Eliza lay on the worn bed, completely naked. Her long red hair spilled across the pillow, and for a moment, she resembled the ladies in the portraits rich men like Ermod hung in their studies. Outside the window, the sky was beginning to bruise with the first light of dawn. Reed lay beside her, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

  "What is it?" she whispered.

  He simply shrugged and turned toward her. "Are you sure you won't regret it?"

  "Regret what?" she laughed softly.

  "Me."

  "You're better than many here."

  "Is that so?"

  "Yeah. At least you don't reek."

  "Wow. Look at your high standards," Reed remarked, his voice dry.

  Eliza blushed slightly and scooted closer, searching his face with her eyes. "How old are you, anyway?"

  "Why? Am I too old for you?" Reed asked with feigned suspicion.

  "I just can't figure out your age."

  "Older than you. But I'm an elf, if you haven't noticed."

  "And still?"

  "Old," Reed said seriously, though he fought back a smile. "Very old. Possibly even older than you might think."

  "Ah, liar."

  "Why?"

  "Because you said you were born a slave. That means you were born after the Fall of Belden. The math is simple enough."

  "Well, do the math then," he countered.

  "Yeah, right," she giggled, combing through Reed's hair with her fingers. "You know, I often wonder how my life would have turned out if I had been born into a rich family. Maybe I would have been happy there."

  "Unlikely," Reed replied. His long, slender fingers traced slow patterns on her pale skin, and Eliza seemed to lean into the touch. "You still wouldn't have had a choice, only different circumstances. You would have been forced to choose the lesser of two evils just the same. You would have been unhappy regardless."

  "Maybe you're right. Maybe none of us are truly free."

  "Here," Reed placed his palm over her heart, "you are free. Regardless of the circumstances."

  "Look at you... a romantic!"

  Reed rolled his eyes, sat up, and began gathering his clothes. Eliza propped herself up on her elbows, watching him. Her eyes burned with that same unhealthy fire, and her skin was a map of goosebumps and tiny beads of sweat.

  Reed threw a fleeting glance at her and frowned. "Get dressed, or it'll get worse."

  She silently pulled the blanket over herself, her gaze never leaving him. "Are you leaving?"

  "I have to," Reed nodded, tightening the leather straps on his legs.

  "For good?"

  "If that is your wish."

  "And if it isn't?"

  "Then I'll come back."

  "When?"

  "Soon. Rest." Reed hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He felt uncomfortable and awkward, the weight of the moment pressing on him. He didn't want Eliza to suffer, even if life clearly had other plans for her. His face twitched with a small, nervous tic before he finally spoke: "Do you... do you need money?"

  "Money? What do you think this is, a brothel?" Eliza’s face twisted in a fit of indignation. She snatched a pillow and hurled it at his head with surprising force. Reed caught it mid-air, tossed it back onto the bed, and began calmly picking white feathers out of his hair.

  "You don't understand," he grumbled, his voice low and gravelly. "Don't go back to the bar. Not anymore."

  "And what exactly will I eat?" she challenged, her voice trembling.

  "I’ll give you the coin. You’ll buy what you need and stay home. Out of the damp, away from the filth."

  "And what makes you think I need your charity?"

  Reed fastened the final buckle of his armor, adjusted his cloak, and walked slowly toward the bed. Eliza’s eyes were moist, the rims reddened with a mix of exhaustion and fury. He moved with a deliberate, predatory slowness, leaning in until he could catch a stray lock of her hair between his fingers.

  "You know that death from Dry Rot is a nightmare, don't you?" Reed whispered, pinning her with a gaze that allowed no escape.

  "What are you—"

  "I told you I'm no fool, Eliza. Do you truly want to die sooner? Does the thought please you, knowing that as you run out of moisture, your veins and organs will begin to rot while you're still breathing? You will die in agony, a hollow husk of yourself. You’re already worsening because you refuse to help yourself live."

  "Maybe..." she swallowed hard, her bravado flickering. "Maybe I just don't believe you."

  Reed didn't argue. He simply shrugged and placed two gold coins on the small table, leaving himself with the last two in his purse. Without another word, he gathered his weapons and stepped toward the door.

  Eliza remained sitting on the bed, clutching the blanket to her chest as if it were a shield. Tears finally welled up, her lips trembling with the weight of the truth he had forced upon her. Reed was already out in the cold street by the time the first sob broke.

