They left Lord Fane alive.

Valeri was uncertain about his feelings on the matter. The man was certainly worthy of punishment, but the eagerness with which he sought his own demise left a sour taste in Valeri's mouth.

"Yevelina Hale's death was foreordained," Lord Fane rasped as explanation, his throat still sore from the bite of Ira's blade. "There was nothing to be done."

It was an unsound statement, yet it quickly became obvious that Lord Fane believed in its veracity wholeheartedly. The man spoke of the night Lady Hale met her demise at some length. He had kept written record of the proceedings, in fact, for the purposes of reporting to the Dvor. Ira listened to the man's unfeeling account in frozen silence, looking as unbalanced as Valeri had ever seen her.

Lord Fane did not regret his actions. Remorse required understanding of one's wrongdoings, which Lord Fane lacked. Chervnik's destruction, Alexandra Orlova's death, the past he shared with Ira and Iavor Beaufort – Lord Fane spoke of all without once acknowledging the role he had played in each tragedy. It was infuriating.

Yet, the man lived still.

Valeri did not ask Ira her reasons. He did receive some satisfaction from Lord Fane's utter bewilderment at their departure, short-lived as the feeling was. Lord Fane would likely live out the remainder of his years waiting for Ira to return, for the blade to drop. Valeri supposed that was a fitting punishment for a man who had wished to abdicate his crimes and die a martyr.

The cold gathered as frost over yellowed grass. Valeri had the reins, Ira a quiet presence at his back. They had traveled through the night without a shared word. Valeri burned to ask Ira her thoughts on Lord Fane's ramblings – about the Queen's Court, Lady Hale's purposed rank among its Lords. Ira was likely preoccupied with those very same concerns. Perhaps she would welcome the opportunity to share her burden, if Valeri were to speak on the subject.

Valeri mulled over the issue for some time. The sound of night creatures was faint around them, the air cold. The wind carried a faint scent of smoke. Humans were constantly putting the world on fire, in one way or another.

"He loved her," Valeri heard himself say.

The words poured out of him without much thought. He regretted them as soon as they left his lips; it was not his place to speak of the relationship between Iavor Beaufort and Yevelina Hale, least of all to Ira.

Ira's hands tightened at Valeri's sides before consciously relaxing. Valeri forged on, pressed by a need to explain.

"You once said that your mother was murdered by the man she loved. But she was not – Iavor did not, and not only because that very night, he –" Valeri swallowed the needless, died as well. "Even if that was not the case, he would have never hurt her. You should – you should know that about him, if nothing else."

Ira did not respond immediately. Valeri had nearly resigned himself to hours of awkward silence when he felt her lean her head against his back, voice a quiet rumble over his skin.

"Tell me, then. What should I know about Iavor Beaufort?"

"He was kind," Valeri said, the words pulled out of him in a rush. It was a simple thing to say, but truthful.

Ira let out a low hum. "A kind vampire?" she asked, her tone light enough to pass for teasing if not for the rigid line of her body against Valeri's own.

Valeri fought back a burst of irritation. Ira did not know Iavor, and owed the man no respect. Still, her derision sat badly.

"Yes," Valeri said. Ira did not challenge him this time.

Valeri struggled to shape his thoughts of Iavor Beaufort into words worthy of the man. He attempted to explain the strange way in which Iavor interacted with the world – guided by morals yet inherently pragmatic. It was honest in a way Valeri had never previously experienced.

In the end, Valeri shared his own meeting with the man. Disillusioned, on the brink of death at the hands of his own bad habits, the youth Valeri had once been deserved not a single kind glance. He had squandered a lifetime's worth of good will by the time he hit twenty.

Valeri sometimes wondered, still, what would have happened to him if he had not chanced upon Iavor that bitter night. If he had not taken the hand the man had offered. Perhaps he would have gone to his human father in the end, begged for a scrap of affection that would never come.

Or he would have died then and there. It was the preferable option between the two.

"He told me of your mother," Valeri said quietly.

Ira had leaned more heavily against him as he spoke, her body heavy with exhaustion brought upon by grief. She straightened at his words. Valeri immediately missed the weight of her body.

"I saw her, once," he admitted when it became apparent that Ira would not speak.

"When?" Ira asked.

"It was years before... that night," Valeri stumbled over his words. Conversations of this nature were never his forte. That was part of the reason why he chose to reside in a mountain surrounded by trees for company. "Iavor disappeared often, and would not speak of where he was, or with whom. I grew curious, and followed him. He found out, naturally. It was the first time he was truly angry with me."

"Why?" Ira asked.

Valeri swallowed, eyes staring into the darkness ahead but seeing something that had already passed. "I had put her in danger by drawing attention to Iavor's visit. Iavor told me, then, that his beloved was human, and that it would be highly unwise for anyone to know her identity. He asked that I do not continue to pry. And I did not."

It occurred to Valeri then that part of his infatuation with Silva Layfe had been born in that moment, when he had learned of Iavor's love for a human. A pathetic attempt at reshaping himself into someone better. Valeri called himself ugly things in his mind, his spiraling thoughts breaking only at the sound of Ira's voice.

"I do not remember her death," Ira said.

Valeri heard the bitterness in her words, the self-blame. "You were not meant to," he said. "They made sure you would not."

Ira laughed. The sound sent a shiver up Valeri's spine; he remembered, too late, that the they in question were none other than the Amith Capil and the Queen's Court behind them. If Lord Fane was to be believed, that was – but there was truly no more fitting conclusion, given the facts at hand.

"I did not mean," he began, scrambling for something to say. He wished to see Ira's face, the expression in her eyes.

