The streets of Vaga churned with life. Crowds pressed shoulder to shoulder, lanterns swung from iron posts, and every doorway seemed to spill music or laughter or smoke. Vaga didn’t merely operate at night; it thrived in it. The city burned more oil than the entire Evokian Empire combined, its avenues glowing like veins of gold across dark stone.

  The young Evokian guards led the way with the confidence of locals, weaving through vendors, street performers, and drunken wanderers with soldierly precision. Eventually, they stopped before a narrow building wedged between a jeweler and a butcher shop: The Blue Dream.

  “This place has the best beers and live music,” Koppi said, pushing aside the dangling strings of blue-glass beads that clattered softly like tiny chimes.

  Inside, the air was warm and hazy. Two musicians sat cross-legged on a low stage, their stringed instruments singing slow, melancholy notes. Clusters of gamblers leaned over dice tables, their muttered bets rising and falling with the music. The whole room hummed with gentle vice.

  Omni kept a deliberate distance between Tyrus and the Evokians. He nudged West’s arm, stopping him just short of the table.

  “You will refrain from drinking tonight,” Omni murmured, voice firm enough to cut through the din. “I need you clear of mind.”

  West shot him a sidelong glance — half protest, half acknowledgment — but he recognized the seriousness beneath the old man’s calm. He obeyed without argument.

  The group settled around a broad wooden table. One of the guards raised a hand, signaling for drinks. Moments later, an older woman with a pretty face, soft eyes, and curves designed to ruin a man’s composure approached with two trays stacked with nine frothing mugs. She set them down with the ease of someone who’d done so for decades.

  “So, West,” Koppi said, leaning forward with a grin. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  “The jungle,” Tyrus answered, flat, cold, and final.

  “Evening, boys,” the woman purred, sliding each mug across the table with practiced grace. She punctuated it with a wink, slow, deliberate, clearly meant for all of them but landing squarely on Tyrus.

  West caught his mug with a childlike grin… right up until he noticed Omni staring at him with authority in his eyes. West shrank an inch in his seat and placed the mug back down as if it were contraband.

  “Oh, did you serve with the Guard?” Koppi asked Tyrus, taking a long drink.

  “No.” Tyrus finished his first mug in a single, sharp pull. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the cup down with a heavy thud. “Fighting cats and snakes. The occasional encounter with monsters,” he said, gesturing for the bartender.

  Koppi chuckled, shaking his head. “You should join up. A guy like you could make a lot of money. Move up the ladder. Think about it.” He drained his mug enthusiastically.

  “How much money do you all make?” West cut in, eager and blunt.

  “The pay is shit,” one of the rounder guards declared, earning a chorus of laughter from the others.

  “Blah, quiet down, Catto,” Koppi shot back, waving him off. “An incompetent officer like you doesn’t make much. But someone like West…” he slapped Tyrus’s back, “he could take us all the way to the Zarkana.”

  The bartender returned with fresh mugs balanced on her forearms. Her hips swayed just enough to be noticeable, just enough to make several men straighten in their seats. She set the drinks down one by one, letting her fingers linger a heartbeat too long on each wrist she brushed.

  But when she reached Tyrus, her whole demeanor shifted. The smile softened, the eyes warmed, and she leaned in closer than necessary.

  “Careful with this one,” she murmured, sliding his second mug toward him so slowly it felt intimate. “Strong drink for a strong man.”

  Tyrus took it without breaking eye contact. He didn’t smile, but something in his posture lifted, just a fraction.

  Across the table, the guards elbowed each other, whispering like boys, and West raised his eyebrows so high they nearly left his forehead. Omni simply sighed, already foreseeing trouble.

  Tyrus lifted the mug to his lips.

  “You’re better off staying here, working for Dullah,” Catto declared, raising his mug. “To hell with the Evok and his greedy generals.” He spat on the floor for emphasis.

