Astrid had betrayed him. 

Kept things from him. 

She had lied to him since they had met, but what did it truly matter in the grander scheme of it all?

Sebastian watched her from his place beside Serah, the stump beneath his buttocks prickly and rough even with the thick pants Serah had brought for both him and Astrid through the portal. The two of them had changed into the new clothes quickly, on completely opposite sides of the clearing, as if the silence between them hadn't provided enough distance.

He also doubted either one wanted to strip down in front of the other.

It hadn't only been pants the Scribe had brought from Halorium for the third task, but Serah's bundle had also included leather bracers and greaves—as if he should anticipate being shot at with arrows—a new black tunic, a fur-lined cloak, and freshly polished boots with three different buckles and thick, leather laces.

All of it had fit a bit snugly, but it was hardly unbearable. Just uncomfortable. Not physically, but more emotionally. He felt on display, the tunic hugging his chest, sculpting the light muscles of his arms, and embracing the shape of his thighs. It felt like skin. At least it was lined with a thick, soft material to help keep his body heat regulated because as the sun had set, the temperature had fallen dramatically.

When he had caught sight of himself in the small, perfectly round lake they had found earlier as he had rinsed his face, he had startled at his reflection. The man that had stared back at him looked nothing like the scholarly fisherboy from Eilibir. The dark material of his new clothes brought out the green in his eyes so vibrantly that they shone like the surrounding vibrant foliage of the Fae's realm. His spectacles had been left behind in the Iced Fortress, he imagined. With his golden skin and the sleek, black leather, he looked almost dangerous, a warrior of Soleita.

He scoffed at that vision even now as he watched Astrid disappear from the clearing. Her braided hair fell down her back in a tangled, bright mess as she stalked away towards the nearby lake they had chosen to camp by for the night. Her own dark clothes blended into the shadows.

They had fit her tightly, as well, and Sebastian couldn't deny that his lungs had stuttered when he had first seen her in them.

Which didn't make logical sense since he always saw her in the similar fit of the Iced Guard's uniform. Well, without the armor, that was.

Don't forget that dress, his brain reminded him all too helpfully right then, that constellation gown from the Saviour's Toast that made you whisper in Scribal tongue to her.

"Draco Ignis," he had muttered. "Dragon Fire."

It had seemed accurate, at the time, considering female dragon-shifters were one of the most seductive creatures in all the lore Imogene had ever told him.

Sebastian scowled at himself, kicking a lone stick into the fire; he kept the flames hidden from prying eyes by practicing his manipulation over Darkness's threads. Under Serah's watchful eyes, of course. With her ability to speak returned, Sebastian had learned that she was as wise as any tutor. Not to mention a little bossy.

"Your shadows have slipped," she instructed now. "Just there. You see?"

Sebastian grunted and tugged the threads closer, dousing the slim centimeter circumference of flames that had been exposed by his lack of focus brought on by Astrid.

Logic, Bash, he heard Abel tell him, focus with your brain. Not your manhood.

Well, then.

Sebastian felt his cheeks flush, even though Abel was nowhere near, let alone Astrid, and focused on their small fire once more. It popped and crackled merrily, even though he felt anything but that. How could he? Yes, he had been prepared to help Astrid free her father as soon as he had learned of who was imprisoned in Davina's Monverta in Lambert's office. Of course he had been. Because if it were his mother or father that had been trapped, he would hope that Astrid wouldn't hesitate to help him. And she would never hesitate. He knew that much of her, at least. She wouldn't even pause for a thought of a moment. He was sure of it. The girl he had come to know, though she put up a selfish, incredibly cold front, was truly selfless and sincere, willing to harm herself if it meant helping him.

But then this.

What would happen to him if he did free her father?

Serah had claimed it would change him, that he would never be the same, but how would it change him, exactly?

He preferred to be precise about such matters.

Astrid had claimed she was unaware of what such a feat would do, but after the lies, could he dare to trust her still? 

Sebastian must have glanced at the spot where Astrid had disappeared between the trees because Serah cleared her ravaged throat and said so raspy that, for a wild moment, he thought it had been the fire that had spoken to him, "You could talk to her."

"Astrid, you mean."

"I fail to see any other young women around these parts," Serah concluded.

Not sure what to say in response to that, Sebastian simply humphed, glowering into the flames. The shadows he had called upon flickered.