  ***

  Hornet’s man found Reed by the evening of the next day. A tiny kreyghar named Theron, he carried a short bow and two knives.

  Reed had been wandering the city, haunted by the memory of Eliza. He hadn't seen her for two days and wasn't sure if he should ever return. She didn't seem like the kind of girl who would get tangled up with someone like him, and Reed was the furthest thing from a reliable man. Nevertheless, he often caught himself thinking of her, though he wouldn't go so far as to say it came from the heart. He pitied her, but he didn't love her.

  He knew that with her, he could be honest; he didn't have to hide his past or his nature because her time was already slipping away. Reed had seen the dark spots on her back, the brand of the Dry Rot that marked those who wouldn't survive. He saw them, but he didn’t tell her. Reed wasn't a do-gooder, but he wasn't a fool either. What was the point of telling her? It wouldn't change the outcome; it would only poison whatever time she had left. He was certain Eliza would notice them herself soon enough, and he refused to take on the burden of being the one to tell a young girl she was going to die.

  After a brief exchange, the Wasps' messenger ordered Reed to follow. The journey took nearly an hour, and Reed diligently memorized every turn and landmark of the route. They stopped in the forest near an old, weathered hut. Reed knew instinctively that this wasn't the main lair. About a dozen men awaited them, each bearing a wasp tattoo on his neck. None of them carried the air of a leader.

  Reed understood then that this wouldn't be easy. They would either kill him now or put him to a test, and he wasn't sure which was worse. He maintained a mask of professional indifference. They had led him here unbound and unthreatened; for now, he would wait and see.

  Theron circled Reed, sizing him up from behind. "You're scrawny."

  "And you?" Reed parried, his eyes squinting.

  Theron chuckled, but not out of malice. There was a flicker of appreciation for the retort. A few others let out low chuckles, though their faces remained hidden behind helmet visors.

  "Let him show his worth in a fight, then we'll decide," said the man standing closest to Theron. "You can't judge a blade while it’s sheathed."

  "We're just wasting time," another grumbled in a husky voice, crossing his arms over his chest. Reed could feel the thick contempt radiating from them, even without seeing their eyes.

  "Hornet gives everyone a chance," the first man replied. "Everyone. Let him use it if he can. Kyle said he's no pushover."

  "And where is your Kyle now?"

  "Doesn't matter. Hornet believed him."

  Reed listened intently, his body tensing for the command.

  "What will you fight with?" Theron asked.

  Reed threw back the flaps of his cloak, displaying his two daggers. Theron nodded.

  "One on one," Theron continued. "Only your own weapons, or what you take in battle. The opponent will be chosen by lot. You can refuse before the duel starts, but once the steel is drawn, the only way out is death."

  "A fight to the death?" Reed asked, untying the collar of his cloak.

  "Yes," Theron nodded. "A place in the Wasps costs a lot, and you have to pay in blood."

  Reed nodded in silent agreement. He began stripping the armor from his legs, piling the metal in a heap to ensure his movements would be fluid and fast. Hidden on his person, he kept a small pouch of datura, a potent herb he had clepped back across the ocean.

  Meanwhile, the men cast lots. When Reed straightened up, the owner of the husky voice stepped forward. "Husky" removed his helmet, revealing a puffy face with a week's stubble and large, cold gray eyes. He had thin lips, a hooked nose, and nearly gray hair that was surprisingly neat, slicked back with precision. Reed felt a flicker of surprise; he hadn't expected a man in these woods to know what a comb was.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Husky offered Reed his hand, a feigned gesture of dignity to begin the duel. Reed reached out in return, but instead of a handshake, husky’s grip tightened like a vise. He yanked Reed forward, driving his forehead into Reed’s nose with a sickening thud. The world blurred; Reed staggered as blood began to stream over his lips. The bone hadn't shattered, which was his only luck.

  Low chuckles rippled through the onlookers. Reed spat a mouthful of crimson and smiled, his hands finally finding the daggers he hadn’t had time to draw. Steel rasped against leather, the blades glinting in the dying rays of the sun. Treading carefully on bent knees, Reed began to circle his opponent, moving with the predatory grace of a wolf closing in on its prey. Husky drew his sword and swung, the heavy blade whistling through the air, but Reed ducked the blow.

