Asher's head was pounding. Each beat sent a wave of pain crashing through his mind and echoing his ears, overwhelming the rest of his senses. It was the worst at the back of his skull—he felt like a scorching knife had been driven into his brain, twisting deeper with every passing second.

"You should have called me sooner." A man's voice, quiet but full of authority. Asher hadn't heard it before. A flash of cold jolted through him, driving away some of the fog over his mind, and he shivered.

"I stabilized him, and the damage wasn't severe. He probably would have woken on his own in a few days."

He sounds familiar. Asher fumbled with the second man's words, their meaning sliding through his head and draining away like water. His thoughts were still too sluggish, the agony ripping through his head too great.

"Comas are... complicated, Rivas. Complicated and dangerous. You should've called me."

Asher's mind cleared a little as the unfamiliar man spoke, and he settled back into his body. His limbs felt heavy and cold, as if his blood had frozen over. A fierce chill dug through him, flaring every few seconds. With an effort, Asher curled his fingers into the soft ground—no, not ground. Fabric. He bunched some up in his hand, befuddled.

"He's awake." This time, Asher recognized Rivas' clipped voice.

"Partially."

Asher's headache receded; with a start, he realized someone's hand was resting across his forehead. He flinched and tore his eyes open, a trickle of alarm breaking through his daze. He was lying in a bed, a plain wall inches from his nose. Golden light flickered across the plaster, soft and warm. Jt was very bright; he winced, dragging his gaze across the surface. Someone was standing behind him; he could see the man's silhouette on the wall. Asher swallowed, his heart fluttering in his chest.

"There." The stranger sounded satisfied; the hand vanished. "I quickened the boy's recovery rate. Give him five minutes and he'll be fine."

Asher felt a little stronger now, his senses sharpened by the jolt of fear. He pushed himself onto his back, sucking in a harsh breath as the world spun beneath him. A man about Rivas' age stood next to the bed, his icy blue eyes shifting to Asher at the movement. Across the room, a table was pressed into the corner; Rivas leaned against one side, his attention focused on the papers scattered across the rough surface. The door was shut, and a lantern atop the table provided the only illumination: it was impossible to tell the time, or figure out where he was.

Asher stared at Rivas for a moment, utterly disoriented, before turning his attention back to the stranger. The man's sleeves were rolled up—he didn't have the mark of a Valkir on his forearm, though Asher did notice a scar across the back of his hand. He wore his hair unusually long; at its shortest, it curled just past the base of his ears.

The stranger tilted his head, studying Asher's face. "Hello."

"Who...?" The word grated in Asher's throat, barely even audible. He swallowed. Something about the man sent a whisper of unease through him, but he couldn't quite figure out what. "Who are you?"

The stranger's lips twitched. Another chill pulsed through Asher, and he automatically brought one hand to the back of his head.

Rivas cleared his throat, looking up for the first time. "He's your king."

Asher frowned, his mind going blank. Then it hit him. He gasped and struggled upright, breaking into a cold sweat. A bout of dizziness struck him in retaliation; he slumped against the wall, nausea twisting his gut as he stared at the stranger. The throbbing in his head worsened a thousandfold, and for a moment he lost all sense of the world around him. The king. The king. It didn't make sense—the man before him wore simple, practical clothes, and his posture was utterly relaxed. But there was a certain command in his demeanor, the sort of self-confidence that came with years of authority.

The barest trace of amusement flashed through the stranger's eyes. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the edge of the bed. The cold tore deeper into Asher, settling within the very core of his bones. He flattened himself against the wall, his breath catching in his throat.

"Tell me," Soren said softly. "How old are you, Asher?"

Asher recoiled, shock and terror and repulsion rattling through him at the sound of his name. He opened his mouth, barely able to manage a hoarse whisper. "S-Sixteen."

"Sixteen years," Soren mused. "Far too long."

"Wh... what?" Asher choked on the question, clutching the wall for support as another wave of cold washed through him.