  An Evokian guard at a nearby table lifted his own mug. “She will deliver,” he said, voice thick with drink. The young guards around Catto echoed the toast, mugs clinking, a wave of shared resentment rolling through the room.

  West and Omni stiffened. Neither had expected open treason to be spoken this loudly, especially not from uniformed guards. Omni’s hand hovered near West’s arm again, protective by instinct. West scanned the room as if expecting an informant to stand up at any moment.

  “Koppi,” Omni whispered, barely audible, “your comrade speaks boldly for a man in uniform.”

  Koppi shrugged and drained his second drink faster than the first. “Catto’s got reasons,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Mandatory conscription from the outer domains will do that.”

  Catto slammed his mug down. “Why should we die for that pig?” he snarled. “So the sons of Evokia can hide behind their pretty marble walls and study their dandy poetry? To hell with the Evok. To hell with his empire.” He spat again and raised his empty mug. “Another!”

  The guards laughed, fully entertained by Catto’s fury.

  Koppi leaned back with a weary groan. “Could be worse. At least we’re stuck patrolling Vaga… watching drunks, chasing thieves.” He lifted his hands in mock despair. “Better that than being sent to serve under General Dresdi.”

  At the name Dresdi, West and Omni exchanged a sharp look, one that said: we need to tread carefully. The air tightened, just for a moment, as if the entire room leaned in to hear what might be said next.

  “So what about you, gentlemen? Where do you hail from?” Koppi asked, eyes drifting toward Tyrus. “I imagine it’s outside the domains.”

  Tyrus didn’t answer.

  He swayed.

  It was slight at first, a tiny, off-balance shift that only Omni noticed. Then Tyrus blinked a little too slowly, his gaze unfocused on the lantern haze drifting overhead. His fingers drummed the table softly, as if the rhythm of the music had suddenly taken hold of his bloodstream.

  West stepped in smoothly. “The three of us are from Lalaida, a small village on the southwest coast. Took a ride on the Emerald Chain, hoping to make a little money in Vaga.”

  He tapped his still-full mug with a finger he had no intention of lifting to his lips.

  “Lalaida?” Koppi snorted. “Never heard of it. Must produce great fighters.” He raised his mug to toast West, or rather, the fake West, but West only gave a polite nod instead of clinking.

  “What’s the matter?” Koppi asked. “Not a fan of beer? They got other stuff to drink.”

  West leaned in, lowering his voice. “I’m not much for drink. Actually…” He nudged his pouch of silver forward. “…I was hoping to find a nice woman to buy our champ for the night.”

  Koppi’s eyebrows shot up. “We can hit the brothel near the courtyard! Plenty of gorgeous Vaga women there.”

  “Koppi, Koppi, Koppi,” West said, shaking his head dramatically. “You think a warrior of this caliber should be wasting his seed on some local prostitute?” He gestured toward Tyrus, who now seemed to be focusing very, very hard on keeping his spine straight.

  Koppi laughed, warmth from the beer softening his posture. “Whew… boys, what do you say we take this party to the Old King’s Castle? Thymus is on duty tonight… He’ll faint when he sees we can afford his prices.”

  The young guards all pushed back their chairs, ready to move, but Tyrus placed a strong, unsteady hand on Koppi’s shoulder.

  It was a gentle grip… but an unmistakable one.

  “Let us sit,” Tyrus said, voice deeper than usual, words slightly rounded at the edges. “For a few more drinks.”

  West turned to him. Tyrus didn’t meet his eyes; he was staring past Koppi, breathing slow and deliberate, like a man trying to keep the room from tilting.

  Koppi grinned. “If the legendary West wants another round, who am I to refuse?” He dropped back into his seat, and the other guards followed suit, laughing.

  West shot Omni a look that translated to: He’s drunk.

  Omni shot back a look that translated to: You think?

  “This next round is on me!” West declared. Then, louder to the entire room, “As a matter of fact, drinks for everyone!”

