Ryffin was going to be the death of him.

But that would be a damned good way to die, thought Marches as he stepped up beside the alchemist facing the abyss that was the entrance to Silver Knife Square, now shifted to the back of a run-down pub down in the squalor of the lower district.

All the poor (only figuratively) sorcerer ever wanted was to do his job in the peace and quiet of his beautiful tower up at the palace, and occasionally have breakdowns, clutching a bottle of strong Velan wine and scribble sad poetry on rainy nights, but this wonderful man had barged into his life after years of disappearance, and whisked him off to an adventure he'd never dreamed of having.

And so here he was, dressed not in silk robes but coarse wolf-hide cloak and common attire, about to step into the most notorious part of the city to purchase an item that may or may not be a banned narcotic. The previous hour of journey from the palace had passed in a blur, the only clear image was of Ryffin at the doorstep of his tower, from where usually troubles came into his otherwise peaceful workspace.

"You ready?" asked Ryffin now as he slipped on the Quarleen mask he'd borrowed from Farren.

"Why don't I get to have one of those masks?" he grumbled.

"Ah, Sergeant Linder said he had another, but he left it in his office--" Ryffin said with a mischievous air, "--which is simply a coincidence and not part of a devious plan to murder you in the dark."

Marches gulped, not at all terrified. "Must you be so needlessly ominous?"

Quarleen's wooden smiling face peered down at him the next moment, Ryffin's words coming muffled from behind as he finally took a good look at him, up and down. "Gotta say this attire looks rather nice on you. I'd almost believe that you are a hardworking man who does not complain of sore joints every now and then."

Looks rather nice on you. Rather nice. He said nice-- Marches' heart fluttered, but he grumbled some more in response. "Poking fun at the pain of a suffering man. Marvellous, Ryffin Wellis."

The alchemist answered with a hearty, ringing laugh, free like the racing wind, spontaneous like a mountain stream--and fingers locked with his, hands tightly clasped. The next moment, he was pulled into the inky darkness of the enchanted alleys as Ryffin lunged forward with a start.

For the first few moments Marches saw nothing but darkness because his eyes were squinted shut for fear of the virulent magic trying to burn his flesh off. But when none such dreadful thing happened and he opened his eyes just a crack, he still saw nothing but black, for such were the enchanted alleys to the naked eye.

Shivers ran down his spine, the story of the Royal Sorcerer emerging into his mind. These cold stones underneath his feet, these alleys forever plunged into darkness--through this place had the Royal Guard marched to put to death one of his predecessors. A ghastly severed head swam into his mind's eye and he grasped Ryffin's arm ever tighter.

Much to his horror, Ryffin halted in his tracks right in the middle of...well, the abyss. Marches collided into him. "What on earth?"

"Look at these runes, Ellanher," he said, reaching up to the damp walls--at least Marches thought he did, because he could see nothing. "Aren't these just...wonderful?"

From the rustle of clothes, it seemed Ryffin was running his fingers upon the walls. "These runes come from an ancient language spoken by the first peoples of this land, you know. From it came the tongues we speak today."

Marches wondered if he should interrupt him to remind that he had no mask to see the wonders he was talking about before a chuckle sounded in the dark.

"Look at me, rambling on while you can't see a thing," Ryffin said, before taking off his mask. "Here you go."

Ryffin stepped closer, his face inches from Marches as he positioned the Quarleen mask. His fingers brushed past his jaw and over his ears as he fastened the leather strings. The sorcerer stood very still, wishing the bothersome piece of wood was not between them.

A green glow filled his vision the next moment as he looked through the lenses set in the mask's eyes.

The sorcery in the air grew stronger the nearer he went to the walls, his hand never slipping from Ryffin's.

All around him, the dark walls were etched with ancient runes, emitting a cold glow. He'd been taught about them back in the academy, but he could only recognise some of the symbols, for sorcerous arts as such had become desolate with time.

Except for some.

Those rare few studied them. They held them back with loving hands to keep the sorcery of old from being lost within the sands of time. The grand library at the academy held a gateway to such arcane knowledge, yet most leafed through those tomes only to cram for examinations, and Marches himself had been one of them. But right at the opposite table there was Ryffin, those silly correction glasses hung before his eyes, reading what the curriculum hardly ever talked about.

Beside him, the alchemist now ran his hand over the walls in awe, the glow a sharp glint in his unseeing eyes.

