Is It February Yet?

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Ashton curled up a little tighter, arms over his head, as another of his loud...comrades? Fellow mercenaries? People he tolerated who weren't weird little automatons?...careened past his door with an unnecessary amount of noise. Part of him wanted to stumble to his feet and stick his head out the door and politely demand that they shut the fuck up, but that was out of the question for two very good reasons.

First, they probably weren't making that much noise to begin with, he was just hypersensitive right now.

Second, if he moved from his little huddle of misery he just might end up painting the floor and walls with the dregs of the little bit of food he'd managed to choke down during breakfast.

So he curled up tighter, definitely did not whimper when Fearne went galloping past, and seriously considered praying to the gods (who were definitely taking bets on how long he'd last this time) for the blessed release of unconsciousness.

“Ashton?”

Oh, fuck, he was gonna have to answer now, wasn't he? Imogen was one of the few people he actively avoided upsetting, and not just because Laudna would peel a few layers off his skin if he tried (and he definitely wasn't up for that today...maybe some other time).

“Oh dear.” Too late. She was already in the room, closing the door behind her and picking her way across the floor toward his bed. “You poor thing...you're hurting so bad I could feel it down the hall.”

Fuck, fuck fuck . He hadn't considered that. Hadn't thought that their resident empath (or whatever) would be able to pick up on his little problems like this. Ashton peeled one arm away long enough to glare at her with his good eye. “M'fine.”

Too late. Again. Imogen was already kneeling up on the bed to rest one hand on the back of his neck. “I don't have much experience with earth Genasi,” she admitted after a few moments. “I can't tell if you're all locked up or if this is natural.”

Well. Nothing for it but to endure the attention. “Both,” he admitted with a groan, rolling over a little to look up at her. The room was blessedly dim around them, and Imogen's naturally soft voice wasn't quite making him want to pick up his hammer and knock himself out. Yet.

Imogen was chewing on her lower lip, eyes focused on a spot just above his shoulder. “I get these headaches sometimes,” she said, after a few moments of silence. “Anything bright or loud just feels like it's stabbing right through me. Sometimes it gets inside and it just...” she shuddered.

That sounded like it fucking sucked. He groped blindly for her hand and managed to catch her wrist, giving it a little squeeze of solidarity. As bad as his own migraines were, he couldn't imagine being barraged with other voices inside his own head at the same time.

She shifted around until his head was resting on her lap and slowly traced the tips of her fingers through his crystalline hair. “I'm sorry I don't know how to help,” she whispered after a few moments.

“S'fine,” Ashton shrugged one shoulder and let his eyes slide closed. She smelled like fragrant wood with a hint of death (no doubt from sharing close quarters with Laudna). It was kind of...neutral. Not really a good scent, not something he'd be seeking out at every opportunity, just something...calm. Centering. Something he could focus on that wasn't too overpowering.

“Didn't get them until this,” he said eventually, dragging one hand up to gesture at the lump of glass that had replaced a good chunk of his skull. “Fucking sucks .”

“I bet. Oh!”

He cracked his eyes open enough to see her staring off into space again, this time with a smile on her face. “What is it?”

“Laudna says she found what she needed at the market, and she'll be back to make you some tea in a few minutes.”

He groaned and flopped one arm over his eyes. “Said I'm fine.”

“She makes it for me every time I have one of my headaches,” Imogen insisted, though she never raised her voice or took her hand away from his hair. “Tumeric and ginger and honey, plus some other stuff...it helps, Ashton, I promise.”

The thought of drinking anything made his stomach churn again, and he rolled onto his side so he could curl up a little. He realized, belatedly, that he'd rolled toward Imogen and now practically had his face buried in her stomach.

Oh well. She just shifted so his head was resting more comfortably on her legs and traced her fingers through his crystalline hair again. “Just try it? Just a few sips?”

Ashton reached out for her hand again, and she must've seen it coming as she laced her fingers through his and let him hold on through another wave of pain. They were moving furniture out there, or fighting it, or else Orym had finally snapped and was practicing wall-jumps in a pair of boots eight sizes too big. Whatever it was, something was banging into something else and every blow sent pain radiating out from the glass in his head and the slag in his arm.

“I've gotcha,” Imogen murmured. She curled around him until he could feel the ends of her hair trailing along the side of his face. It helped, at least a little bit. Like she was insulating him from the noise, wrapping him in that scent of incense and grave that was so comforting even though it probably shouldn't be.

“We'll take care of you, Ashton. It's gonna be all right.”

He could have argued. Could have told her he could take care of himself. But it felt fucking great to just curl up and let someone else do it. Just this once.

The space around him seemed too tight and too open, all at once. Vax's pulse pounded in his ears, and he was aware of Sylas Briarwood circling behind him as though the man had become the room's center of gravity. He could feel the spell that had taken hold of him, and though his mind was his own his body would not move. Frozen in place, except for the trembling of his limbs and the sweat beading on his forehead.

He was painfully aware of every move the larger man made. Sylas's steps were nearly soundless, but his presence seemed too large and ominous for the chamber to contain. One hand rested on Vax's shoulder, the other stroking teasing down his cheek to tug at the collar of his jacket.

“You're a curious one,” Sylas rumbled in Vax's ear, close enough for his beard to brush against the half-elf's jaw. “And you look...delicious.”

Two sharp, hot points of pain pierced his neck, the shock breaking him out of the paralysis of the spell. He managed to wrench away from Sylas to tumble to the floor, clamping one hand to his bleeding neck, staring up at the Briarwoods as Delilah came to stand by her husband. “How was he, dear?” she asked, casually, holding up a clenched fist wreathed in purplish flame. “You barely touched your dinner.”

Vax didn't wait for a reply, rolling to his feet to launch himself out the window at the back of the room. He crashed through the glass, arms crossed to protect his face, and felt another burst of pain in his side when he collided with a flagpole on the way down to the courtyard. That threw off his landing, and instead of rolling to his feet for a quick escape he landed in one of the palace's shallow ornamental ponds. It wasn't deep enough to cushion his landing, and he slammed into the smooth rock on the bottom in a shower of glass, blood already leaching out into the clear water around him.

The water rippled around him as something heavy impacted the ground nearby. Vax twisted his head, hand pressed to the wounds on his neck, and stared up at Sylas Briarwood's imposing form.

“Come now,” Sylas commented, striding into the water as Delilah appeared behind him in a swirl of purple and black flames. “Let's get this over with.”

His vision swimming, Vax scrambled back in the water, one hand finding a shard of glass about the size of a dagger. He braced himself for a moment as Sylas loomed over him and tried to focus on his thoughts on his sister. His friends. Did they know something was wrong? Did they suspect anything?

“Chenga.”

As battle cries went, it was kind of pathetic, but he saw Sylas hesitate for a moment at the odd word and lunged up, glass shard in one hand. Sylas let out a rippling laugh and easily dodged back out of reach, then followed up with an attack of his own. An unarmed swipe, his fingers tipped with sharpened nails that were more like claws, cut through the front of Vax's tunic and across his chest. Vax let out a gasp of pain and faltered, the shard of glass tumbling from his hand as Sylas attacked again, one massive hand wrapping around Vax's throat to hoist him off his feet.

He scrabbled for the other man's wrist as he was lifted through the air, desperate to take some of the bruising pressure off his windpipe. Sylas leaned in, teeth still stained red with Vax's blood. “All out of tricks?”

Cruel fingers dug into the wounds on his neck, tearing them open even further. Sylas opened his mouth in a feral grin as fresh blood poured out over his fingers. “Well. Bon appetit. ”

…

Keyleth tore through the sky as a giant eagle, talons extended as she dove toward Sylas Briarwood. She couldn't take the time to think or worry, to see how pale and still Vax was in the big man's grasp, she could only focus on the attack. Dive down. Drive him away. Make an opening for the others.

She didn't see the burst of necrotic magic until it hit her, knocking her out of her eagle form and sending her sprawling to the ground behind Percy. There was no time to stop, no time to worry, no time to think about her own bruised ego or what her companions thought of her. She pushed herself back up to her feet in time to see Lady Briarwood deflect Vex's arrows, and tried to send her own swarm of insects on the attack. They were turned back at her, and at Vex, knocking them both off their feet.

Vex growled something and lunged to her feet again, bowstring blazing as she took another shot. Keyleth stared around wildly, finally noticing Pike stooped over Vax's still form. Good...that was good. Pike could...Pike would take care of him.

“Keyleth!”

“Right!” she responded to Vex automatically, forcing her attention back on the battle. Grog and Percy were taking on Sylas, while Vex was aiming shot after shot at Delilah. Lady Briarwood deflected them, one after the other, with the same swirling purple-and-black magic that had knocked Keyleth out of the air.

She didn't have much prepared. They'd been coming to a fancy dinner, not a battle...she needed time to meditate and focus herself for her spells, there wasn't much she could come up with in the heat of the moment like this. Keyleth gripped her staff and gestured with one hand, sending grasping vines out of the ground to tangle around Delilah's ankles. The other woman saw the attack coming and dodged it with a snarl, but this gave Vex enough of an opening to land a hit. The arrow exploded into brilliant flames when it landed, sending Lady Briarwood stumbling back.

“Keep them separated,” Vex called, readying another arrow. Her eyes darted toward her brother, now curled up at the edge of the ornamental pond where Pike had half-dragged him.

“Yeah, of course,” Keyleth sent another burst of strangling vines toward Delilah, driving her another few steps away from her husband. “That's, uh, that's easy. Totally easy.” She could barely see Grog and Sylas out of the corner of her eye. Sylas had a sword in his hands now, something long and black and wicked looking. She thought she saw Percy for a second, diving away out of sight, but didn't dare take the focus of her own fight long enough to check on him.

Vex darted in front of her and dropped to one knee, lining up a shot as Lady Briarwood leapt to the side to avoid more of Keyleth's lashing vines. Keyleth spun her staff over her head, ready to unleash another barrage of insects, only to be struck back by a burst of necrotic power from Delilah's outstretched hands.

The older woman had been circling around them until she could get a straight shot, catching not only Keyleth and Vex in her blast, but Percy as well, knocking them all back.

Keyleth pushed herself back up with a grimace. “So...we're not doing terrible...right?”

“No...this is terrible,” Vex shot back. She fumbled for her bow, but sank back down with a wince. “We've got to...”

A horrible scream cut off Vex's words. Keyleth stared around in horror to see dark tendrils of energy piercing through Pike from behind, lifting the little paladin off her feet and breaking whatever spell she'd been casting to help Grog. Sylas was on her in a moment, that awful sword raised, and Keyleth let out a cry of anguish and thrust one hand forward.

Vines erupted from the ground, spiraling around each other to form a protective wall between Pike and Sylad Briarwood. Keyleth pushed herself up to her feet, trembling, hand outstretched as her eyes darted between her companions and Lady Briarwood...trapped on this side away from her husband.

Percy was at the vine wall now, shoving at the plants. “Stop him! He's getting away!”'

“This really has been delightful.”

Keyleth spun back to stare at Delilah, who was looking at them with a pleased expression. “D-don't move!” she ordered, pointing her staff at the woman.

“And shut up,” Vex added. She had another arrow nocked and ready, aiming right at the other woman's throat. “We have a few questions for you.”

Behind them Percy was shooting through the wall, trying to shove his way through. Keyleth tried to ignore him and sidled closer to Vex, hoping to present a unified front against Delilah.

Delilah smiled, and that same purple-black energy began to swirl around her hands. Vex loosed her arrow and Keyleth tried to do...something. More grasping vines, a blast of lightning, wind, anything, but Delilah was too fast. She deflected Vex's arrow with a burst of power that sent Vex and Keyleth scrambling out of the way. Then she was racing across the courtyard, skirt gathered in one hand...but the vine wall was still up, wasn't it? There wasn't anywhere for her to go.

“Vax!” Vex's heart-wrenching cry had Keyleth whipping around to summon another wall of thorns, but she was already too late. Lady Briarwood was crouched over Vax's body, one hand fisted in the back of his jacket. “Tell Percival to come visit us sometime,” she called, even as dark flames surrounded her and her captive. “He's always welcome back home.”

With that, she disappeared into a roar of purplish flame. Keyleth tried to follow it as it screamed past them, through her wall to the other side. She stumbled toward the wall just as Percy forced his way through, heard him firing at the Briarwoods, but the harsh whinny of a horse and the clatter of carriage wheels echoed in the space beyond as his gun fell silent.

She stumbled out into the open courtyard, just in time to see the Briarwoods' carriage disappear through the gate. Her stomach clenched in on itself, the king's banquet suddenly a heavy lump. Percy was shouting, glaring at her, arguing with Vex, but it all seemed like a distant noise. Like she was hearing it from under water.

Vax was gone.

The Briarwoods had taken him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Ashton hurried around the corner of the warehouse, staggering almost blindly into an alleyway crowded with half-broken crates and other refuse. “Never split the group,” they hissed at Orym, limp in their arms, who'd passed out before they even got out of the warehouse. “What do I always say? Never split the group.”

The job had been a crap shoot from the start. Some rumor from a friend of a friend of a friend of Milo's, claiming one of these warehouses was another stop on the broomstone smuggling trail. They'd all split off into pairs to check these places out, despite only having three members of their little team that could communicate from a distance.

But Ashton and Orym could go together, they'd said. They'd be able to handle anything, they'd said.

And of course the warehouse they'd checked had been a trap...and of course it had been an ambush...and of course Orym had put himself in between Ashton and the biggest, meanest of the bunch and nearly gotten himself skewered and was bleeding out in Ashton's arms as they dropped all pretense of fighting and booked it.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Ashton muttered under their breath, though they weren't sure if they were talking about themselves, Orym, or the rest of the group. Or just the situation in general. Who could say?

They ducked behind a haphazard stack of crates that seemed to offer at least a bit of cover and gently lowered Orym to the ground. Ashton focused for a moment, calling on the earth beneath them and the dust in the air to help hide them from their pursuers, and felt the subtle shift deep their core that signified their contact with their home element. Well, at least it would be a little bit harder for anyone chasing them to find them now.

“Okay...shit, what do I do?” they ran one hand down their face and stared down at Orym's limp form. There was too much blood...more than could have come from a halfling. Maybe some of it was theirs, there was no time to check.

No time for any of it.

Ashton scrubbed their hands against their knees before leaning forward to start checking Orym's injuries. Maybe there was something they could bandage up, or at least put pressure on...give them more time for the others to find them. God, fuck, he was covered in slashes, plus some angry-looking bruises on his shoulder where the big guy in the warehouse had knocked him down. Ashton found a long cut across Orym's shoulder, but it was only bleeding sluggishly and looked half-healed, like Orym had downed a healing potion after he'd been hit.

Then Ashton's fingers slipped in the slick blood on Orym's left leg, and they swore deeply. There was a gash there, just below the knee (which must've been a challenge to hit for the guys they'd faced back there). The blood made it hard to see, but Ashton was pretty sure they could see a sliver of bone in the wound, which was not good.

“Okay...okay,” Ashton tugged their jacket off to pull their shirt over their head and tear a long piece out of it. They pressed it to the wound, almost encouraged when Orym made a pained sound and shifted on the ground. “Fuck, man, I don't...this is gonna suck.”

They'd learned some first aid, a long time ago, and even though some of those lessons were rusty (because, really...stone skin and all that), they remembered a few things.

“All right. Don't take this the wrong way, but I need your belt.” They tore another long strip off of their shirt and wrapped it around Orym's leg, between the wound and his knee, then gently pried the halfling's belt off of his waist. They wrapped that over the length of fabric and tightened it down as far as it could go, doubling the belt through the buckle again and wrapping it in a makeshift knot.

“You might be surprised to hear this, but I know what I'm doing,” Ashton commented as they searched the detritus around them for a hunk of wood the right size. “Well...sort of. I learned it once, but we don't have any other options. Either we worry about maiming you, or you die.”

They found the right piece of wood and slid it under the belt. “Ready?” they asked. Orym was restless, but still too out of it to answer, either from his wounds or blood loss. “I'll take that as a yes,” Ashton muttered and twisted the piece of wood. As the tourniquet tightened down on Orym's leg, he jackknifed up to blindly claw at Ashton's arm and try to push them away.

“It's me! Hey, Orym, it's me!” Ashton easily held the halfling back with one hand, bracing themselves with the other hand to twist on the stick again. They couldn't remember how far they were supposed to tighten a tourniquet like this down, but both wood and leather were groaning and they were pretty sure things would get worse if something broke. “You're bleeding out in an alley on the ass-end of the Core Spire, just relax.”

Orym was panting, barely conscious, still grabbing at Ashton's wrist. He coughed, blood trickling out of the side of his mouth, and Ashton winced.

“Hey, help is coming,” they said. They tore another strip out of their shirt to tie down the tourniquet so they didn't have to hold it, then shifted to put pressure on the makeshift bandage over Orym's wound. The bandage was already soaked through with crimson, and Ashton could feel how clammy the halfling's skin had gotten. “Just a few more minutes, man, just hang on.”

They shifted around so they could keep one hand on the bandage on Orym's leg, and keep the other on Orym's chest to hold him down. Fuck, but this was taking too long. If the others didn't find them soon....

Well. If the others didn't find them soon they'd have two bodies to bury, because Ashton was going back to absolutely murder every one of the sons of bitches in the warehouse, even if it killed them.

Orym coughed again and a hard shiver ran through his body. Ashton leaned away long enough to grab their jacket to drape over Orym's chest and shoulders. “Get blood on that and I'll kill you,” they announced, ignoring the red already staining the leather from carrying Orym earlier. “You'll be fine. The others are already on the way.”

Not really a lie...probably. They were supposed to meet back at the main road after ten minutes checking their warehouses...and it was definitely past ten minutes now. They'd know something was wrong. They'd come for them.

Ashton shifted to rub their face on their shoulder, unwilling to move their hands away from Orym. The halfling seemed a little more aware now, but he'd wrapped both hands around Ashton's wrist and no way were they going to deny him that little bit of comfort. The sun seemed too bright overhead, and Ashton was starting to feel the injuries on their own body as their adrenaline faded. “Hey, no, don't go to sleep,” they said, shaking Orym a little. “Stay with me, buddy. Just a few more minutes, okay?”

They could feel Orym's heart pounding in his chest. Too fast and weak to be healthy. How much blood had he lost? How much could a halfling survive losing? “Not much longer,” they promised, even as they felt hope slipping away. “Just hang on a little longer.”

“AsHTon?”

“Gods fucking dammit that's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard!” Ashton gasped as Laudna's voice suddenly echoed in their head.

“WhERE arE YoU?”

“Alley behind the glass warehouse,” they twisted around to see the mouth of the alley, checking for any landmarks. “Right across from a street vendor with a blue awning. Orym's in bad shape.”

“we'RE ComINg. HOld oN.”

“Hold on,” Ashton repeated, patting Orym on the chest. “Hang tight, buddy. Help's almost here.”

Imogen quietly closed the door behind her and paused for a moment on the other side, ears straining to catch any hint of movement. Laudna was usually so in-tune with Imogen's sleeping patterns it was hard to sneak away from her, but she didn't want to rouse her friend tonight. Not after the day they'd had...after finding Ashton covered in blood, hunched over a semi-conscious Orym, fighting to keep him halfling alive after an ambush at the warehouse they'd been checking out.

She padded quietly down the hall toward the small study they'd been using as a group sitting room and paused to listen for a moment. She hadn't been expecting anyone else to be awake at this time of night, but there was the soft sound of Fearne's pipes coming from the room ahead. Imogen hesitated, not sure she was up for company but even less sure she wanted to be alone, then slowly peeked through the doorway.

Fearne was sitting alone in front of the low fire, playing a sort of tuneless melody on her panpipes, Mister curled up against one of her legs. She glanced up to meet Imogen's eyes and smiled, lowering the pipes to pat the rug beside her.

“Didn't mean to disturb you,” Imogen said as she crossed the room to sit next to Fearne.

“Oh, no, I'm not disturbed. I'm always happy to see you.”

The satyr's enthusiasm was infectious, and Imogen found herself smiling in spite of her interrupted rest. “Couldn't sleep?”

“I'm not sure. I don't always need as much sleep as the others, I think,” Fearne shrugged.

Imogen blinked, wrapping her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. “Really?”

“Mm-hm,” Fearned nodded. “Sometimes I need more, and sometimes I need less. I like to lie awake and listen to you all breathe at night, but Ashton told me that's 'fucking creepy'.”

Hearing Ashton's words in Fearne's musical voice made Imogen bite back a laugh, especially at the serious expression on her friend's face when she repeated them. “Well, you can listen to us breathe anytime you want, I'm sure me and Laudna wouldn't mind.”

Fearne's expression brightened, and she laced her fingers together, elbows on knees, to make a cradle for her chin while she studied Imogen. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Imogen rubbed at the corner of one eye, sure the skin was still puffy and red from waking up in tears. “Is it that obvious?”

“I don't think so,” the faun shook her head. “I'm just a really good guesser.”

That was probably a joke. Imogen chuckled weakly and wrapped her arms a little tighter around herself. “After finding Ashton and Orym like that today...I just keep remembering finding Bertrand in an alley like that, all covered with blood, and we were too late then.”

“And you dreamed we were too late this time?”

Imogen nodded. She kept seeing the mouth of the alley, the broken boxes, and she was trying to run down it to get to their friends but the air was too thick and she just couldn't move fast enough. They were already dead, or dying, and if she could just get to them she could stop it but she couldn't move.

“Hey,” Fearne's voice broke her out of the memory, and she looked up to see her friend had scooted around to sit facing her. “Come here.”

She stared at the patch of carpet right in front of Fearne for a moment before, following the faun's directions, she shifted over to sit with her back to Fearne.

“I have something for this...here we go!” Fearne held up a beautiful comb so she could see it—dark wood with white flowers made out of beads decorating the flat side. “My grandmother used to do this when I had a bad dream.”

“After stories about the Nightmare King?”

“Well, and others. She had a lot of stories. May I?”

Imogen nodded, and Fearne gently pulled the comb through her hair. She relaxed a little—no one had done this for her in a long time, unless she had to ask Laudna for help for some reason. It brought back memories of being a young girl and someone—an aunt, maybe, or the matronly woman who helped with the house cleaning—combing her hair. Fearne hummed while she combed, the same sort of tuneless melody she'd been playing on the pipes.

This close, she could catch the edges of Fearne's thoughts unless she made the effort to close them out. She got glimpses of a home surrounded by beautiful flowers, with rooms full of interesting knickknacks. A matronly presence, combing hair and telling stories, and the scent of baked goods made with strong spices.

“May I braid your hair now?” Fearne asked, setting the comb next to Imogen's leg. “I always liked it when my grandmother braided my hair.”

“That would be amazing, Fearne, thank you,” she replied. She could feel the tension leaching out of her body, as though Fearne had pulled the bad thoughts away with the tangles.