  The gambling house erupted into cheers. Chairs scraped, mugs slammed, and the musicians struck up a quicker tune. And in the midst of the merriment, Tyrus finally allowed himself a small, crooked smile, the first sign that the booze had truly found him.

  Omni sat in silence, lips moving around a prayer he could barely hold onto. Anger, sharp and holy, kept flickering through him. He glanced at West, eyes stern, but spoke nothing.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  West caught it anyway. He raised his warm, nearly flat mug and barked to the whole room,

  “To Evokia!”

  A roar answered him.

  “She will deliver!”

  West slid his mug across to Koppi, who grabbed it like a lifeline and chugged it straight down. West clapped him on the back, egging the boys on, pushing Tyrus and the guards into another round until all of them were half-collapsed in each other’s arms on the way out of the Blue Dream.

  By the time they stumbled into the night air, they were a parade of weaving silhouettes trying, and failing, to look sober as they climbed toward the Old King’s castle.

  “The women up there…” Koppi slurred, clinging to the stone wall like it was a ship mast. “They ain’t like the whores in Vaga. No, no. These women are special.”

  “Oh?” West asked, perfectly clear-eyed. “Define ‘special,’ Koppi.”

  Koppi blinked hard, trying to align his thoughts.

  “This is…listen…this is Dresdi’s treasure. Spoils of war. Women from all over the Southern territories… tribes that don’t exist no more. He’s coming to collect them in two days. But for now…” He leaned in, whispering too loudly. “Some of the guards are… running a little side business.”

  “It’s a scam,” Catto cut in, nearly tripping over his own belt. “Overpriced, overrated, and not half as good as the real brothels. Koppi’s just in love with some Ura woman. Man spends his whole damn salary on her.”

  “Quiet, you fat slug.” Koppi shoved him away, laughing.

  West shot Omni a wicked grin.

  “You hear that? Ura women. Looks like they’re trying to treat us.”

  Omni didn’t answer. His face was stone.

  “West,” Koppi called, half-jogging to keep up. “What kind of woman you into? I can arrange it. Just tell me your type.”

  Tyrus walked ahead, silent, letting the cold settle his spinning head.

  West sighed dramatically and threw an arm around Koppi’s shoulders.

  “Koppi… my friend… I’m gonna be honest with you.” He jerked a thumb toward Tyrus. “West is into men.”

  Tyrus stumbled mid-step, eyes snapping toward West like someone had hit him with a bucket of ice-cold river water.

  Koppi froze, mouth open, uncertain if he’d misheard through the alcohol or if this was a confession from the stuff of tavern legends.

  “Well then…” Koppi slowed to a stop, wobbling. “I think we might be heading to the wrong place.”

  Tyrus straightened as best he could, which mostly meant he blinked hard and tried to make the ground hold still beneath him.

  “Ali is only joking,” he said a little too quickly. “A woman of the Ura will be fine.”

  Koppi let out a thin, nervous laugh. “Just one?”

  Tyrus lifted his chin with the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be this confident right now.

  “Koppi, before I leave Vaga, I will have all the Ura women in the Old King’s castle.”

  That grin, finally, cracked through. Real warmth.

  Koppi barked a laugh. “You’ll have to fight every night of the week if you want to afford even half of that.”

  “I intend to,” Tyrus replied, swaying in place but looking deadly serious about it.

  They arrived at the castle gates, where the tall, lanky Thymus leaned on his spear with the exhaustion of someone who had seen these idiots more than enough.

  “Koppi,” Thymus groaned. “Three times in one month? Shouldn’t you be bankrupt by now?”

  “We had a very good night at Dullah’s,” Koppi declared, rattling his silver pouch proudly.

  As Koppi launched into haggling, West eased up beside Tyrus.

  “How’re you holding up, champ?” West murmured.

  Tyrus exhaled like his soul was trying to leave his body.

  “I’ll be honest with you… until tonight, I’d never had beer in my life.”

  West blinked twice. “You’re kidding.”

  “I feel awful,” Tyrus said, and his head drifted sideways like he might fall asleep mid-sentence.