Sored hummed thoughtfully and stood back up. He turned to Rivas, suddenly cool and pragmatic. "When you return, send Kain to me."

The Valkir nodded, flipping a letter over and scanning the back. Asher looked between him and the king, trembling.

"Rivas." Soren waited until the assassin glanced up. "Do not allow this to happen again."

Rivas bowed his head, hiding his face from view. "I won't."

Soren sighed, his eyes drifting back to Asher. He took a step back, as if to leave.

"Wait," Asher croaked. To his surprise, the king actually paused. "What's... what's happening? What do you want from me?"

Soren gazed at Asher for a long moment, a small smile touching his lips. Then there was another snap of cold, and the man vanished.

Asher stared at the spot that the king had been, his heart thudding in his ears. He swore loudly, the terror clear in his voice. The hair along his arms and neck had risen; when he lifted his hands, they were shaking.

"How do you feel?" Rivas finally asked, leveling Asher with his cool gaze. "How's your head?"

"I-I—" Asher gasped for air, shoving down the panic fluttering in his stomach. "What the hell just happened? Where am I? How did I get here?"

"Evran," Rivas said, a slight frown tugging at his mouth. "What do you last remember?"

Asher fell silent, scouring his memory. He had a lingering feeling he was missing something important. "Er... I know we came to Evran."

"Yes."

"And the... the inn..." Asher hesitated, looking around. "Is that where we are?"

"Yes."

Asher held a hand to his head, reeling. "H-how was Soren here? Did he teleport?"

"Here and back," Rivas muttered, his attention briefly drifting to the table. He flicked his wrist; the lantern flared brighter, traces of silver weaving between the flames within. Asher jumped as shadows swung wildly across the room, fleeing from the fire.

"How?" he asked. "We're still far from Crisea."

Rivas lifted a shoulder. "He's strong. What else can you recall?"

"Um..." An image of Kain lunging at Rivas flashed before Asher's eyes. "You and Kain fought?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Rivas pressed his lips together. "Anything more?"

"I..." Sprinting down a street, his breathing becoming increasingly erratic. Asher stiffened, surprise flickering through him. "I ran."

"Yes, you did." Rivas' face was blank. "And then?"

Kain. The memory crashed down around Asher's ears, sweeping him up in a storm of terror. He scrambled upright; the room tilted alarmingly, and his stomach rolled over. Asher doubled over, panting, and gingerly felt the back of his head. It seemed intact. He brought a hand to his ribs, then his leg. Nothing.

"There we are," Rivas said. For a moment, he almost looked relieved.

"I-I thought I was going to die." Asher swallowed thickly, meeting the Valkir's eyes. "How am I not dead?"

"You nearly were." Rivas' face darkened. "You're very lucky I circled back to follow Kain."

"Lucky," Asher repeated distantly. He took a shuddering breath. "And... and the king? Why was he here?"

"I healed the worst of your injuries, but it's dangerous for me to interfere with your brain." Rivas waved vaguely at Asher's head. "You had a concussion; when you didn't wake up after a few hours, I decided to call Soren."

"Soren," Asher breathed, mostly to himself. The king—Soren, the man who had killed so many innocent people, who was responsible for so much terror and destruction—had healed him. And then he'd just... left. It didn't make sense.

"I don't know what he's planning," Rivas said, almost gently. "If you were going to ask."

Asher snapped his mouth shut, staring at his feet. "You must have some idea, surely."

"Ideas, yes. But I'm not going to share them."

"Why not?"

"Believe it or not," Rivas said, raising a brow, "I can't tell you everything."

"Nobody's stopping you," Asher muttered, but it was clear that Rivas wasn't going to talk. He glanced at the door, his mouth going dry. There was plenty else to worry about. "Kain—where's Kain?"

"Asleep, I'm sure. The sun has yet to rise."