“Oh, good. Dorian doesn't let me practice with him so I might be a little rusty, but I think you'll like this.”

Imogen fought back the laugh that was building up at the thought of Dorian sitting patiently while Fearne braided his hair, and just closed her eyes to enjoy the sensation of the faun's fingertips trailing along her scalp.

“Here you are, Imogen.” She opened her eyes to see Laudna leaning in the doorway, a relieved smile on her face. “You should have woken me up.”

“We've been having a nice time,” Fearne replied sweetly. “You're welcome to join us.”

“In fact, here,” Imogen patted the space in front of her and picked up Fearne's comb. “Let me comb your hair while Fearne braids mine?”

“Girl time!” Laudna gleefully hurried across the room to settle cross-legged in front of Imogen. “Are we telling secrets?”

“I think Fearne was gonna tell us a story,” Imogen replied. She wasn't in the mood for secrets now. “But maybe not a scary one?”

“Hmm,” Fearne paused for a few moments, her hands unmoving in Imogen's hair. “Well, there is the story about the boy who ate the faerie star. She liked to tell that one when she was making a cake.”

Remembering when Eshteross had surprised them all with carrot cake brought a fond smile to Imogen's face. “I think that would be perfect, Fearne. Thank you.”

Beau flopped backward onto her bed with a loud groan. “That sucked, dude.”

She could hear Jester puttering around their shared room at the Xhorhaus, though the tiefling seemed restless. And, really, who could blame her? It seemed like every time the Mighty Nein got involved with something they either wiped the floor with their enemy, or half of them went unconscious and they barely scraped through. This had been one of the second times, with Jester and 'Duceus, plus Fjord and Yasha, burning through all of their healing magic just to keep the Nein on their feet.

Beau had been so sure they were goners when Yasha went down, but Veth and Caleb had held those creepy mutant bugbears off long enough for Jester to bring the barbarian woman back. And then, of course, the squishy wizard had gotten it next...and no matter how many times it happened, it still terrified Beau. She didn't want to lose any of her family.

Which brought her back to Jester's odd behavior now. Usually her roommate would have flopped down on her own bed, loudly complaining about how exhausting it was to be the cleric, and asking if Beau thought they could get pastries delivered so she never had to move again. Or at least brushing her hair out and taking off her mud-splattered clothing. Or even digging a novel out of her bag and asking if Beau wanted to hear all the good parts.

“Jessie?” Beau propped herself up on her elbows to look at her friend. Jester was sitting on the chair at their small dressing table, her pink haversack in her lap, digging through the pockets. “You okay?”

“I'm fine, Beau,” Jester replied tiredly. “You should get some sleep.”

Something in her friend's tone was off. With another groan, Beau struggled up to sit on her bed and really look at Jester. The tiefling had removed her boots, but still wore her travel-stained cloak. Usually by now she would have thrown everything off and started calling for Vedalla to take their clothes to be cleaned—yes, Caleb, yours too. Instead she was perched stiffly in the chair, tugging a healer's kit out of her bag.

Fuck. Beau hadn't even thought about Jester being injured. With those buff little hamster unicorns swirling around her while she brought Caleb back from the brink of death again , Jessie always seemed so untouchable.

“Hey, what's wrong?” Beau stumbled to her feet and crossed the room, catching Jester's haversack before she could drop it. “Where are you hurt?”

Jester stared up at her with a tired smile. “It's nothing, I can handle it.”

“Yeah, yeah, you're the cleric,” Beau waved a hand. “Come on, Jessie. Let me see.”

She hesitated another moment, but Beau just planted her hands on her hips and stared her down. After a few moments Jester sighed and handed the healer's kit up to Beau.

“It really isn't that bad,” she protested weakly as she unbuttoned her cloak. Now that she was closer, Beau could see dried blood staining one side of the dark green fabric. When Jester peeled it away she could see the tears in her friend's dress—four rough, parallel lines where she'd been clawed by one of those things.

“Not bad at all,” Beau agreed cheerfully, though this was the kind of wound that could easily turn bad if it wasn't treated.

“I was just gonna wrap it up for tonight, you know?” Jester was struggling with the fastenings on her dress now, and Beau gently moved her hands away to take care of that herself. “I can heal it for real in the morning, and anyway the rest of you needed healing more than me.”

“Yeah, and we needed your big spells, too,” Beau replied. She peeled the fabric back and frowned at the torn skin underneath. “You really saved our asses back there.”

Jester sighed, then flinched when the movement pulled at her wounded side. “Not enough.”

“We all made it back, that's a win in my book.” Barely, but still. They were all alive tonight, mostly thanks to Jester and Caduceus. And yeah, Fjord's leg had been pretty messed up, but technically the bones were all back on the inside, even if 'Duceus still needed to work on it more tomorrow. And Caleb probably would have carried Veth home anyway after everything they'd been through...and Yasha didn't always sleep so good, so they were used to seeing her sit on the balcony with a sword in her lap. They'd pulled through by the skin of their teeth, and were all reasonably shaken up over it.

“I know, I just wish I could do more.”

Beau couldn't help but smile. She dragged their little wash stand over to Jester's side and filled it from the pitcher, wetting a towel to wipe away the blood an mud around Jester's wounds. “I think we all feel like that right now. But we're getting better, right? Six months ago those things would have wiped us out, and now they only almost killed us.”

Jester hmm'd in response, carefully holding her shift out of the way so Beau could tend to her side. The claw marks were angry, with swollen edges that were turning Jester's skin a dark purple. Probably not poisoned, though; just dirty. They weren't bleeding as much as they were just raw now, but if Jester moved around too much they'd open right back up.

“Planning on a bath tonight?” Beau asked. She dug a little pot of salve out of the healer's kit and started smearing it over the gashes. “If not I'll go ahead and wrap this up so you can get some sleep.”

“I just want to get the mud off for now,” Jester replied. “I can just wipe it off and get a bath in the morning. Maybe Vedalla can run out for pastries when we wake up.”

“There's my Jessie,” Beau teased. She pressed a pad of clean cloth to Jester's wound and carefully wrapped bandages around it to hold it in place, then kissed the top of the bandages with a loud, theatrical smack. “There you go!”

Jester heaved out a relieved sigh and lowered her arms. “Thank you, Beau. That feels much better.”

Beau stood up and stretched her arms over her head, then hooked one arm around Jester's shoulders to tug the other woman close. Jester's head ended up lodged right beneath Beau's rib cage, but the tiefling's arms wrapped around Beau's waist to return the hug.

“We're all okay,” she murmured, running her free hand through Jester's hair to dislodge some of the detritus that was stuck in the blue curls. “We're safe now, and everyone's gonna be just fine. You did great today, Jessie.”

Jester sniffed and nodded against Beau's stomach. “Thank you, Beau.”

She rested her chin top of Jester's head and just held her for a moment, her own relief that their little family was safe tonight rolling through her. “'Welcome, Jess.”

The snow was whipping around them, starting to erase the yeti's heavy tracks. Fjord grit his teeth and leaned around the boulder they were hiding behind to get another quick scan of the mouth of the cave. “Anything?” he whispered back over his shoulder.

Nott, huddled between Caduceus and Yasha, cupped her hands in front of her face. “If you can hear us, we're right outside the cave. We're getting ready to move in. Youcanreplytothismessage.”

They waited for a few moments, then her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. “Either he can't hear me or he can't answer.”

“It's okay, Nott,” Jester patted the goblin on the head. “Caleb's too skinny for a yeti to eat. He's probably just hiding and wants to stay quiet.”

Beau, who'd climbed to the top of the boulders for a different view, dropped back down to join them. “I think there's only two sets of tracks. They cross a lot around the cave, but it looks like we've only got one to deal with.”

They'd killed the other one. Fjord had expected the fight with the yetis that had been terrorizing this trade route to be grueling, but he hadn't expected the wounded beast to carry away an incapacitated Caleb. They'd been tracking it for almost four hours now as a winter storm battered them, until they were half-frozen from the snow and ice.

But there was no stopping. Even if the yeti didn't kill Caleb outright and was simply bringing him back to its lair, like it had other victims, there was no telling how injured their friend might be. He'd taken a few good hits before the yeti got hold of him, and this weather certainly wouldn't do him any favors.

“All right...any ideas?”

Beau was already pulling a handful of fire crackers out of her bag. “Yasha and I'll draw it out, the rest of you go in for Caleb.”

“I'll help,” Jester volunteered. “It really didn't like my lollipop.”

Fjord nodded. He knew already there was no way Nott was going anywhere but straight into the cave after her boy, and they needed one of the healers there in case Caleb was seriously wounded. Much as he hated leaving the fighting to the ladies, he also knew Caduceus and Nott might need his help, just in case there were other yeti after all.

He let Nott lead the way as they circled the clearing to get closer to the mouth of the cave, then braced himself against the icy stone as Nott messaged Beau to tell her they were in position.

“Yo! Ice-ass!” A bottle rocket shot out of the trees and landed in the snow...and did nothing. The fuse. They always forgot how long the fuse was. But Beau was swearing and charging into the clearing anyway, staff whirling over her head as she gave a battle cry.

Yasha's was, of course, much more impressive, and Fjord felt his heart leap at the call to battle. This wasn't the place for that, even as the beast came thundering out of its den with a roar. Theirs was the rescue mission; not the battle.

He and Caduceus slipped into the cave after Nott. The cave was dim, but not completely dark, and he could barely make out Nott's tiny form darting around the detritus in the yeti's lair.

“Ice in the back,” Caduceus murmured, gesturing toward a faint glow at the far end of the cave.

“Think that's where it put him?” Fjord asked, wincing a little as the bottle rocket finally exploded.

“It's where I'd keep fresh food,” the firbolg replied with a shrug.

That made a certain amount of sense. Fjord left Nott to search the front of the cave and made his way to the back, finding a wall of ice that looked like it was made of huge blocks that had been carved out of the river and dragged into the cave. There were bodies stuffed into cracks in the wall, or hanging from icy protrusions. Tradesmen and hunters, too long gone to save, their skin mottled and gray.

“There!” Caduceus tapped Fjord on the shoulder and pointed down the wall. There was another body, lacking the delicate web of ice crystals that had spread across the others, sprawled on the ground near the ice wall rather than hanging from it. Fjord was already on the move, easily recognizing the familiar coat and shaggy red hair of their missing wizard.

His heart pounded in his chest. There was so much death in this place, so many bodies. He dropped to his knees beside Caleb's still form, nearly overcome with relief when he spotted the tell-tale puff of the other man's breath. “Nott!”

“This isn't good,” Caduceus murmured. He'd gently rolled Caleb onto his back, right onto Fjord's knees. The front of the wizard's shirt was stiff with frozen blood, and his lips had gone blue. “I can heal his wounds, but it won't do anything for the cold.”

“We'll have to get him back to the village.”

“He won't make it,” the cleric shook his head, meeting Fjord's eyes with a serious gaze. “We have to take care of him here.”

Which meant the girls had to kill the yeti, or none of them were making it out of this alive. “Nott!” he called again, nearly getting bowled over by the goblin girl as she barreled into him.

“Caleb!” she somehow wedged herself between Fjord and Caleb, taking the wizard's cold, limp hands into hers. “He's so cold! What do we do?”

“We need a fire,” Caduceus climbed smoothly to his feet, then bent down to scoop up Caleb. “Away from this wall, I think. Did you find anywhere good for a camp in this cave, Nott?”

“There are some crannies,” she replied, trying to stand up on her toes to see Caleb. “A couple of them looked almost big enough for the bubble.”

“That's nice,” the firbolg nodded. “That would be perfect. Fjord? Can you get firewood?”

“Yeah, sure,” Fjord was staring back toward the mouth of the cave, listening for the sound of battle. He could still hear Beau every now and then, shouting challenges at the yeti, but since she didn't sound panicked he took that as a good sign. He found a broken cart with a small stash of supplies the yetis hadn't bothered with and started dragging them toward the corner where he could just hear Caduceus and Nott talking.

There was another thunderous explosion, followed by a loud whoop of triumph from Beau. Then running feet as first Jester, then Beau, and finally Yasha came into sight.

“We did it!” Jester declared, spreading her arms and spinning around in a circle. “Beau kept stunning it so Yasha could get in some big swings, and I used my spiritual weapon to bash its head in, and-”

“Where's Caleb?” Beau interrupted.

Fjord jerked his head toward Caduceus and Nott's location and the ladies fell into step with him. “It's not good,” he murmured to Beau as they got closer. “We found bodies...'bout a dozen of 'em. Looks like these things had been stocking up for a while.”

Beau shuddered. “This place sucks. I hate the cold.”

He had to agree with that. By the time they dragged the cart over, Caduceus had already taken most of Caleb's outer clothing off, much to Nott's dismay. He was just explaining, calmly, that once the clothes started to thaw they'd only make Caleb colder if they were wet when Fjord sat down heavily next to her and started pulling pieces off the old cart.

“I think there's some straw in those crates,” he commented, nudging Nott with his elbow. “Wanna help me build a fire?”

Nott shot him a furious look at being dragged away from Caleb's side, but she softened a little when Jester knelt next to Caduceus and starting digging through her pack for blankets. Caduceus had the wizard propped up against his own body, where he'd peeled off his own tunic and breastplate to share as much body heat with Caleb as he could, and he instructed Jester to wrap the blankets around both of them to seal in as much warmth as they could.

With Nott's help, they soon had a fire going, though Beau and Yasha had to venture back out into the rest of the cave in search of more wood. They just had to make it through the night. Surely by morning Caleb would be able to travel.

“What about something hot to drink, right?” Jester offered, reaching for the cleric's pack. “You have tea...or I have some chocolate! We could make hot chocolate!”

“As soon as he wakes up,” Caduceus agreed. “Jester, do you have anything left to see to Mr. Caleb's wounds? I'm about out, myself.”

Fjord had seen angry claw marks across Caleb's face and chest, bright against his pale skin. Bruises, too, including the kind of discoloration Fjord usually associated with broken ribs. It looked like the yeti had dragged him at one point, despite carrying him away from the battlefield.

“I'll try,” Jester said. She folded her hands together for a moment, the symbol of the Traveler swinging from her wrist, then gently rested her fingertips on the side of Caleb's face. She'd wrapped him and Caduceus up in two blankets from her pack, and had stretched a third out close to the fire so it could warm up.

Nott was back on Caduceus's other side, staring into Caleb's cold, pale face. “I think he's shivering.”

“That's a good sign,” Caduceus shift Caleb a little higher, so he could tuck the man's head under his chin. “That's real good. Means he's warming up”

Fjord wasn't sure how long he sat there as the minutes ticked by. Beau and Yasha returned with more broken lumber—some of which was donated to the firewood pile, while the big pieces of the cart and some larger crates were arranged like a barricade around their little shelter. Blankets and bedrolls were dug out, simple rations were shared, and Caduceus talked Yasha through brewing some strong, sweet tea to help everyone warm up a little.

“Caleb?!” Fjord snapped back into focus to see Nott practically climbing up Caduceus to get both hands on Caleb's face. “You're safe, everything's all right now. Caleb?”

The wizard was moving, though he seemed too exhausted or weak to try to struggle out of the big cleric's arms. He asked Nott something—Fjord couldn't hear the words, just the faint rasp of his voice—and Nott nodded vehemently.

“Tea will be fine,” Caduceus rumbled. He'd extracted one arm to brace his hand against Nott's back to steady her. “Yasha?”

The barbarian woman was already moving, a steaming mug in her hand. Jester gathered up the handful of blankets she'd left warming by the fire and followed her, telling Caleb that she had some warm socks that should fit him. They were a confused tangle for a moment as Jester tried to swap out the blankets Caleb had been wrapped in with the ones she'd had by the fire, Yasha tried to hold the mug of tea up to his lips so he could drink, and Nott busied herself wrestling Jester's warm socks onto Caleb's feet.

Fjord sat back, his body practically wilting with relief. Beau slumped against him and huffed out a deep sigh. “I hate the cold,” she repeated.

He wrapped an arm around her, letting her rest her head against his shoulder. “Yeah. Me, too.”

They were learning.

Ashton had tried to ambush them at the door too many times, and now the guards just swung the door open and stood there, knife to Dorian's throat, until Ashton backed off. He waited, arms folded, while the biggest of the guards just glared at him. At least this time they were just escorting Dorian back, though the air genasi looked a little unsteady. Glassy-eyed, shaken, with the same mottled bruising up and down his arms that Ashton carried. Still better than the times they'd slung his unconscious body back into the cell.

The big guard showed his teeth with a feral smile, but Ashton just rolled his eyes. Guys like this could posture all they wanted, but he already knew their captor didn't want a scratch on them beyond what he himself inflicted. So the stare-down continued, with Ashton refusing to sit on the ground with his back to the wall while the guards approached, and the big guard refusing to shove Dorian into the cell until Ashton complied.

Then Dorian's knees buckled and one of the other guards had to catch him before he crashed to the ground. The big guard sneered and jerked his head toward Ashton, and the others all but threw Dorian toward him. He caught his friend, looping one of Dorian's arms around his neck for support, and kept his eyes on the guards in the doorway.

“We had some marvelous results today, didn't we?” Lord Malvolio, the nasty little fucker who'd had them plucked right off the street to use as his own personal lab rats, neatly stepped past the guards to smirk at his captives. “I'm having a modicum of success with adding a distillation of salamander blood, but I'm intrigued to see how it affects my compound in perpetuity.”

Ashton rolled his eyes again. “I keep telling you, you're never gonna find something that affects all genasi equally. Salamander blood's right off the table once you get one of the hotheads involved.”

“Oh, but I will,” Malvolio pulled his glasses off to polish them with a pristine handkerchief. “There has to be some way to sever your connection to the elemental planes, make you the same as any mortal.”

“Now see, that just sounds like a self image problem,” Ashton injected as much sarcasm into his voice as he could, shrugging Dorian a little higher as he spoke. “You're special in your own little fucked up way, Melvin. No need to be jealous of all the other kids.”

Malvolio glared at Ashton as he crammed his glasses back on his nose. “You'll be singing a different tune once I titrate more of my glorious compound.”

“It just sounds dirty when you say it like that, man.”

Quivering with rage, Malvolio darted a glance at Dorian before shifting his gaze back to Ashton. “Your compatriot doesn't seem so cavalier about my methodology.”

“I barely know what you're saying anymore,” Ashton shook his head.

“You won't be so blasé when I have you back on the table!”

“Believe me, I'm looking forward to it.”

Malvolio glared for a moment more, then spun around in a swirl of expensively-tailored jacket to stalk away. The guards followed his lead, slamming the door to the tiny room shut and locking the two captives in.

Ashton immediately turned his focus to Dorian, lowering them both to the ground and scooting back so their backs were against the wall. “You okay?”

Dorian tried to nod, but brought a shaking hand up to cover his eyes. “Feels like I'm burning,” he whispered.

“Yeah, salamander blood sounds fucking nasty.” Ashton steadied his friend as best he could before reaching for the small cup and pitcher they were allowed to keep in their cell. “I saved you some water.”

The air genasi held a hand out as though to push the cup away. “I don't think I could keep it down yet, but thank you.”

Ashton set the cup back down and leaned back until his head rested against the wall. After another moment he tugged at Dorian's shoulders, coaxing him down until he could rest his head on Ashton's shoulder. “This sucks.”

“You're telling me.” Dorian's voice was rough, like he'd just spent hours screaming or yelling. Which he probably had, given Malvolio's particular scientific method. “You said...you said he wanted to affect all genasi?”

“Overheard him telling one of those black-coated fucks who looks in once in a while,” Ashton shrugged. “Seems to think he can tailor-make something that would break a genasi's elemental alignment, make us 'regular people' or some such shit.”

Dorian groaned, a shudder running through his body. “I don't think it's working,” he commented as he turned a little more toward Ashton to rest his forehead against the earth genasi's neck.

“That's what I keep telling him!” Ashton held his free arm up, studying the puncture marks and bruises left by his own injections a few hours before. “He just makes his notes in his little notebook and adds this stuff that turns everything purple and shoots me up again. Did you get the purple stuff?”

“It was clear by the end.” Dorian shuddered, and Ashton tightened his grip around his friend's shoulders. “Ashton...I think I'm...”

Ashton quickly snagged the bucket they'd been given to use as a toilet and shoved it into Dorian's lap, pulling his hair back and out of the way as he retched pathetically. Whatever Malvolio was up to, it definitely seemed to be hurting Dorian more than Ashton. Dorian was definitely getting higher doses and more frequent treatments, which Ashton tried to counter by being a total asshole to goad their captor into torturing him more...but it wasn't working.

Dorian finally leaned back from the bucket, and Ashton shoved it away to just the edge of arm's reach. “Sorry.”

“Just don't,” Ashton tugged Dorian close again—not like there would've been too much for Dorian to puke up anyway, given how little they'd had to eat during their captivity. He tried to think of something that might take Dorian's mind off of their situation, maybe cheer him up a little. “I bet Orym and Fearne are turning the spires upside-down looking for you.”

“And Laudna,” Dorian coughed against Ashton's shoulder and huddled a little closer. He was shivering now, probably coming down from the salamander blood. “Maybe she'll scare Malvolio to death.”

“Now that I'd like to see.” He tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, picturing it in his mind. Her face distorting into that nightmare visage, black ooze coating her fingers, and the little fucker trying to jot down notes in his little notebook right up until he exploded from an eldritch blast. “They'll find us.”

“Security's pretty tight. Don't think even Chetney could sneak in now.”

“Ha! Shows what you know!”

Ashton pulled back to stare at Dorian, who was staring at him with an equally perplexed expression. “Did you...?”

“No...it wasn't you?”

“It's me!”

He stared around the room...the empty room...and heaved out a heavy sigh. “We can't see you.”

“What? Oh...right.” There was a shimmer in the air, then an elderly gnome was suddenly standing a few feet away from them, striking what he probably thought was a heroic pose. “Ta-da!”

Dorian let out a tired chuckle and sank back against Ashton. “Tell me I'm not hallucinating?”

Ashton picked up the cup and chucked it at Chetney, who gave an undignified squawk and ducked out of the way. “If you are I see it, too.”

“Fine! See if I ever rescue the two of you again! Ungrateful little...” Chetney started muttering under his breath as he pulled a few tools out of his pockets to work on the lock.

Ashton struggled to his feet, hauling Dorian up with him. The air genasi still seemed weak and had to cling onto Ashton for support. “I'm assuming you're not the only one.”

“Who, me? No, they...they're all here. Ah-ha!” The door swung open under Chetney's touch, revealing a familiar, and worried-looking, halfling. Sword out, braced like he was about to start hacking at the door. “Gosh darnit, Orym, I told you I had it!”

“We gotta move,” Orym's eyes darted around the room, then fixed on Dorian for a few seconds before looking over to Ashton. “Can you walk?”