  “That’s because you drank like you were trying to drown your own organs.”

  “I realize that now,” Tyrus muttered, eyes unfocused.

  Omni stepped between them silently, his expression the only sober thing in the entire courtyard. He dug into his robes and produced a curled white leaf, holding it out with the severity of a priest handing down punishment.

  “Chew this,” Omni said. “Ruba gum. It won’t sober you, but it will keep you from collapsing in front of strangers.”

  Tyrus accepted it with both hands, as though Omni had just given him divine salvation.

  West leaned toward Omni with a crooked smirk.

  “Are you sure Ruba gum is enough? He’s swaying like a newborn deer.”

  Omni didn’t look at West. “If he collapses, you will carry him,” he said flatly.

  West shut his mouth.

  The gates groaned inward, and Koppi, already puffed with pride, motioned grandly for the others to follow. The moment they stepped inside, the air changed. The torchlight was low, muddy, barely reaching the stone walls, but it illuminated enough.

  Men lounged everywhere. Evokian guards slumped in chairs, sprawled on cushions, leaning against columns, while women from half a dozen conquered peoples moved among them with trays, towels, and hollow eyes. Thin chains looped from wrists to belts. Soft clinks echoed under the guards’ laughter.

  Even in the dimness, Tyrus saw the familiar shapes of the Ura, blonde braids bound with bright colored cloth, slender builds, the glint of silver earrings that marked them as daughters of the southern river clans.

  A small procession of Ura women was guided forward by a pair of guards, one woman assigned to each man in their group. No words were exchanged in the selection, just a mechanical gesture, the women stepping forward, their chains whispering.

  Then Catto belched, loud enough to echo up the vaulted ceiling.

  “For West!” he shouted.

  “He has delivered!” the young Evokians chorused, lifting their mugs, or whatever drink was still in hand.

  The women led the men down a branching hall. The light grew dimmer, warmer. Doors lined both sides.

  Tyrus followed the woman assigned to him, trying to keep his footing steady despite the fading haze of drink. But when she opened the door and stepped inside first, something pulled at him, a familiarity deeper than sight.

  He entered and saw her clearly.

  Junie.

  Her hair was shorter than he remembered, her wrists bruised from metal, her face thinner, but her eyes were the same. She was someone woven into the edges of his childhood, a presence long expected to fall into place beside his own. The elders had once whispered plans, quiet hopes of binding two households through them. None of that was spoken now.

  She stood perfectly still, as if afraid to hope the recognition was real.

  Tyrus froze as well. The room was dim, just a single lamp, but it seemed bright enough to hold only her.

  “Junie…” he whispered, fingers trembling as he untied the first knot of his turban. “It is I, Tyr—”

  He didn’t finish.

  Junie crossed the space between them with a sudden, desperate rush. Her chains rattled softly against her arms as she wrapped herself around him, burying her face in his shoulder.

  Tyrus stiffened, shock, emotion, the ache of everything that had happened to their people, but then his arms came up, slowly, reverently, and he pulled her close. He gentled his touch, careful not to press where the metal had bitten her skin. His breath shuddered.

  “Junie…” he murmured again, softer. “I’m here.”

  For the first time that night, Tyrus stopped swaying. The drink, the noise, the city, everything fell away. It was just the two of them, breathing in the dark.

  “I’m looking for Terah… is she here?” Tyrus asked, voice cracking. He tried to swallow it down, but the drink had softened every edge he usually kept tight and controlled. Emotion bled through.

  Junie’s lips trembled. “No. They took her further east… toward the Evokian Wall.” Her eyes shimmered, and she blinked rapidly, as if afraid that showing too much would draw punishment even in this private room.

  Tyrus froze. Then, clumsily, almost boyishly, he lifted a hand and brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. The gesture was tender, sloppy, and painfully earnest.