"He tried to kill me," Asher whispered, wincing as another flash of pain burst through his head. He dug his fingers into the soft blanket beneath him, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

Rivas looked Asher up and down. "Really? I thought he fractured your skull to get to know you better."

"Why would he—" Asher bit his tongue, suddenly angry at himself. He hadn't seen cold murder in Kain's eyes before, but he'd known it was there. He always had.

So why did he feel so shaken?

"I told you not to push us. This is why." Rivas' eyes drifted to the side, a bitter note edging his words. "We are not stable people."

"Clearly," Asher muttered, grateful that his voice held steady. The nausea had faded; with an effort, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up straight. "...Rivas?"

"Yes?"

"How many people have you killed?"

Rivas stiffened, his gaze darting to Asher. "You assume I keep count."

"Do you?"

"That's not your business." Rivas' face remained still, but something in his voice caught Asher's attention. The Valkir pulled a knife from his belt, pretending to examine the edge.

"Why not?" Asher retorted, clutching the side of the bed. "I was almost among them. I still might be."

"I'm not going to kill you," Rivas said, shooting Asher an exasperated glance.

"How many, Rivas? How many were there?" Asher's voice broke, suddenly filled with some raw emotion that he didn't recognize.

"...Seventeen." It sounded almost like a confession.

Asher shuddered and closed his eyes. "Seventeen people," he whispered.

"I..." Rivas swore under his breath. "Yes."

The ache in Asher's head was fading with every passing second, but he still felt horribly weak. He lifted his head, peeking at the place Soren had been standing. Saev. There was too much to figure out, and, frankly, he was too tired and confused to deal with it all.

Finally, Asher dragged his gaze to Rivas. The Valkir's eyes were haunted, fixed on his boots. He was still fiddling with his dagger.

"May I stand up?" Asher asked. "Or are you going to stab me?"

Rivas blinked, his face clearing in an instant. He tossed the knife on the table, taking a deep breath. "As long as you don't try to run out or attack me, do whatever you want."

Asher nodded. Gathering his strength, he pushed himself off the bed and stood. His vision darkened instantly; the rest of his mind filled with wool. Asher staggered to the wall and braced himself against it, pressing his forehead into the wood. One jagged breath. Two.

Rivas said something, but Asher could't hear the words. Then the Valkir's hand wrapped around his arm, holding him upright, and Asher was back in the darkened alley as Kain stalked toward him. He yelped and shoved Rivas away, tumbling to the ground in his desperation. He managed to catch the brunt of the fall with his forearms, twisting around to keep his eyes on the Valkir.

"Don't," Asher gasped, scrambling away as Rivas took a step forward. He pressed himself into the corner that the bed and the wall formed, fighting for breath as fear pulsed through him. A ghost of pain slid through his body, coiling around his leg and chest. "Don't touch me."

"Alright." Rivas wavered, uncertainty flashing across his face. He kneeled and sat on his heels, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Alright. I won't."

Asher screwed his eyes shut, clamping one hand over his mouth as he tried to contain himself. It was a good thing the drug hadn't faded—if he had his magic, he would have lost control then and there.

"I'm..." Rivas abruptly cut himself off. His voice was careful, quiet, something Asher couldn't quite identify lingering beneath it. "What did Kain do to you?"

"Well," Asher said numbly, "he almost murdered me."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." Asher slumped to the floor, broken laughter spilling from his mouth. The words came on their own, entirely unwelcome and entirely uncontrollable. "Kain murdered my sister, Rivas. I've had nightmares about him since I was eight—I've had nightmares about all of you. And Soren, too." He paused, struggling to get air in his lungs as tears burned his eyes. "I've died a thousand times in my own head, and I've seen Hannah die in that cursed square a thousand more. What hasn't Kain done to me?"

Silence. Asher buried his head in his hands, instantly regretting his outburst. He could admit to himself that Rivas wasn't sadistic—skies, in a different world he might have even liked the man. The Valkir wouldn't tell anybody. But in his hands that knowledge was still a weapon, another tool he could and would use to break down Asher's defenses.