Without thinking much--for it always gave Marches the symptoms of indigestion-- he reached out and took Ryffin's hand, guiding his fingers along the stone and placing it upon one of the symbols he did not recognise.

"Which one does this stand for?" asked Marches.

Eyes closed, Ryffin smiled, tracing the shape of the marking with the sorcerer's help. "A combination...of multiple signs. This means, roughly put: to break."

Marches was astonished, as he often was in his company. "Gods, can you actually see without a mask?"

"No?" Ryffin laughed, shaking his head. "But I see them in my mind's eye. Clear as daylight."

Marches felt the rough stone press up against his back as Ryffin moved closer, one hand placed upon the wall beside him.

Marches moved his hand to another symbol he did recognise. "And...what's this?"

"Path." Ryffin frowned. "Come on, there's no way you didn't know that one."

Marches didn't care if he did, for he wanted to hear more anyway, the lilt in his voice better than the finest wine. He moved to another, feverishly. "This one?"

"Light," said Ryffin, another step closer.

"And this one?"

"This one says: go sit at the academy with the first years, Ellanher." Marches felt a gust of warm breath ruffle his hair as Ryffin huffed, half in amusement and half in exasperation. Twang went the leather strings as his mask was snatched and his wrist grabbed. Darkness flooded his vision again, the eerie green glow vanishing.

Ryffin stepped away. "Let us not hang around this dreary place for too long, shall we? You can relearn the runes back at the palace."

"Right," said Marches, trying to gather his wits and--

"Sweet Mother--!" He swore.

He'd promptly stubbed his toe on a rock that jutted out of the ground. The pain shot up his leg with a soul-rattling jolt. From the crumbling feeling in his boot, he was sure he had fractured the bone. Splendid!

"There, there," Ryffin helped him upright and patted his shoulder--which, though soothed his heart, helped not his poor toe. They resumed walking, with Marches having to cling to his arm for support. "You, sir, have an alarming lack of sense of self-preservation. Falling face-first into floors, plummeting down stairwells, and now this! Let's have a look at it once we're out of here," said Ryffin.

Marches said nothing, his eyes watering from the sharp pain. It would be rather anticlimactic if he were to die from a stubbed toe. At least Cazdon had a noteworthy death, its grim story told in hushed whispers.

"Tell me--tell me how the enchanted alleys work," he gasped, trying to shake his mind off things. If he were to die here today, better it be Ryffin's voice the last thing he heard. "Will you--Will you be able to ha-handle it in my...absence?"

"Sure!" said Ryffin, heartbreakingly clueless. "The enchanted alleys are built on a very simple principle. It is one of the many techniques used to manipulate space. Portalways are an example, as the one I have back at home, and those we constructed over the battlements."

Marches sputtered and gasped. "Y-yes."

Ryffin nodded. "But unlike the majority of techniques which allow the user to utilise space to their advantage and are harmless, Cazdon's work is a trap meant to confuse an enemy. The enchantment at work here neither adds or erases space, but breaks it. The length of the alley remains the same, but the very space is split into many pieces, giving the appearance of a never-ending maze. No light from the outside can pass through this distorted space, keeping the alleys submerged into permanent darkness."

Marches shivered. "So that's why they say you can never get out without the Quarleen masks. Are they really blessed, though?"

"More with logic than any Goddess's grace, I'd say," said Ryffin, and in the dark Marches felt him hold the mask before his eyes. The movement he knew so well from his days back at the academy, this was exactly how he used to wear those--

"Correction glasses!" Ryffin laughed aloud. "Set in the eyes of Quarleen masks. Praise be to the Patroness of Thieves!"

Through the lenses set in the mask, Marches could once again see the runes.

"Getting out of the alleys is easy enough. Once you can see the runes, just follow the walls," said Ryffin. "Cazdon had quite the nerve, using such harmless proofreading equipment to create what is quite literally a death trap."

Marches took in a shuddering breath as the weight of Ryffin's words struck him.

So many folk had walked through these alleys, some crooked thugs, others not so much. But never had anyone touched upon those forlorn runes so lovingly, nor cared to read what message they bore as he did. These masks, so many people wore, yet only one pair of forest eyes saw the truth untold through those glasses.

Marches' pain was quite gone.

On they went, toward the end of the alley where daylight flickered, blinding and bright. There he turned once to glance over his shoulder at Marches, his face heavenly against the backdrop of streaming sunlight.

