The room was small, sunlight fading to amber along the walls. Dust motes floated lazily in the warm light, and the faint scent of wood polish lingered, comforting rather than oppressive. The single bed stretched too short for two, forcing Lillyth and Aeyona into a careful choreography of limbs. Knees brushed. Shoulders nearly touched. Each movement was a small negotiation, a silent measure of comfort and space.

  Marvel had curled herself at their feet, fur gleaming in streaks of gold and silver. She stretched and yawned. Her tail brushing across Lillyth’s feet. Lillyth flinched, and a quiet laugh escaped her. “Stop it, Marvel.”

  The cat tilted her head, her green eyes sharp. No reply came, but the weight of her gaze was enough. Aeyona reached down to scratch behind Marvel’s ears. “She’s trying to remind you that you’re awake,” she said softly.

  Lillyth smiled, nudging her toes against the cat’s back. “Not sure I need reminding.”

  Aeyona’s fingers brushed the blanket as she shifted closer. “Better than the alcove, though.”

  “By miles,” Lillyth said. “I didn’t think beds could feel… like this.”

  Marvel twitched her ears at the conversation, tail flicking over the gap between them.

  Aeyona’s eyes flicked to Lillyth. “Alkibiades… he’s a good man”

  “Yes,” Lillyth agreed softly. “But people… won’t trust him. Not fully.”

  Aeyona nodded. “Doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”

  “Right. But… how many will see that?” Lillyth asked. Her knee brushed Aeyona’s. Neither moved away.

  “Some will,” Aeyona said, voice low. “And we’ll be here when they do.”

  There was a pause, filled with the soft purrs from Marvel.

  “What about Horren?” Lillyth asked, letting the conversation drift. “The Dwarven prince.. who knew?”

  “Apparently everyone but us,” Aeyona said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “And Malastare?” She asked cautiously.

  “Still dark and brooding,” Lillyth said with a short laugh. “Even after everything.”

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  Each sentence hung between them, carrying weight, laughter, or a glance. Fingers brushed. Hair shifted. The warmth of the other’s shoulder pressed just enough to ground them.

  The sun fell away, leaving the room dim and tender. Marvel curled fully at their feet, purring, tail brushing against both in a gentle rhythm. Sleep pressed at the edges of awareness. By the time the room darkened fully, the girls were leaning slightly together, the mattress too short but enough, the world outside paused for a few more heartbeats, and for the first time in days, neither felt the urge to run.

  Across the hall, Alkibiades entered his room.

  Malastare sat at the foot of the bed, legs splayed and back rigid, fingers tracing patterns across the worn hilt of a jagged dagger. His eyes were distant, staring past the room’s warm lamplight, focused inward on memories, calculations, and something darker. Something he didn’t speak of aloud.

  Alkibiades refused the bed, settling into the chair across the room. The chair creaked beneath him, an odd, hollow sound in the otherwise quiet space. “Surprised you even need a bed,” he said, voice low and teasing. “Haven’t really seen you sleep much.”

  “I prefer to hang like a bat,” Malastare replied without lifting his gaze from the blade. “But a bed will do, I guess.” There was no warmth in his tone, no humor. Just… observation.

  Alkibiades chuckled uncertainly, the sound brushing against the tension of the room. Malastare said nothing, the hum of latent magic from the dagger filling the silence.

  “Does it talk to you?” Al asked after a pause, nodding at the blade as if expecting it to answer him.

  Malastare’s ears twitched. He finally looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. “No. Thank the gods.. Should it?”

  “Uh… no. No, that is a good start. You just fiddle with it so much I thought it was yelling at you,” Al said with a shrug, half-joking, half-earnest.

  Malastare’s gaze lingered, silent, sharp, unfathomable. The only sound was the faint, ethereal hum of energy emanating from the blade, a pulse that matched the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

  “The blade does not speak,” he said finally, voice low, measured, “but the magic does. It is my prize for vengeance. Powers I still do not fully understand.”

  “Vengeance? For what?” Alkibiades pressed, cautious now, the room growing heavier with expectation.

  “My best… my only friend.” His voice cracked gently, fragile in a way that made the words even heavier. He coughed, hiding a shudder that betrayed more than he would allow. “I came home one day. Him and his new pet monster stood over their bodies and laughed.”

  He lifted the jagged black dagger, allowing the lamplight to catch the crystal vial embedded in the pommel. Dark red liquid swirled lazily inside, catching and refracting the light like trapped blood.

  “Is that blood?” Al asked, swallowing, the question hanging in the room like a drawn blade.

  Before Mal could answer, the chair creaked, groaned, and collapsed under Alkibiades’ armored weight. Malastare’s lips curved in the faintest trace of dry humor.

  “How's the floor?” Malastare chuckled to himself.

  Alkibiades only glared at him, through the pain running up his tailbone. He got up, and began finally removing his steel armor. The remaining pieces at least. Still the fifty pounds had felt like a hundred by now. He could breath easier, but his body was used to the support by now. Muscles ached, bruises made themselves known.

  Al slid into the bed reluctantly, settling across from Malastare.

  “And I swear by…” Mal began.

  “All nine hells, I know,” Al cut in, raising hands in mock surrender. “I’ll stay on my side.”

  “Disrespectful. I was going to say don’t steal the covers,” Mal replied dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching with something that almost passed for a smile.

  Horren drank alone at the bar, the amber liquid sliding down his throat in steady, measured gulps. The day’s weight seemed to press against his shoulders, his thoughts twisting with it in loops he didn’t bother untangling. Gradually, the bottle slipped from his grasp, mug balanced dangerously on the edge of the bar, and sleep claimed him mid-mug.

  The barkeep, a quiet man accustomed to this nightly ritual, draped a damp rag over Horren’s head to keep the flies at bay. It was a small, almost tender gesture in the dim, smoke-scented tavern. Funny, yes, but tinged with a subtle, melancholy familiarity. The rag stayed for a moment longer than needed, as if acknowledging the lonely weight of the man beneath it, then slipped away with the casual efficiency of someone who had seen this routine too many times to count.

  The world continued around him, murmur of late-night patrons, the clink of mugs, the distant howl of a city settling into darkness, yet Horren remained, half-dreaming, half-lost in the quiet solace of forgetfulness, the night pressing gently against him like a whispered apology for the day.