Chapter 6
WYLAN
Ralund was waiting for Wylan near the back of the garden, arms crossed.
Wylan skidded to a halt, suddenly feeling like he was six years old and sneaking out of the house against his parents’ will. Except Wylan was a full-grown adult, and his parents hadn’t been alive in years, and Ralund answered to him, damn it, so he had no reason to feel awkward.
Except that Ralund was still pointedly blocking the gate.
“My lord,” he greeted, but his tone was flat. “Going for a stroll?”
“Going to repair the church, actually,” Wylan replied.
He cast a glance over his shoulder. He’d been hoping to leave quickly, lest Lord Dren see him exiting and decide to join.
The last week had been a confusing whirlwind of emotion, where days were spent laughing with Dren and going over policies, and the evenings were spent in his study, staring at the spot where Feo used to sit, running over the bonfire in his mind ad nauseum.
Had he said the right thing? Was he too forward in asking for Feo’s help? The church was going to collapse without intervention, and experts had repeatedly told him there wasn’t much intervention at this point—but before reconnecting with Feo, Wylan had just accepted the old building’s fate.
How quickly he’d changed his mind when Feo appeared.
Ralund raised an eyebrow, still unmoving. He was taller than Wylan, and age had done little to diminish his imposing form. He lifted his chin. “To the church… while there’s a guest to entertain?”
“Lord Dren has been given maps of the area to review. I asked him to identify the best spot on Pine Island to build a dock—”
“A choice almost certainly better made alongside an experienced lord,” Ralund said.
This was a pointless back-and-forth. Wylan narrowed his eyes. “If you have something to say, Ralund, now is the time.”
Ralund took this order with ease. “You are abandoning your current duties to gallivant off to the Alchemicor. Considering how your relationship ended, I do not think it’s prudent to spend more time with them. Not while Lord Dren requires your help.”
Wylan scowled. “I’m hardly gallivanting. Feo offered to help repair the church. Nothing more.”
“Hmm.” Ralund appraised the young lord. “Can you promise it’s nothing more?”
“Do I need to?” Wylan shot back. “In case you’ve forgotten, Ralund, I am an adult, perfectly capable of making my own decisions.
Lord Dren is also an adult, and he will survive in my manor until my return.
In the meantime, a building of great importance to Tawney is on the verge of collapse, and I have a chance to fix it. So… if you’ll excuse me.”
Ralund dutifully stepped aside, allowing Wylan access to the gate.
“At your leisure, my lord.” For a moment, it seemed like Wylan had won—although the victory felt hollow.
Wylan stepped past him, pushing through the creaking metal gate.
On the other side, Ralund cleared his throat.
“If I may… I care greatly for your continuing happiness. If the Alchemicor shows interest, I only ask you remember the nights when dinner was prepared, and they never arrived.”
Wylan stiffened, regret and humiliation sliding into his soul.
There had been several of those nights, where Ralund would prepare a beautiful dinner, where the table would be set for two, wine from the finest Nacean vineyard poured…
and there Wylan would sit as the evening passed in solitude, until eventually Ralund removed one of the plate settings and Wylan was left feeling like a new lord again, eating alone in his massive, empty manor.
“I won’t,” Wylan said, quietly.
“Very good, my lord,” Ralund replied, and left.
With little option, Wylan continued down the back path into town. This walkway wasn’t nearly as grand as the front entrance to the manor, and it allowed him to deviate to the burnt half of town much faster. He kept a swift pace to the church, mulling over Ralund’s words.
Meeting Feo to repair an old church wasn’t ridiculous… but the way Wylan’s heart thumped in anticipation absolutely was.
Ralund was right. Feo had their chance, and they chose alchemy over Wylan. In hindsight, there was no competition.
And, was it so wrong to miss an old friend? To yearn for the days they spent together, or to leap at the chance to address a wound that had scabbed over, but never really healed? Wylan was struggling to find a reason not to try.
The sun was bright overhead, a rare, sunny spring day. It was still cold, but warm enough that the next snowfall would likely be heavy and wet, and melt faster than they could clear it. Summer was coming, and that was a lovely time for every Tawnean.
As a result, Wylan greeted several newcomers as he walked, and paused to chat with a couple about various town issues.
The seamstress wanted to rent a bigger shop for her fabrics.
The herbalist wanted to speak with Kianthe, but was afraid to start a conversation with the Arcandor herself.