"I suspected their involvement," Ira said. "It is why I joined the Amith Capil."

Valeri sat very still. He listened to Ira speak, sounding as uncomfortable as he had during his own attempts at sharing. There had been an orphanage, before the army. Ira did not spend more than a few offhand words on the topic. She talked about her attempts to find information about her mother's case at some length. The very inability to do so was what had kept her suspicion alive.

"I do not regret becoming a soldier," were her last words on the subject.

Valeri was not surprised. Ira made for a great Captain, loath as he were to admit to such a thing given his distaste of the Amith Capil.

"If I had known about you, I would have never left you in that place," he said.

Ira snorted in amusement. "It is best that you did not. I was not pleasant company back then."

Valeri tried to imagine Ira, young and hurt and angry. He would have certainly been in over his head. That was much preferable to his current state, miserable with guilt over leaving a child to fend for herself.

"Stop that. I can hear you wallowing from here," Ira said. "I do not know what it is that you are imagining, but the orphanage was not a bad place."

Valeri grunted in agreement, internally unconvinced.

"Fane used to visit," Ira said.

Valeri pulled on the reins, fingers spasming in surprise. Zenith tossed his head in disgruntlement. Valeri muttered a hurried apology.

"Where?" he asked of Ira.

"The orphanage," Ira said. "I saw him with some regularity. His attempts to be subtle left much to be desired, especially when it came to his disguises."

"He disguised himself?" Valeri exclaimed, a strange combination between mortified and amused. "As what?"

"The disguise was always different, but consistently and woefully inept," Ira said.

Valeri let out a surprised laugh. His mind conjured the image of Lord Fane sporting a fake mustache and beard. Knowing the man, it was likely not far from the truth.

"There was also a cat," Ira continued. "Pets were not allowed in the orphanage, yet this cat would appear as it pleased, and leave just as suddenly."

"Oh?" Valeri said, voice very carefully even.

"Mhm. Its fur was the strangest shade of red," Ira said, just as evenly.

"Ah," Valeri replied.

He had more than one bone to pick with Gabriel Todd when he saw the man next.

Zenith halted. Valeri pitched forward, and only narrowly escaped an embarrassing tumble. "This is not the time, Zenith," he said darkly, just as Ira spoke behind him.

"There is an old soldier hideout nearby. I had nearly forgotten."

Zenith let out a smug grunt. Valeri glared down at the horse, then turned to Ira.

"Is it safe?"

"Yes," Ira said, sounding certain. "It is an abandoned home. The first level is nearly a ruin, but the cellar beneath should still be accessible."

Ira dismounted. Valeri let her have the reins, and she led their party deep into the thicket, to a house that was more of a shell than a sound structure. Two walls and most of the roof were missing. Valeri examined the rotting kitchen with great distaste. Mold of various colors and toxicity covered everything humans had once touched.

"Through here," Ira called.

The entrance to the cellar was partly hidden beneath an overturned table. Valeri questioned the safety of such poorly-concealed place. Then Ira got the trap door open, and he very quickly changed his mind.

"What is that smell?" he asked, leaning back and away from what he was increasingly certain was some sort of secret entrance to Hel.

"Dead rat," Ira said. "Come on."

Ira disappeared down the dank staircase. Valeri had little choice but to follow, mood plummeting at the thought of smelling like decaying vermin for the foreseeable future. It was not as if they had time for laundry.

The cellar itself was cramped, and as dirty as one could imagine. There were shelves lined with jars containing various preserves. Most were broken. The rotting contents added a note of sickly sweetness to the overall fragrance of the room.

Then there were the rat corpses. Valeri stepped on several just getting from the staircase to Ira.

"I am not sleeping in that bed," he said.

The bed in question was a slab of wood covered by a thin hay mattress. It was probably also a rat nest. Valeri thought he saw one corner of the mattress shifting. He shuddered.

"It will be fine," Ira dismissed.

She lifted the mattress off the bed, leaving the wooden frame exposed. Valeri narrowed his eyes. She had seen the damned thing move as well, he was certain.

Ira feigned ignorance. She tore part of the mattress into a makeshift broom, which she used to sweep the deceased rat population beneath the shelves farthest from the bed. That did little to help the smell, but it was of some relief not to have several dozen milky eyes staring from each direction.

"Sleep," Ira said once she was done. "I will keep watch."

Valeri would protest, but his bones were growing heavy in a way that spoke of sunrise. He shuffled to the bed and lied down at the very edge, trying to touch as little as possible.

"Wake me as soon as it is safe to travel," he bid.

Ira promised to do so. She may have said something else as well, but Valeri's eyes were already closing.

—and then opening again, bleary and sun-drunk, the world patches of shadows.

Valeri bolted upright. It was too soon to be awake, and it physically hurt to move. Ira was there. He could see her, standing, alarmed just as he was. There was someone with them. Someone who did not belong.

Valeri lunged for the intruder. All he saw was white, white.

"Valeri, let him go," Ira said, close to his ear.

Valeri tried to focus. Wide blue eyes watched him from a young face. He had a boy by the throat. A boy in a white uniform; a soldier.

Valeri growled. His teeth bit through his own lips, spilling blood. He would not let a soldier go.

The boy had to die.

"My apologies," Ira said.

There was a sharp pain, and then the world spun. Valeri fell. His knees hit the floor, then his cheek. Dizzy, he tried to blink air like melted sugar from his eyes.

There was another body on the floor. Valeri frowned. What was Erika's irritating employee doing, cluttering up Valeri's hideout?

What an annoying little man, Valeri thought, just as he fell back into darkness.