Chapter 44 – Dain
DAIN
Three days into her punishment, and Azaria Sylvenhart was already showing signs of wear.
The door closed behind her with a quiet click.
She stood there for a second, just existing.
Boots scuffed. Hair loose in a way that suggested she’d given up halfway through tying it back.
One shoulder of her jacket sat a little lower than the other, like she’d shrugged it on without looking. I leaned against the wall and waited.
She took two steps in, stopped, and then slowly seemed to realize she wasn’t alone. Her head lifted. Her eyes met mine. I watched the moment it hit her—recognition, relief, and then that very specific ‘oh no’ look she got when she realized she’d been observed in a state of undignified humanity.
“Don’t,” she said immediately.
I hadn’t even opened my mouth yet.
“Don’t what?” I asked mildly.
She narrowed her eyes. “Whatever you’re about to say.”
I considered her for a moment. The faint flush on her cheeks. The hair escaping her tie. The very subtle but very real lack of armor.
I smiled. “I was going to say hello.”
She sighed like I’d exhausted her already. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” I said. “You came home looking like you lost a fight with a wardrobe and won on a technicality.”
Her gaze dropped instinctively to her sleeve, where a faint smear of dirt still clung. She brushed at it, scowling. “I’m fine.”
“Mm.” I tilted my head. “You look rumpled.”
She glared. “Don’t use that word.”
“Why? It’s accurate.”
She crossed her arms. “I am not rumpled.”
I gestured vaguely at her hair. “You’ve got a curl doing something criminal back there.”
Her hand flew up, flattening it. “Traitor.”
I grinned because there it was. The spark. The familiar irritation edged with something softer, something alive.
She caught my expression and scowled harder. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I’ve had a very long day,” I said solemnly. “This is my reward.”
She huffed, shook her head, and stepped further into the room. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” I said, following her in, “you came here anyway.”
She stopped, just for a moment. Then she rolled her eyes and muttered, “I needed somewhere quiet.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you were… convenient.”
“Devastating,” I said dryly.
She turned, giving me a look that was absolutely supposed to be withering and came out tired instead. “You’re in a mood.”
“You walked in with that look on your face,” I replied, nodding toward her. “I’d be a terrible friend if I didn’t enjoy it a little.”
Her mouth twitched despite herself.
She shook her head, exasperated, then sighed and dropped onto the chair by the table. The tension in her shoulders finally loosened, a fraction at a time.
“I almost didn’t come,” she admitted quietly. “Thought about going home. Collapsing into bed.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She was quiet for a moment. “Didn’t want to be alone.”
Three months ago, she would have chosen isolation. Would have locked herself away and drowned in it. But tonight she came here, to me, and that shift mattered more than she probably realized. She was remembering how to ask for help again.
“I’m fine, Dain,” she said, quieter now. “Just tired.”
I nodded, accepting the offering for what it was. “Yeah. I figured.”
She glanced up at me. “You’re not going to ask?”
I shrugged. “Not tonight.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why not?”
I met her gaze, steady and unassuming. “Because you look like you’ve had enough questions for one day.”
She held my eyes for a long moment. Then something in her expression eased, just a notch. “Thank you,” she said softly.
I shrugged it off. “Don’t get sentimental on me. Ruins my reputation.”
A corner of her mouth lifted. “You have a reputation?”
“Unfortunately.”
She snorted, this one warmer, more like herself.
I pushed away from the wall and nodded toward the kitchen. “You hungry?”
She hesitated. “I don’t think?—“
“I’m already reheating stew,” I said. “This isn’t a democracy.”
Her lips twitched. “You’re very bossy.”
“Only with people I like.”
She paused, then shook her head with a quiet laugh and followed me into the kitchen. And for the first time in days, the house felt right. Warm and occupied, and alive.
Later that week, I was halfway across the training yard when I saw him. Quinton stood at the edge of the grounds, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed, watching Azaria drill a group of exhausted rookies through basic sword forms.
He’d been doing this every evening since the punishment started. Waiting at the edge of the grounds, walking her home after, showing up again the next day without being asked. I’d also noticed him disappearing early mornings, but that was a different kind of errand.