✦✧✦✧

"You're bleeding," said Ryffin once he'd helped him pull off his boot. It turned out he'd actually broken a nail in half. Blood flowed bright red. Marches tried not to look at it.

"Let's get going," he said, getting off with a grunt from the cobbled pavement where he was sitting.

Ryffin looked most bewildered. "Surely you don't plan to limp all the way like that?"

Being the Royal Sorcerer and used to lavish carriages and usually working within the safety of his tower, he'd hardly ever got any serious injuries. For little cuts or burns-- he'd had the king's own physician always at his disposal.

Marches shrugged, for the pain had numbed. "What else?" He tapped his chin. "Maybe we'll hail a carriage on the way back. We've got work to do. Let's go."

"Heal it," said Ryffin. "I'll wait. A basic healing spell should do the trick."

Marches found the gravel at his feet rather interesting.

Ryffin gawked at him, his mouth falling open. "Don't tell me...you don't know healing spells?"

"I've...never had the need," said Marches, averting his eyes.

"You are well-versed in Ancient Sorcery, but don't know basic healing?"

Marches could not see why this was such a grievous matter, though. "Neither do most of the soldiers in the army, and they deal with dangerous situations on a daily basis."

"You are the Royal Sorcerer, Ellanher."

And with work like that came luxury. Marches did not even need to lift a finger if he spilled wine on his robes, for servants would magick away the stains at the blink of an eye. Healing his own injuries was a far-fetched tale.

Ryffin sighed and got on one knee before him. He took out a handkerchief and muttered to himself as he wiped the blood off his foot. "This is also a reason why humble household magic will ever remain an undiscovered branch of sorcery. You people would rather master the forces of nature than heal a burn you got from the stove."

"I've never used a stove," said Marches, wincing as Ryffin worked a simple healing spell.

"'Twas a metaphor," Ryffin said as he tore apart the clean side of the kerchief and tied his toe with it. The nail mended, the bleeding staunched. Then he glanced up and grinned. "I doubt you've even seen anything like stoves, other than alchemy burners."

Marches sputtered. "Excuse you, sir--"

Two strong hands clasped his arms as Ryffin got him to his feet. "I'm serious," he said. "Take the time to learn a few healing spells. They'll serve you when you need it. Dangerous times are ahead, my friend."

He made a mental note of it as the two then hurried down Ebon street. The place was nowhere near as gloomy as Farren had said it would be, not with the rest of the city preparing for the Spring Fest. The festive air did not need a Quarleen mask to reach this place past the enchanted alleys. Although cheery garland decorations lined the tops of the shops and music rode the air, the path underneath was treacherous with the slush of snow melting in the sun.

Keeping the bustling floating market of Ebon Street to the right, they finally came upon the shop they'd been looking for--a particularly grim looking one selling alchemy ingredients. Ritual chalk they got quickly enough--a big bundle of it-- but that was hardly the only thing they were after today.

What the sorcerer and the alchemist were looking for came swaggering out of a dank alley, in their dozens, bearing spiked mallets, lit smoke rolls between their filed teeth, once the two had stepped out of the shop.

The Countess's folk approached them.

Ain't no need to look for them, Farren had said. They'll find you if you don't pay the toll first.

And sure enough, here they were. One, seemingly the leader, came forward and looked down at Marches, a rusty hatchet in one hand. "Sure hope you've got the coin, Mister. Double now, since yous didn't greet Countess first."

When Marches had, after years of relentless studying, passed the selection and got at last his appointment at the palace and was driven close to tears, he hadn't imagined there would come a time he would be dealing with sour-breathed thugs. He donned his best mask of professional detachment and tossed them a jingling bag of gold.

"And take this message to the Countess," he said. "She'll reward you for this."

Narrow eyes looked up from hungrily counting the coins. "What is it?"

"Tell her to gather all the craftsmen of Silver Knife Square. We are placing an order for Quarleen masks. Two hundred of them," said Marches.

The thugs gave him crooked grins. "Oho? And who's gonna pay for them? King Forthwind himself?"

Marches and Ryffin looked at each other, then faced the group, smiling. "Why, of course he will."

Marches reached into his shirt, and slid a letter out of it, bearing the King's seal--the very same counterfeit one Lysandra had once crafted to sanction relief funds for the lower district. He could not be prouder of his pupil for learning this questionable trick with such efficacy.