A soft creak. Asher tensed as Rivas stood and crossed the room, not sure what to expect.

"I, um..." Rivas cleared his throat. There was the scrape of wood on wood; Asher warily opened one eye as the Valkir walked back and sat down. He set a small bowl on the floor and pushed it toward Asher, his usual mask of calm faltering. "Here."

Asher stared, clenching his hands. It was a thick soup, with sliced cabbage and lumps of what might've been beef. Steam curled from the surface, carrying a rich, salty scent through the air. Tentatively, he reached out and picked up the bowl. It was heavier than he expected, and wonderfully warm against his numb fingers.

"Is it drugged?" he asked, holding it close to his chest. Poison or not, it chased away the cold.

Rivas shook his head. "If it was, I'd tell you."

For some reason, Asher believed the Valkir. He grabbed the spoon resting on the side of the bowl and took a hesitant bite. He winced; only then did he notice the sharp pain in his mouth, and the distant taste of blood. At some point, he must have bitten his tongue. Even so, his stomach was horribly empty. He wolfed down as much as the nausea and his cut tongue would allow, hardly taking the time to savor the taste.

"Don't make yourself sick," Rivas warned, leaning back.

"Seka es," Asher snapped, sparing the Valkir a sharp glare before turning to his food. He did force himself to slow down, though. There wasn't any use eating if he'd throw it up later.

"So..." Rivas said, easily slipping into Nemarian. "Are you fluent?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Asher replied without thinking, instinctively making the shift between languages. He stiffened, frowning at his hands.

Rivas stretched his legs out before him. "Oh?"

"...My sister taught me," Asher admitted. If Rivas was bribing him with the soup, it was working. "Our parents taught her. And their parents taught them. It's been... how do you say it? Passed down?"

"Why?"

Asher shrugged. "If Hannah told me, I forgot."

"Were your parents magic-users?" Rivas asked, switching back to the common tongue.

"No," Asher said, giving the Valkir an odd look as he followed suit. "What does that have to do with Nemarian?"

"When it fell out of use, some magi still used it to direct their focus. Or to send each other messages in secret. Did your grandparents have magic?"

"I don't know." Asher narrowed his eyes, unsure if Rivas was trying to get some sort of information from him. He turned his attention to his food."It doesn't matter, anyways. Magic isn't heritable."

"You're more likely to have it if you have a family history, but yes." Rivas' gaze drifted, clouding over. He abruptly stood up, crossing to the table and brushed a few papers aside.

"What are you doing?" Asher asked warily, setting down the bowl and stiffly getting to his feet. He gripped the foot of the bed as his vision flickered, trying to regain his balance.

Rivas waved one hand, brushing off the question. "You reminded me of something."

Asher studied the assassin, suspicion and worry rising in his chest. He opened his mouth, but a sharp rap on the door cut him off.

"Rivas!" Kain called from the other side. His voice cut through Asher's heart, pinning him to the ground. "Are you awake?"

"Saev," Asher hissed, wildly looking around. There was nowhere to run. He clenched his hands, staring at the door in open horror.

"Avai," Rivas murmured, catching Asher's eyes. Relax. The Valkir strode toward the door, raising his voice. "Did something happen, Kain?"

The handle twisted; Asher jerked away, his heart skipping a beat. Rivas stepped forward, neatly stopping the door with one foot before it could open fully. Asher stiffened: he was out of its line of sight, but just barely. He slid further away from the entrance, his nerves jangling.

"What?" Rivas asked, glaring through the gap.

"I came to see if you were ready."

"We have fifteen more minutes."

A pause. Asher stilled, his gaze fixated on the door. He had no idea what he'd do if Kain came in. Panic? Fight? Run?

"I'm just checking." Kain said.

"No, you aren't. What do you want?"

Kain grumbled something under his breath, a nervous edge creeping into his tone. "How is the kid?"