“Fuck, I think I could fly,” Ashton grinned, shrugging Dorian a little higher. “Lead the way.”

Vex'ahlia carefully adjusted the cloak around her bare chest as she lay on her stomach next to the fire. “All right, you can turn around now.”

There was a rustle in the leaves to her right, and her twin brother, Vax'ildan, crouched next to her to study the wounds across her naked back. “We have a healing potion, Sister.”

“Which costs money,” she retorted. “Just stitch it up.”

He wet a rag and gently dabbed at the blood around the ragged tears in her back, the sudden sting of cold water making her suck in a breath. “This is ridiculous,” Vax complained. “We don't even have anything to dull the pain.”

“I've had worse.” They needed to hold onto that potion a long as they could. The nearest town was at least two days away, and she wasn't about to risk both their lives over a couple of scratches. “I'll be fine,” she added, letting her tone soften.

Vax let out a sigh and reached for their small healer's kit. Vex braced herself for the first pinch of the needle, trying to focus on anything but the pinch-pull of the sutures. Trinket dropped down next to her, nudging her face with his nose, and she reached out to scratch him under the chin.

“Trinket knows you're being ridiculous, too,” Vax commented. “I don't know why you're making me do this. Your stitchwork was always better than mine.”

“That's a lie and you know it,” Vex shot back over her shoulder. “You used to mend my clothes back in Syngorn so the maids wouldn't tell Father I was acting out.”

“That was a different time.” He snipped off one thread and moved on to the next slash. “This one's even longer.”

Vex took a deep breath and nodded. It had hurt when the dire wolf had torn her quiver away, tearing her back open in the process, but she always hated this part. Vax was as gentle as he could be, and his sharp eyes and steady hands meant the sutures were small and even, which would minimize scarring. It still hurt, and she turned her face toward Trinket to rest her forehead against one of his paws. He gave a mournful chuff and licked her ear.

“Let me get the potion,” Vax pleaded.

“I'm fine!” She sucked in a breath, held it for a few seconds, and tried to blow the pain out with it. Just like aiming an arrow on a windy day. She just needed focus and control. “I'm fine,” she repeated, softer this time.

“Stubby....”

“Please, Vax.” Dammit, she was not going to break over this! “Just get it over with.”

For a few long seconds he didn't move, and Trinket shuffled in even closer to shove his muzzle under her head so that she was resting her cheek on his broad nose. Then the pinch-pull of another suture, and another, and another.

“Just one more,” Vax finally said. Gods, he sounded even worse than she felt. For all his projected apathy he really was just a big softy at heart.

“I'm all right,” Vex twisted a little to catch his eye and tried to smile, though her back burned with the movement. She made a mental note to check at the apothecary at the next town for some kind of numbing salve. They needed to be better prepared if they were going to be reduced to stitching up each other's wounds in the wilderness.

He nodded, lips set in a thin line. She turned back to rest her cheek against Trinket's nose and comb her fingers through his fluffy cheeks.

“There, it's done,” Vax announced a few moments later. The leaves rustled again as he moved away, and she could just see him sitting across the fire facing away from her.

She sat up and gingerly pulled on the loose tunic she kept to sleep in when they were in town and studied her brother's back for a few long seconds. Then Vex quietly climbed to her feet and padded over to kneel behind him, hooking one arm around his chest and her chin over his shoulder.

“I'm all right,” she repeated. “You're a marvelous seamstress, Brother.”

He didn't smile, but brought one hand up to cover hers. “I can't lose you.”

“You won't.” She tipped her head to the side until it was resting against his. “I promise you, Vax, nothing is going to happen to me.”

“If you were gone, I...”

“Hey now, none of that.” She wrapped her other arm around him, squeezing as tight as she could. “I'm not gone; I'm right here. I'll always be with you.”

“You can't promise that.”

Vex let out a long sigh and looked over her shoulder to her pet bear. “Trinky, your uncle is being maudlin again.”

Trinket let out a grumbling huff and lumbered over to sit next to Vax. He nudged him, then licked a broad stripe along the side of Vax's face from his chin to his hairline. Vax seemed to relax a little like that, even gave a soft, fond chuckle, and reached up to scratch Trinket under the chin.

“Nothing is ever going to separate us,” she murmured, resting her hand on top of Vax's under Trinket's chin. Vax just nodded, but she could tell he was still upset. So she let out a long, theatrical sigh. “And, fine, if it will make you feel better, I'll talk to a healer when we get to the next town. All right?”

He finally relaxed, slumping against her a little. “Thank you.”

She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “I love you, you know.”

Vax finally looked at her, affection softening the worry in his eyes. “Me too.”

“Get in there,” the thug gave Orym a hard shove, sending him sprawling into the dingy rented tavern room. “Remy?”

The second thug, the one that had wrestled his sword away and nearly broken his nose, slammed the door shut behind them and dragged the room's only chair in front of it. “Don't know where his friends are.”

“Don't matter,” the first thug turned back toward Orym and flexed his knuckles with a crack. “Told you we only needed the little one.”

Remy sat down in the chair in front of the door and leaned Orym's sword and shield against the wall next to him. “Well?”

The first thug grunted and grabbed Orym by the front of his tunic, hauling him off his feet to slam him against the wall. “We got questions.”

A sharp ache radiated across his back from the beating he'd already endured when they ambushed him. He shouldn't have been out alone, not even a town just a little bigger than Byroden. Not after the enemies he and his friends had made in such a short time. He stared blearily up at his captor, blood trickling down into his eye from the cut across his forehead. “Questions?”

“Yeah. You're one of them druids, right?”

Orym shook his head, flinching when the movement pulled at the bruises around his throat. “Not a druid.”

“Bullshit.” The thug pulled him away from the wall and slammed him against it again. “We heard you talking about it. All about the Ashari.”

“That's not...we're not all druids.”

“Liar!” the thug shifted his grip until he was pressing one forearm across Orym's collarbone, leaving his other arm free. “We know all about you. Meddling with the elemental planes, bringing fire down on Emon.”

“No....”

The thug growled and slammed his fist into Orym's stomach. The halfling coughed, tasting blood in his mouth, and tried to pry at the arm pinning him to the wall. The man dropped him and he curled up on the floor as a boot descended on him. Once...twice....

“Enough,” Remy called from his place near the door. “He can't tell you anything if you beat him to death, Orson.”

Orson sneered and grabbed Orym by the tunic again, hauling him off the floor and spinning around to slam him down on the table. “What is your lot planning here, hmm? Gonna open another one of those fire gates? Burn another village?”

“We...we guard them,” Orym gasped. Orson was reaching for a dagger now, holding the blade just above Orym's left knee. “The rifts. We don't make them.”

“Then why are you here?”

That...was a question he really couldn't answer. They'd been slowly making their way back up to Emon to report their findings to Gilmore, but the journey was longer and much more perilous on foot. “Just passing through,” he finally said, though he knew the thugs wouldn't buy it.

“Hold,” Remy held one hand up and stood away from the door. There was an odd snuffling sound on the other side, like someone had let a big dog wander around the tavern's upper floor. Before Orym could even think of calling for help, Orson had a rough hand over his mouth and was leaning on him enough to cut his breath off.

“Damn mongrels,” Remy muttered when the snuffling moved on down the passage. “They get everywhere these days.”

Orson grunted in agreement and leaned back to let Orym catch his breath. He twirled the dagger and glared down at the halfling. “You're gonna give us some information, or I make you even less of a man than you are.”

“It's not what you think,” Orym pleaded. “We don't make the rifts; we just watch over them.”

The tip of the dagger trailed up his leg to rest against his groin. “Last chance.”

“You're making a mistake.”

“I'm not the mistaken one,” Orson growled and shifted his grip on the dagger to plunge it in.

“Nancy? NANCY!”

There was a sudden, loud pounding at the door, and a familiar voice shouting through the wood. “ Nancy, are you in here? ”

“What the hell?” Orson stared, knife still poised over Orym's groin.

“That's it, young lady, I'm coming in!”

The door jostled under a heavy blow. Remy all but fell out of his chair scrambling into the room to stand near Orson. “The window...get him out the window!”

Another blow against the door. Orson dropped the dagger to haul Orym to his feet, but Orym let his body go slack. Sure, these guys had been tossing him around like a bag of flour ever since they kidnapped him, but that was no reason to make it easy on them.

Another blow. The sound of wood cracking. The door swung open a little, bumping against the chair as its hinges gave under the onslaught.

“Oh. Whoops! Wrong side!” For a brief moment, Orym caught a glimpse of Dariax's bearded face peering through the shattered door, then Opal was shoving him aside to scramble into the room.

“Nancy!” Hands on her hips, every inch the indignant mother, Opal stared down at him, bristling in pretended rage. “I told you not to go off with strangers.”

“You don't want to be a part of this, missy,” Remy warned. He had his hand on the sword in his belt and took a step forward, putting himself in between Opal and the others. “Just turn around and walk right back out, you got me?”

“What? No, you're crazy,” Opal tossed her hair. “I'm not leaving without my Nancy.”

“Your...Nancy?” Orson sounded bewildered, which Orym couldn't really blame him for.

“My child?” Opal gestured toward Orym, a hint of impatience in her voice. “I don't know why you snatched her off the street, but I would like her back now.”

“This ain't no child; he's a druid,” Orson snapped.

Opal heaved out a theatrical sigh and waved her hands, and Orym recognized the all-too-familiar arcane gesture of a charm spell. “No, that's my toddler. Nancy. I'd like her back now.”

“Now see here,” Remy started.

“Our mistake, sorry!” Orson, his eyes suddenly glassy, smile spreading across his scarred face, shuffled around his partner with a hand on Orym's shoulder. “You should keep better track of your child, miss. Lotsa dangerous sorts around here.”

“Orson!” Remy hissed.

“Now, Remy,” Orson replied pleasantly. “It's not your fault. These things happen. Let's just let the nice lady and her...little girl...go on their way.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Oh, don't listen to him,” Opal crooned. She stepped forward enough to grab Orym's hand and pull him behind her, then tapped Orson's chin with one finger. “You're clearly the brains here. I bet you didn't even want my Nancy in the first place.”

“Yeah!” Orson nodded. “We're looking for Ashari.”

“Well, there are none of those here.” Opal was backing them toward the door, pausing long enough for Orym to grab his sword and shield and sling them into place. “Maybe you should rethink this whole kidnapping thing...I hear the mill is hiring.”

Orson nodded enthusiastically. “The mill, right.”

“You're just gonna let them walk away?” Remy started forward, but Orson held an arm across his chest to stop him. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“You know, Remy, I think the nice lady has a point...”

Opal smiled and blew Orson a kiss as Dariax reached through the broken door to help Orym climb out. “We should probably hurry,” she whispered through clenched teeth.

“Right!” Dariax grabbed one of Orym's hands, Opal the other, and together they scurried down the hall toward the stairs that would lead to the main tavern. He stumbled partway, and Dariax hauled him up onto his back so they could move faster. “Dorian and Fearne are waiting just outside.”

Orym nodded. “Thanks.”

“Hey, no problem. But you really shouldn't wander away from your mom like that...she was really worried.”

Now Orym heaved out a sigh. “You know Opal really isn't my mother, right?”

“Now that's not fair!” Dariax sounded genuinely hurt, and he turned around like he was trying to look Orym in the eye, before remembering he was carrying the halfling and continuing down the stairs with Opal. “Adopted families count too, ya know.”

When they burst into the sunlight, finding Fearne still in her dire wolf form and Dorian already pulling a healing potion out of his bag, Orym couldn't help but smile.

“Yeah...you're right. They definitely count.”

The sprawling manor bedroom was dark, the lamps turned low. Lord Eshteross had opened his home to them, again, after Ashton and Dorian's abduction, and the older orc was starting to act like this could be a permanent arrangement. After all, their little group seemed to be making enemies left and right these days.

Orym sat on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap, watching his genasi friends sleep. Dorian was closest to him, nearly touching Orym's leg, his long hair braided into a single plait and tied with a bright blue bow at the end. Ashton was backed up against him facing the other way, like he still didn't trust that they were safe yet. Fearne had tried to braid his hair, too, but had been stymied by the earth genasi's crystalline locks, so she'd settled with tucking small flowers and bits of colorful cloth into his hair.

“Mmm...Orym?” Dorian's weak voice caught his attention, breaking him out of darker thoughts.

“Hey,” he leaned over his friend, resting one hand on Dorian's shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

Dorian looked up at him blearily, his gaze taking in the darkened space around them. “Where...where are we?”

“Uh, Lord Eshteross's place. It seemed safest after...well, you know.”

“Right.” Dorian shifted a little, craned his neck to see Ashton sleeping behind him, and let out a long sigh. “When did...how, how long has it been.”

“Since we rescued you, probably about eight hours.” Orym looked down at his hands, suddenly unable to meet Dorian's eyes. “Five days since you went missing.”

They were silent for a few moments, then Dorian put a hand on Orym's knee. “It's not your fault.”

“I should have been there,” he shook his head.

“You can't be with all of us all the time,” Dorian argued quietly. “They would have taken you, too—or worse.”

Orym just shook his head again. He knew Dorian had a point, but it still hurt.

“How's Ashton?”

“He's gonna be okay,” Orym replied, glancing over at the other genasi. Ashton had made it as far as the rendezvous with the ladies and FCG before collapsing to the pavement alongside Dorian,. As far as they'd been able to tell, both genasi just needed to rest after their ordeal. There was only so much healing potions or spells could do.

“Hey,” Dorian was struggling to sit up, so Orym quickly helped him arrange the blankets and pillows. “It's not your fault.”

“Yeah...feels like it is.”

“Oh, Orym,” Dorian hooked an arm around Orym's shoulders to pull him in close. Orym let himself be tugged against his friend, but didn't return the embrace. “I'm just glad the rest of you were all right.”

“Do you want to get some more sleep?” Orym asked after a few moments.

“Not sure I could. I don't like thinking I'm back in...that place.”

“Want me to call Fearne?”

Dorian hesitated. They'd gotten used to huddling together to sleep, due to their time on the road. Even now, when he'd been recovering from the drugs Malvolio had injected him with, he'd unconsciously pressed himself up against Ashton for security. “Do you...do you think Ashton would mind?”

“Fuck, if it shuts the two of you up, I'll take it,” Ashton complained from his side of the bed.

Orym chuckled, and gave Dorian a reassuring pat on the shoulder before climbing off the bed to stick his head out the door. Fearne was just outside, taking a turn as guard on Dorian and Ashton's room (probably unnecessary, as they were in Eshteross's house, but they were all a little jumpy now).

“Oh, of course!” Fearne beamed down at him when he explained and sauntered into the room. “Hello, Dorian. I'm glad you woke up, at least for a little while.”

“Hi, Fearne.” With a tired waved, Dorian started to scoot toward Ashton.

“Oh, no, that's not right,” Fearn complained. She climbed up the foot of the bed and worked her way into the middle, pushing Ashton and Dorian apart enough so that she fit between them. Then, lying on her back, she tucked an arm around each of the genasi and snuggled down into the pillows with a contented sigh. “Now I know both of you are safe.”

Ashton squirmed around with a groan, kicked one foot out from under the blanket, and wrapped both of his arms around Fearne's. “Gods, you people are weird.”

“I'm sorry,” Dorian began as he slowly shuffled back down to lie under the blankets, tucked up against Fearne's side.

“Didn't say I didn't like it.” Ashton's voice was muffled, either by sleep or by Fearne's arm. “But don't get used to this.”

“Right, of course,” the air genasi laughed. “Orym?”

There was just enough space beside Dorian for a halfling, if they were all willing to squeeze in together. Orym wasn't really ready for sleep, but he climbed into the bed anyway. They all deserved a little closeness after everything they'd been through.

The room fell quiet, Dorian's breathing evened out as he fell asleep, and Fearne gave a deep sigh and stared up at the ceiling.

“Are you trying to pick my pocket?”

Orym smiled at Ashton's semi-indignant voice, and his smile only grew at Fearne's reply.

“I just wanted to see what you had, I wasn't gonna take anything.”

The room was silent for a moment. “All right, go for it. Fuck, these pants are so old even I don't know what's in them.”

“Oh! What's this? An engagement ring?”

Ashton snorted. “If it is, it ain't mine.”

“Well. I was lying anyway. I'm pretty sure it's a Werthers.”

Caleb woke up slowly, but didn't open his eyes right away. He immediately knew the time and where he was (he'd told Veth she didn't need to make sure he had his own room at her family's new home, but she'd insisted), but he took a long moment in that lull between sleeping and waking to just count the seconds ticking by.

He'd been intending to take a semester off from teaching at the academy in Rexxentrum to help with her adventurer's school, though he'd been delayed by some last-minute requests to help tutor some of his students. Even now, after a full night's sleep, his hands felt weak and shaky from walking them through cantrips over and over—magic that shouldn't have been exhausting, but the long hours had taken a toll on him. Teleporting to the Brenatto house afterward was equaling taxing, even if it did save him a long, grueling trip over the roads.

“Lebby? You awake yet?” Veth tapped on the door and peeked into the room. “Yeza was asking if he should start breakfast or wait a little while.”

“Ja, I'm up.” Caleb tried to push himself up when a flash of pain from his wrists to his elbows had him collapsing back down on the bed with a groan.

“What is it? What's wrong?” Veth was across the room in a heartbeat, already reaching for one of his hands. “Are you all right?”

“Just my hands,” he whispered. “They hurt sometimes, in the morning.”

Veth was staring down at him in the dim morning light. She pressed the back of one hand to his forehead, and he leaned into the familiar touch. “You don't look so good.”

“I might have overdone it. I'll be fine in a minute.” He tried to smile at her, but she didn't seem deterred.

“They're working you too hard. Look at your poor hands...they won't stop shaking.”

“Ah,” he tried to pull away from her, but to his chagrin her grip was too strong. “That's normal, Veth. Don't worry.”

“Normal?” Veth's voice shot up an octave. “How is this normal? When did this become normal? Why?”

He finally pulled away from her and managed to sit up, wrapping his arms around his stomach to hide their shaking. “I'm just a little tired.”

Veth had her hands on her hips, a scowl low on her brow. “What's going on, Caleb? Please,” she added when he started to protest. “You didn't use to keep secrets from me. I mean except your real name, of course, and going to the academy, and everything else...but other than that, no secrets.”

Sighing, Caleb brought both hands out in front of him. They were trembling slightly, the knuckles swollen and stiff so that it was hard to bend his fingers. “My hands just take a little longer to wake up, that's all.” He didn't want to tell her about the pain...pain that would spike up his arms almost to the shoulder if he moved his hands too quickly in the morning. Or how sometimes they were locked up so badly he wouldn't even be able to dress himself for hours.

“Oh, Lebby.” Veth's gentle voice, along with that peculiar nickname for him, suddenly made him feel very tired. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed with his friend, just like old times, and sleep until he wasn't hurting anymore.

“But we have students soon,” he said. “Does your class start today?”

Veth stared up at him, then straightened up and set her shoulders. “Right. Give me five minutes, I'll be right back.”

He watched her go, a little bewildered, and slowly started making himself ready for the day. His hands weren't too bad this time...Veth's home was a lot warmer than his quarters at the academy, and that seemed to help. It still hurt to do anything with them, and he had no idea how he was supposed to eat breakfast with Veth and her family now when he wouldn't even be able to lift a tankard. Maybe he could just pretend to need another hour of sleep, and join them after his hands had loosened up.

Two sets of footsteps on the stairs had him looking up again, and Veth slipped back into the room with Yeza on her heels. “It's all settled,” she announced. “Classes are delayed for a week, so you have plenty of time to rest.”

“Veth, that's too much. I'm all right, really.”

“I won't hear it!” Veth held up one hand. “You look awful, Cay. You're all pale and skinny, almost like when we first met, and your hands hurt so much you can hardly move them. You need rest and lots of food.”

“And me!” Yeza piped up. He gingerly picked up one of Caleb's wrist and twisted it a little, then gently pried at the fingers. Caleb tried not to flinch when even those slight movements hurt, but Yeza nodded anyway. “Thought so. I think I have something that can help.”

“The healer at the academy said there was no cure for this,” Caleb protested, but Yeza was already digging a few small vials out of his pockets.

“Oh, a cure? No, you'd need some kind of high-level restoration for this, and even then it might not work. And it would probably come back. No, see, we just need something to help the symptoms, right? Veth, could you give me a hand?”

Yeza shook a few drops of oil from one vial into Veth's hands, then they each took one of Caleb's hands and gently began to massage the oil into his skin. “You might need some help with this at first, but it should promote blood flow and help your muscles and tendons relax,” Yeza explained. He and Veth had started at Caleb's wrists and moved down through his palms before tending to each of his fingers.

“Your hands are so cold,” Veth whispered. The oil was warm against his skin, with a pleasant smell like cinnamon and peppermint.

“Ah, yeah, this should help with that,” Yeza replied. “We had a neighbor back in Felderwin who had problems with her hands like this; she'd been a weaver most of her life and her hands started cramping up as she got older. I might be able to remember more of what me and the doctor came up with to help her if you give me some time.”

“It's already better. Thank you, Yeza.” Caleb flexed his fingers, relieved when the pain only seemed to stab partway up his forearm.

Veth was still looking at him with big, sad eyes. “How long has this been going on?”

Caleb sighed. There was no avoiding it now. “Almost a year.”

“And you never told me?”

“You didn't need to worry about me,” he protested. “You have your life, Veth. Your family. Your child. I can take care of myself.”

“Obviously not!”

“Veth...”

“No, it's settled. You're taking a week off to sit in front of the fire and rest your poor hands while Luc reads you stories, and that's final.”

He stared back at her, the guilt already threatening to surface. He was already such an imposition here, and she wanted him to be an idle guest for a week? If they were going through the trouble of opening their home for him, he needed to be doing something to earn his place.

Yeza leaned in closer to him. “I'd do what she says,” he announced in a loud whisper. “She's kind of stubborn.”

Veth snorted and rolled her eyes, but her affection for her husband was plain on her face. “Please?” she added, looking back up to Caleb. “Let us take care of you?”

Caleb never could say no to her. His shoulders slumped and he nodded. “ Ja , okay. Thank you, Veth.”

“Chetney, I can't believe you pretended to be a ghost again!” Imogen leaned against Laudna as she laughed. “And I can't believe it worked!”

“Oh, I'm real scary,” Chetney announced. He could barely reach the tavern table from his chair, but he'd steadfastly refused a booster seat (or a place on Fearne's knee). “Folks never see me coming, then ha! Gotcha.” He punctuated his sentence by pretending to stab Dorian with his fork. Dorian, for his part, collapsed sideways against Fearne like he'd just been stabbed.