  "Fight!" Theron bellowed, but Reed had long since tuned out his voice.

  Husky lunged again, but his sword cleaved only empty air. Reed rolled, diving beneath the opponent’s lead arm and leaving a shallow but stinging cut in its wake. Husky snarled, but he didn't lower his guard. That was Reed’s plan: it wasn't a fight of strength, but of attrition. He kept dodging, forcing the larger man to exhaust himself swinging the heavy steel. Reed wasn't afraid; he was simply letting the time do his work for him.

  Blood began to trickle beneath Reed's breastplate, making it impossible to gauge the true damage from that first headbutt. He kept his eyes locked on husky guy, letting the man feel a false sense of superiority. He didn't need a quick victory; he needed a professional one that cost him as little blood as possible.

  Eventually, the game wore husky thin, and he launched a desperate, direct attack. Reed withstood the first blow, crossing his daggers overhead. It wasn't easy; the weight of the sword nearly buckled his knees. Deflecting the crossed blades to the left, Reed made a sharp circular motion, guiding the sword away.

  Husky was right-handed, and Reed used that to his advantage. He shifted his position to the left, making counter-attacks difficult. The sudden change of orientation disoriented the kreyghar. Reed knew that for a right-handed fighter, a left-handed opponent is a nightmare they rarely train for. He adjusted his grip and retreated, creating a brief distance that husky was quick to close.

  When husky lunged again, Reed ran straight at him. As the sword sliced the air above, Reed dropped sharply, sliding through the fresh grass. He slashed across husky’s shin as he passed. Enraged, the man spun around, striking out wildly. Dodging became harder now; husky was swinging as if every blow were his last. Perhaps it was.

  The furious attacks exhausted husky, but Reed was feeling the strain too. He was moving more and faster than his lungs wanted to allow. When it became clear the sword was no longer an advantage, husky threw it aside and rushed toward the onlookers, trying to snatch a dagger from one of his companions. Theron immediately leveled his own sword at husky’s chest.

  "The rules are the same for everyone," Theron barked.

  Reed didn't waste the opening. He threw himself at husky with a running start. He couldn't knock the heavier man over, but he disoriented him. Vaulting onto husky's back, Reed drove both daggers deep beneath the man's collarbones, bracing his knees against the small of husky's back to lock himself in place.

  The man flailed, trying to reach behind him, but his frantic movements only worsened the damage. The blades tore through muscle and vein, and blood began to flow in earnest. Reed took several heavy blows to the head, but he refused to let go. When husky let out a final, guttural cry, Reed pressed his knees harder and yanked the blades upward.

  They fell together. Reed failed to tuck into a roll, and husky’s massive, dying body collapsed on top of him. In the struggle, husky managed to tear one of the daggers from Reed's hand. Blood sprayed in fountains, flooding Reed’s face and blinding him. He realized he wouldn't get the wounded but still powerful body off him without a price; the man would maim him sooner.

  Reed squirmed, trying to avoid his own steel. When husky raised the stolen dagger over Reed's face, Reed intercepted his arm, blocking the strike with both palms. Instead of leaning into the blade, husky began hammering the handle of the dagger with his free hand. After two brutal blows, the blade pierced Reed's chest, though it exited quickly, leaving only a shallow gash. Reed intentionally shoved him away. Better to lose a little blood from an open wound than let his lungs be punctured.

  Husky struck again. The dagger slipped, slicing through the armor straps and slashing Reed's side. Dark blood gushed under his shirt. A cold sweat broke across Reed's brow, and every breath became a labor.

  Realizing he was about to lose to an opponent who refused to die, Reed drove a desperate punch into husky’s temple and fumbled for the pouch at his belt. He yanked the drawstring open with his teeth and, with a flat, open palm, slammed the concentrated powder into husky’s face.

  The man coughed, the toxic dust coating his eyes and throat. He let go of Reed, his hands flying to his face as he let out a howl of agony. Reed didn't waste a heartbeat. He crawled through the dirt to his dropped blade, forced himself to his feet, and shoved the kneeling, blinded man backward. As husky’s head tilted up, Reed struck.

  The blade entered deep under the chin. Blood gurgled over husky’s lips as his mouth fell open in a silent, jagged scream. Reed could have sworn he saw the silver tip of his own dagger piercing the man's palate from within.