"Sleeping," Rivas replied smoothly. "Why? Did you want to break his other leg?"

"What else do you want me to say, Rivas?" Kain shot back. "I'm sorry. I lost control."

Rivas' eyes flashed. "Yes, you did. By the way, you're to see Soren when we arrive."

When Kain spoke again, his voice wavered between fear and something like betrayal. "Did... did you report—"

"No. But I called him when the boy wouldn't wake up. I had to tell Soren what happened. He just left."

Kain swore loudly. "He's going to kill me."

"If he wanted you dead, you wouldn't be standing here." Rivas hesitated, and then sighed. "Be respectful. Grovel if you have to. Just... prove to him you're still useful."

"Alright," Kain muttered. Asher heard him step away. "Alright."

"Hold it." Rivas' glare was as sharp and cold as ice. "If you ever do something like this again, Soren will not be the one you need to worry about."

"Are you talking about me hitting you or attacking the kid?"

"Both." With that, Rivas swung the door shut. He leaned against the frame, closing his eyes with a soft sigh.

Asher stared at the Valkir, unable to speak even after Kain's footsteps trailed away. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face; he wiped it away, trembling.

"Are you okay?" Rivas finally asked, glancing sideways at Asher.

"You..." Asher paused, trying to catch his breath. "You should really stop asking me that."

Rivas shrugged and walked back to the table, shuffling a few papers together.

"Why did you lie?" Asher twisted his hands together. "About me sleeping, I mean."

"Because," Rivas said, not bothering to turn around, "I do not know what he'll do when he sees you, nor what you will do when you see him."

Me neither. Asher shook his head, staring at the papers. "What are those for?"

"A variety of things," Rivas replied distantly. "Letters for me or Soren, invitations, my notes..." He produced a bag from seemingly nowhere and placed some of the papers inside. "Truth be told, I'd like to burn most of these."

"I know the feeling," Asher muttered, stiffly getting to his feet. He leaned against the wall, waiting for the dizziness that swept through him to fade. Then, keeping some distance between himself and Rivas, he crept to the table and scanned what was left atop it. With a jolt, he spotted Serafina's name on a tidy note. He picked it up, glancing at the first few sentences. Rivas didn't notice, shuffling through a few letters.

Emil hasn't made contact in days: I'm assuming he's dead. The girl—Serafina—isn't relying on brute strength, but her wits. I'll need to take her by surprise, or... Asher hesitated. There was a small gap between the words here; a small, dark mark rested beside it, as if the pencil had been pressed against the paper for a long moment. ...or use the child to distract her.

The note suddenly shriveled in Asher's hands, heatless fire crawling across the surface. Asher jumped and let it go, meeting Rivas' eyes.

"Don't read them," the assassin sighed, slowly lowering his hand. Dark flames flickered between his fingers as the rest of the note crumpled to ash.

"That's why you were in Aleran," Asher realized, his eyes widening. "You were after Serafina."

"Yes."

Use the child. Asher swallowed. "Kira's barely even ten, Rivas."

The Valkir' shoulders tensed. "I know."

"Would you have murdered her, too?"

"No," Rivas snarled, abruptly striking the edge of the table with one hand. Darkness filled his eyes as he glared at his fingers—pain flickered along its edges, faint but deep "Not if I could help it."

Asher shrank away, his fear immediately resurfacing. Rivas blinked, his gaze moving to Asher. Surprise flashed across his face, followed by something like shame. The Valkir raised one hand, hesitated, let it swing back to his side.

"Sorry." Rivas took a deep breath, crossing his arms and leaning back. "You don't need to be afraid, Asher. I'm not going to hit you."

Asher winced, his eyes drifting to the dagger Rivas had thrown atop the table earlier. The blade was strangely dark, about as long as his hand and ever so slightly curved. He clutched his left arm, another ghost of pain shooting through it. It didn't matter if it was the same knife: he could still see his blood staining the metal. "Are you sure about that?"