The smoke roll hit the cobbles in a flair of gold sparks as the thug's mouth fell open. "Praise be to Quarleen, how on earth did you--"

"Run quick," said the sorcerer with a soft smile. "lest we find better craftsmen elsewhere."

✦✧✦✧

╭⋟───────────────────────╮

╰───────────────────────⋞╯

✦✧✦✧

The way Farren's arm hit the table with a thud was tragic, to say the least.

The patrons of the tavern right down in the market district groaned in unison, but Rendarr the loudest amongst them. "Not again!," cried he.

"Must've been a fluke," said Farren, chugging down a tankard full of Goldcrest whisky, hoping against hope it would give her strength. The drink spilled over the corners of her mouth.

Coins exchanged hands and flagons slammed down on tabletops, some soldiers hollering for another round of ale, others singing along with Hilda as she played the lute, the victory of the battle of the Isles in the heyday of Midaelia coming alive in her melodious voice.

The soldiers surely needed the boost in morale, determined as they were to rescue Commander Karyk from the clutches of the Drisians. Today they had gathered, a final feast before they set out for Drisia come the morrow.

"And so shall the lands sing, the glory of our undefeated king!" went the song.

"Another round, miss?" asked Farren's Velan opponent, double her size, twice her bulk. Another horrible decision, in the flesh.

"Never do we back down, for lies our loyalty with the Crown." Drumming of hands upon the tabletop punctuated the beats that followed. "Beware ye devils, keep wary watch, 'neath the blue banner shall we march!"

Farren tried to offer a dashing grin in answer, but it looked more like a monkey baring its teeth in a grimace. Her arm ached, knuckles yet throbbing from her last defeat. "Always, my good sir. Never do we back down."

"We'll see," chuckled Gunvald, leisurely tossing peanuts into his mouth while Farren groaned and strained in an attempt to move his arm an inch.

She failed miserably.

Their hands clasped in battle, the immoral bastard in her cried out. Yet she dared not use magic to cheat, for this was not the Velan mercenary Bjorn but his twin brother, Gunvald-- a battlemage well-versed in sorcery. One who could and would break her face if she was caught cheating.

This was all Bjorn's fault, of course. The dear, dear man had absolutely no business going up to his brother and recommending Farren as a worthy opponent.

"Give it a go, I say. She is extraordinary in armwrestling," he'd said. "Can hold her drink like no other."

Bless him and his untainted trust in crooks who rob him of money.

Losing to a man identical to the one she defeated was shameful, to say the least.

Farren embraced honourable defeat when her arm hit the table a fourth time. Cheers came from the crowd, from those who'd placed their money on Gunvald.

Perhaps she should've kept the deal, for the sake of tavern games. At the other end of the bar, Gray was stuttering something to Rendarr, who was far more interested in grabbing the pastries from Gray's plate. Even though this was their last day before the journey began, Linder had not come to see her off, much too engrossed in work. Farren dropped her head face-first on the table.

Hilda slipped into the chair opposite her after Gunvald was gone for a refill, a plate in hand. "Hey, at least you didn't cheat this time. Here, liven up. Saved you some of these amazing roasted mushrooms."

Farren raised not her head, but her mouth watered at the spicy aroma. "Bring me poisoned mead, bard. How am I to live?"

"Very well," said Hilda thickly as shovelled roasted mushrooms into her mouth. "More for me, then!"

She yielded at last. "Tell me this," asked Farren as she ate, "what is Bjorn doing in a company of battlemages if he ain't one? I distinctly remember him saying he didn't know much about magic."

Hilda's eyes glittered. "Ah, so that's how you bested him, eh? Very naughty." Her face sobered then. "My friend Bjorn may not know sorcery, but he is devoted to his vow to stand unafraid by his brother against all adversities. Gunvald set out as a young lad to find work, for his family was in need. Years went by as he mastered the ways of a battlemage and finally ended up here. Bjorn has followed right into his footsteps and in that, we honour their brotherhood. Wielder of magic or not, he is as good a battlemage as any of us."

Farren looked down at her boots and sighed, feeling rather small for having cheated him. "I feel like an arse."

"Funny," said the bard. "Folk who are don't usually realise it."

"I have swindled an honourable warrior." Oh, Farren did not like this. How and when did she become infected with...morals? Yet keeping her cheating a secret did not go too well with her idea of a 'new beginning' ever since renouncing the deal. She sniffed her tankard to make sure the drink was not spiked.

"I think--" Farren clutched her head, "--I'm having a conscience...? Nope, don't like this. Let me be a crook in peace!"