They were enjoying a celebratory meal after a job well done (actually well done this time...no one had gotten knocked out or beaten bloody and Ashton had actually convinced a guard to let them in at the gate). It wasn't anything like the Spire by Fire or any of their usual haunts, it was a little more upscale than the places they usually drank. More tables, more upscale clientele.

Mostly a lot of rich snobs looking down on the motley crew in dented armor and stained clothes (except Dorian, of course). But they had money from this job, and that was all the class this establishment required. Even enough for a tidy pile of copper that Fresh Cut Grass was happily chewing their way through.

“Another round?” Ashton pointed around the table, then raised their hand in the air and twisted around to call to the barman. “Another round!”

The barman—a snobbish half-elf who'd tried to keep them from pushing two tables together so they didn't have to split up—shot them his usual dour glare as he moved to fetch another pitcher of ale. He'd been in deep conversation with a couple of men at the bar and looked severely put-out to have to leave it, even for a moment.

“And Ashton, I had no idea you could throw Orym that high,” Dorian commented.

“Yeah, well, he's just a little guy, isn't he?” Ashton ruffled Orym's hair roughly, nearly knocking him off the chair he'd been kneeling on. “I'll happily throw you over a fence any time you need it.”

“I didn't need it this time,” Orym pulled away. “Those bars were almost two feet apart. I could have fit through them...most of you did fit through them.”

“My way was more fun.”

“I almost got stuck in a tree!”

“Then Ashton could have climbed up and thrown you back down,” Fearne said, resting one elbow on the table to lean her chin into her hand. “Really, Orym, we had it all under control.”

“That's not...I think you're missing the point.”

“All right, here you go.” The barman approached their table with a heavy tray, and started placing new tankards in front of each of them. “Had to open a new cask, so you all get clean tankards.”

“And that goes on the bill, I suppose?” Ashton said, regarding the new tankard suspiciously.

The barman's ears turned red. “It's just a part of the kind of service you can expect here at Juniper's Pride. Our ale is brewed in small batches, so every keg is unique. It's a tradition handed down among the finer establishments-”

“Yeah, sure,” Ashton waved the barman away and turned back to their tankard. “Didn't ask for a lecture.”

The half-elf stewed for a few more seconds before stalking back to the bar to resume his conversation.

“It is pretty good ale,” Imogen commented after a moment.

Ashton snorted. “ You don't have much to compare it to. This is kinda...” they trailed off, waggling one hand in the air.

“Maybe we can take a whole keg to put in FCG,” Fearne said. “Do you have room in there after all that copper?”

“Oh!” the little automaton looked at their dwindling pile of coins. “I don't know what would happen if I drank some now...maybe give me time to digest these first. You probably don't want copper mixed in to your booze.”

“Really, I wouldn't mind,” Fearne insisted.

“Say, did we ever tell you about the Glitter Shitter?” Dorian jumped in, in a lame attempt to distract Fearne from pouring ale down FCG's gullet. “We sort of accidentally stole this carriage from a very powerful mage in Emon....”

The story seemed more like they'd been borrowing a carriage from a very powerful mage and had been kidnapped while using it...then escaped the kidnapping and rode the carriage to safety and sent it back later, but it was entertaining. Dorian was, of course, an excellent storyteller, with Fearne adding in fantastical elements that Orym corrected.

“L-Laudna?” Imogen's voice, usually soft and gentle, was barely audible now. She had one hand planted on the table and the other on her forehead, swaying a little in her seat. “I think somethin's wrong?”

“Poor girl needs some air.” A stranger had walked up to their table, right behind Imogen. Ashton was pretty sure it was one of the men that had been at the bar earlier. “Come on, sweetheart. Let's take a walk.”

He grabbed the back of Imogen's chair to pull her away from the table, but Laudna reacted too quickly. She wrapped both spindly arms around Imogen's shoulders and hissed up at the man, her jaw stretching far too wide as black ooze began to drip from her fingers and hair. “Don't you touch her!”

The man seemed stunned for a moment, but before he could turn to flee Dorian was on him. The bard spun him in a half-circle and pinned him to the table, which Orym had already jumped up on.

“What did you do?” the halfling demanded. His sword point was at the back of the man's neck, and the man started babbling that he was just trying to help.

Ashton shot to their feet and stared around the room, daring anyone to step in. “You got this?” they demanded, shooting a look at Dorian.

“We got this,” Dorian replied. He had the man's arm twisted up behind his back, while Orym was holding his sword steady. Laudna had retreated with Imogen to a corner of the room, and Fresh Cut Grass had followed to apply what aid they could.

“C'mon,” Ashton jerked their head toward the bar and took off at a fast walk, Fearne not far behind. “Hey, yeah...what the hell?” they demanded, slamming their hands on the bar top.

The barman took a half step back, clutching his apron in both hands. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“My friend?” Ashton made a broad gesture toward their table. “You drugged her.”

“I did nothing of the sort!” the half-elf sniffed. “Perhaps she is simply not used to the quality we serve here at Juniper's Pride.”

“Uh-huh.”

Something tugged at Ashton's elbow. “He smells sweet,” Chetney whispered up to him, invisible at his side. “Too sweet for what he served us.”

“Right.” Ashton leaned forward on the bar. “You're gonna tell me what you put in that drink.”

“Or what?” the barman sneered, taking the bait and leaning in. “You'll call the Wilders on me?”

Ashton grinned and slammed their head forward, catching the barman across the bridge of the nose. While the half-elf was still reeling, they got a handful of his collar and slammed him face-first against the bar. “You don't wanna know,” they hissed, bending down to get closet to his level.

“J-just some dream-seed, I swear!” the barman babbled. “She was just gonna feel a little tired, maybe want some fresh air, that's all.”

“Uh-huh,” Ashton lifted the half-elf's head up enough to slam it down again. “And, what, maybe be a little easier to persuade?”

“Ashton,” Fearne had a hand on their arm, and they reluctantly pulled away from the barman. She looked down at him sweetly, both hands resting on the bar top. “I just have one question. Is this the first time you've done something like this?”

The barman straightened up, wiping blood off his face. “It's just a joke, lady. Gods, you people are a menace. Maybe I should call the Wilders.”

“Maybe you should,” Fearne agreed. Smoke began to curl from her fingers, still resting on the wood of the bar top. “Alcohol burns pretty quickly, doesn't it?”

Ashton turned away from the bar to stride back to the table. “How's it going?”

“Oh, our friend here has decided to rethink his life, isn't that right?” Dorian said brightly, twisting on the arm he was holding just a little more. “Said something about leaving town and never coming back...didn't you?”

“Yes...yes, please. Just let me go.”

“All right, but the other little guy? The one you can't see anymore?” Orym was on one knee, his hand twisted in the hair at the back of the man's head. “He has your scent now, and we'll know if you come back.”

“And I never sleep, motherfucker,” Chetney whispered from empty air at the man's side.

The man yelped and twisted, and would have gotten himself a slice on the neck if Orym hadn't pulled his sword away. Ashton nodded to them, and Orym and Dorian let go. “I'd leave now,” Ashton said casually, glancing over to where the bar was starting to burn in earnest. Fearne was sauntering over to them with Mister hanging off her shoulder, the monkey's face twisted into an angry scowl. “FCG?”

“I can't heal her,” Fresh Cut Grass replied worriedly. “I've tried...it's not working.”

“It's dream-seed,” Ashton explained, walking over to crouch beside the automaton. “I think you'll be okay if you can sleep it off, but we need to get somewhere safe.”

“Lady Riggston said we could stay with her, when the job was completed,” Laudna said, still holding Imogen close. “We were going to go back to Zhudanna, but I think we should take her up on her offer.”

“I think we all should,” Dorian added. “May I?” he held his arms out, and Laudna reluctantly relinquished Imogen to him. Dorian easily lifted her into his arms, and turned to face the rest of them. “Lead the way?”

“Quickly now, before they realize I lifted a couple bottles of the good stuff while I was back there,” Chetney's disembodied voice whispered.

“That sounds excellent, old man,” Ashton murmured. “Fuck this place anyway.”

The horrible, cold ache seemed to spread down into Vax's body from the wound in his neck. He was vaguely aware of the world moving around him, the wrenching pull of magic, the rocking of a carriage. With monstrous effort, he forced his eyes open and found himself tossed careless across the seat of a carriage...directly across from Lady Briarwood.

She smiled when she noticed him looking. “Thank you for joining us on your journey home—you know, I never did get your name.”

“I think you got enough,” he rasped. Vax pushed himself up and slid down to the end of the seat, letting his eyes dart around to take in the interior of the carriage. “My blood type, for a start.”

“It's so difficult to find something to suite my husband's...exotic tastes. I hope you don't mind.”

“Oh, not at all. Always happy to aid a guest of the sovereign's.” The carriage was well-made, without any obvious weaknesses. And he seriously doubted he'd win in a struggle against Delilah—or her husband—now. “Just drop me off here, if you don't mind.”

Delilah laughed. “My dear boy, what makes you think we're letting you go? Your little friends—and the mongrel—are one thing, but you?” she leaned forward, sparks arcing off her fingertips. “We never let our prey go, once we have its taste.”

Vax risked a glance out the window. They were heading for the southeastern gate, passing close to Abdar's Promenade. This would have to be close enough. “Can I give you one small piece of advice?” he asked, sliding a little further on his seat to lean one shoulder against the door. His head was spinning, and not just from blood loss.

“Of course,” she sat back, hands folded in her lap, that damnable smirk on her lips.

This was a really...really...stupid idea.

“When you're looking to kidnap someone...maybe try securing the door.”

The carriage's doors were kept closed by simple slide locks—obviously the Briarwood's didn't need to worry about bandit attacks. Vax easily slid the lock open and slammed his weight into the door, swinging him out of the carriage and over the street. He was vaguely aware of Delilah calling to her husband as he let go, slamming into the cobblestones hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

He rolled, fighting in vain to keep his arms up to protect his head. He'd jumped out of carriages before, but not after sustaining such severe injuries (or when traveling at such a high speed). Vax slammed into a barrel of rainwater, hitting his head hard enough to rattle his brains while cold, grimy water splashed down over him.

“I say! Are you all right?”

He barely squeezed his eyes open enough to see an elderly man—gray hair, massive beard in two braids—in a dark purple tunic running toward him.

Purple.

“Gilmore...”

The world went dark.

…

“You can't keep us here!” Vex, hands on her hips, pulled herself up to her full height to glare at the captain of the guards. “My brother has been abducted by those monsters! We have to rescue him!”

“And you're just expecting me to let you go?” Jarett shook his head. “My men are looking into your claims. If he was abducted as you say, there should be some witnesses. Until then, you need to stay here, on house arrest.”

“Do you really want his death on your hands?” Vex leaned up into the captain's face.

“You could at least send someone after them?” Keyleth had come up behind Vex during the argument, standing just within her line of sight. “Maybe...maybe it's a misunderstanding? You could just check.”

Jarett sighed and shook his head. “I cannot pursue the delegates from Whitestone without proof of their treachery, or orders from the council.”

“We're on the council!” Keyleth said brightly.

“You're suspended from the council,” he shot back. Keyleth visibly deflated, and it was all Vex could do not to roll her eyes. But Jarett gave a sigh and looked between the two of them, then to the rest of Vox Machina gathered in the hall. “I'll have my men ready to do the moment we hear anything. If we get word—reliable word—that your brother is in danger we'll act. Until then, you need to wait here.”

He gestured to his men and they filed out, slamming the door of the keep behind them.

It took all of Vex's self-control not to scream, and she jerked her arm away on instinct when Keyleth touched her. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“Let's go in the kitchen with the others,” Keyleth suggested. “I think I could use a cup of hot cocoa after all of that.”

There was a long list of things Vex wanted after the evening they'd had, and cocoa was nowhere on that list, but she followed Keyleth anyway. She felt like half of her had been torn away the moment Lady Briarwood absconded with Vax. And then, on top of everything else, Jarett wouldn't even let Trinket into the keep with them!

She let Keyleth wrap and arm around one of hers, knowing the other half-elf was just as shaken up by tonight's events. At least she still had Vox Machina, and they could come up with a plan to catch the Briarwoods.

“Do you smell something?” Keyleth asked as they got closer to the kitchens. “We didn't leave anything cooking, did we?”

There was a heady aroma, like an expensive flowery tea. Vex drew Keyleth back toward the wall while Percy and the gnomes did the same on the other side of the wall. She nodded to Grog, who threw open both doors with a challenging roar at whoever was camping out in their kitchen.

“Good heavens! None of that, now, you could've woken the dead!”

Vex could have sagged in relief, but she darted forward instead, ducking under Grog's arm. “Gilmore.”

This was good news, finally. She didn't know why Gilmore had chosen tonight to visit them at the keep, like he was always promising Vax, but he wasn't on house arrest. He could go after her brother...might even be powerful enough to defeat the Briarwoods.

He tutted and held up one hand. “No offense, my dear Vex'ahlia, but you're a little...grimy.”

“Yes, well, I haven't had a chance to change yet,” she replied, looking down at her leaf-stained dress. “Gilmore, have you heard anything about the sovereign's dinner? About the Briarwoods?”

Gilmore gave a heavy sigh and reached out to grasp both of her hands. “I've guessed a few things, but...really, what have you gotten yourselves into?”

Vex shook her head. “They have Vax, Gilmore. We have to go after them, but the keep is surrounded. Can you-”

He pressed one manicured finger to her lips and shushed her. From anyone else it would have been demeaning. From Gilmore...it was still a little demeaning, but it was Gilmore . “Your brother is here.”

“What?!”

“A frequent customer of mine saw him thrown out of a carriage close to the city gate. Apparently Vax said my name before he passed out, so they sent someone to fetch me.”

Vex felt tears welling in her eyes, but she shoved them away stubbornly. “Where is he?”

“He's in his room...well, I had to guess which one is his. But, Vex. He hasn't woken up since I found him.”

…

She sat at his bedside, holding one of his cold hands to her cheek. “Come on, Brother,” Vex whispered. “You can beat this.”

Vex had barely taken the time to change out of her formal wear before taking up vigil at her brother's bedside. She could hear the others talking—vague concerns about Percy that she was shoving aside to focus on Vax. Gilmore had stabilized the wounds as best he could, but not even he could say when her brother would wake up.

“Vex?”

“Keyleth.” She wasn't really up for company right now, not after Pike had been unable to heal Vax. “What do you want?”

“I brought you some tea an-and a sandwich,” Keyleth offered. “Gilmore left to fetch a cleric...apparently Jarett lets him walk in and out of here.”

“He isn't on house arrest,” Vex rolled her eyes and didn't take the offered plate and mug. Keyleth hesitated for a moment, then set them on the side table next to Vex and walked around to sit at the opposite side of the bed.

“At least it's not infected,” Keyleth said, peering at the wounds on Vax's neck. “You can't become a vampire from one bite, so the real worry is infection. We need to-”

“I know,” Vex cut in. Keyleth immediately looked down at her hands, fiddled for a moment, then reached up to take Vax's other hand. Vex let out a long sigh. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you might want some company?” When Vex just stared at her, she sank in on herself a little more. “Okay...I wanted some company. And I know...I know you have a lot on your mind, and Vax is...um, sick...but I feel like something bad might happen if we're not all together, you know?”

Something bad had happened. While they were all apart. Vex hated to admit it, but she saw the other woman's point. “I just wish he would wake up.”

“Yeah. But he's strong, you know? He'll pull through this...and Gilmore'll be back with help soon. Then Vax'll make fun of us for worrying so much.”

“No he won't,” Vex leaned forward a little more, pressing her brother's hand to her chest. “He'll be all clingy and fretful and try to keep any of us from wandering off by ourselves. And he'll do the thing with the daggers; constantly pulling them out and flipping them and checking the blades. Like he doesn't already keep them in perfect order.”

“That does sound more like Vax,” Keyleth nodded. “Hey, you don't want your tea to get cold...or your sandwich to get hot, I guess.”

Vex took a deep breath and blew it out through her nose. She was a little hungry after everything, and Gilmore probably wouldn't be back for at least another hour. She took a bite of the sandwich and washed it down with a swallow of tea—they both tasted to green. Obviously Keyleth's work.

“He's going to be okay, Vex,” Keyleth said gently.

“He'd better be,” she replied. “Or I'm taking down the Mistress of Darkness herself to get him back.”

“Thank you,” Dorian said cheerily, accepting the tray of bread and fruit from the tavern keeper. “Orym? You good?”

The halfling gave him a thumb's up from behind a stack of glasses and a couple of bottles of wine. Dorian smiled and started to turn away, but the tavern keeper leaned across the bar to snag his sleeve.

“Hang on a second...you Bronte Wyvernwind?”

“What, him? No, no that's not me at all,” Dorian lied cheerfully, fighting to hide a surge of panic. A dozen thoughts were fighting for prominence in his head—everything from bounty hunters looking for his brother to word of his parents' death back home. “Why, uh, why would you ask?”

In answer, the tavern keeper slapped a sheet of paper onto the top of the bar. It was a sketch of Dorian—or, more accurately, a sketch of Bronte. It had clearly been copied from the family portrait that hung behind his parents' chairs in the mediation hall.

“Looks like you,” the tavern keeper commented, seeing Dorian's reaction.

Dorian cleared his throat. “What do you want with him?”

“Got a letter,” the man held up an envelope, sealed with the wax seal of the Wyvernwind family. “Heard they been handing them out to all the taverns and inns around here. Someone's awfully interested in finding this guy.”

“Well, if I see him I'll let him know,” Dorian replied.

“Sure,” the tavern keeper slipped the letter onto the tray Dorian was carrying. “You do that.”

Dorian was silent as they walked back to the table, Orym hovering a little closer to his hip than was strictly necessary. The rest of the group greeted them with a cheer, though Dorian had lost his appetite for food and drink now. He took the letter, if only to keep it out of someone else's hands, and stared dolefully at it while his friends began dividing out the bread and wine.

“Did you get a letter, Dorian?” Imogen asked.

“Oh, it looks fancy,” Laudna added. “Is it something important.”

“Dorian didn't get a letter,” Orym cut in. “Bronte did.”

The group fell silent for a moment, then Ashton grunted and fished a small knife out of their boot, which they passed over to Dorian, leaning back to balance on the back legs of their chair as soon as the knife was out of their hands. “Only one way to find out.”

Dorian accepted the knife, and gingerly cut the seal away from the envelope. The paper inside was familiar, as was the handwriting. He read it over carefully, barely aware of the silence around him as his friends waited.

When he was finished, he folded up the letter and set it down on the table, mildly surprised to find a bowl of stew in front of him. Apparently he hadn't noticed their dinner being delivered.

“Well?” Imogen asked impatiently. “What's it say?”

Orym was still standing next to him, a hand on his arm. “You don't have to tell us if you don't want to.”

“I mean, we're just gonna steal it from you later and read it ourselves,” Ashton added, throwing a smirk in Dorian's direction when he looked up.

“It's from my parents,” Dorian explained, resting one hand on top of the letter. “Apparently someone at the ball has contact with the Silken Squall and passed along the information that I'd attended. They want me to come home.”

“That's too bad,” Laudna crooned after a moment of silence. “They'll just have to be disappointed, then.”

Dorian shook his head, fighting to keep control over himself. “You don't understand. With Cyrus here, they have no way to secure our bloodline. The heir and the...the next in line, both out in Exandria like this? It weakens our family's political strength. They need a son of the Wyvernwinds at home, to protect our legacy.”

Ashton snorted. “The spare.” Dorian looked at them in confusion. “You almost said it...the heir and the spare.”

“It's not like that.”

“Bullshit,” Ashton leaned forward so that the front legs of their chair hit the floor with a thud. “They literally named you 'second son'...it's pretty fucking obvious what they were thinking.”

“It's tradition.”

“Yeah, well, it sucks.”

Dorian almost smiled at that. “I couldn't agree more, but my course is clear. I need to return home.”

Fearne, sitting next to him, gently took his hand in both of hers. “Do you want to go back?”

“I have a duty to my family,” he replied. This was too hard. He had to get away from these people as quickly as possible, before he lost all of his resolve. “I have to.”

“That's not what I asked.”

Dorian sighed. “Fearne...”

“Are you afraid they'll come and take you away in the night?” Laudna sounded almost creepily thrilled at the idea, but by now he knew that was just how she was.

“It's a possibility. He said letters like this have been passed on to taverns and inns all over the city. Someone will report back to my family and...that's it.”

“Fuck, shit,” Ashton started digging in their pockets. “All right...how much do we have for a bribe?”

“A bribe?” Dorian stared at them in confusion.

“Yeah, obviously this guy's gonna run off and pass on the message as soon as he can,” they explained, jerking a thumb toward the tavern keeper. “Unless we can pay or threaten him into silence.”

“Leave that to me,” Laudna announced, rising from the table.

“I can't let you do this,” Dorian tried to snag her sleeve as she passed him, but she was too quick and darted away.

“Try and stop us.” Orym, still at his side, sounded more determined than usual. “Dorian...you really don't have to go back there.”

“Yeah, and don't think we've forgotten how fucked up your childhood was,” Ashton added, pointing a spoon at Dorian. They'd been digging into their bowl of stew while they talked, and Dorian idly watched a splatter of gravy hit the tablecloth.

“I think everyone's childhood is a little fucked up,” Dorian replied sadly. “That doesn't change what I have to do.”

“I'd like to see 'em try!” Chetney announced. He'd wormed his way in between Dorian and Fearne, even though Fearne was still holding Dorian's hand. “You're one of us, so they'd have to go through all of us...I assume.”

“Damn straight, old man!” Ashton toasted with his glass of wine. “No one fucks with our blue boy!”

“Maybe Lord Eshteross could help?” Imogen suggested, leaning forward to catch Dorian's attention. “Maybe he could draft up a letter or something? Say you're assisting him with something important, so you need to stay here?”

“Or we could fake your death!” Laudna exclaimed, returning to the table. “We just need a body that looks like yours, then we dissolve the face with acid!”

“There's always Cyrus,” Fearne suggested. When Dorian gave her a horrified stare she squeezed his hand. “I was just kidding.”

“I think we're all trying to say we don't want you to leave,” Orym said. He leaned in closer, resting his shoulder against Dorian's. “You can't go home, man. We need you.”

Dorian's eyes blurred, a tear splashing down to land on the table in front of him. Fearne made a soft noise and wrapped her arms around him, squishing Chetney in between them. Imogen was wiping her own eyes, while Ashton rested an elbow on top of Fresh Cut Grass's head, and Laudna just stared at them all with a strange, dreamy expression on her face.

“Did, uh, did you say something to the tavern keeper?” Dorian asked her, after clearing his throat and wiping at his eyes.

“Oh, yes.” Laudna's smile was just a little bit wider than it should have been. “He's quite frightened of me now. I'm not just fun-scary, you know.”

“It's all fun-scary to me,” Ashton replied with a wink. “So. Dorian. It really is up to you. You wanna go home?”