Rivas followed his gaze, and his mouth twisted. He reached out and delicately picked the dagger up, not quite meeting Asher's eyes. "I am not here to hurt you. Nor do I want to."

"It's not what you want that matters," Asher said without thinking. Henry had told him this once, many months ago. "It's what you do."

Rivas stared at him for a long moment, his face impossible to read. "If only things were that simple," he whispered, almost to himself.

"Maybe they are," Asher snarled, rage flooding through him. This man had no right to say such a thing. He had no right to pretend he had not had a choice. He had no right to be sorry. "Kraven es, Rivas." Coward. And this time, Asher truly meant it.

Rivas lifted his eyes, his mask sliding completely back into place. "You didn't always give me a choice, boy." He slowly slipped the knife back into his belt, turning away. Something lingered in the Valkir's expression, too faint to identify. Asher took a step back, wondering if he had gone too far.

"Hey!" The door flew open; Rivas whirled around, the dagger suddenly back in his hand. Kain stood in the entrance, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword when he saw the other Valkir.

"What are you doing?" Rivas asked incredulously, lowering his knife.

"We should leave early," Kain said simply. "I believe some of the locals are planning on lynching me."

Rivas narrowed his eyes. "I can't imagine why."

"They seem to, ah..." Kain looked at Asher. "Be rather sympathetic towards the kid."

"We dragged him through the front door, bleeding and barely alive," Rivas said dryly. "I don't blame them."

Asher stumbled away, his legs going weak as he met Kain's eyes. He swore at the Valkir—both of them—a sudden surge of anger and panic thrumming through his veins. His mind was whirling, his heart beating a frantic rhythm.

"Shut up, kid." Kain's voice was ice. He stepped forward, cocking his head, fingers still brushing his sword.

Asher sucked in a sharp breath and closed his mouth. His entire body was shaking, ready to collapse at the slightest pressure. Kain made to move closer, a dark smile tugging at his lips.

"Leave the boy alone," Rivas said, raising one hand and walking between them. The air shifted; Kain froze in his tracks, straining against some invisible force.

"I wasn't going to do anything," Kain growled. "I'm not a fool. Let me go."

"That's debatable," Rivas muttered. He reluctantly lowered his arm, glancing over his shoulder at Asher. "Is Idris downstairs?"

"Yeah." Kain righted himself, scowling. His eyes moved back to Asher, flicking from his face to his shoes. Asher shrank away, stiffening when the back of his knee struck the bed's edge. His voice had left him, abandoned in the horrified mess of thoughts choking his mind.

"Was there anything else?" Rivas prompted, raising one brow.

"Yeah." Kain nodded slowly, glancing at Rivas. "Why are you suddenly so protective?"

"It's my job to keep this boy alive." Rivas stalked forward until he and Kain were face-to-face, his eyes hardening. "And you are not helping. Leave. I'll be down in a minute."

A strained silence; then Kain spun on his heel, slipping through the open door and vanishing down the hallway beyond.

Asher crumpled to his knees, wrapping his arms around his chest. His breathing was out of control; fear shuddered through him in dizzying waves, making his stomach churn. He was only dimly aware of Rivas as the Valkir cleared the table with a flick of his wrist and slung his bag over his shoulder. When the man walked toward him, however, Asher jerked away with a sharp gasp. If Rivas touched him again, he was afraid his heart might stop then and there.

Rivas lifted his hands, palms out. "We should go."

"No," Asher whispered, shaking his head. "No."

"I'll keep an eye on Kain. He won't hurt you."

"If he does, I'll claw out his eyes," Asher said shakily. There was no real anger behind the words, but they helped him feel a little better. He staggered upright, brushing his hair out of his face.

Rivas stood aside, letting Asher walk in front of him. "I won't stop you."

"Good." Asher lifted his chin, shoving down all the fear and pain and anger. He stepped toward the door, wrapping his fingers around the cool metal handle.

It will be okay.

Asher closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

I'll be fine.