Azaria hadn’t noticed him yet, too focused on correcting a rookie’s stance, her voice firm but patient as she demonstrated the proper grip. Again. And again. Until the kid finally got it right.
“Better,” she said, stepping back. “Again. All of you. Twenty more reps.”
A chorus of groans rose from the rookies, but they obeyed. They always did with her.
The Sword Master, Bortan, watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, occasionally barking corrections.
He’d been using Azaria to show advanced techniques all afternoon, which meant she’d been drilling moves over and over while already exhausted from her morning at the scribes’ hall.
A brutal combination, and one I suspected Bortan was enjoying a little too much.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Bortan called out. “You’re all dismissed. Sylvenhart, good work today.”
Azaria nodded, clearly too tired to do more than acknowledge the praise. The rookies scattered, probably terrified he’d change his mind. I shifted my attention back to Quinton.
He looked different. The haunted, desperate edge he’d carried for weeks had softened. The tension in his shoulders had eased. His color was healthier. Even from across the yard, the change was unmistakable. He looked like a man who’d finally stopped drowning.
Azaria rolled her shoulders, turned, and saw him. I watched it happen. The moment she registered his presence. Her spine straightened slightly. Her expression shifted, not a smile, but something softer. Something that looked almost like relief.
Quinton pushed off the fence, closing the distance between them with easy strides.
They didn’t touch. Didn’t embrace. Just stood there, a respectful distance apart, talking quietly.
Too far away for me to hear, but I didn’t need to.
I could see it in the way her shoulders dropped.
The way his hand twitched toward her before he caught himself, mindful of watching eyes.
The way they both looked lighter simply for being near each other.
After a moment, he gestured toward the exit. She nodded. And they walked off together. Side by side. Not touching, but close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.
I watched them disappear through the gates. She needed someone who would show up every day, no matter what. And Quinton looked like a man who had no intention of leaving.
I turned back toward the Academy, allowing myself a small smile.
The east corridor of the Administrative Wing was quieter than it should have been.
I noticed it the way I noticed most things—gradually, then all at once.
Three offices sealed. Not locked for the evening, but sealed, wards still humming faintly across the doors.
Lord Hallen's. Councilor Vareck’s. Lady Eadric's.
The nameplates hadn't been removed yet, but someone had repositioned the guard rotation.
Two sentries now covered a stretch that used to require five.
Not because the wing was safer. Because there weren't enough people left to guard.
I walked through without slowing.
Further along, a clerk I vaguely recognized emerged from a side room carrying a stack of reassigned ledgers.
She saw me, adjusted her path so we wouldn't cross, and disappeared around the corner without making eye contact.
A month ago, she would have nodded. Now she moved like someone who had learned that proximity to certain names carried weight.
The palace loved its gossip. Always had.
Whispers traveled faster than official dispatches, and what couldn't be said in council chambers found its way into servant corridors and guard rotations within hours.
Seventeen people gone. Some had held offices here, now sealed or reassigned.
Others had kept their power in estates and private halls across the city—doors that no longer opened, households that had gone very quiet.
Seventeen names vanished from schedules and correspondence and guest lists, leaving behind a silence that was louder than any accusation.
Had they connected Azaria's punishment to the killings?
Perhaps. The timing was difficult to ignore—a captain stripped of command and sentenced to manual labor within weeks of the bloodiest purge the nobility had seen in a generation.
But suspicion and certainty were different currencies, and nobody dared trade in the latter.
Not when the people asking questions kept turning up dead.
So they whispered. They speculated behind closed doors and dropped their voices when footsteps approached.
They studied the remaining council members for signs of panic and found plenty.
And they watched Azaria Sylvenhart drill rookies in the training yard, covered in dust and sweat, and wondered whether the most dangerous person in Kareth was the one they'd sentenced to polish swords.
I passed the last sealed office—Councilor Marren's, if I remembered correctly—and turned toward the main corridor.
A pair of junior officials stood near the window, heads close, conversation dying the moment they registered my presence.
One of them clutched a reassignment order.
The other looked like he hadn't slept properly in weeks.