"Careful," Serah warned.

He pulled the dark threads tighter between his thumb and forefinger before asking under his breath, "You truly believe I'm the Promised One?"

"We hope you to be."

That wasn't an answer. In fact, it was a non-answer, the type of nonsense that he typically hated when it came to facts and figures. But now—it almost comforted him. Perhaps it truly wasn't his burden to bear.

Hopefully.

He frowned and grasped at a short straw. "The Saviour's Prophecy does not allude to an Author. It could be anyone."

She slid her fingers across the log between them and scrawled onto the back of his hand: Quill.

Right. The Black Quill. Hidden by Pavel Kyiva and passed down before that through the Kyiva line. His family line. Sebastian could only grunt once more before agreeing, "And only Authors can use the quill."

Serah inclined her head, tone somber. "And you are the last of them."

"So, Astrid is not?" Sebastian asked. "She is truly cursed, then?" By my father, he added to himself. He picked at his clothes, unraveling a loose thread from his tunic.

"Unless she nulls Gaia's curse."

Sebastian glanced at Serah sideways, the fire's flame warming the right side of his jaw. It somehow reminded him of Astrid's fingers on his face as she had kissed him in those tunnels not too long ago. Before his world imploded. He had to shake his head before continuing.

"What would happen to me, should I choose to help her? Do you know?"

Serah wrote two letters into his hand—no—and then released a ragged breath. "It is not known for certain," she explained, "but it is true that, with the Black Quill, your soul should be spared."

"Meaning it would be sent to Eyelesene instead of the Abyss?"

"The Abyss is not a prison for the dead," Serah corrected. "It is for the condemned."

Sebastian shuddered. Hopefully not him, then, whether he be dead or alive. "Meaning," Serah continued when Sebastian had only continued to stare into the fire, imagining its thoughts as his own, "your soul would remain with you, not trapped in the Monverta in Niklaus's place."

"You said I would be different."

"But I cannot determine how," Serah corrected. "Such a feat has never been accomplished nor attempted. Not in my life-time, at least."

"It is an unknown," Sebastian murmured to himself, but Serah nodded and patted the back of his hand in comfort like his ma had done in his childhood. "You knew my father well." The words nearly stuck in the back of his throat. "You were his Scribe."

There was a moment of pause before Serah pulled her hand back to her lap and said, "Whether your father still lives or not, I know he will be forever proud of you and the life that you have been gifted." Her tone wavered, but her dark eyes met his steadily. "I also know he would have never hesitated to put another's well-being above his own if it was someone he loved."

Sebastian startled, Darkness's thread slipping through his grasp. "I do not love her."

Serah only grinned, a soft smile that crinkled her face as she turned away to stare into the fire with him. "I never claimed you did."

The stump beneath him seemed to harden, and he shifted uncomfortably, not particularly enjoying this conversation but unable to remove his brain from it. Instead, it lingered, stabbing through his thoughts until his hands shook against his hold on the elements. He half-growled at the thread, at the direction of his thoughts, at the image of Astrid, standing beneath the Damsel's Gowns, the iced over pines sparking rainbows from the light of the moon and stars, as he had assured her it was not a bad thing to care for someone. Part of him wanted to laugh darkly at his foolishness back then.

Those words had become a dangerous pile of rubbish now.

It was absolutely a dangerous thing to do. Caring for someone. It could destroy a man.

And then it was not only her face he saw in his mind, but he heard her voice as well as she had proclaimed, "His life is his own...It is his to do with as he chooses."

But, when it came to Astrid, what was his choice?

Before he had fully processed it, he was on his feet, the shadows falling away from their small fire, the threads dropping from his fingers like loosened confinements.

Serah clicked her newly formed tongue—Astrid had done that. Healed her. She has healed you. Abel—"Douse the flames before you go," the Scribe said. "I have learned to be at home in the cold and dark."

That should have made him pause, had him staying there with her to keep her monsters at bay put there by Davina's captivity, but, despite it all, there was a light in her voice. A spot of pleased contentment within their current dire circumstance, and she waved her hands at him when he turned back to her. Go on, they seemed to say, Shoo.

His choice terrifyingly made, he went. 

_ _ _

What is Bash's choice? Well, you'll have to wait a bit to find out since the next chapter is from Abel's perspective based on where we left off with her in the epilogue of book 1. See you then!