Dorian looked around the table at his friends, letting Fearne tug him in until his head rested against her shoulder. “I think I already am.”

Orym gently squeezed his forearm. “Good answer.”

He smiled and wrapped his arm around Orym, pulling the halfling into a one-armed hug. “Thank you.”

She didn't know how long she laid awake in bed, shivering, her head still a cacophony of whispers. The noise of the city seemed to sharpen until it was almost a roaring inside her own head, every thought of every person in or out of the manor amplified to a blinding, screeching noise. Even Laudna's steady, familiar mind seemed too loud now.

Imogen finally threw back the blanket and climbed out of bed, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders as she fled the room. Ashton had said she would sleep off the effects of the dream-seed that barman had put in her drink earlier in the night, but that meant she needed to get to sleep...which meant she needed somewhere quiet.

And there, in the swirling maelstrom of voices, was a tiny current of peace. She didn't know who it was—one of her companions, perhaps, or one of Lady Riggston's servants—but it was the only note in the chaos of her mind that didn't burn or tear at her. If she could just get closer, just get a little bit of peace to try to reassert control...

She followed the notes of that mind down past the rooms that housed her sleeping friends, to a small sitting area tucked away by a bay window that overlooked the garden. Imogen heard the music before she saw him, and stopped in the shadows of the hall to watch Dorian for a moment. He was playing his lute, just the soft sort of wandering music he played in the background sometimes, not a song she recognized.

Dorian opened his eyes and saw her. “Oh, sorry,” his hands stilled on his lute. “Didn't mean to disturb you.”

“No, please,” Imogen stumbled forward and caught herself on the back of a chair. She knew she must look a sight, with her hair tangled from tossing and turning and her eyes still swollen and bloodshot from tears. “Please don't stop.”

He'd gotten up long enough to take her by the arms and guide her around to sit in the chair, but picked his lute back up when she was settled. Dorian opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head and settled back to pick up his tune again.

Imogen closed her eyes and curled up in the chair, focusing on the faint strains of Dorian's thoughts. They were louder now, like he was trying to send them to her, but it was still a peaceful, soft note in the chaos in her mind.

Water, she realized. Whatever Dorian was playing made him think of water, and his mind was full of the sights and sounds of it. Rivers running down a mountainside, rain on the surface of a lake...splashing your face after a hot day under the sun.

“How did you do that?” she asked when he stopped, feeling a little less overwhelmed.

“It's an old bardic trick,” he replied with a smile. “It's not all about playing drinking songs in taverns. Sometimes you have to find the music to fit a theme or a place. That's what bards do; we shape the world around us into our music.”

Imogen nodded, rubbing a hand across her eyes. “It's nice.”

Dorian leaned forward, lute still held across his lap. “Are you all right?”

“I don't know,” she lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Sometimes drinking makes everything harder to block out, but that stuff he gave me...it's like everyone's just shouting at me. Inside my head. I can't get away from it.”

“But the music helped?”

“It did.” Imogen tugged her shawl a little closer and stared at the window, at the moonlight reflecting off the petals of the flowers in the window boxes. “Could you play a little more?”

“Of course,” Dorian adjusted his position, and she didn't need to look at him to know he was smiling. “How about some stargazing music?”

She managed a faint smile. “That sounds lovely.”

He began to play, notes filled with yearning and wonder. She thought she caught a glimpse of the flying city he called home, a taller figure that might have been Cyrus pointing out a band of colored lights on the horizon. A steady pressure, like rain on a warm night, seemed to mingle with the music so perfectly it took her a moment to realize Laudna was standing behind her.

Imogen opened her eyes to apologize to her friend, but Laudna just scooted into the chair with her and tucked a blanket around both of them. She wrapped an arm around Imogen and pressed a kiss to her temple, then rested her head against Imogen's to watch Dorian play.

“It's all just so loud,” she whispered after a few moments had passed.

“I'm sorry,” Laudna hugged her a little tighter and started trailing her long, skeletal fingers through Imogen's hair. “It's hard when the hurt is in here.”

Imogen nodded. Voices battering around inside her head, clawing at the inside of her skull. Wounds no one could see, scars just as vivid as anything physical.

Laudna made a thoughtful sound, and the pitch of her thoughts changed. She'd picked up on the strain of Dorian's music, and now her own memories of gazing up at a starry sky were coming through. It could have been disastrous, a mingling of images almost indiscernible, but it was peaceful. The comforting familiarity of Laudna's mind mixing with the calm of Dorian's music, washing out the chaos that Imogen couldn't block out.

She finally drifted off to sleep, head on Laudna's shoulder and Dorian's music in her mind.

Vex raised her head when her brother's fingers twitched in her hand. “Vax?”

She kept her voice low, not wanting to rouse Keyleth, curled up on the floor on the other side of the bed. Gilmore hadn't returned yet, and she was starting to worry that even he couldn't coax a cleric out of the temple at this hour.

“It's all right, darling,” she murmured, leaning up to cup his cheek with her free hand. “You're home and safe, you can wake up now.”

He shifted, dark eyes fluttering open. They closed again, his face creased with pain.

“No, don't try to move,” Vex said, moving her hand to his shoulder. Not that she needed much strength to hold him down. “We don't know how badly you're hurt. Gilmore went to fetch a healer.”

Vax opened his eyes to look at her, frowning. “Pike?” he rasped.

Vex shook her head. “She tried, but...something's wrong. Her magic, it's failing her.”

He groaned and dragged one hand up to cover his eyes. “It hurts.”

“I know. Just hold on a little longer.” Vex tried to smile, but it felt weak even to her. “They won't even let us out to buy a healing potion.”

“They?” he stared at her from under his hand and Vex nodded.

“We're on house arrest for assaulting the Briarwoods,” she explained bitterly. “They wouldn't let me go after you, kept saying they needed proof you were taken.” She hadn't even noticed the tear trailing down her cheek until her brother clumsily tried to wipe it away. In his weakened state he only managed to bat at her face, so she grabbed his hand and wiped her cheek on her shoulder.

“I'm all right, Stubby.”

“You're not,” Vex countered. “You were bitten by a vampire, thrown out of a window, sliced to pieces, and then thrown out of a carriage!”

“Jumped.”

“What?”

He used two fingers to pantomime running and jumping. “I jumped.”

Vex stared at him. “Which time? The window or the carriage?”

“Uh...both.”

“Of all the...idiotic....”

“Saved my life.”

Vex bit her lip. The thought still made her stomach ache, of her brother being in the hands of people like the Briarwoods. “Still...you stick with me now, all right? No more going off on your own.”

She heard footsteps on the stairs, the murmur of familiar voices, and gave a sigh of relief. “Gilmore found a healer. Never thought I'd thank the gods for that man.”

Vax gave a weak laugh. “I'm telling him...you said that.”

“Do that, and I'm never saving your life again.”

…

“Are you sure you should be up?” she asked again, as her brother stumbled and covered his neck with one hand.

“We have to talk,” he replied. “All of us.” Vax held up the book he'd taken from the Briarwoods' chambers.

“But you're still weak,” Vex said, catching him when he stumbled again. “You heard the healer. You need to rest.”

Vax shook his head. He faced her, hands on her shoulders. “Stubby, they said...they said they never let their prey go once they have its taste.”

Her face softened. “I won't let them touch you again,” she promised. “They'll have to go through all of us to get to you, even Grog.”

“You can't promise that.”

“Watch me.” She raised an eyebrow at him and he almost laughed, but it turned into a wince and he brought a hand up to his neck again. “Does that still hurt?”

“Only when I'm least expecting it. You're sure I'm...I'm not a danger to you?”

“You? Never,” Vex snorted, starting to walk down the hall toward the kitchen. “But you can probably expect too much garlic in your food for the foreseeable future.”

“Vex'ahlia.”

She stopped and turned back to face him. He still looked too pale, and a little too shaky to be out of bed. A familiar warmth bloomed in her chest...just like she'd told Keyleth. He was clingy and fretful, and unwilling to let any of them out of his sight. Vex gently wrapped her arms around him and held him close, letting him hold onto her for a moment. He heaved out a shaky sigh, dropping his forehead to rest against her shoulder.

“I've got you,” she whispered. “You're safe and alive...all of us are. We'll figure this out together.”

“Hang on, we're almost there,” Orym panted. Ashton leaned heavily against him, though he was way too short to provide much meaningful support. “Just a little further, okay?”

Ashton was barely on his feet, bleeding from dozens of puncture wounds from the explosion that had taken out the tavern where they'd been asking questions. Orym had no idea where any of their friends were, if any of them were more injured than Ashton...if the rest of them were alive.

“Fuck.” Ashton hit the ground hard, dropping to both knees and one hand. The other was still claspsed to Orym's shoulder, for all the good that was doing. “Fuck, man, you gotta leave me.”

“No way.” Orym wrapped Ashton's arm around his shoulders and tried to haul the genasi back to his feet. “Not when you're hurt like this.”

“That's exactly why you should go,” Ashton rasped, though he let Orym tug him forward until he could lumber back up to his feet. His side was a mess of torn skin and blood—or what passed for blood in his body. Bits of glass littered his stony flesh, and Orym was sure he could see slivers of metal in the wounds, too.

“Not leaving you behind,” he said. He wrapped his arm around Ashton's waist, letting the genasi lean as much weight on him as he could bear. “There's an alley...up ahead.”

Ashton didn't answer, his labored breathing sounding far too loud in the chaos after the explosion. The tavern was little more than a heap of burning rubble now, and they could already hear the clamor as someone started up a bucket chain to try to contain the blaze.

“Here...just sit down,” Orym lowered Ashton to the ground just inside the mouth of the alley. There wasn't much to hide them there, but he hoped they'd be overlooked in the general pandemonium after the attack. If nothing else, he could honestly say they were caught in the blast and he was trying to help his friend.

With a groan, Ashton collapsed all the way down and curled up on his uninjured side. “Think I've got some new piercings.” He managed to turn his head enough to look up at Orym. “You okay?”

“Me?” Orym knelt beside him, hands on his legs, staring at Ashton's wounds. “Ears are ringing a bit, but you knocked me out of the way pretty fast. Don't think I've got a scratch on me.”

Ashton grunted. “Good.” He settled back down and wrapped one arm over his eyes. “Fuck, this hurts.”

“I think it all has to come out, but I don't know if we should do that without Fresh Cut Grass here. Unless you have a healing potion?”

He groaned again. “We were stocking up after questions, remember? 'Questions are safe. No one gets hurt from asking questions.' Why do I ever listen to you people?”

“Because you like us,” Orym replied. He gingerly brushed at the debris on Ashton's coat, pulling his hand away when the other man hissed in pain. “Sorry.”

“How bad is it?”

Orym risked a peek under Ashton's coat. The heavy leather had protected him from the worst of the blast, though there had been plenty of shrapnel in the explosion. It had been a rigged barrel packed with loose bits of metal and glass to maximize casualties—if Ashton hadn't reacted as quickly as he had there was a good chance Orym would have been face-to-face with the explosion.

“I won't say I've seen worse, because I don't have a lot of experience with explosions,” Orym finally said, carefully lowering Ashton's coat to avoid aggravating his wounds. “But I don't think it's anything we can't heal.”

“S'good,” Ashton murmured.

“No, c'mon man, stay awake,” Orym patted Ashton's cheek, careful to avoid the bruises that were blooming up on the side of his face. “Hey, I never thanked you for saving me back there.”

“S'cuz you're so little.” Ashton grinned up at him, blood staining his teeth. “You keep...keep taking hits. F'r all of us. Someone needs to take one for you...once in a while.”

“Shit.” Orym ran his hands through his hair. This wasn't good. He wanted to start pulling the shrapnel out, but without someone to heal the wounds it could just make Ashton bleed to death faster. “I'll be right back. I promise.”

He patted Ashton on the chest, though it seemed like the earth genasi was too far out of it to notice, and bolted for the mouth of the alley. Someone...anyone. One of the guard might have a healer, or a potion to spare...he had some gold, he could pay for it...anything to—

Orym ran right into someone, nearly bowling them over. He started to apologize when strong, familiar hands grabbed his shoulders. “Orym!”

“Fearne.” He could have sagged in relief. “Are you all right? Where are the others?”

“We're looking for you,” the faun replied. “Are you bleeding?”

“Don't think so, but Ashton's in trouble.” Orym grabbed her hand and started tugging her toward the alley. “Can you do the...can you heal someone today?”

“I think so,” Fearne held back, and he wasn't quite strong enough to pull her along so his feet just slid against the pavement. “Hang on, let me signal the others.”

She leaned a little further into the road and waved her free arm, and Orym caught sight of Imogen returning the wave.

“There!” Fearne smiled at him happily. “Imogen says she'll bring everyone here.”

“Great. Just come on,” he said, pulling at her again. Fearne let him this time, and he led her over to where he'd left Ashton. “I don't know if it's safe to get the glass and stuff out, and he was pretty hurt in the explosion.”

“Well, I can do a little,” Fearne commented as she folded down to sit on her knees. “We should probably move off the street to do the rest.”

“Right,” Orym nodded. He sat near Ashton's head, grabbing the other man's hand as Fearne gently prodded at his wounds.

Ashton's eye slid open and he stared at Orym. “You came back.”

“Told you.” Orym patted his hand. “We're not abandoning you. Not ever.”

He grunted and shifted around just enough so that his forehead was resting against Orym's knee. “That's good...you're good...family's good.”

“Yeah.” Orym smiled. “We're all good.”

The wall of residuum glass slammed down, sealing them into the chamber deep below Whitestone Castle. Vex rushed up to the wall to slam her fists against it. “Vax!”

Her brother was on the other side, face-to-face with Cassandra...and coming up behind him in the darkened tunnel were a pair of familiar figures.

“Vax! Get out of there!” Vex's voice felt muffled, distant, like she was yelling under water. Her fists moved slowly, barely making an impact against the residuum. “Vax!”

Her brother threw a dagger at Lord Briarwood and lunged for him, but the vampire simply raised a hand. Vax shuddered, stumbling to one side. He seemed to shake off the vampire's spell and attacked again, his dagger a flash of flame in the darkness.

Vex slammed her fists against the glass. She could barely hear anything over the pounding of her heart. Some distant part of her thought the others would be behind her, that she just had to turn around and one of them would come running to break through the wall, but she couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but pound on the residuum and scream her brother's name.

Sylas Briarwood was laughing. That sound carried clearly through the barrier, even though all others seemed muffled. He caught Vax by the throat and hauled him off his feet. “Looks like I have a use for you after all.”

“No!” Vex tried to ram her shoulder against the residuum glass, but it was still impenetrable. Nothing. Not even a crack. “Vax'ildan!”

Teeth gleaming in the faint light, Sylas lunged forward and bit into Vax's neck. Dark blood sprayed out from the wound as he went limp in Lord Briarwood's grasp. Vex cried out and pounded on the glass again, but the world was going dark around her. Everything had narrowed down to her brother's limp body, as Sylas tossed him aside like an empty sack.

He licked his lips, Vax's blood an obscene stain on his mouth and chin. “Guess he was finally good for something.”

Vex cried out again, shooting up in bed, hands on her temples. For a moment the world was a dark, confusing swirl around her of unfamiliar shapes and smells. Her heart was pounding, her breath heaving in and out like she'd just been sprinting. Nothing made sense, nothing seemed to hold. Just sheer, awful terror.

With a mournful grumble, Trinket shoved his head against hers until she brought one arm down to wrap around his neck. If he was here, they were back at their keep. They weren't under Whitestone...Vax was....

She wrapped both arms around Trinket's neck and buried her face in his fur. She was shaking, though she couldn't tell if it was still from fear or from relief. It had been a nightmare—it had all been a nightmare. Vax was just a few rooms away, not dead in some underground tunnel.

Suddenly, what she knew didn't matter. She needed to see him. Vex swung her feet over the side of the bed and stepped around Trinket as she made her way to the door. The bear followed her, and she didn't quite have the heart to tell him to stay behind. She needed a little company right now.

The hall of the keep was quiet and dark, though now that she was awake it didn't seem so unfamiliar. They hadn't called it home for very long, but the others had lent their own touches to the décor so it felt more lived-in. Lively. Like a home instead of a temporary place to stay.

Something she hadn't truly felt since her childhood. Since before their father had taken them away to Syngorn and the haughty disdain of the full-blooded elves.

Vex paused outside Vax's door, feeling rather foolish now. They were adults. It was just a nightmare. What was she supposed to do, ask to sleep on his floor? It was a childish thought, and something she should have outgrown long ago. She looked down to Trinket, who stared up at her with trusting eyes.

“Hungry, buddy?” she whispered, ruffling his ears. “Come on, let's get a snack.” She led him down to the kitchen instead. They hadn't gathered much in the way of groceries since their return, but surely they had something for Trinket.

She found Percy instead. He was leaning over the stove to stare at the kettle while it boiled, and from the state of his clothes she assumed he'd been in his workshop all evening.

“Couldn't sleep either?” Vex asked as she dropped into a chair at the table.

“What?” he glanced at her over his shoulder. “Oh, no. I got involved in a project and lost track of time.”

“Really? That doesn't sound like you at all,” she teased.

“Indeed.” Percy wrapped a cloth around the kettle's handle and lifted it off the stove as it began to whistle, then turned to the cabinet to grab a couple of mugs. “I am usually the soul of moderation.”

He poured tea for her and placed the mug in front of her before sitting down with his own mug. “Not that I don't enjoy your company, but why are you up at this hour?”

She could have lied. Kept everything close. And yet...after everything they'd all been through together, maybe a little vulnerability couldn't hurt. “Bad dream.”

“Nightmare,” he corrected.

Vex sighed and nodded. “Nightmare.”

“Want to, ah, talk about it?”

“About as much as you want to listen to it,” she said, taking a begrudging sip of tea. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't what her father would call tea...which made Vex take another sip just to spite him.

“Fair.” Percy set his mug on the table and wrapped both hands around it. “But maybe you should anyway. If it's bothering you, maybe I can help clear something up about it?”

Vex let out another sigh and leaned back in her chair. She cupped the mug close and stared down at her darkened reflection in the tea. “The tunnels under Whitestone. When the Briarwoods locked us in the acid room and took Vax with them.”

“I remember.” His voice was neutral, and she knew she'd hit on his own bad memories of that day.

“It's that, except the charm doesn't take. Vax fights it off, and Sylas....”

“And we're stuck behind the residuum glass and can't reach him,” Percy finished. Vex met his eyes and he nodded solemnly. “I keep seeing the acid filling the room, but we can't figure out the levers in time. The rest of you just melt away in the acid but I survive somehow and I'm just floating there, forever. The last surviving de Rolo, as useless as ever.”

“Percy,” Vex leaned onto the table, wishing she was close enough to reach his hand.

“But it's just a dream,” he said resolutely. “We're here, we're safe...as safe as we can be. The Briarwoods are dead.”

Vex set her mug down to wrap her arms around herself. “I just feel so stupid. I know it's a dream. I know in my head he's all right and sleeping just down the hall, but my heart keeps saying I'll open the door and he'll be gone.”

“So check on him.” Percy took a sip of tea, the steam fogging up his glasses for a moment. “I'm sure he won't mind.”

“We're not children,” Vex shook her head. “What, I'm just supposed to tell him I had a bad dream and ask if I can sleep on his floor?”

“You know, as a brother,” and there it was: the secret, fond smile that slipped onto Percy's face any time he talked about Cassandra. “If my sister said something like that to me, I wouldn't think twice about letting her in.”

“That's different,” she tried to argue. Percy and Cassandra were both younger than she and Vax, for one thing. And their circumstances were completely different. They'd been separated for years, while she and her brother had rarely been apart.

“Not really. Finished?” Percy had stood up, and held a hand out for her mug. Vex quickly drank the rest of the tea and passed the mug up to him. “Would you do the same for him?”

“Well, yes, but that's not the same thing.”

Percy raised his eyebrows and stared at her. “How is it not the same?”

Vex blustered for a moment, before Trinket shoved his head into her lap. “Because I have Trinket! He usually just wants to snuggle with Trinket.”

“So? Take Trinket with you. Good night, Vex'ahlia.”

She stared after him as he walked away, heading up the stairs to his room instead of down to his workshop. “It really isn't the same at all,” she whispered to Trinket. “Still...”

Trinket followed her up the stairs, snuffling around the bottom of Vax's door while Vex hesitated, hand on the knob. She finally pushed it open enough to stick her head inside. “Vax?” she whispered.

“Hnnh?” Instantly awake at the sound of her voice, he rolled over to face her, face creased from his pillow. “What is it?”

“Uh...” Vex glanced down at her bear, then back up to her brother. “Trinket and I had a bad dream. Can we sleep in here?”

Vax sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand. “You okay, Stubby?”

“He'd just feel better if we were in here with you.”

Her brother stared at her sleepily for a moment then shrugged. “Yeah, come on in. You want the bed?”

“I'll just cuddle Trinket, but thank you.”

“No fair!” Vax protested, sliding down to the floor as Trinket settled onto the rug. “When Trinket sleeps in here, I get to cuddle him.”

“I'm sure we can work something out,” Vex laughed. Trinket chuffed happily and rolled onto his side so Vex could cuddle into his stomach and Vax could lean against his back. The nightmare already seemed so far away, with her brother happily mumbling affectionate nonsense into Trinket's fur. “Good night, Vax.”

“Hmmm...g'night, sister.”

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

If he stayed absolutely still and kept his eyes closed, he couldn't see how tight the space around him was. The darkness. The faintest glow from his moon-touched scimitar just enough to see the rough wood of the crate barely an inch from his nose.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

As long as he stayed awake, he didn't need to breathe. It meant he couldn't talk to himself to relieve the unending silence, but it was better that suffocating to death.

How long could you stay alive buried like this? One of the others might know...Laudna with her fascination with death, or Imogen with her thirst for knowledge.

But he wasn't supposed to think about them any more.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

He had to pinch himself on the arms to stay awake. Bruises were blossoming under his touch, bringing tears to his eyes when he brushed over them. But it wasn't enough. He'd moved on to his stomach, the tops of his thighs...anything he could reach. If he fell asleep his body could start breathing on his own, and he would suffocate.

It could have been days. It could have been hours.

Had to have been days. His arms and stomach were covered with bruises from where he'd been pinching. His stomach had stopped gurgling some time ago, and his throat was parched and dry.

How long could you live without food? Without water?

Air would be the least of his worries before too long.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

They'd thrown him in here with barely a word. Nailed the crate shut and buried it. He didn't know why, didn't know if it was something he did, or one of his friends, or just a mistake. But it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered. Nothing but staying awake...staying alive.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

He pinched his leg so hard he thought he drew blood. Tears would have filled his eyes, if he'd had anything left to cry.

He longed to breathe. Even just the stale air of the crate he'd been buried in. Just one breath, in and out, just something other than this endless dark nightmare.