The new roofer wanted to discuss why slate was common in Tawney, despite its immense weight, when a blacksmith could hammer out sheets of metal.
It took Wylan much longer than expected to reach the church, as a result. And of course, when he finally arrived, Feo was lounging in the sunshine, looking jaw-droppingly gorgeous.
Feo uncrossed their arms, pushing off the old church. “Well, well. And here I thought I got the day wrong.”
“Nope,” Wylan said, his mouth suddenly dry.
Feo noticed. They quirked an eyebrow. “What?”
Fuck. Fuck. Wylan fumbled for a reply. “Um. Just didn’t expect you to show up wearing something so casual.”
And it was casual. Wylan thought Feo would be clad in the same, outrageous uniform they always wore now—one that screamed from a distance, I’m the Alchemicor, look at how powerful and important I am.
The cloak was usually just the beginning, layering over fabrics embroidered in precious metals, studded with jewel accents and alchemy circles to maintain proper temperature in any climate.
Today, though, their outfit was far closer to what they’d wear as an off-duty councilmember: a linen shirt that cut off at the elbows, pants that were tight at the waist and tapered out before hugging the ankles.
Even their boots were dirty with mud, which Wylan hadn’t seen for several seasons before their break-up.
It had Wylan’s heart pounding.
Focus. Gods and stars and dragons, Wylan, FOCUS.
Feo smirked, looking pointedly at their clothes. It was worse, Wylan realized, that Feo clearly still remembered him. They remembered what turned Wylan on, remembered how Wylan acted when he was flustered, remembered everything.
Now, Feo did a slow assessment of their wardrobe, their tone light and amused. “Well, I could hardly bring my formal robes for this. Even with alchemy, velvet is nearly impossible to clean.” They shrugged and strolled for the church’s entrance without another word.
Wylan followed, hating the smirk that settled on his lips.
Hating that this was already fun.
The church was crumbling, as always. Residual dragon magic had kept it standing for decades, but with all three eggs solidly returned—and hatched into three very mischievous baby dragons—anything that held this church aloft had faded. The result was crumbling walls, a roof barely intact.
Feo picked their way over the doors, which had fallen off their hinges and now hung askew.
They paused to help Wylan through as well, but released Wylan’s hand quickly once he was stable.
Wylan tried not to think too hard about that—and then thought even harder, because why did he care if Feo held his hand?
Feo, meanwhile, was doing a much better job focusing… as always. They crossed their arms, surveying the open roof, the vines growing along the walls, the huge stones littering the ground. “How badly do you want to save this old place?”
“Badly enough to ask for your help,” Wylan replied without thinking.
Exasperation filtered into Feo’s tone. “You don’t have to be here, Wylan. You can just tell me what you’d like done, and I’ll do it.”
Wylan almost retorted, what a change, but that would set a tone he couldn’t recover from.
He’d already snapped at Feo at the party—now was the moment he wanted to make up for that.
He didn’t need to date Feo again, but there was no reason to continue this passive hostility that had them avoiding each other for years.
A friendly interaction. Let’s start there, he thought.
“I’d like to be here,” Wylan said. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Feo’s cheeks darkened, and they cleared their throat. For a moment, it seemed like they’d say something nice or encouraging—but then they settled into old bravado. “Ah. Well, I suppose I’d also want to see true alchemy at work.”
Wylan rolled their eyes, even as a pang of irritation slid through their veins.
“Sure.” He tried to walk past Feo, into the church proper.
If Feo was going to be like that, Wylan would have preferred to stay with Lord Dren, poring over topographical maps of Pine Island.
But he didn’t make it two steps before Feo gently caught his arm.
“Wy, hang on,” Feo said.
Wylan stopped short. “What?”
“I’m sorry. That was… meant to be a joke.
I realize now it was a shitty one.” Feo released Wylan, and even though it was awkward for them both, Feo held his gaze.
“I’ve never had to do this before. Pretend like our history never existed.
Pretend like we didn’t…” Feo cut themselves off, shaking their head.
“Well, like we didn’t fail at the one good thing we had. ”
Wylan’s brow knitted together. “We didn’t fail at our relationship.”
“It ended,” Feo said.
“Yes. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t learn something from it.” Wylan shook his head. “Just because something ends doesn’t mean it’s a failure. It just means we weren’t right for each other.”