Perhaps it was the influence of a certain God who'd appeared out of nowhere from within a stone statue. He was not here of course, because the captain had dragged him off somewhere to buy him winter gear and scarves, despite his various protests that cold did not bother him in the slightest.

Hilda laughed as she thumped a hand to her back. "Don't hold it back, or you'll get heartburn. I know how to free you of this agony."

"You shoved my head in a sac and abducted me," Farren said wryly. "Ah well, I have made several poor choices already. Let's hear your wretched advice."

Hilda simply pointed a thumb to where the Velan in question was speaking to the innkeep. "Go and confess your wily ways to Bjorn. And if you are still alive, apologise."

Farren narrowed her eyes on her. "No."

Hilda took out her quill, leafing through her notebook matter-of-factly. "Suit yourself . Just so you know, I have been working on these rather scaldalous songs about a wicked soldier and her cowardly secrets--"

"Why, you--"

Farren's empty tankard flew past Hilda's head as she scribbled frantically. "And violent tendencies too! Oh, I'll sing this all around the city!"

✦✧✦✧

When Farren finally went up to the Velan mercenary, he looked down at her with a frown. "Aye? Any problem?"

Several of them. But we ain't got time to unpack all that.

Farren took a very good look at those huge, muscled arms and strong hands that could easily crack her skull open like the walnuts these taverns served.

"Bjorn..., I wish you would listen patiently and--"

His frown deepened and he edged forward. "Hm?"

Farren took a step back, feeling rather powerless without her axe. Not that it would be of much use against him.

"That...arm-wrestling match back at Kinallen-- I cheated. It was a spell of immobility. I was--I was paralysing your arm all the while." There. She said it all in one breath. "I'm terribly sorry for my actions."

"Are you?" he said, at long last, accent becoming yet more pronounced perhaps in anger.

She squinted her eyes closed as she heard him crack his knuckles. Heavy footsteps approached her.

"I'm so sorry, Bjorn!" she yelled, setting aside all hesitancy. "I should not have cheated. You played fair and kept your promise. And--and--I think it's quite noble that you chose to fight beside your brother even if it meant running from the law. I respect that."

Heavy hands fell on her shoulders. Farren winced. "And--"

"You've got the wrong twin," said he. "Bjorn is over there."

Farren's eyes flew open to find Gunvald looking at her with a quaint smile. From the table, Hilda gave her a wink. Damn the bard! If I don't break that cursed lute over her head, my name ain't--

"Farren Clearstrike," said Gunvald seriously, outstretching his arms. "I would greet you properly now. The Velan way. One warrior to another."

Her feet left the floor and ribcage felt as though about to burst as the huge mercenary embraced her and gave her back a mighty, skull-rattling thump.

"So the songs speak true," he said. "You Midaelians are a noble lot."

"I am hardly the one fit to represent all my people, sir--" gasped Farren from the hug, glad beyond words but worried for her bones all the same. The Velan greeting was just as bad as a Velan beating.

"Bah, away with all the formal humility. I'll speak to Bjorn for you. The lad will understand, I'm sure," he said, setting Farren down. Then he gave her a warm smile. "You've got a good heart, soldier."

She grinned, shaking his hand in the Midaelian way. "You are gravely mistaken, but the notion is appreciated."

It was at this moment that a raven swooped in through the narrow window above the tavern door, flew over flabbergasted patrons and landed on Farren's shoulder, dark and silent and elegant. Gunvald watched in amusement.

"Now ain't that grand?" said Rendarr in awe as he came over, mouth stuffed with pastry and chocolate staining his cheeks.

Farren grimaced just a little, for she was yet to get used to the creatures. But she could not help but laugh as the raven trilled softly and began preening her hair. "Hey there, friend," she said, cautiously stroking down its sleek feathers. Its beady eyes held a pale bluish glint. "What tidings do you bring?"

Its frowning master strode in through the doors the next moment, quite literally a bigger version of the bird. "It's really hurtful, you know," said Linder, loosening his cloak at the neck. "Nobody told me you all are gathered here. I while away in the lonely palace all by myself and you are busy merrymaking."

Farren gave him a tired look. "We asked you. Three times."

His eyes widened. "You did?"

"Aye," drawled Gray. "But none of it got through your ears, I suppose. Not when you are after Alfred's arse all day. What's the squad from Brittlerock for if you're gonna do all the work by yourself?"