But he didn't. He couldn't...if he fell asleep he'd need the air anyway.

But it probably wouldn't matter.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

There was a strange sound above him. Something moving through the dirt. He thought about subterranean creatures—snakes and moles and rats. Tunneling. Burrowing.

Could they find the crate? Would a rat's tunnel be enough for him to escape?

If only he could shrink to rat size, he could clamber out of the tunnel with the rest of the vermin. Feel the sun again. Breathe.

Best not to think about it. Close eyes, keep arms close to body, ignore the closeness of the crate around him.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

It was a coffin.

He was tired of trying to delude himself. It might have started as a crate, but it was becoming his coffin. He was sealed down here, and even if he managed to stay alive he would never be found.

The burrowing animal had become a nearly constant companion. He could hear it moving through the earth, never quite close enough to reach him. Always shuffling, always digging. Couldn't quite tell how big it was, with the way it scraped through the dirt.

Must be making a warren. A place for a family.

Family.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

The closer the animal burrowed, the stranger it sounded. Big paws shuffling through the dirt, but not digging through it. The sounds seemed to move around him, but never stayed in the same place.

That was odd. Was it trying to find the best spot to dig deeper? It always seemed to start above him, then stop when it sounded like it was level with his crate. He wasn't buried that far down, was he? It had taken them less than an hour to fill the grave in.

Now it was digging right above him. Big claws heaving dirt out of the way. It sounded gigantic. Bigger than any rat he'd ever seen. Bears didn't tunnel like this, did they?

Something struck the lid of his crate. Scraped across it. Dirt was flung away.

He heard a gasp of breath, then a voice.

“I found him!”

Dorian panicked.

He banged on the lid of the crate, scraping on the wood with fingers already bruised and raw. Sucked in a greedy breath of stale air. “Help me!”

Something slammed into the crate. He flinched back as the wood splintered, but even that small hole was enough for a trickle of deliciously fresh air. The wood splintered again, the blade of a hatchet wedging into the crack to break away a piece.

It was enough for him to shove his hand through, wood tearing at the skin of his fingers and wrist. Someone grabbed his hand, squeezed it.

“Dariax, help me!”

More blows to the wood. The hand never released his as more pieces were pried away. He finally caught a glimpse of starlight, the dark silhouette of his brother, as Dariax began tearing the crate apart with his bare hands.

Cyrus leaned into the crate to grab Dorian under the shoulders and haul him out. The hole was barely big enough for him to fit through, and it tore at his clothes and skin on the way, but he just clung to his brother and breathed and sobbed into Cyrus's shoulder.

“We gotcha, Dorian,” Dariax rested a hand on his shoulder, the warmth of healing magic flowing through his body to close up the worst of his wounds.

Opal was there to wrap a blanket around him, offering a flask of water. “Guess we don't have to go back and murder that witch now.”

“We could still kill her,” Dariax suggested cheerfully. “She never told us where the bad guys are.”

“Yeah, well...some things are more important.” Opal was running a hand through his hair, loosening bits of wood and dirt. “We'd rather have a living Dorian than a dead witch anyway.”

“Definitely,” Cyrus agreed. He was sitting cross-legged now, cradling Dorian against him like they were children again and he'd had a nightmare. Holding him close, Dorian's head on his shoulder, face all but buried in his neck, rubbing soothing circles across his back. “Think you can walk?”

Dorian shook his head. He was shaking in earnest now, like all the fear he'd been holding back while he was in the box was making itself known. Cyrus just let out a soft laugh and hugged him a little tighter.

“That's all right. What else are big brothers for?”

The proprietor of Dalgin's Exotics—a wiry, clever hobgoblin with a scar on his face that nearly cut through his eye—held the door open to usher his new client in. He hadn't seen too many firbolgs, so the sight of one with brindled black fur and a shock of light gray hair was even more unusual, but Dalgin was nothing if not an opportunist.

“You caught me at a good time, friend,” he chattered, locking the door behind his customer. You could never be too careful in his line of work. “Got a whole lot ready to go the auction block, but you can have first pick, o'course.”

The firbolg stared around Dalgin's shop disdainfully, his cloaked and hooded servant a silent presence at his shoulder. “I was told to expect quality merchandise here.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Dalgin rubbed his hands together and beckoned his customer toward the back room. “The front is just for show, naturally. I don't need to tell you, but we're still technically in the Dynasty, and they frown on this kind of thing down there in their crystal towers or whatever they have. But up here, we know. It's about presentation. It's about power.”

With a flourish, he threw open the sliding door at the back of his shop to reveal his true merchandise. Cages ran the length of the room on either side, each containing a humanoid figure. He had almost a full dozen now, procured by the usual trade and his own special methods. Dalgin was especially proud of the twin tiefling sisters, identical from horns to tails, who looked quite fetching together.

“Now these girls,” Dalgin began, but the firbolg held up one large hand.

“I was told you could procure something unique.”

“They're unique!” he protested. “Identical, and that don't happen often with tieflings! They can speak half a dozen languages, or at least cuss in them. You'd be quite the picture with one of them on each arm.”

The firbolg scoffed, turning his gaze to the rest of the room. “I'm looking for something a little more...lively.”

“Well, you have to understand, if they don't come broken I have to break 'em myself,” Dalgin explained. “You wouldn't want a companion that'd gut you and run at a moment's notice, would ya?”

His customer was wandering the back room now, peering into the other cages. None of them were as spectacular as the girls, but Dalgin was willing to make the sale at any cost. He had a couple of gnolls that would train up good for farm work, some goblins that'd wronged their clan one too many times, and one broody, ancient orc that would probably never sell but he'd owed Zhakk a favor and promised to make the old man disappear.

The firbolg gave a rumble of displeasure. “I was promised I could find something unusual here.”

“Maybe if you told me what you were looking for?” Dalgin suggested. He glanced at his customer's companion, still hooded and silent, and wrung his hands a little as his nerves got the better of him. “This is all I have now, but I have contacts all over, even as far as Shady Creek, we might be able to find something special for you?”

Now the firbolg was staring at him with those unsettling pale eyes. “I am the eldest son of the Granite family,” he stated, his voice nearly deep enough to make the floor rumble under Dalgin's feet. “I should be taking my father's place as head of the clan by birthright, but my brother is making a bid for my position. He claims that under my leadership our family will falter and die, and I need to prove him wrong. I need something he could never acquire, something far too difficult and challenging for a firbolg of his...simplistic mind.”

Dalgin chewed on his lip. He was hesitant to bring it up, but...well, this Granite fellow was carrying enough platinum to buy the whole stock twice over. And anyway, it wasn't likely he was going to get much for the one in the back, even once he was conditioned. “I do have one more,” he hedged. “He ain't really fit for any kind of heavy work. More of a novelty if anything else.”

“I have no need for a servant,” Granite nodded to the hooded figure that had accompanied him. “A novelty may suffice.”

“I'll warn ya, I haven't finished breaking him yet. If you want to take him you'll have to take him as-is and finish the conditioning yourself.” At the very back of the room was another door, this one fitted with iron bands. Dalgin shuffled through his keys and unlocked the pair of locks, then shoved the door open to reveal the room inside.

He carefully turned the flame on the oil lantern up to reveal the small space. One final cage was tucked away back there, surrounded by the tools Dalgin used to condition his merchandise. “We finished a session just a few hours ago, he'd usually sit like this 'til morning, then I'd pop a heal spell on 'im so we can start over.”

Granite loomed over the cage, one heavy hand on the bars near the top. The man inside all but shrank from him, bright blue eyes staring up from under a lock of dirty red hair. “What happened to his hands?” the firbolg asked.

“Oh, he's a magic user,” Dalgin explained, walking up to stand next to Granite. To his pleasure, the skinny human didn't even dare look at him, just clutched his pathetic hands a little closer to his chest. “Kept trying to set things on fire, so I broke his fingers.

“Where did you get him?”

“Now, you have to understand, things in this trade gotta stay secret.”

Granite glowered down at him, and for the first time Dalgin realized how small he was compared to his customer. “Pedigree is absolute.”

“Don't think he's pedigree,” Dalgin babbled. “Got 'im off some scrawny half-orc, said he'd won him in battle or something. Paid a mighty chunk of gold for him, I'll tell you that, for all he's untrained. Don't get too many humans around here, you see, I knew I could turn 'im around for ten times the buying price.”

A faint sound from the front room of the store drew his attention for a moment, but Granite was looming over him now. “Very well. I'll take them.”

Dalgin rubbed his hands together, turning to face the firbolg. “The human, then? I'll tell you know, he's not cheap, for all he's still unbroken.”

“All of them.”

As Dalgin stared, the brindled black fur seemed to fade to a softer gray, and the pale hair brightened under the oil lamp's dim light. Before he could question, red-hot pain stabbed through him and he looked down to see the point of a sword protruding through his chest.

Granite's hooded servant was behind him, the hood now thrown back to reveal familiar half-orc features. “The next time you stab someone in the back,” the half-orc growled, “make sure he's dead.”

The blade twisted and was torn out through Dalgin's side and he slumped to the floor, lifeless.

“Caleb?” Caduceus was crouched in front of the cell, his Granite disguise fully dissolved. “Fjord, can you get the keys?”

“Right here,” the half-orc held up the ring. “Hang on, buddy, we'll get you out.”

It took him a few tries to find the right key, but once the door was open Caduceus leaned in to gently lift the wizard out. Now that he was closer, he could see the rags tied around Caleb's mouth to keep him gagged, and gently tugged them free.

“Danke.” Caleb whispered. He was trembling and pale and bloodied, the skin beneath his torn clothes crisscrossed with bruises and welts. Caduceus easily lifted him up into his arms and held him close, letting a pulse of healing magic flow through him.

“I'd rather wait until I can examine your hands to heal them, I'm sorry,” he explained. “Let's get out of here.”

“Right,” Fjord nodded. “Hey, Veth, we got the keys!” he lead the way into the back room of the shop, where Veth was partway down one side of the room where she'd been trying to quietly pick the locks on the cages. Jester was at her side to help and encourage the people they were rescuing, and Beau and Yasha were waiting in the front room just in case anyone stopped by the shop.

“Caleb!” Veth dropped her tools and hurried over to Caduceus's side. “I'm so sorry! I wanted to be with them when they rescued you, but they thought more than two people would be too suspicious, and Caduceus was our best choice for the buyer and Fjord's the one he stabbed in the back to kidnap you. I still think Caduceus should have taken Yasha with him, since Fjord isn't really that intimidating and anyway he'd already almost died once and...oh, Lebby, what did they do to your hands?”

“No one's going to believe you if you say you're all right,” Jester piped up before the wizard could answer. Caduceus was amused to see the tielfing twins were practically glued to her sides, probably relieved to find someone like her among their rescuers.

“I will be,” Caleb replied, his voice still low and hoarse. He stared warily around the room, eyes darting between his friends and the other prisoners being freed. “How...how are we getting out of here? I can't...” his voice trailed off as he looked down at his mangled hands.

“Essek owes us big for this,” Jester announced. “We found the nasty, rotten slave dealer and you got, like, super hurt because of it. I'll send him a message and he can come get us and zap us back home.”

“First we have to deal with everyone here,” Fjord commented. He'd finished opening the cages, and had an odd cluster of gnolls and goblins staring at him now. The elderly orc was already shuffling away, swearing vengeance on his nephew under his breath.

“That sounds like an Essek problem.” Jester looped an arm around each of the tielflings and grinned up at Caduceus. “Oh! We could send these two to my Mama! She misses having me around so much, maybe she'd like two more daughters!”

“Essek sounds like the perfect person to sort this out,” Fjord said, trying to calm Jester with a gesture. “Think you could message him now? We need to get Caleb back to the Xhorhaus.”

“All right. Ooh, hey, you could count for me!” Jester pushed the girls out to arm's length and held up both her hands with all five fingers extended. “I can send twenty-five words, so count them off like this, okay?”

As Jester started her message, Caduceus send another wave of healing through Caleb's body and felt the wizard relax against him just a fraction more. Veth was holding onto the hem of Caleb's coat, while Fjord had gone back to strip Dalgin of any valuables.

“We'll be home soon, Lebby,” Veth said softly, trying not to distract Jester or her new assistants. “Everything will be all right. You're safe now.”

“I'm sorry we didn't come sooner,” Caduceus added. Fjord, with Caleb pretending to be his servant, had been going to meet Dalgin, posed as a potential buyer, but the hobgoblin had stabbed him in the back and taken Caleb away. They'd barely reached Fjord in time, once they'd realized something was wrong, and it had taken far too long to track down Dalgin's place of business to rescue Caleb.

“No more secret missions with Fjord!” Veth declared. “You can only go on missions with me. Well, or Beau or Yasha. And Jessie would probably be okay...and Caduceus. So anyone but Fjord, got it?”

“Got it,” Caleb whispered. He'd let his head rest against Caduceus's shoulder and was practically shaking from exhaustion. “Caduceus?”

“Get some sleep, Mr. Caleb,” the firbolg rumbled. “We'll take it from here.”

“Should we still be getting a room just for us?” Fearne asked. They'd all retired for bed for the evening, but since Dorian had left both Fearne and Orym had been having trouble falling asleep.

“What do you mean?” he asked, trying to twist so he could face her, with no luck. She'd scooped him up so they could huddle together in the middle of the bed, and there was no getting away from her. The first few nights they'd tried leaving the empty space between them, but it hadn't felt right. Some habits were just too hard to break.

“Well, we could divide the rooms up between boys and girls,” Fearne reasoned. “Then we'd only need two rooms.”

Orym craned his neck back to try to see her face, but the angle was too awkward. “We could try it, if you want to. I don't think anyone minds the extra cost at an inn.”

Fearne sniffled, and Orym patted the top of her hand. “I guess I just miss him. I didn't think it would be so hard.”

“Yeah.” He gently squeezed her wrist. It felt a little better knowing he was probably headed back for their other friends in Tal'Dorei, but that didn't fill the Dorian-shaped empty space in their trio. “We'll be okay.”

She hugged him a little tighter and curled around him so her forehead was pressed to his shoulder. “I know,” she replied, her voice muffled. “But I want it to be okay now...I want us to be together.”

Orym swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I'm sure he does, too.”

“Yeah.”

A few moments passed in silence, and Orym had almost drifted off to sleep when Fearne spoke again. “Should we have gone with him?”

“I don't really know,” Orym mumbled. He yawned and shifted a little, trying to stay awake enough to keep Fearne company. “I think it would have been a lot harder to smuggle four of us out of the city.”

Fearne heaved out a sigh, heavy enough that Orym felt himself rock forward and back with the movement. “And we'd just gotten engaged.”

“You...know that was just for the plan, right?” he asked hesitantly. “He wasn't really proposing to you, just tossing you the ring?”

“Well, a girl can dream,” Fearne said mildly. She pulled one arm away from Orym and held it out to admire the ring around her thumb. “It might have been nice to have a fiance.”

Orym chuckled and reached back to pat her shoulder. “There's always next time.”

“I'm not getting any younger.”

“And I'm not sure you're getting any older.”

“That's true,” Fearne wrapped her arm around him again and let out another sigh. “Do you think he misses us?”

The lump caught in Orym's throat again, and he had to blink back the tears. “Definitely.”

“Probably hopeless without us.”

“Dorian might be okay, but he'll have his hands full with Cyrus.”

“Oh, Cyrus,” Fearne shook her head. “I probably should have just killed him.”

Orym waited silently, until Fearne let out a little snort of a giggle and ruffled his hair. “I was just kidding.”

“I know.” He smiled and patted her arms, which was all he could comfortably reach in this position. “Feel any better?”

“I'm sorry.”

“No, don't be.” Orym wanted to turn around to look her in the eye, but every time he started to move she just held on tighter, so he had to lie there staring out into the darkened room. “We both miss him; it's okay to want to talk about it sometimes. We were all together for so long, then it was just the three of us. Now it's just you and me.”

“And everyone else.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean.”

A comfortable silence stretched between the two of them, until Fearne shifted again. “Do you suppose-”

“Oh for heaven's sake!” another voice shouted out from under the bed. “When are you two gonna stop yapping and get to sleep?”

Orym struggled away from Fearne and managed to lean over the bed enough to look under it. “Chetney?”

“Who else?” the gnome glowered up at him. “I was TRYING to get some sleep in my usual spot, but as usual you two won't shut up!”

“Why are you sleeping under our bed?”

Fearne had wriggled over to look over the bed with Orym, her hair trailing down to the floor. “Oh! Chetney! I didn't see you down there.”

“I always sleep here,” Chetney declared. He was wrapped in a thick blanket until only his head was poking out, glaring between the two of them like he was daring them to say something.

“You should come up here with us,” Fearne suggested. “We have plenty of room.”

“Yeah, old man,” Orym agreed, when Chetney started protesting. “It's gotta be more comfortable than the floor.”

Chetney worked his jaw back and forth for a moment before nodding. “Well..okay. But only because you insist!”

He scuttled out from under the bed and climbed on top of it, making himself at home in the exact center. “Well?” he demanded when the other two didn't move.

Fearne smiled and climbed over to one side of the bed, lying up against Chetney with her hands folded on her stomach. “Good night, Orym. Chetney.”

Orym took the other side, not touching Chetney but still within arm's-reach. It wasn't the same as before, but it did make the bed feel a little less empty. “Good night.”

“Hmmph,” the old gnome grumbled. “It'd better be. I don't want to wake up finding I've been relegated to middle spoon in the night.”

“Oh, of course not,” Fearne giggled, as she rolled on her side to throw an arm around Chetney and Orym and pull them close to her. “Sleep tight, boys.”

A blow to the back of his head sent Orym staggering forward, knocking him off-balance just long enough for someone to seize his wrists and twist him around to press him against a nearby wall.

“Get the chains,” the man holding him hissed. Orym twisted against him and tried to swing his body free, but the hold was too strong and he just found himself hoisted up further off the ground. “Hurry!”

Another man approached, carrying heavy-looking manacles that looked long enough to cover Orym's entire forearm, with a chain that connected to what looked like a metal collar. “You sure it's him?”

“He said grab the little one,” the first man replied. Orym tried to push himself off the wall to gain some leverage, but the man just cursed and hauled him around to slam him into the wall again, hard enough that his head bounced off the rough brick. “This one seem little enough?”

“Fuck if I know,” the second man snapped. “Hold him still, will ya?”

The first man grunted and shifted his grip so that his thumbs were pressing into the pressure points on Orym's wrists. His hands went lax and his arms felt weak, but he wasn't going down without a fight. He kicked out at his captor, a little feebly, just aiming to brace his foot against the man's thigh. From there he was able to twist his lower body and swing a second, harder kick into the man's side, doubling him over with a wheeze.

His grip on Orym's wrists slackened and the halfling used his momentum from the kick to twist himself free, making a less-than-graceful landing on the alley pavement. His hands were still numb from the pressure on his wrists, but he rolled himself to his feet and took off for the mouth of the alley, only for the second man to tackle him from behind.

“Slippery little bastard,” the second man grunted. He got hold of the back of Orym's shirt and tried to slam him face-first into the pavement, but Orym managed to tuck his arms underneath himself to keep the blow from incapacitating him. The man snarled and rolled him over, pinning both wrists to the ground with one massive hand. He aimed a blow at Orym's temple, stunning him for a moment, then snapped the manacles in place around his forearms.

“Lucky for you, the freak wants you alive,” the first man said. He was clutching his side, obviously winded.

“Maybe not so lucky,” the second retorted. He'd pinned Orym's arms to the ground with his knee so he could fasten the collar around his neck. The insides of both manacles and collar were rough, made to tear at the skin if he struggled against them.

“Don't look much like a beast.”

“Yeah, well, that's the freak's problem.” The second man stood up, hauling Orym up to his feet with a rough jerk that had his restraints tearing at his skin. “Ready?”

“Hang on,” the first man tugged his cloak off and draped it over Orym, nearly covering him head to toe. “Now we're just gonna walk to the cart nice and quiet, all right?”

The metal of the restraints was not only rough; it was surprisingly heavy and strangely warm. Orym felt like his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, like he couldn't have responded even if he wanted to. And his hands were going numb again, even though the manacles weren't tight enough to cause that. There was obviously some magic in the restraints that was meant to make a prisoner easier to handle.

“Let's go,” the first man said and shoved Orym ahead of him. “Go slow, now.”

The second man moved in front of him, leading the way through the thinning crowds. They were so close to the tavern, but the odds of one of his friend's coming out after him so soon was pretty slim. As it turned out, being one of the few members of their group who could pass relatively unnoticed had done nothing to help him...not when it came to people who didn't know the difference between a gnome and a halfling.

Orym tried to think, to catch Imogen's attention somehow. She might have been checking on him for the first few minutes he was out of sight, and it hadn't been that long since he'd left the group to check the notice board just outside the tavern. Maybe two minutes? They'd heard someone posting something on the board and he'd volunteered to check it out, only to get jumped and dragged off to the nearest alley because he was almost the same size as their resident gnomish werewolf.

The man in front of him stopped so suddenly that Orym was shoved into the back of his legs by the man behind him. The movement jostled his restraints and tore at the sensitive skin of his wrists and throat, but that soon proved to be the least of his worries.

One man was swearing under his breath, while the other hauled Orym up off his feet with a hand around his neck just under the collar. “This ain't your business, lady,” the man holding Orym announced.

The man in front moved to the side, to reveal Fearne standing in the middle of the road. She tilted her head, like she was trying to see inside the over-sized cloak to confirm it was her friend. “Where are you taking him?”

“None of your business,” the man in front snapped. “Just step aside.”

Fearne's eyes flickered back and forth for a second, her expression thoughtful as though she was listening to a voice only she could hear. “I think you've made a big mistake.”

The grip on Orym's throat tightened. “We're just doing our job, lady. Back off.”

“No, I don't think I will.” She took a step forward, her eyes suddenly flashing feral. “He's not the one you should be worrying about.”

With that, she fell forward onto all fours, her body suddenly rippling with silvery fur. She began to growl, but while it started as a growl from an almost-human throat it deepened into the throaty rumble of a dire wolf.

The man in front of Orym took a step back, while the one holding him loosened his grip a little. Orym gave one last, desperate twist and managed to break away. He hit the ground hard and rolled away from his captors as Fearne's dire wolf form lunged forward with a snap and a snarl.

“Shit! Run!” one of the men turned toward Orym, as though to grab him for their escape, but Ashton was suddenly between them already arcing their hammer up in a swing that caught the man in the chest and sent him crashing backwards.

“What do I always say?” they commented over their shoulder. “Never split the group! It just leads to disaster.”

Fearne howled in reply, muzzle splattered red from the man she'd killed. She was darting after the second one next, and Orym was almost glad Ashton had crouched in front of him to check out the restraints on his wrists and neck. The sounds were terrible enough.

