping like it had sprouted nonsensical wings.

He shuddered. "Strange."

"Why? Do you live..." She trailed off, unsure how to word it right. How did he live? What was home to someone inhuman?

"My home is free." That distant look overtook his expression again, accompanied by a slight shift in his tone, one that carved his words in a more jagged incline. "Not restricted, like humans. It is wherever we make it." His head dropped, the surety settling back into quiet softness within the instant. "It was that way. I do not know where home is now."

A myriad of questions bubbled to the surface, but Raya swallowed every one. The courage to stay here was all she had; much as she wanted to understand, she couldn't make herself ask. He deserved his secrets, after all. She had no right to them.

Instead, she let her thoughts drift along their own path and found they latched on one particular word. "Free," she echoed, surprised by the buoyancy of the smile that rose. "That's a pretty idea."

His brow furrowed. "Pretty. Like..." He trailed off with a hum, and suddenly his stare was piercing, freezing her in place. "Like fiction."

Her laugh fit wrong in her mouth, forced and filled with regret the moment she pushed it out. It was too loud. Her nails dug into her palm. "I suppose it feels like fiction to me, since I—I'm not used to such an idea."

"Do you not leave the city?"

Her skin prickled. "Only for—" She bit down on the sentence hard, alarm jolting through her. Mages only ventured outside of Tehazhibith to hunt down beastfolk. She had no desire to remind either of her or Corvin of that horrible truth, though blanking it from her mind felt like trying to suffocate a beast three times her size. With a thin, strained voice, she managed to say, "I've never left, no."

If he'd noticed her slip, he didn't show it. His eyes were round and earnest as he leaned over, fingers curling into the sheets and face turned up at her from a lowered angle "This makes you feel trapped?"

Raya's pause sat like a brick on her chest.

His head cocked to the side. Sympathy, clear as day, formed a hazy shimmer in his eyes. She found herself fighting the seizing, inexplicable urge to cry.

"All the time," she whispered.

His hand landed on her knee. Something fierce had overtaken his red-tinted eyes now, a determination just as raw as his sadness but doubly as strong. "I will take you."

A quake of a breath burst from her, too flat to be a full gasp, thin with disbelief. "But you—"

"When I have healed some." He nodded, drawing back, like it was all decided. "I must show you free."

"Why?" she choked out.

His grin was so gentle that she forgot the curving, knived points of his antlers, could let herself believe the pale way his complexion twisted the light was entirely natural. Fear dribbled away. "To thank you," he said, "yes? For helping me." His ears bounced, points flicking up. "You are different from all the other humans, Raya."

Her gut twisted, and she tugged her gaze aside, mouth dry with a sour, bitter taste. "Different is hardly a good thing," she murmured.

"It is good," he insisted. His nose twitched as his smile faltered, drooping along with one crookedly-angled ear. "Others would not protect me."

She wished she could argue. Yasmin had a kind, sweet soul. Hariq was built with nobility and goodness flowing in his veins, the best the city could offer when it came to faith or lawfulness or virtue. Tens and hundreds of others were more capable than Raya was, better to each other, full of the right words to say and an aptitude she could only pretend to possess. But Yasmin would do as she was bidden as always: turn Corvin over to those who would do the deed without argument, bow her head and let the rules take the lead. Hariq would drive a blade through any being his beloved god called wrong. He wouldn't think twice. He'd think it dirty to do otherwise. She deserved his hate.

She certainly didn't deserve the reverence with which Corvin was looking at her now, like she was to be put on some pedestal simply for daring to make the only choice she had the stomach for. Bones like lead, she stared at her feet.

Corvin's gloved hand found hers again, his touch light and shaky, then steadier when their fingers intertwined. He squeezed. He was close enough that strands of his whitish hair brushed her peripheral vision. "Will you come? I promise you will like it."

She should refuse. She was busy. She was risking enough hiding in here so often, sinking into quiet solitude in an attempt to trap her tongue. She was wanted everywhere all the time. Her absence would be noticed, and it would place a chink in her perfection.

And what lay outside Tehazihbith was supposed to be terrifying.

But she wasn't afraid of Corvin, and with every slow breath she took with him waiting beside her, resisting the pull of her own curiosity grew more difficult. His hand felt so ordinary in hers—not tight with expectancy but offering guidance. He made free sound so easy.

She'd saved him because she wanted answers, hadn't she? Wasn't this opportunity exactly that?

Drawing her shoulders back, she returned his hand's squeeze. When she met his eyes, she held herself there, hoping she could mirror that ceaseless determination. It felt like fire in her ribcage.

"Okay," she said. "When you're doing better, you'll take me beyond the border."

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