42. Saige
Saige
When Archer joins me on the street, his expression is unreadable, that fortress wall sliding back into place around him.
He veils himself, shielding his power and true form from prying eyes, but it does little to dull his rugged handsomeness.
Immortal or otherwise, the man has a presence about him.
Men and women alike ogle him as we start down the high street.
The men want to be him, the women just plain want him.
Clearly, I’m not oblivious to the Azkari general’s sexual magnetism, given the current state of my undergarments, but seeing him walk among us mere mortals is confronting.
He’s a warrior god among common humans, and by his side is me.
Plain, little old me. Just some average bookbinder, well past her prime according to society.
“You’re wearing a dress,” he says gruffly.
It was a spur of the moment decision, to wear something more feminine, to leave my hair unbound… It was stupid, and now I know I look ridiculous. “Very astute of you, General.”
I will my cheeks not to flush the same hue as the fabric, cursing myself for thinking I could pull it off all these years after Raven gave it to me.
Raven and I have increasingly spoken about getting older and how terrifying it is for women.
There is little to no ground between young and naive and elderly and decrepit.
What society values in women is fleeting—blink and you’ll miss the window entirely.
Left on the shelf, as Yevna likes to call it.
Archer on the other hand… while his appearance bears the signs of age and suffering, he will always be beautiful, always desirable.
He almost stops walking entirely as his gaze tracks down the richly colored gown. “You look…”
“What?” My shoulders tense. “Too much? Not enough?”
Archer’s brow furrows and he rubs the back of his tattooed neck. “Perfect,” he says earnestly. “You look perfect. But then… You always do.”
For a moment, all I can do is stare back at him.
I don’t think anyone has ever said anything remotely like that to me.
Any compliments I’ve received have come from other women.
The comments from men—besides Leo, that is—have always been designed to cut me down.
But here… here is a Azkari warrior, using the word perfect. “Oh.”
Archer’s mouth twitches. “We don’t have all day.”
“I wasn’t the one dithering about naked last night and sleeping in this morning.”
The bastard has the audacity to smirk. “You didn’t seem to mind all that much, Grayson.”
I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind one damn bit. Seeing Archer like that… I could die now and go to the afterlife as a happy woman. Well, almost happy. For a split second, I thought he was going to ravish me against the counter, his emerald eyes darkening with a ring of black fire.
I wave him off, as though I’m entirely unaffected by him now. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
The autumn air is crisp around us as we trudge through the city.
My breath fogs before my face and the cobblestones are slick with dew, muffling our footsteps as we navigate the quiet of the early morning.
Canal water laps against the stone embankments, and somewhere in the distance, a watchman’s bell tolls the hour.
It’s not long before the Copper Kettle comes into view.
The painted wooden sign swings in the breeze: an actual copper kettle swinging from the lettering, pouring ale into a tankard held by a smiling wolfhound.
Beneath the beer-drinking dog is the slogan, Mischief brewed here.
Grinning, I point it out to Archer. “There’s Yevna’s pride and joy. ”
“I thought that phrase referred to the slobbering beast always at her side.”
“It’s cute you’re still pretending not to like him,” I tease.
“All I heard was that you think I’m cute.” Archer follows my gesture to the wooden sign and the warm light glowing within. “You spend a lot of time there, I take it?”
“Raven and I were practically raised behind the bar,” I tell him, smiling fondly. “But since our apprenticeships and then taking on more responsibilities in our roles, we only go there every so often, even less now that Leo’s gone.”
He nods. “That’s understandable.”
“But there’s one thing we do every year—a family tradition of sorts. On the first snow of winter, we all go to the Copper Kettle for a big feast and we help Yevna bottle her gin. Usually, we drink about half of it in the process. Last year Leo accidently lit his eyebrows on fire.”
“That sounds surprisingly… fun,” Archer says. “The eating and drinking, not the singed facial hair.”
“Consider this an open invite then,” I tell him, bumping my shoulder against his arm. “What were your traditions like, back home?”
He makes a disgruntled noise. “There were too many.”
“Pick one,” I insist.