“Fuck, I don't even know if Chetney can pick these,” Ashton muttered. “Milo might be able to do something if he can't. You okay?”

Orym started to nod, but the collar cut into his throat if he moved, so he settled for a grimace. Ashton must have realized the problem, as their brow creased with a frown. “Damn, I hate these things,” they grumbled. “Don't worry, we'll have it off you in no time. Fearne?”

Fearne appeared behind his shoulder, still a dire wolf, licking her chops with obvious relish. Ashton snorted when they saw her and turned back to Orym. “Think the tavern allows pets?”

He just stared up at them, silent, and Ashton eventually rolled their eyes. “Yeah, yeah...fucking silence collars. Come on, let's get you taken care of.”

“Lay him down here, on the work table, on his side,” Milo instructed. They'd managed to haul Ashton back to the Krook House, not wanting to waste time arguing to get a room at a tavern or try to pull the shrapnel from their body in the street. Milo's place seemed like the best best, and since they'd patched up Ashton before they seemed like the best person for the job.

“We didn't know where else to go,” Imogen tried to explain, but Milo was busy pulling a worklight close and grabbing a box of tools.

“Thanks for sticking with them,” they replied, rolling up their sleeves and adjusting the magnifying lens on the leather strap they wore around their head. “Shit, this looks bad...help me get their jacket off?”

“Shouldn't we cut it off?” Orym asked. He'd taken up a seat cross-legged on the table, next to Ashton's head. He hadn't gotten as badly hurt in the explosion as Ashton had, and had refused the suggestion to rest while the others saw to Ashton's injuries. After hearing about the Nobodies, none of the Bell's Hells wanted to leave their friend to recover alone.

Milo snorted and shook their head. “They love that fucking thing. They'll probably get someone to embroider over the shrapnel holes, got a pile of weird little doodles they wanted to decorate something with.”

“Oh, that'll be lovely,” Fearne nodded. She had one hand on Ashton's hip and the other on his side, just under his armpit, to hold him down while Milo peeled the jacket away. The jacket stuck, and Milo passed it off to Imogen to hold up while they leaned in closer with pliers in each hand to pull bits of shrapnel free.

“Letters?” Milo called. “This one's bleeding pretty bad.”

Fresh Cut Grass, who'd been next to Ashton's head with Orym, wheeled over to Fearne's side to let her hoist them up a little higher to reach his side. “Oh, Ashton,” Fresh Cut Grass murmured.

“He'll be all right,” Imogen promised. “If you can patch up the worst of it while we work, I've got a healing potion for when we're done. We'll take care of him, Freshy.”

The automaton nodded and gently prodded at the torn flesh on Ashton's side. The earth genasi jerked beneath their hand, and Imogen had to drop her corner of Ashton's jacket to throw herself over their legs to hold them down.

“Fuck, man, it's us,” Milo half-shouted, helping Fearne hold down Ashton's shoulders. One of Ashton's elbows clipped them across the chin and they swore, but just doubled their efforts to calm them down.

Orym caught one of their flailing hands and held it between both of his, maneuvering to slide his legs under their head and curl his body around it. “We're right here, Ashton. It's okay.”

Ashton seemed to quiet, their eyes opening a sliver but still glassy and confused from pain and bloodloss. “Don't...leave me...” Their voice was little more than a whisper, but the words seemed to echo the room. Imogen gave a sniff and wrapped herself around Ashton's legs, most likely hearing some faint shadow of their memories. Fearne made a sad sound and leaned a little closer, resting the top of her head against Ashton's relatively uninjured stomach.

“No one's going anywhere,” Orym promised. He hesitantly rested a hand on the back of Ashton's neck, growing a little more confident when they seemed to lean into the touch. “We're here with you.”

Ashton whimpered as Milo pried another shard of jagged metal free. Laudna had taken over Imogen's place holding Ashton's coat, and held out a small bowl for Milo to drop the shrapnel into. “What the hell happened, anyway?”

“The tavern exploded!” Laudna explained. She was looking into the bowl of shrapnel with interest as Milo dropped another piece in.

“We think someone was targeting the tavern, not us,” Imogen said, when Laudna offered no further explanation. “Orym and Ashton were asking questions near the kitchen and someone wheeled a barrel out to the main room. Next thing I know, Ashton's yelling at all of us to get away and pushing Orym behind him, then everything exploded.”

Milo grunted. “You okay?” the asked, glancing up at Orym.

Orym shrugged. “Better than them. That's all that matters right now.”

“Fuck, this one's in deep,” Milo swore as their pliers slipped off a piece of glass. “Grab me those other ones, the ones with the rubber tips. Might hold on better.”

Laudna set the bowl on the table and dug through Milo's box of tools to find the correct pliers. Milo rubbed their face against their sleeve to wipe the sweat away from their eyes, then bent over Ashton's body with the rubber-tipped pliers now in hand.

Milo worked with muttered concentration for a few moments before letting out a curse and dropping their pliers to press both hands over a wound in Ashton's side. Dark liquid was seeping out from under their hands, spreading into a stain on the table. “Letters!”

“I don't have much left,” Fresh Cut Grass fretted. They pressed their hands on Ashton's side, but there was little if any change in the bleeding. “I can't...”

The human swore and wiped their face against their sleeve again, eyes darting around the room until they landed on Laudna. “Know how to melt glass?” Milo asked and nodded at the bowl of shrapnel. “If we can't stop the bleeding we need to mend the wound. I've done it before.”

The slag gold in the spiderweb of cracks on Ashton's left shoulder and arm were a testimony to Milo's skill, but Laudna hesitated. “You just...heat it up?”

Milo huffed and twisted around to look over their shoulder. “All right. Put your hands here, I'll get the smelter running. Fuck, wait, it's cold...that's gonna take too long. Hey, where's that potion?”

“Here!” Imogen pulled the bottle out of her pouch, but hesitated. “It's the only one we've got left...I was hoping to save it until all the shrapnel was out.”

“We don't have a choice, see if they'll drink it.”

Imogen nodded and hurried around to Ashton's head. Laudna moved a little closer to Milo, adding her hands to theirs around the wound in Ashton's side. Orym was still cradling their head, making sure Ashton knew they weren't alone, while Fearne was propping up a drooping Fresh Cut Grass who was still trying to pour whatever healing magic they could muster into their friend's body.

“Come on, Ashton,” Imogen murmured. Orym helped her maneuver the potion bottle to Ashton's mouth. “Just drink this, it'll help.”

Their eyes creaked open, staring glassily up at Imogen. “Please...”

“I'm right here, just drink this potion.”

“I'll be...” Ashton coughed. “I'll do better.”

Tears were filling Imogen's eyes, but she tried to shake them away. “It'll help, I promise. It's just a potion.”

“Yeah, we're all here, we're not leaving,” Orym added. “Nobody's...we're not Nobodies. Bell's Hells, remember?”

Ashton coughed again, but they let Imogen lift their head up enough to drink the potion. Milo's shoulders slumped in relief, and they cautiously pulled their hands away to check the wound.

“Better,” Milo pronounced. “Hey, creepy girl, keep your hands on here, I've gotten get the rest out.”

“Of course!” Laudna moved her hands over to keep pressure on the wound while Milo reached for their pliers again. They'd gotten most of the shrapnel out, with the cluster on Ashton's back just above their left hip being the worst of it.

“I think I can work a smelter,” Fearne offered. “Want me to give it a try?”

Milo shook their head. “Bleeding's slowed down a lot...I'd rather not fill them with more slag if I don't have to. I think Anni's got some healing herbs, we can pack the wounds for now. Check with her?”

“All right.” Fearne gave Ashton a last pat on the ankle. “I'll be right back, I promise.” She turned to the door, but was met with a yelp of pain and the sound of glass bottles rolling on the rough wooden floor.

“Oh! Chetney!” Fearne leaned down to pull the gnome to his feet. “I was wondering where you'd gone.”

“I was procuring supplies,” Chetney announced. He scrambled around on the ground for a moment, then came up to the table with his arms full of bottles of red liquid. “I thought these might be needed.”

“Chetney,” Imogen breathed out his name, her voice colored with relief. “How did you pay for those?”

“Pay?” the gnome snorted in derision, lining the bottles up on the edge of the table. There were three of the same size, plus one that was slightly larger than the others with a brighter sheen to the liquid. “Who said anything about paying?”

“Who cares?” Milo asked. They snatched up one of the smaller potions and handed it over to Imogen. “You're a lifesaver, little man.”

“Thanks, Chetney,” Orym added, as Imogen coaxed Ashton into drinking the potion. Milo passed another one to him, but he just held it and watched the others work on Ashton, still not thinking about his own wounds.

“Well, we ain't no Nobodies,” Chetney replied. “We're not going anywhere.” With that, he tugged a chair up to the side of the table and took Ashton's free hand in his.

“You hear that?” Imogen whispered, gently thumbing a tear off Ashton's cheek. “We're with you to the end, Ashton. All of us.”

Vex huffed a breath out through her nose and knocked on her brother's door. “Brother, are you awake? I just wanted to apologize and tell you your wings are really cool, and I feel really bad about shitting on them earlier, and it's super cool that you can fly now.”

She waited for his reply, but nothing came. Vex knocked again and pressed her ear against the door. “Vax? Are you in there?”

Still no answer, but she could hear someone moving around in the room. “Gods, please don't be naked again,” she muttered and shoved the door open. “Are you still sleeping?”

Her brother was little more than a miserable huddle on his bed, curled up with his arms around his stomach. Concerned now, Vex crossed the room to sit on the bed beside him and place her hand on his forehead. His skin felt clammy, and a little too warm. “Are you all right?”

He grunted and blinked up at her, eyes red-rimmed with dark bags under them. “I don't know.” His voice was thin and weak, and rough from lack of sleep. “I keep seeing it...the dagger, and Gilmore....”

Vex could have kicked herself. The rakshasha from the night before had taken Gilmore's appearance to try to kill Vax, of course it would have affected him. Hotis could have filled his head with all sorts of twisted lies that could still be haunting him. And then, she'd been so jealous over the stupid wings on his stupid armor that she hadn't even checked on him before they all went off to bed.

“How about some fresh air?” she suggested. “There has to be a balcony around here somewhere, and Percy can have food brought to us there. We'll take some time today, just you and me, and sort this out.”

Vax groaned at the mention of food and curled tighter around himself. Vex could hear his stomach gurgling and hastily grabbed the chamber pot to shove toward him as he started to retch. She propped him up when his arms threatened to buckle under him and held his hair out of the way, wincing as his body shuddered painfully as he brought up little more than bile.

“How long has that been going on?” Vex asked, after helping him lie back down. “Why didn't you get me? Or Pike, or Keyleth?”

He looked up at her, all pale and haggard and strangely fragile-looking. “Couldn't make it to the door,” he rasped. “Legs...legs just all wobbles.”

Vex sighed and gently brushed a strand of hair away from her brother's face. “You poor thing.”

Her mind was racing through what could have done this. The rakshasa's dagger was poisoned, but it hadn't seemed like anything long-lasting (and Vax would have known once he inspected it). Gilmore had assurefd them that the cursed robe Hotis had given Vax wouldn't have any kind of effect on him after it was removed. It could just be an illness, but the timing seemed far too convenient, and for him to be this sick today he would have been showing symptoms before now. Food poisoning was a possibility, but they'd all eaten the same thing and nobody else was sick...that she knew of.

“Will you be okay on your own for a few minutes?” she asked. “I need to check with the others, maybe get Pike to come take a look at you?” She barely waited for him to nod before hurrying out his door and around the corner, nearly bowling over Percy on the way.

“What's the rush? What's wrong?” Percy caught her by the arms to steady her, studying her closely. “Did something happen?”

“Something's wrong with Vax,” she replied. “I don't know if he's sick or if it's from the fight, but I need Pike. Or Keyleth, at least.”

“I think they all went down to breakfast. Well, it would be lunch now, I suppose.” Percy gently pushed her back, half-turning her as he did. “I'll find them, you stay with him.”

“Thank you, Percy,” Vex breathed out in relief. Before he could answer, she turned and bolted back for her brother's room, hoping they could find something to sort this out in time.

It was already worse. In the short time she'd been gone Vax had been sick again, and, judging by the smell, that wasn't all. And it looked like he'd been trying to get out of bed, but hadn't even been able to stand up and just sprawled across the floor. Vex gingerly made her way to his side, stopping to grab the pitcher and towel from his washstand on her way.

“Percy's gone to find help,” she said, when he startled under her touch. He was even warmer now, eyes fever-bright and red splotches standing out on his pale cheeks. She knelt on the floor, ignoring the mess, and gently pulled his head into her lap so she could wipe his face with the dampened towel. “Darling, did you get any sleep at all?”

He shook his head, leaning into her touch. “I kept seeing...”

“Shh, I know.” Vex dipped the corner of the towel in the pitcher again and wrung it out to blot her brother's forehead. “Once Pike sorts this out you can take a nice, big nap with Trinket. How's that sound?”

Setting the towel aside, she stretched up to tug the blanket off of Vax's bed to wrap around him. She couldn't tell if he was shivering or shaking, but it struck her to her heart either way. “You'll be all right. We'll figure this out.”

She heard footsteps in the hall, and looked up in time to see Keyleth dash into the room, followed by Pike and Percy. “Oh, Vax,” Keyleth whispered, as Pike knelt by his side to place a hand on his forehead.

“I'm not sensing any injury or poison,” Pike commented. “I can try a healing spell?”

“Please,” Vex spoke up, when her brother didn't answer. “Please, Pike.”

Pike nodded. Her hands glowed with a golden light, echoed by the symbol she wore around her neck. “I'll have you fixed up in a second,” she said soothingly, and placed her hands on either side of Vax's face.

He seemed to relax as the golden light flowed through him, but as soon as it faded his face twisted up in pain and he tried to struggle to get out of Vex's lap. The chamber pot was out of reach, but she shoved the towel under him as he retched emptily. Pike had a hand on his shoulder, worrying her lip with her teeth, and met Vex's eyes with an uneasy expression.

“I don't think it's poison or illness...it could be a curse?”

Vex nodded. “Do you think it was the robe?”

“Not likely.” Percy was at her shoulder now, having retrieved a clean towel from somewhere, which he swapped with the dirty one. He balled the dirty towel up and dropped it in a corner, seemingly unconcerned at the mess. “What? I grew up with siblings, it doesn't bother me,” he added at her look.

“He's right,” Pike added. “Gilmore said the curse was contained to the robe. It couldn't affect him after it was removed.”

“Maybe we should get Gilmore here, or Allura,” Vex sighed. “I don't know anything about curses.”

“Um...I do?” Keyleth, still standing in the doorway, had one hand raised. “Well, I know a little, and I'm just learning how to break them. Anyway, there's this spell, and I have the stuff for it, but I've never done it on my own before? But if Pike could help me, maybe we could make it work?”

“Let's do it,” Pike jumped to her feet. “Show me what you've got.”

While they were gone, Vex turned her attention to Percy, who was busy stripping soiled linens from the bed to pile in the corner. “You have servants for that,” she commented.

“Yes, but that wouldn't make me feel useful,” he replied over his shoulder. “Besides, we made quite the ruckus last night. I don't think they're used to seeing so much of us.”

Vex was still rolling her eyes at Percy's dry joke when Pike and Keyleth returned. “Okay, okay,” Pike was saying, sliding to her knees next to Vax. “Keyleth's spell is kind of similar to one I learned back at the temple, so if we do it together it should be strong enough to break whatever this is.”

“Hopefully,” Keyleth added, kneeling on Vax's other side. She held her hands out, glittering dust cupped in each hand, which Pike laid her hands over. They focused for a moment as their hands began to glow. Bright golden light filled Pike's hands, mingling with the warm green from Keyleth's as their magic twisted together. The dust in Keyleth's hands sparked and seemed to dissolve into a kind of mist as she turned her hands over to press them against Vax's body, Pike's hands on top of hers.

“Oh, Everlight,” Pike whispered. “Drive out this darkness with your divine glory.”

Vax stiffened, shuddered once, then relaxed with a long sigh of relief. As Vex watched, color filled his face again, and when he opened his eyes to look up at her he seemed stronger, despite the obvious exhaustion.

“Vax?” Keyleth leaned over him. “Did it work? How do you feel?”

He groaned. “Tired...and disgusting.”

Vex let out a relieved laugh and met Keyleth's eyes. “He's all right. Thanks, Kiki.”

Keyleth sagged back, smiling, and gently patted Vax's side. “You should probably get some rest.”

“Bath first?” Percy suggested. He squeezed his way in between Vex and Pike to help Vax struggle to his feet. “Come on, I'll help you clean up.” Vax, though obviously recovered, still seemed a little unsteady on his feet as he let Percy help him out of the room.

“Take him to my room when you're done,” Vex called after them. “I promised him a nap with Trinket.”

Keyleth let out a whoosh of breath and shook her head. “I didn't know Hotis could do something like that.”

“All the more reason to track him down in whatever hell he landed in and end him once and for all,” Vex said, tightening her hands into fists. That was it. She wasn't letting Vax out of her sight until they killed the rakshasa permanently.

“Come on,” Pike tugged at her shoulder. “We'll help you clean up. Right, Keyleth?”

“Aw, man,” Keyleth pushed herself up and stared around the room dejectedly. “Doesn't Percy have servants for this?”

Three miles east and two feet down .

The witch's words echoed in Cyrus's head as Dariax spurred the cart on. Dorian had been missing for almost two days, and it felt like time was slipping away from them with every second. They'd followed rumor after rumor after rumor until someone had pointed them to the witch, who'd offered them a choice between finding Dorian or finding his kidnappers.

If they'd found her a day earlier, they might have gone for the kidnappers and gotten Dorian's location out of them. But now, well past midday on the second day, they'd settled for the only thing that really mattered.

“What do you think she meant 'two feet down'?” Opal asked, finally breaking the tense silence. “Is he, like, halfway down the stairs or something?”

“Or in a ditch,” Cyrus replied. He had his arms wrapped tightly around himself as he stared forward over Dariax's shoulder. There was this twisting knot in his gut, something telling him that no matter what they did they'd be too late.

“Don't say that,” Opal hissed. She pulled her opalescent hair around one shoulder to run her fingers through it, which Cyrus recognized as a nervous habit. He would always feel guilty for making Dorian leave the friends he'd found in Jrusar, but Opal and Dariax (and Fy'ra, when she didn't have other business taking her away) had brought him in to their weird little family here.

“He's gonna be all right,” Dariax called over his shoulder. “He wouldn't be our leader if he couldn't survive one tiny little kidnapping.”

Cyrus still wasn't sure why, or how, Dorian had gotten to be the leader of this little group, but none of the others argued about it. Just showed that Cyrus had a lot to live up to if he ever wanted to return home as heir to the fancy chair. He'd only ever inspired people to take advantage of him, not to treat him as an equal.

“Three miles east,” Opal repeated. “Do you think we'll find a shack or something? Oh, like a mine! Or a well! He fell down the well, and it's just two feet too deep for him to get out on his own.”

He shook his head. “I don't know what to expect. She seemed so certain, but she didn't give us any details.”

“Well, we're all ready for whatever we find.” Opal patted the packs next to her in the back of the cart. “I've been practicing my lockpicking, and Ted's been teaching me some really cool new spells, so whatever trouble Dorian's gotten into we can rescue him. No problem.”

Cyrus nodded. His fingers dug into his elbows, and he turned to stare out at the countryside around them. If they were headed for any particular destination, they should have seen something by now. They had to be almost at three miles...she'd specified three miles due east of that particular farm, not just general east.

“Uh..guys?” Dariax reigned in the horses and stood up on the cart front. “I think we're here.”

“Are you sure?” Opal surged to her feet, nearly losing her balance. “It can't be three miles yet.”

“Hey, if I'm good at one thing, I'm good at counting. I know how long it takes us to go a mile in this thing, so I just counted it three times,” he nodded firmly. “Math.”

Cyrus stood up as well, hopping over the side of the cart to stare out at their destination. “Oh gods....”

It was a field. There were old ruts of cart tracks, abandoned stones, piles of dirt and refuse. No structures. No ditches, no mines, no wells. Just a field.

“Two feet down,” Opal whispered.

“Each take a third,” Cyrus shouted. He whipped his cloak off and threw it into the cart. “We got shovels?”

“Just one,” Opal called. “No, wait, two!”

“Right, you and I take the shovels. Dariax?”

“You are not the leader,” Dariax argued, pointing at Cyrus. “But I'll let it slide since our real leader is underground somewhere in this field. Yeah, I've got bear hands, I've got this.”

Cyrus threw Opal a questioning look as she fought to untangle the shovels. “Don't look at me, I can't understand half of what he says when he's upset. Here, catch!” she threw him the shovel, then jumped out of the cart to follow Dariax up the field.

He looked back over the field, hands tightening on the handle of the shovel. Where to start...maybe not under the big stones, or the patches of unbroken grass. There were a few spots where the earth had been disturbed recently, like something had been dug up or buried. Best to start there.

Cyrus ran for the first spot and levered up a spadeful of dirt. It was heavier than he anticipated, and the rough wood of the handle bit into his hands, but he kept digging. Shovel after shovel. Dirt piling up beside him. His shoulders would be a mess of twisted muscle when he was finished, but he couldn't stop.

Nearly three feet in, he forced himself to pull away. She'd said two feet down. The only hope they had of finding Dorian here was if the witch's words were correct. Cyrus pushed himself away from the hole and moved onto the next. Across the field Opal had stripped off her own jacket and twisted her long hair up into a sort of tangled pile on top of her head, but she hadn't stopped. Dariax had found a piece of a board, and was using that instead of his bare hands to dig through his own section.

Cyrus moved on to the next. And the next. And the next. And the sun began to set, and the wind picked up, and they were going to lose the light before too long.

“Water,” Opal appeared at his side, shoving a waterskin into his hand. “And Dariax says this is good, but it tastes like shit,” she added, holding out a hunk of dried bread studded with pieces of fruit.

Cyrus began to shake his head, but she was determined. “I'm not telling you to stop, just eat some of this crap and drink some water so I can go back to digging more holes. My nails are ruined, by the way, but I'll take it out of the guys who kidnapped Dorian. Or that witch, if she's still there.”

He chuckled, accepting the offered bread and water. She was right...it tasted like shit. Probably something that had been living in the bottom of the dwarf's pocket for weeks at this point, but he didn't care.

“Thanks, Opal,” Cyrus said as he passed the waterskin back to her. “For...you know.”

She shrugged. “Dorian's family. He's totally worth the manicure. He's even worth the jacket if we can't get the mud out of it.”

Cyrus's throat tightened. His foray out of home had ended in disaster, while Dorian had found two separate groups that treated him better than their family ever had. He nodded to Opal as she turned to run back to her section of the field, then turned his attention to the next spot.