"Apologies." Linder ran a weary hand through his hair and sighed. "Thought I would ease off some of the rotten work."

"Guess you'll be walking hand in hand with Alfred in the Spring Fest, too," huffed Farren, perching on a stool to busy herself in playing with the raven instead, facing away from him. Here she was about to set off tomorrow, but he hadn't a care in the world.

Linder came over to her, grabbing another stool to face her and took her hand.

"I won't have to walk around with a noble stuck-up, if this lovely lady would have mercy on me." He smiled, bright and wide, as she'd seen him do more often nowadays. "Will she?" he pleaded in jest.

Farren made a great show of playing aloof, although her heart felt as though about to burst. She turned to the raven on her shoulder. "Should I?"

The raven cocked its head toward Linder and seemed to ask him something, uttering deep, guttural croaks.

Colour flooded Linder's face. "No?"

Farren cocked her head much in the same way. "You understand them?"

"Somewhat. This little fellow has been with me since my last visit to Brittlerock," said Linder. The raven croaked another question, gesturing to Farren.

"No--" Linder sputtered, "I told you already, she is not your 'Mother'! And I'm not--"

"Excuse me, Sarge," said Farren, and held the raven close, who promptly wrapped his wings about her. "But how dare you speak to my baby in that tone!"

Farren found it rather fun to see him caught off guard and fumble for words. Meanwhile Rendarr came forward, grinning wide as he stroked the raven. "Look, Gray. I'm an uncle!"

The raven uttered another question, and now Linder seemed to find his composure back. He smiled, throwing a knowing look toward Rendarr and Gray. "Yes, I also think they are lovely together."

Rendarr spat out pastry, his face red. "What--?"

At this, several of Kinallen's soldiers looked up from their drinks. A small crowd gathered. Farren could swear she saw coins exchanging hands, some even mouthing: 'about time.'

Gray wailed, "Load of rubbish! Have you lost your mind Sarge? Me and him? Are you mad?"

The crowd gasped.

"Hold my pastries!" Rendarr handed Gunvald his plate and turned on him. "So you think I'm rubbish, eh?" He rolled up his sleeves.

"Yeah! A clueless, thick-skulled fool who can't take a hint," said Gray. "And I want nothing to do with you!"

Rendarr smirked.

The crowd gasped in unison again.

"Oh?" Rendarr said, "then what was that theatric about? Of you doing that riding trick back in the Iron Arena. Who were you trying to impress?"

The soldiers looked at Gray wide-eyed, awaiting his reply.

Gray bared his teeth in a sneer and came forward to grab his collar, faces inches apart that their foreheads almost touched.

"Jealous, Rendarr?" he breathed. "That you aren't nearly as good? You'd be bald now, had that sorcerous fire not been a prop."

For a moment it looked as though Rendarr was about to lean in, but he drew back then--and headbutted him. Gray countered, grabbing a fistful of his hair. Chaos ensued as the two clashed, locked in battle. Tables upturned, mead spilled. Hilda strummed her lute--aggressively, the music passionate and warlike.

"Fight, fight, fight!" yelled half the crowd, while the others chanted: "kiss already, damn you!"

Farren climbed a table, raising a bottle of ale. "Why not both?" she yelled, "takes a good fight to get the blood boiling and heart throbbing! Aye!" She chugged.

Amongst that commotion, a pair of arms closed around her waist and brought her down from the table. "Quick, now's our chance!"

The next moment, she was out the backdoor and onto the cobbled back alley, someone's strong arms around her and bottle of ale still clutched in her hand. Bright afternoon sunlight and sound of music flowed in from the alley-mouth, the city full of colour just within reach.

Linder set her down at last and offered his arm. "Shall we?"

"Absolutely," said Farren, all anger forgotten. "But first, let me finish my drink."

Down went the rest of the ale.

✦✧✦✧

Soft were the ruddy rays of the sun that fell upon them as they walked by the canals glittering with the lights coming to life on either banks. This was merely the preparation of the fest, but the townsfolk had enough of the bleak wintry winds and set forth to defy the Gods with their merrymaking, as though spring were already here.

Farren's footsteps never wavered as she walked precariously on the steep bank wall, despite having downed a bottle just before. Wind ruffled her hair, skirt twirling in elegant ripples.

"You sure hold your drink well, don't you?" said Linder from the pavement.

"Indeed!" said Farren. "Unless it's Goldcrest whiskey."