Rolling his eyes, Archer heaves a sigh. “One thing my family always celebrated was the Triad’s Ascension.
My parents would host an extravagant party every fifty years, inviting everyone they’d ever spoken to.
The place would be packed with Azkari from all over the realms, but my brothers and I…
We’d all watch the event together from my parents’ balcony, get roaring drunk on Azkari wine and then see who’d dive into the sea from the highest cliff. ”
“How… interesting.”
“Consider this your open invite then,” he echoes me.
“I’ll pass, thanks. My mortal neck would likely break upon impact, and I rather like my neck in one piece.”
“It’s a good neck,” he agrees with another smirk. “But you’re in luck, there hasn’t been a party like that since before the Reckoning. Your pretty little neck is safe, Grayson.”
“All I heard was that you think I’m pretty.” I grin up at him.
His emerald eyes twinkle in the sunlight. “Well, I’m not blind, am I?”
This time, I let his compliment wash over me like a warm wave. “You’re not so bad yourself, General.”
He makes a show of looking down his muscular torso. “What? This old thing.”
“Old being the operative word there.” Unable to wipe the smile from my face at his mock horror, I tug on his sleeve and direct him around a corner, leading us further from the heart of the city towards a large hill that shadows the outskirts. “This way.”
“It’s actually under a hill?” Archer shakes his head in disbelief.
“It changes location regularly to evade the authorities, but this was where it first started, yes. I have it on good authority that the market is here for the next two days,” I tell him as we approach the sloping terrain.
Wild heather and thyme cover the hillside in fragrant, wind-swept carpets, while weathered stone outcroppings jut from the summit like the broken teeth of a giant.
But the land is not completely natural. Wooden fences cut the rest of the verdant land into fields for farmers, and at the base, a ramshackle old shed is built roughly into the side of the hill, its timber beams groaning in the wind.
“If I knock my head on the rafters, I’ll bring the whole thing down around us,” Archer observes as we reach the strange little shack.
“So don’t knock your head,” I tell him, opening the door.
Inside, are four tiny walls, lined with rusty old farmers’ tools, and Archer has to stoop to enter. “You sure we’re in the right place, Grayson?”
I reach for the sickle hanging from the back panel and tug it down on its hook. The entire shed creaks loudly as the back panel opens inward, revealing a tunnel beyond, lined with flickering torches. I turn to Archer smugly. “You were saying?”
“When you’re holding the Azkari gold we need for the filigree, I’ll be sure to kneel before you,” he says dryly.
As we move through the passage, the scents and sounds of the Underhill Exchange filter down towards us. The rough stone walls are slick with condensation and dim lanterns cast long shadows along the cramped passageways.
“You know why these tunnels were originally built here?” Archer asks quietly.
“I never really thought about it to be honest. But I’m guessing they had something to do with the war?”
The Azkari dips his head in confirmation. “Mortals built tunnels and shelters underground to hide and escape Malevron’s forces. Hanniel was known for its network of crawlways and burrows.”
As his words wash over me, I imagine what it would have been like for people hiding down here, hoping and praying that death didn’t find them, trying to explain to their children what was happening.
“The allies tried to herd people to them where we could,” Archer says. “It was horrific, treating them like cattle, not knowing if they’d survive.”
My ancestors likely fled to these tunnels, Raven and Yevna’s too. It strikes me how much these walls have seen, how much suffering bled into this ground. I shake the thought from my head and tell myself that the task at hand is in honor of those who did experience such horrors.
It’s not long before the path opens up, revealing a familiar set-up.
Though the crowd surges as always, it seems to part around Archer, as though even with his veil, the patrons sense there is something dangerous about him.
We’re surrounded by the murmur of hushed negotiations; distant cheers and groans from the fighting pits and the clink of glass bottles being packed in straw.
There’s the occasional sharp whistle from the lookouts and somewhere in the distance, music from a lone stringed busker drifts towards us.
I clutch my satchel close to my side, wary of pickpockets.
“It’s the art quarter we need to get to. Can you see bolts of colorful fabric anywhere? That’s usually a giveaway—”