  Husky twitched violently, his hands clawing at the air as he tried and failed to reach the hilt, before collapsing into final, rhythmic convulsions. Reed fell back onto the grass, his lungs burning. He closed his eyes, his chest heaving as he fought to reclaim his breath.

  If he had looked at Theron then, he would have seen a mask of pure confusion. But the Wasp who had insisted on giving Reed the duel simply smiled, unlatching his helmet.

  When his breathing finally steadied, Reed propped himself up on his elbows. He stood with a grunt of pain, clutching the jagged wound in his side. Hobbling toward his discarded cloak, he collapsed to his knees. Theron approached, silent as a shadow. He tossed a bundle of coarse bandages at Reed’s feet and stepped back. Reed pressed a thick pad of cloth against the gash and used another strip to bind his side. He pulled it so tight the pain made his vision swim, but it was the only way to stem the flow.

  Husky lay still now, cooling on the ground. His comrades stood in a grim, silent circle.

  "That was a good fight, elf," one of them remarked, his voice devoid of its earlier mockery.

  "True enough," Theron agreed. "You'll find us here... if you survive the night."

  Theron slipped a rolled parchment into Reed’s cloak pocket, a map. Reed offered a single, strained nod. He desperately needed a healer, but in the outskirts of Argain, who would help a bleeding elf? He had coin left, but not enough to buy the mercy of a physician who would likely turn him away at the doorstep.

  When the Wasps finally vanished into the treeline, Reed fell back onto the cool, damp grass and closed his eyes. Nearby, the corpse of the man whose name he would never know grew cold in the moonlight.

  ***

  Reed stumbled into Eliza’s house deep in the night. He had no measure of how long the journey had taken, but he could feel exactly what it had cost him: everything he had left. The blood had long since soaked through his makeshift bandages and dried into a stiff, dark crust. A wave of nausea hit him at the mere thought of ripping that cloth away from his skin. He had nowhere else to go, so he returned to the only soul he knew in the wretched sprawl of Argain.

  Eliza had been asleep, but when Reed nearly took the door off its hinges as he collapsed against it, she scrambled into the corridor. She was wearing nothing but a thin gown. Her face burned with that same unhealthy, feverish flush, and beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. In the dim light, she looked hardly better than Reed himself.

  "Holy Alaira... where did you come from?"

  "Outside," Reed rasped.

  He knew he was a terrifying sight. The blood from his broken nose had dried into a jagged crimson mask that cracked with every movement of his lips. He was at the end of his strength, and he had nowhere else to turn.

  Eliza didn't waste another breath. She dashed into the other room; Reed could hear the frantic slapping of her bare feet against the floorboards. His head spun, and his hands trembled so violently he couldn't even unbuckle the belt holding his blades. When Eliza returned, she propped him up under his arms.

  She was thin, her strength wavering under her own sickness, and Reed tried his best not to lean his full weight on her. But as a fresh wave of dizziness rolled over him, his legs tangled, and Eliza had to summon every ounce of her remaining strength to keep them both from falling. She managed to guide him to a small bench. A barrel of water and a pile of clean bandages were already waiting.

  "Is your nose broken?" she asked, her hands hovering near his face.

  "No," he exhaled, struggling to keep her silhouette in focus through the semi-darkness.

  Eliza lit a candle and leaned closer. "True, it’s not. Where were you? What happened to you?"

  "D-duel," was all Reed could force out.

  Eliza let out a grim, hollow curse and dipped a rag into the water. "You’re just an idiot, you get that?"

  Reed let out a short, jagged laugh, which only made the wound in his side pulse with fresh agony. No blood was flowing yet. The bandage was stuck fast to the meat of the wound.

  "I don't know what to do with this," she said, gesturing to the blood-caked cloth on his side.

  "Just untie it and see what's there," he said, his breathing heavy and shallow. "There’s another one on my chest. Right here."

  He pointed to the spot where husky’s blade had first bitten in. The bleeding had stopped, but the skin around it felt tight and swollen. He could feel the heat and swell even through his layers of clothes.

  "What if it starts to rot?" Eliza whispered, her eyes wide.

  "No one... no one is going to sell medicine to an elf."

  As they spoke, Eliza’s shaking hands worked at the knots of his bandages and the buckles of his armor. When the breastplate finally fell to the floor with a heavy thud, she looked away for a heartbeat. Her lips moved in a silent prayer or a curse, Reed couldn't tell which.