  Junie turned away quickly, both to hide her face and to collect herself. She crossed to a battered dresser, rifling through it with shaking fingers until she found a small bottle of moon-shade oil and a folded rag. She carried them to the bed and sat down, patting the space beside her.

  He obeyed; no hesitation. The drink had muted his caution and amplified everything else: fear, love, urgency.

  “Most of the other girls were sent east,” Junie murmured, dipping the rag in oil. The scent rose; cool, sharp, almost metallic. She dabbed gently at the bruises on his cheek. “I don’t know for what… but I imagine it’s more of this.”

  “I came to liberate her,” Tyrus said thickly, but his eyes were on her. “All of you. Every woman of Ura. I swear it, Junie.”

  “You shouldn’t worry about us,” she whispered. “Not now. You should go and find Terah.”

  Tyrus caught her wrist mid-dab, not roughly, but with a desperate firmness. He turned her hand over in his own, fingers trembling slightly from the alcohol and the weight of everything he’d seen.

  “Come with me,” he said, leaning closer, voice low and unsteady. “We’ll go east tonight. I’ll carry you if I have to.”

  Junie inhaled sharply, her composure cracking for a moment before she turned her face away.

  “I cannot.” Her voice was barely breath. “There are… plans for me here.”

  Tyrus blinked through the haze. “Plans?” His tone wasn’t flat like usual; it was worried, sharp, older than his years, and yet softened by drink.

  Junie exhaled slowly, then resumed massaging moon-shade oil into his swollen right hand. She began peeling away the bandages with a delicate touch.

  “In three nights,” she whispered, “during the Evokian holiday… the women here, we plan to poison the command. Every last one of them.”

  Tyrus stared at her, dumbfounded, his dulled senses suddenly sharpening under the weight of her words.

  “That isn’t a plan,” he said, voice raw. “Junie… that’s a suicide mission.”

  Her hands paused on his. The lamplight flickered over their joined fingers, over her bruised wrist, over the chain resting in her lap.

  But she did not deny it.

  “They have allowed themselves to be swayed by the charms of the Ura,” Junie whispered, the edge of steel beneath her softness. “We will strike them where they are weak.” Her fingers slowed on his hand. “And you, Tyrus… how have you come to survive where so many could not?”

  The question cracked something inside him.

  His expression changed; subtle, but devastating. A flicker of sorrow, of guilt, of memories he’d never spoken aloud. He didn’t answer… and he didn’t need to. Junie read the truth in his silence, in the way his shoulders sagged, in the distant, haunted look that settled beneath his eyes.

  She reached for him gently, brushing her fingers through his hair like she used to when they were small, when life was quieter, safer. “Perhaps a greater battle is waiting to deliver you,” she murmured, her voice soft as silk.

  Tyrus leaned into her touch, eyes fluttering closed. The ruba gum cleared his thoughts just enough to let all the buried feelings rise. He felt warm, unsteady, cracked open in a way he wasn’t prepared for. And before he could second-guess it, or even understand it, he lifted his hand to her cheek.

  And he kissed her.

  It was soft, hesitant, and sweet. So gentle it shocked even him. Junie didn’t pull away. Instead, she let out the faintest breath against his lips and whispered, half-smiling:

  “Are you drunk?”

  Tyrus blushed, stunned by his own boldness. The world swayed around him, but Junie remained steady, close, and familiar. “Junie,” he said, voice hoarse.

  Then suddenly…

  CRACK.

  A door somewhere in the hall splintered like a bone. Boots thundered against the stone.

  “SEARCH EVERY ROOM! NO ONE GETS OUT!” a man’s voice roared, echoing through the ancient corridors.

  Junie froze.

  Tyrus was on his feet instantly, the haze of alcohol flash-burning into raw, electric clarity. His body tensed, eyes fixed on the door as shadows flickered under the threshold.

  More shouting. metal clanging. The sound of women sobbing. A guard barking orders.

  “Tyrus…” Junie whispered, barely audible.

  The latch on their door trembled.

  And then…

  The footsteps stopped right outside.