And the next. And the next. And the next. Until...

Scrape .

His shovel hit something. Cyrus flung the shovel out of the way and dropped to his hands and knees, shoving dirt out of the way with his bare hands. His fingers found a corner of rough wood, heavy planks nailed together...the edge of a box.

Two feet down.

“I found him!” Cyrus shouted, scraping at the dirt. “Over here, I found him!”

He heard it then, through the box. A muffled scream, fists banging into the heavy wood. Cries for help. Cyrus fumbled for the hatchet in his belt and slammed it against the top of the crate. Dariax was at his side, picking up his shovel to widen the hole so they could get Dorian out.

“I'm almost there,” he called, though he wasn't sure Dorian could hear him. He finally cracked through, splintering the wood, making a hole into the crate. He wedged the blade of the hatchet into it and forced it sideways, breaking away a piece to widen the hole.

A hand shot out of the hole, familiar blue skin scraping painfully past the splintered edges of wood. Cyrus grabbed it with both hands, dropping the hatchet to the side. “Dariax, help me!”

The dwarf grabbed the hatchet and hacked at the wood of the crate, breaking away pieces with his bare hands as soon as he'd loosened them. The sun was nearly set, the stars out overhead, Opal was running to them from the cart with something in her arms.

Cyrus barely noticed any of this as Dariax finally cracked enough of the crate away that he could lean in and grab Dorian under the shoulders to haul him free. He collapsed backward into the field, barely staying upright, cradling his shaking brother against his chest.

“You're safe now,” he promised, kissing Dorian's forehead. He shifted around to sit cross-legged, holding Dorian close, tucking his brother's head into the crook of his neck. “I've got you. We've all got you.”

“We gotcha, Dorian,” Dariax said. He rested a hand on Dorian's shoulder, the slight flare of a healing spell spreading out from his hand. Then Opal was there to wrap a blanket around Dorian and try to persuade him to take the waterskin.

“Guess we don't have to go back and murder that witch now,” she said, almost sounding disappointed. A long section of hair had come down and she had mud across her forehead, not to mention the broken nails and bleeding fingertips.

“We could still kill her,” Dariax suggested cheerfully as he gathered up their tools. “She never told us where the bad guys are.”

“Yeah, well...some things are more important,” Opal said. She was running a hand through Dorian's hair, loosening bits of wood and dirt. “We'd rather have a living Dorian than a dead witch anyway.”

“Definitely,” Cyrus agreed. Dorian was still shaking, his breath heaving out in great, shuddering gasp, but he was here and alive and safe. In that moment, Cyrus couldn't have asked for more.

“Yeah, but maybe now we can have both.” Dariax stood up, balancing the shovels and hatchet, and gave them all a wide smile. “I mean, my night's free.”

“Sounds good to me,” Opal replied. “C'mon, help me make a good space for Dorian in the cart.”

Cyrus watched them go, still holding Dorian close and rubbing soothing circles across his back. “Hey, think you can walk?”

Dorian shook his head. He hadn't spoken a word since his panicked cries when they were digging him out, and it didn't take much for Cyrus to notice the growing wet spot on his collar. He gave a soft chuckle and hugged his brother a little closer. “That's all right. What else are big brothers for?”

They had the knives again.

Bronte thrashed against the restraints on the table as his captors drew closer. He was still so weak, and they'd been ruthlessly bleeding him for hours now, possibly days.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please don't do this.”

One of them hesitated. A tall woman with a kind of wild smell to her, and features that didn't seem quite humanoid. The other, a spindly woman with dark hair and pale skin and eyes that promised death, seized her wrist and pulled her forward.

“We can't,” she said. The taller woman nodded, though there were tears in her eyes.

“No, wait,” Bronte pleaded. “You don't have to do this. Please don't.”

The dark-haired woman, her teeth set resolutely, pressed the blade to the inside of Dorian's elbow and drew it down along his arm. The other woman mirrored her on his other side, his blood flowing down his arms to be collected in basins under the table.

Bronte screamed. He cried for help, for his father and brother, for anyone. Someone should have heard him. The Silken Squall was far too populous for his cries to go unheard. The taller woman was at his head now, carding long fingers through his hair, whispering that they were almost done. She had tears in her eyes.

He jerked his head away, not wanting his torturer's pity. She sucked in a shaking breath, but said nothing else. Just a hand on his shoulder that he couldn't shake off, eyes studying him with that same pained expression.

“It's done,” the dark-haired woman announced. “Heal him.”

“I really am sorry,” the other woman said. Her green hair fell around her face in soft ripples as she leaned in closer, a pulse of healing energy surging through his body. The wounds on his arms closed, but he was still weak from blood loss.

“Come on. You can't stay with him.”

“Just another minute?”

The dark-haired woman sighed heavily. “He doesn't even know you right now, Fearne. You're just hurting yourself.”

Fearne nodded, still bowing over Bronte's body. Of course he didn't know her. He'd never seen anything like her before—he'd never even left the Silken Squall before. Why had these monsters dragged him away from home to torture him like this?

“We'll be back,” Fearne finally said as she straightened up and wiped her eyes. “It's all gonna be okay, Dorian.”

“I'm not Dorian,” Bronte cried as the women left. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Predictably, there was no answer. He lapsed into weakened silence, with only the lamp in the corner for company. It was always a little strange after they bled him. Almost like his head was clearing up after too many drinks or a long illness. His captors, who were so unfamiliar when the sessions started almost started looking like old friends.

But that was impossible. He knew none of these people. Not the woman with the wild smell and strange features, or the one with purple hair who barely spoke a word and wouldn't even look at him. Certainly not the green-skinned genasi and the strange metallic creature. Not even...

The door creaked open again. Almost against his will Bronte craned his neck to look at it.

It was the halfling. Same sad expression, like the rest of them, but still as unfamiliar. He had a familiar dark-red potion in his hand, and Bronte groaned and twisted away.

“You have to drink this, Dorian. If you lose too much blood-”

“I'm not Dorian!” he snapped, whipping his head back around to glare at the halfling. “You keep calling me that, and telling me you're sorry, but you won't stop torturing me! If you feel so bad about this just let me go!”

The halfling watched him through his outburst, face still creased with worry and grief. “Bronte, then,” he said. “You need to drink this.”

“And if I don't? You'll get your green thug back in here to force it down my throat again?”

Those sad eyes again, so alien yet somehow familiar. Bronte had to look away.

“It's just to help you replenish your blood,” the halfing explained quietly. “If you lose too much you could die.”

“Then let me die.”

That got a reaction. The halfling winced as though he'd been struck, dropping his gaze to the floor. He took a few steadying breaths and looked back up at Bronte, the pain in his eyes so sharp he felt a stab of it in his own heart. “Why do you think we're doing this?”

Bronte wanted to scoff, but his vision was blurring again. Like a fever creeping back into his brain, slowly leaching away what little strength he had. “Just let me go.”

“We can't.” The halfling tugged the stopper out of the bottle as he approached the bed. “I'm sorry, Dorian.”

…

After a while, they didn't dare come into his room without the green-skinned thug. The woman with the wild smell didn't come at all anymore, replaced by the little metallic creature to heal him after he'd been bled. The halfling came most often, as though seeing Bronte was a self-inflicted punishment.

“I don't know how much longer we can do this,” the thug admitted. “He's getting scars.”

“We have to keep trying,” the halfling said. “He's in there; I know it.”

The thug just grunted and pressed the knife into Bronte's arm, dragging it down with practiced precision. There was the familiar jolt of the blood leaving his body, and Bronte closed his eyes against the sensation of it trickling down his arm to splash into the basin below.

“Does it look clearer on your side?” the halfling asked, sounding almost excited for the first time.

“Fuck, I think it does. Hey, can you hear me?”

The thug tapped him on the side of his head, and Bronte cracked his eyes open to glare up into that stupid...familiar face.

“Dorian?”

On his other side, someone else was leaning over him. Someone he knew...someone who knew him.

His mind seemed to clear, and for a moment he knew a name. It was on the tip of his tongue, but it slipped away before he could speak it. The halfling was staring at him intently, glancing up at the green-skinned genasi. “I think he recognized me.”

“Thank fuck, this might not be hopeless after all.”

“It was never hopeless.”

“Fine. Mostly hopeless.”

…

They sat with him now, in between bleedings. Telling unbelievable stories about fantastic adventures they'd supposedly all had together. Bronte couldn't even guess what their plan was, but he'd started to crave their company. He didn't struggle as much during the bleeding anymore, relishing those short bursts of recognition and familiarity that grew stronger every time.

He fell asleep to the sound of their voices most days, slipping into dreams where he knew their names as well as his own. Where he wasn't just Bronte Secondsun Wyvernwind, but a valued friend and comrade in his own right.

“...and we had to drain the poison out of you, but we couldn't do it all at once,” the woman with the wild smell explained. “That's why it's taking so long. We've been trying to find a cure, but everything we gave you just made things worse.”

Bronte grunted, leaning into her hand as she ran her fingers through her hair. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed her until she started coming back. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay, really. We know how hard this has been on you.”

Her touch was soothing, like she was wiping away an old nightmare. He gave a contented sigh and opened his eyes to look up at her.

And recognized her.

“Fearne?”

Her face lit up with a smile and she clasped her hands together, holding them to her chest. “Dorian?”

Dorian. Yes. The name he'd chosen for himself, for the path he'd chosen for himself. “I think...I think so?”

“Oh, just wait right here, I need to get the others. Orym!” Fearne bolted away from him, green hair flying behind her. Dorian watched her go, and a strange wrongness he hadn't noticed in his chest seemed to loosen and slip away.

They were piling into the room again in a few seconds, every face familiar and loved.

He knew them all. And he knew himself.

“Beau?” Jester stuck her head out of the balcony door. “It's raining.”

Beau didn't answer. She was sitting against the railing, her legs threaded through the bars, staring out over the darkened city. Jester watched her for a moment longer, then picked up one of the blankets from Beau's bed and headed out into the rain to join her.

“You're getting wet,” she complained as she wrapped the blanket around Beau's shoulders. She sat down next to her, slipping her legs through the railing in a similar fashion. “You okay?”

“There's no thunder,” Beau said. She shook her head and tugged the blanket close around her arms. “Shouldn't there be thunder?”

“I think it's just a shower,” Jester replied. “But I know what you mean.”

“No, I'm being stupid. She probably wasn't even on our side in the first place, why should we be upset that she's gone? After everything we've been through together, she just changed just like that? I thought we...I thought we meant something, man.”

Jester sniffed and rested her head against Beau's shoulder, careful not to poke her with her horns. “I miss her, too.”

Beau heaved in a shaky sigh and wrapped one arm around Jester's shoulders, adjusting the blanket so that it covered both of them. “We probably shouldn't, right? I mean, she's a traitor...right?”

“Not Yasha. She loves us.”

“Funny way of showing it.”

“She does!” Jester rubbed at her eyes as her tears started to mingle with the rain on her face. “She loves us and she wanted to stay with us, but Obann took control of her It's not her fault.”

“I don't think Fjord agrees.”

“Sometimes Fjord is really stupid.”

Beau snorted, though Jester didn't miss the way she wiped at her own eyes. “Yeah, well, I think he's just trying to look out for all of us.”

Jester sighed and slumped against Beau a little more. “We can get her back, though, right?”

The arm around her shoulders tightened. “I honestly don't know, Jessie.”

“I asked the Traveler, but he didn't know either.” Jester sniffed and wiped her eyes again. “I wish...”

“Yeah?”

“It's stupid.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes Fjord is stupid, and that doesn't stop him.”

Jester broke into a tearful smile. “I mean it's really stupid.”

“I doubt that,” Beau said, squeezing Jester's shoulders in a hug. “C'mon, just tell me. I promise I won't laugh, and it can stay our little secret.”

“Well, that's good, you're like, really good at secrets.”

“Fuck yeah I am.”

Jester sighed. “I wish Molly was here. Maybe he could have stopped her.”

“Oh, Jessie,” Beau twisted sideways to wrap both arms around Jester. She rested her forehead on Jester's shoulder, and when she finally spoke again her voice was thick with tears. “I wish he was here almost every day.”

Jester sniffed again. She squeezed her eyes shut to fight the tears, but it didn't help. “He was really special.”

“He was an asshole,” Beau replied, her voice muffled against Jester's shoulder. “But he was our asshole, and we should have protected him. We should have...”

Jester clutched at the back of Beau's coat, lifting her face up so that her tears mingled with the rain. “We have to get her back,” she whispered. “Molly would want us to.”

“Yeah.” Beau pulled away, and though her eyes were red-rimmed they were filled with a new determination. “For Molly.”

The news came at noon. A explosion had torn through Lord Eshteross's airship a few miles out over the Ozmit Sea. The hull had been rent from stem to stern, the cargo consumed in either the blaze or the ocean. There were no survivors.

Eshteross had sequestered them in a large, though dusty, sitting room while he met with some of his other business partners. He hadn't said whether it was for their safety or for his other compatriots' anonymity, but no one had really protested.

They had a lot to deal with right now.

Fearne sat alone in the corner, turning the sending stone over and over in her hands. She'd been trying to send messages every few hours, but had never gotten a response. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry, and she had barely spoken other than to the sending stone since they'd gotten word.

Ashton paced, as though finding an outlet for his restless energy would lessen the burden of the news. They'd come so close. Dorian and Cyrus were safely out of the city, out of the hands of the people who would do them harm. It couldn't have all ended like this.

Laudna put her own grief aside to stay busy, in some attempt to help the others. She consulted with Evelyn on refreshments that her friends might like, tried to coax Imogen into drinking another glass of water, or pull Fresh Cut Grass into a conversation about what she'd found under the settee. It was usually dust, but they'd found a few interesting coins once, proclaiming them foreign food to save for a special occasion.

Chetney stared out the window, like he could have seen the skyport from the back parlor of Eshteross's estate. His whittling tools were laid out on the table beside him, along with some pieces of wood from a project he'd started, but they'd gone untouched. He'd refused to believe it was Eshteross's ship that had been destroyed, and said they needed to wait for word that it was all a mistake.

Imogen tried to keep herself calm, to reach out for Dorian's mind. She should be able to message him, wherever he was in the world, but the grief and anger of her friends battered at her mind. And the dream...the nightmare of two figures walking into the fire hand-in-hand. What if it hadn't been the Lumos twins? What if it had been the Wyvernwind brothers?

Fresh Cut Grass was doing their best to soothe everyone's emotions. Since they could send messages in waves of feelings, they were nearly exhausting themselves trying to project peaceful thoughts into the minds of their little group of friends.

Orym sat cross-legged on the floor, just out of Fearne's reach. He watched her flip the stone over in her hands, watched her whisper messages to it and hold it up to her ear. Watched her face fall as she pulled the stone away to stare at it again. Over and over. If anyone noticed the way his hand kept straying up to touch the tattoo on his shoulder, no one said anything.

“Fuck, we have to do something,” Ashton spoke up. He looked around the room intently, focusing in on Orym. “We have to find out who did this.”

“Eshteross is our best bet for that,” he replied.

“Yeah, fuck him. He said they'd be safe.”

“This isn't his fault, Ashton,” Imogen replied. She'd curled up on one end of the settee, propping up her tired head with one hand. “He couldn't have known this would happen.”

“So what? He's been prepared for every other fucking thing, why wasn't he prepared for this?”

Imogen was already shaking her head. “You don't know...he's hurting. Bad. It wasn't just Dorian and Cyrus on that ship; he lost everyone.”

“Oh, and he seems real broken up about it.”

“Let's not fight,” Laudna said, stepping in between them. “There's enough pain here without adding disagreements to it.”

Ashton whirled on her, squaring his shoulders up like he was going to argue, then seemed to think better of it. He shot Imogen another look, then stalked over to the opposite corner of the room to stare at the wall.

“That's better.” Laudna tried to be cheerful, but her facade was starting to wilt. “Ah, Evelyn, right on time. Did you find those meat pies we were talking about?”

The older woman stood in the doorway, hands folded in front of her. “Not yet, I'm sorry. But the master wishes to see you, if you'll follow me to his study?”

“This had better be good,” Ashton groused as they filed out of the room after Evelyn. Fearne caught Orym's hand and held it tightly, while Laudna hung back enough to offer Imogen a supportive arm. They huddled close together as a group, even in the safety of Eshteross' manor. Ashton at the front of the group, Chetney at the rear, as though they could protect them from any further shattering.

Evelyn lead them to the familiar study, and left them standing in front of the orc's massive desk. Eshteross himself looked like he'd aged a few years in the hours since the news had broken.

“I'm afraid I must offer my most sincere condolences,” he said, his deep voice gravely from lack of sleep. “Had I known that my other endeavors were endangered, I would not have sent Dorian and his brother on my airship.”

“So you don't think it's connected?” Imogen asked.

“I do not. There is evidence that would suggest otherwise,” he explained, sliding a handful of papers forward for them to see. “I had a previous business relationship with a man named Tahno, and while I thought we had parted under amicable terms it would appear he has a different opinion.”

“Let me get this straight,” Ashton cut in, slamming his hands against the desk. “You screw this guy over in some business deal, he blows up the ship with our friends on it? And that's that?”

“I did not 'screw him over',” Eshteross replied. His lip curled, a little of the familiar pride seeping into his mannerisms. “We had a mutually profitable business relationship that we both agreed to dissolve when our interests differed.”

“Is that supposed to make us feel better?”

Eshteross growled and rose to his feet. “Make no mistake, I have every intention of pursuing this matter to its completion. If Oskar Tahno is responsible for the death of my charges and the destruction of my airship, he will face the consequences of his actions. What we need now is subtlety. I called you in here because I assumed you would want to aid in the investigation of Tahno's business endeavors?”

“Absolutely,” Orym said. He was barely tall enough to see over the edge of the desk, but he'd stepped forward to look at the papers anyway. “You think he could be responsible for Dorian's death?”

“He is the most likely suspect now, though there are others.” Eshteross studied them all, his gaze lingering on Fearne and Orym. “I take full responsibility for the attack that claimed the lives of your friend and his brother. I will see to it that the ones who carried this out are punished, and I will offer the Wyvernwind family and the Silken Squall whatever comfort or recompense I can. But I cannot do this without your help.”

“Well, I'm in,” Fearne announced. She still had the sending stone clutched close to her chest as she walked forward to stand next to Orym. Orym didn't say anything, but reached up to lay his hand on her arm.

They were all gathering in, pulling together to find resolve, looking to each other for strength, when Evelyn quietly slipped into the room.

“You have a visitor,” she announced.

“Tell them to wait,” Eshteross said, waving impatiently. “We have important business to discuss.”

“I'm sorry, but he's rather insistent.”

Eshteross let out a heavy sigh and straightened up, the expression on his face unreadable. In the back of the room, a cloaked figure slipped through the door just behind Evelyn, the deep hood hiding his features.

Though there was something familiar about the way he moved...

The figure in the hood seemed to draw back when he saw the group gathered around the old orc's desk. The hood twisted as he looked from face to face, then he raised his gloved hands and drew the hood back. The face underneath was familiar, though the hair had been cropped short. His clothes were simple, nondescript, and so ragged they were word thin in places, nothing like the immaculate attire they'd last seen him in.

“The, uh, the carriage never made it to the dock,” Dorian explained nervously.

Fearne was across the room in a heartbeat, picking him up in a hug that spun his feet off the ground. He gave a shaky laugh and tried to pat her on the back when she set him down, while Orym hugged him around the waist. They all piled in on him, going in for hugs or pats on the back or (in Ashton's case) a solid punch to the arm, until Lord Eshteross tapped his cane against the ground to get their attention.

“I think he needs some air,” Eshteross said, not unkindly. “Evelyn? I think we could use some refreshments.”

Dorian caught Fearne and Orym by the hands, letting everyone else space themselves out. “I tried to come back sooner, but I couldn't get away. I'm sorry.”

“Where were you?” Fearne asked. She dropped down to sit on the floor, and Dorian went with her after a moment's hesitation. To Eshteross's amusement, the rest of the group followed suite until they were all sitting in a rough circle in front of the orc's massive desk.

“You should probably know that the carriage driver was a member of the Corsairs in disguise,” Dorian said to Eshteross. “We never made it to the dock; they've been keeping us locked away. For 'safety', they say.”

“I messaged you every day,” Fearne said. She still had the stone in one hand and held it up for him to see.

“They took everything we had, I'm sorry. These aren't even my clothes,” he added, gesturing to the rough, nondescript shirt and pants he was wearing under the cloak. “We lost everything.”

“So what have you been doing?” Laudna asked, breaking the momentary silence. “If you weren't en route to Tal'Dorei all this time?”

“Oh, sitting around. Mostly.” Dorian shrugged. “We were, uh, locked up. Me and-and Cyrus.”

Orymn leaned closer to put a steadying hand on Dorian's knee. “They said it was for your safety?”

“Well, yes. But I think they just didn't want to lose Cyrus.” He looked around the room and suddenly seemed much older than twenty-seven. His face was drawn and thin, and his eyes were glazed with exhaustion. “As a resource, not as a member. I think they're after Cyrus's connections to our home. The Silken Squall,” he added, looking back up at Eshteross.

Eshteross pondered this for a moment, resting his chin on his clasped hands. “As an ally or target?”

“I don't know.”

Fearne tugged on his hand to bring his attention back to her. “How did you get away?”

Dorian managed a hesitant smile, nothing like the carefree grin they were used to. “After we received news of the explosion, Cyrus managed to convince them to let me go. I'm not sure what he told them, but he put his bounty up as collateral. If I can't clear it in two weeks they're turning him in.”

He ran a hand through his hair, but froze up a little when he touched it and quickly dropped his hand to his lap. He looked up, his eyes bright with emotion. “They took everything. Even my hair.”

“Oh, Dorian,” Fearne wrapped her arms around him and tugged him close. He buried his face in her shoulder as his whole body shuddered through a barely-suppressed sob. “They didn't take everything. You still have us.”

“Cyrus's bounty just jumped to the top of the list. We'll get that cleared as soon as we can,” Ashton added. “No one fucks with Bell's Hells and gets away with it.”

Eshteross gingerly stepped in front of Dorian and held a hand out to pull him to his feet, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. “The Corsairs are a dangerous enemy to have in this city,” he rumbled, turning to look at each of them. “But so am I. I think it's high time they understand this.”

The others rose as well, and Orym caught Dorian's hand to tug him toward the door. “C'mon. Let's find you something clean to wear.”

They all filed out, discussing plans or ideas to help clear Cyrus's name and get the Wyvernwind brothers the freedom they deserved, but Fearne held back for a moment. She lifted the sending stone in her hand and focused on it, then raised it to her mouth.

“I don't know if you can hear me,” she said sweetly. “But you made a terrible mistake, and now I'm going to kill you all. And this time I'm not joking.”