  "It’s going to hurt," Eliza said, her voice rising with a forced steadiness.

  Eliza steeled herself and yanked at the edge of the bandage. Reed nearly howled as the dried fabric tore away from the raw meat of his side. He shivered violently, and then something hot and wet began to stream down his ribs, the wound had reopened in earnest. Eliza let out a stifled sound that might have been an apology as she carefully peeled away the remains of his shirt.

  She began to whimper, a nervous, high-pitched sound, as she realized her attempts to stem the flow were failing. Terror flooded her eyes. In the flickering candlelight, the wound was a jagged, gaping maw through which the pale glint of muscle tissue was visible. Despite the horror, Eliza held her ground.

  "Everything is... everything is hanging out," she whispered.

  "Just great. Give me the cloth," Reed requested, watching her face turn a chalky, bloodless white. He had hoped a simple bandage would suffice, but luck had abandoned him hours ago. She handed him a piece of wet fabric with trembling fingers. "There's thread in my bag."

  "What for?" her voice was a thin thread of panic.

  "To sew," the word escaped his lips along with a guttural groan. "And a needle. The blood won't stop... it won't close on its own."

  "I don't know how!" Helplessness was etched into every line of Eliza's face; she looked to be on the verge of a total collapse.

  "It's just like sewing pants."

  "No, I can't! I don't know how to do this!"

  "Eliza!" Reed seized her hand, his grip firm enough to keep her from retreating. "Please. There’s a small bottle in there... smells like your tsipur."

  He couldn't bring himself to say that she was his only hope of reaching morning, but she saw it in his eyes. Eliza pursed her trembling lips, briefly stroked his cheek, and ran from the room. She returned a moment later clutching his bag. As she frantically searched for the tools, Reed watched her. She was so pale her freckles were barely visible, her face stained with tears and exhaustion.

  Something inside him clenched. Was it shame? Gratitude? It was alien to him. The realization that someone was helping him not for gold, but simply because he had asked. A strange, tight feeling took root in his soul, constricting his throat until it hurt to breathe.

  Finally, Eliza fished a spool of translucent thread, a needle, and the glass bottle from the depths of the bag. She moistened a rag with the stinging liquid and pressed it to the bleeding gash. Reed hissed, his body instinctively recoiling, but he met Eliza's stern, desperate gaze and sat up straighter. For a long minute, her hands shook so violently she couldn't thread the needle, but finally, she managed it and looked at Reed with a questioning, terrified stare.

  "The needle.. in the liquid."

  Eliza obeyed, then knelt before him on the cold floor.

  "Take the edges of the wound like this," he said, placing a hand on her thigh to show her how to pinch the flesh together. "And sew. One stitch, cut the thread, and start again. Not too many, just enough to pull the edges shut. Do you understand?"

  She nodded silently and leaned in. All Reed could see were her red curls, spilling over her shoulders like a curtain of fire. As soon as she squeezed the edges of the wound together, Reed groaned, his eyes snapping shut. Then, he felt the needle bite.

  The first stitch came easily enough, but the second was pure agony. The closer she worked toward the center of the gash, the tighter the vise of pain clamped down on his mind. He began to lose his orientation, the room spinning into a blur of shadows and candlelight. By the time Eliza reached the middle of the wound, he could barely keep his eyes open; hot, silent tears were tracing paths through the dried blood on his cheeks.

  "Halfway there," she whispered, her voice a ragged breath. "Almost done."

  Reed thanked the Mother for granting him oblivion the moment Eliza began to stitch the rest of the wound, forcefully pinning the muscle tissue that threatened to push through the skin. The world swam in a thick, gray fog, but he caught fleeting flashes of her applying a soft bandage soaked in a bitter-smelling decoction. She moved to the puncture wound on his chest next, and by the time she was finished, Reed felt nothing at all. He drifted in and out of consciousness, each return to the waking world harder and more disjointed than the last.

  "Don't leave yet," she whispered against his ear, her voice a fragile ghost as she wiped the grime and blood from his face with a cool cloth.

  He tried to speak, to offer some word of gratitude or a warning, but his tongue was a heavy, useless weight in his mouth. Eliza simply pressed her palm to his lips, a silent plea for him to remain still. A ghost of a smile touched his mouth before he finally succumbed to the sticky, absolute darkness.