I didn't stop. Didn't acknowledge them. Just walked through and let the silence close behind me.
The Ghost had carved a hole in the political structure of Kareth, and nobody had figured out how to fill it.
The remaining councilors were too frightened to act, too fractured to organize, and too proud to admit they were either.
It was, from a strategic standpoint, a mess.
The kind of power vacuum that invited opportunists and destabilized alliances.
From a personal standpoint, I thought they'd earned a little turbulence.
One week into the punishment. The squad lunch table was, as usual, barely controlled chaos.
“—I’m just saying, if he tries that move in actual combat, he’s going to lose a hand?—“
“He’s going to lose more than a hand?—“
“His dignity went first?—“
“Can you lose something you never had?”
I sat at the end of the table with my tea, half-listening to Kael and Reyna argue about some poor cadet’s training mishap while Lyra and Lirael placed bets on how long until the kid quit entirely.
Across from me, Quinton ate in relative silence, only half-present in the conversation. He looked better than I’d seen him in weeks. The hollowed-out look he’d been wearing had faded. His posture was more relaxed. He looked like he was actually sleeping.
“Hey,” Kael’s voice cut through the table noise. “Where’s Cap?”
The table went quiet.
“Still working,” I said mildly. “Punishment, remember?”
“I know, but—“ Kael frowned. “I saw her yesterday at the training grounds. She looked different.”
Reyna leaned forward. “Different how?”
“Tired. But not like before. Not that dead-eyed exhaustion from day one. Just regular tired. Like she’d been working hard but sleeping fine.”
Lyra tilted her head. “That’s good, though, right?”
“Yeah, it’s good. It’s just…” Kael’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “She had this look. Like she was waiting for something. Or someone.”
Quinton’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. I took a very careful sip of tea.
“Maybe she’s just focusing on getting through it,” Lirael offered. “A month of double shifts would kill anyone.”
“True.” Kael leaned back, but his gaze drifted, subtly, casually, toward Quinton. “Speaking of disappearing… Quin, where’ve you been every evening? You keep ducking out right after training.”
Quinton didn’t flinch. “Errands.”
“Errands.” Kael’s tone was flat.
“Mm.”
“What kind of errands?”
“The kind that aren’t your business.”
Kael grinned slowly. “You’re being evasive.”
“I’m being private. There’s a difference.”
“Is there, though?”
Reyna jumped in, eyes sparkling. “You have been gone a lot. Every night, actually. Like clockwork.”
“I’m a creature of habit.”
“Or you’re visiting someone,” Lyra said innocently.
Quinton’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly. I hid my smile behind my tea.
“You know,” Kael said slowly, leaning forward with that look he got when he thought he’d figured something out, “Cap’s been disappearing every evening too. Double shifts end around the same time you start your mysterious ’errands.’”
“Fascinating,” Quinton said dryly. “You should write a report.”
“I’m just saying?—“
“Don’t.”
“—it’s an interesting coincidence?—“
“Kael.” Quinton’s voice dropped, warning clear.
Kael held up his hands, grinning like he’d won something. “Fine, fine. Keep your secrets.” He pointed his fork at Quinton. “But just so you know, we’re all very happy you’re eating properly again. You look way less corpse-like.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You were starting to look like death. Now you look like a person again.”
Quinton stared at him. “Are we really doing this?”
“Yes,” Kael said cheerfully. “We care about you. It’s awful. Deal with it.”
Lirael snorted into her drink.
Quinton’s expression shifted, caught between exasperation and something that looked almost like affection.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just adjusting.”
“To what?”
“Life. Drop it.”
Kael’s grin widened, but before he could push further, Reyna threw a piece of bread at his head, and the table dissolved into the usual chaos.
I caught Quinton’s eye across the table. He held my gaze for a moment, and something passed between us. Understanding. Acknowledgment. I gave him the smallest nod. He nodded back.
I sat back with my tea and let the noise wash over me. They were both better. Both lighter. And the squad, loud and nosy and insufferable as they were, had noticed. I suspected it wouldn’t be long before Kael pieced the rest of it together.
That was going to be entertaining.