"Why, I do love it with coffee," said Linder. "Formidable concoction. But once you get it down, it either knocks you out instantly or keeps you awake for five days."

Farren gave him a wry smile. "How you are yet alive remains a wonder to me, Sarge."

"Perhaps to Draedona too, for she has not taken me yet."

With a little jump, Farren landed nimbly back onto the pavement, using his arm to steady herself. For the next lingering moments where she held onto the front of his cloak to gain her footing, she smiled up at him. In her brown eyes glistened the first stars of the eve, the dying sun painting them the colour of honeyed tea. Freckles dotted her sun kissed face.

Linder lost track of what he was about to say.

"What're you looking at?" she asked, catching him staring, knowing very well the answer.

"Nothing, I suppose." He chuckled, tucking a stray lock of her red hair behind her ear. "Just you being...well. You."

Before them, folk gathered at the market square ahead, at the foot of a pole strung with flowering vines. Strings of colored banners spread out from its top in all directions, creating a tent overhead.

The Spring Fest fair.

Fragrance of fresh flowers from the floating market was redolent in the air. The lanes narrowed with shops lining them. To one side merchants boasted of fine silks from the Isles, rarest spices on the other side. Carved wolf figurines lined the front of another shop, from artisans of the Velan tribes of the north. Some sold perfumes from Goldcrest, ornate glass vials moulded to resemble the bottles of the whiskey the place was famous for.

Farren's hand slipped once from his as she went to look at a row of extravagant headdresses from Wickhills arrayed out before a stall.

Among the cheery sea of city-dwellers, he could spot one familiar face. Alastair Henris trailed along after Tassya, a flower crown atop his head, both laughing.

A bright glint caught his eyes as he passed by one of the shops. He halted in his tracks. Before him, on red silks beneath a glass pane amongst many other jewelries there lay a rose gold barrette, made to resemble a butterfly. Dark amethysts studded its wings, glittering in the firelight. He wondered how it would look against a shock of copper hair.

When he found Farren next, she was craning her neck to look over the crowd, searching for him.

"Come on!" she said hastily before he could speak. "The dance is about to start."

They went to the centre of the fair. There people danced and sang, a merry fire in their midst. Those who did not dance swayed to the music and so did Farren. A young man from the Isles sang of the passing of winter, his soft cadence mingling with the whistles of the flute and flowing with it were the sombre chants of the north, all joined together in a melodious blend. Tambourines jingled sweetly.

Linder took her hand and led a bewildered Farren to the circle.

"Lost your mind?" she said, laughing as he led her into awkward steps. She placed her hands on his shoulders, almost clinging. "I couldn't dance if my life depended on it!

"So can't I," said Linder, nearly tripping over himself. "But what does it matter?"

She collided into him as another couple jostled by, their steps far more swift. "It'll matter when I step on your foot and break your toes!"

"There're healers aplenty!" he cried over the clamour. He was beginning to get the hang of it, anyway.

Many a month had gone by since he'd known her, many a humorous remarks passed, battles fought, leagues travelled and nights spent together. But there were moments when she still managed to throw him off his balance, like it were their first meeting.

Yet what were they, truly? It all started with a cheeky game of teasing, mere distraction from tiring work. Perhaps they loved it that way.

A game...was fun and carefree. It didn't pin one down.

But was that all this was? A game?

What if after all this was over, they went back to being strangers again?

He wished she did not have to go away, wished he could throw aside all his work to accompany her.

But at the end of the day, soldiers could hardly afford to be mellow lovers with stars in their eyes.

Linder did not want to sully this moment with questions as such. For now, she was here, the silver moon shone overhead, fire roared, and that was all that mattered.

The music slowed and so did the dancing folk, the song rather sober for this festive atmosphere, one about a lad going to battle, his feelings for his lover unconfessed.

Farren placed her head on his chest, her shining eyes on the fire. Linder reached out and fastened the barrette to her hair. It shimmered against the fiery red waves. She glanced up, a curious hand going to the ornament.

He stopped her as she made to take it off to examine. "Let it stay."

He raised her face, eyes trying to take in as much as they could of her.

In the firelight, she looked ever more beautiful than he could have possibly imagined. He wanted to savour this moment, for her image to be burned bright in his mind so when he closed his tired eyes at night, he would dream of her.

"Dance with me," Linder said, "like there's no tomorrow."

✦✧✦✧

┏━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━┓

┗━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━┛

✦✧✦✧