14. Archer #3
“Feckless fool, we know,” Saige sighs. “Before you get stuck into that, you should eat something.” She pulls a parcel from her satchel. Apparently, the brothel owner is more connected than I realized. “It’s not much but…”
I cave and reluctantly accept a pastry—
Only for the damn dog to knock it from my hands with a victorious bark, snatching it off the floor in his slobbering jaws. The laughter that follows only serves to further darken my mood.
“You enormous pain in my ass,” I mutter to the great beast currently scarfing down my food.
“Watch how you speak to my son,” Yevna’s gravelly voice sounds. She’s got deceptively good hearing for an old bat.
“Maybe you should teach him some fucking manners.”
“His manners are just fine for the present company.”
I should never have allowed this, for Saige to bring along this duo of insufferable women and the great oaf of a canine.
“Feeling outnumbered yet, General?” Saige smiles at me sweetly and hands me another pastry.
I nearly moan as I bite into the buttery golden-brown crust and a burst of flavor hits my tongue.
Filled with smoky, rich meat and some sort of spiced gravy, it’s the best damn thing I’ve ever eaten.
I keep my expression neutral, not wanting the mortals to know how emotional I’m suddenly feeling over a pie.
It’s only once I’ve devoured it that I realize it was Saige’s.
Desperate to put some distance between us all, I stride forward, my back screaming in protest with each step, and swipe a dark bottle from the bounty beneath the floorboards.
My fingers leave bloody prints on the glass.
I lift it in salute to Yevna, the movement sending fresh fire racing across my shoulder blades. “To Thaedra’s beginnings…”
Slowly, the older woman returns the toast. “And Caedrith’s endings.”
I drink, and as expected, it tastes like shit. Burning my throat and settling hot in my empty gut.
“That better not be a grimace, General,” Yevna all but growls. “It’s my best work—the Botanist’s Folly.”
“Fitting name,” I mutter, before catching Raven staring at my hand. “What?”
“Nice rings,” she says, a crease deepening between her brows. “They’re a fine make.”
“How would you know?”
“I’m a metalworker. But if I could, I’d specialize in jewelry.” She points to the black gem on my forefinger. “That a family ring?”
I shrug. “What’s it to you?”
“Nothing. Just thought those types of rings were reserved for nobility.”
“I could be nobility.”
She snorts, exchanging an amused look with Yevna at the state of me: borrowed trousers that are too short and a shirt that’s about to pop open at the bursting buttons. Mortal clothes on loan from a brothel. Definitely not something I thought I’d be saying upon securing my freedom.
“My things are being laundered. And I did just escape prison.” With a final glare, I turn to Saige, my teeth grinding. “I’ll be on the roof, Grayson.”
That damn smile is curving her lips again. “We’re back to Grayson, are we?”
“You didn’t give me your name willingly.
” I venture to the lone window and slide it open, the movement awkward as I try to avoid aggravating the wounds.
Flicking my cloak behind me pulls at torn muscle, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek as I climb onto the roof beyond, but not before I hear her next words.
“Perhaps one day I will…” Her voice is light and melodic, reminding me of a song long ago forgotten.
“You’d regret it,” I say, and then I glide the window back in place behind me, shutting myself off from her.
The night air hits me like a blessing, cool against my overheated skin. I allow myself exactly three seconds to slump against the roof tiles, my shoulders curving inward, before I force my spine straight again.
The gin burns going down my throat—harsh and medicinal, nothing like the refined spirits of the Azkari houses, but also a damn sight better than the piss fermenting in Gravereach.
I welcome the burn. It’s cleaner than the pain radiating from my back, more honest somehow.
The bottle neck is slippery with my own blood, and I have to adjust my grip twice before I manage another swallow.
Below me, the town sprawls in shadow and flickering torchlight. Somewhere out there, Thorne’s compound still smolders. I should feel satisfaction. Instead, I feel... nothing. Empty. Hollow as these human buildings.
Against my better judgment, I glance back at the window.
Through the grimy glass, I can make out Saige’s silhouette as she moves between Yevna and Raven, her hands never still, always tending, always caring.
The torchlight catches in her hair, turning it molten gold.
She gestures at something—probably arguing with the old bat—and even from here I can read the stubborn set of her shoulders.
Loyal. Fierce. Stupidly, recklessly devoted. I take another long pull from the bottle, trying to drown the thoughts of her. It doesn't work.
My back gives a particularly vicious throb, and I shift positions, feeling the fresh trickle of blood that follows. The tiles beneath me will be stained by morning. Evidence of my weakness, painted across the rooftop for anyone to see.
I should care about that.
I don't.
What I do care about—what I can't seem to stop thinking about—is the way Saige looked at me when she realized I was still bleeding. Not with disgust or satisfaction, but with something that looked unsettlingly like concern.
For me. The Azkari who failed to defeat the Silver-Tongued Deceiver. The monster who’s to blame for the realm being on the brink of another war…
I drain the last of the gin and let the bottle roll away across the tiles, listening to it clatter into the dark.
Loyalty like hers is a weakness I could exploit. Should exploit.
So why can’t I look away from that window?
For someone who spent centuries as little more than shadow and smoke, I’m suddenly, viscerally aware of having a body again. A body that bleeds. That aches. That responds to the scent of lilac and parchment like it’s the only thing tethering me to this realm.
I’m alive again.
And it’s entirely her fault.