35. Chapter 35 #2
“That's because the closest you've ever come to friendship is a ceasefire.”
"I've—" Eryndor stopped. Frowned. "I have strategic alliances."
"Strategic alliances." Maxx turned to me with exaggerated horror. "Did you hear that? The male you're in love with just called friendship 'strategic alliances.'"
"I didn't say friendship—"
"No, you said something worse. You made friendship sound like a trade agreement." Maxx shook his head mournfully. "This is why we have to do these exercises. To teach the murder prince how to be a person."
"I know how to be a person."
"Do you? Do you really? Name one fun fact about yourself that isn't about killing things."
Silence.
Eryndor's brow furrowed. The table waited.
"I..." He paused. Considered. "I can play the lute."
More silence.
Maxx set his cup down. Slowly.
"I'm sorry." His voice was dangerously calm. "You can what?"
"Play the lute."
"The lute."
"Yes."
"You. The man who once threatened to gut someone for breathing too loudly during a war council."
"He was breathing very loudly."
"YOU PLAY THE LUTE."
"I don't understand why this is—"
"How long?" Maxx leaned forward. "How long have you been hiding this from us?"
"I haven't been hiding anything. No one asked."
"Oh, no one ASKED. Right. Of course. 'Excuse me, Prince of Brooding, between all the murder and the tactical glaring, do you happen to have any adorable musical hobbies?' Was that the question we were supposed to ask?"
"My mother taught me," Eryndor said stiffly. "It's a perfectly respectable instrument."
"Are you good?"
A pause. Too long.
"Eryndor. Are you GOOD."
"I'm... competent."
Caden snorted. "He's good. He used to play when he thought no one was listening. In the west tower. Late at night."
Eryndor turned to Caden with a look of absolute shock.
"I could hear it through the walls." Caden shrugged. "The cells were directly below your... rooms."
The table went quiet. Eryndor's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Caden reached for the cheese.
"Sad ones, mostly," he added. "Lots of minor keys. I logged them as emotional damage.”
When my brother lifted his eyes from the damn cheese, he had a shit-eating grin on his face. “Better?” he asked Maxx.
Maxx made a strangled noise that turned into a laugh. “Oh, that’s a definite improvement. Still deeply concerning, but improvement.”
The table broke.
The meal continued.
Maxx kept the energy high—jokes flowing, stories building on stories, references to shared adventures that made Serenya laugh even though she didn't remember living them.
He was brilliant at this. Making every story accessible, every joke universal, never once letting the “newcomer” in the room feel like a newcomer.
"—so there we are, screaming at each other about feelings while this thing circles us, and it just gets fed up and swallows him whole—"
Serenya laughed. Bright. Delighted.
She didn't know she'd been there. That she'd been the one yelling breathing techniques while the rest of us were too busy screaming.
I watched him reshape our history into something she could hold without it cutting her. I loved him a little for that.
The hatchling stole a piece of meat from Caden's plate. He pretended not to notice. The dog noticed and tried to steal it from the hatchling. A brief chaos ensued—copper wings flapping, indignant barking, Serenya laughing as she tried to mediate.
"They're partners in crime now," Maxx observed. "That's terrifying. A tiny dragon and an equally tiny dog. The mountain will never recover."
"The dog isn't that small," I said.
"The dog has delusions of grandeur. She thinks she's a wolf. She's been trying to howl at the moon and it comes out like a squeaky door."
The dog barked, as if offended.
The hatchling chirped in agreement.
Serenya gathered them both into her lap, one arm around each, beaming down at them like a proud mother.
"Alright." Maxx lobbed a piece of bread at Dreadscale. "Your turn. Say something. Anything. Prove you're not actually a statue we've been dragging around for decoration."
Dreadscale caught the bread without looking. Set it aside.
The table waited.
"The bread is stale," he said.
Silence.
"That's your contribution?"
"You asked for something."
"I asked for participation! Engagement! A glimpse into the ancient Dragonborn soul!"
Dreadscale took another sip of his drink.
"Maxx."
"What?"
"You talk too much."
The silence stretched.
Then Dreadscale's mouth twitched. The smallest movement. Barely visible.
Maxx's jaw dropped.
“Did you just make a joke?” He swung toward the rest of us, eyes wide. “First Caden, now Dreadscale. At this rate Eryndor’s going to smile on purpose.”
Soft laughter moved around the table. Even Eryndor smiled faintly. And Caden took another piece of cheese like this was all unfolding exactly as expected.
Serenya looked between Dreadscale and Maxx with curious eyes.
"You two are funny together," she said. "How long have you known each other?"
The question must have hit him hard but Maxx's smile didn't waver. Didn't show a single crack.
"Forever," he said easily. "We go way back. Prehistoric, really."
Dreadscale's eyes cut to Maxx.
Maxx's eyes cut to Dreadscale.
The conversation moved on.
An hour passed. Maybe more. The bottles emptied. The food disappeared. The fire burned low and someone added more wood and it crackled back to life, throwing warm light across faces I might never see again.
The laughter faded naturally.
A quiet settled over the room, easy and unforced. The kind that comes at the end of a good night. Everyone a little drunk. Everyone a little tired. Everyone aware of what waited outside these walls.
Maxx lifted his cup.
The room stilled.
"To us," he said.
"To us," Caden echoed.
"To us," Serenya said. She looked around the table with warm, wondering eyes. "I'm glad I found you all."
Found.
I drank so I didn't have to answer.
Dreadscale raised his.
Eryndor raised his.
We drank.
Then Maxx set down his cup with a thunk.
"Okay, who wants to hear about the time I accidentally propositioned a tree spirit? Because that's a story that needs to be told before any of us die."
The laughter started again.
I listened to it for another minute. Let it wash over me. Let myself sit in the warmth of Eryndor's shoulder against mine, the sound of Serenya's laugh, the sight of Caden smiling at something Maxx said.
Then I stood to leave but glanced down at my plate and noticed. Not only was the bread still there but a fat piece of cake accompanied it.
I side-eyed Eryndor and swiped it as I turned to go. Shoved the whole thing in my mouth like a feral creature because that's what I was, and tomorrow I might be dead, and I was going to taste every sweet thing I could get my hands on before then.
No one noticed. The story was reaching its peak—something about mistranslation and cultural differences and Maxx being chased through a forest butt ass naked.
I slipped out. Mouth still full. Fingers sticky.
I made it halfway down the corridor before I felt him.
I didn't turn around.
"You're supposed to be in there pretending to be a person who experiences joy."
Eryndor's footsteps didn't falter. Measured. Precise. The same stride he used in battle, in briefings, in every moment of his absurdly controlled existence.
"You're supposed to be in there letting Maxx finish his tree spirit story."
"I've heard it. He was naked. The tree was offended. He learned nothing."
I stopped walking. He halted behind me. Close enough that I felt the heat of him through the cold corridor air, but not touching.
I turned. Leaned against the stone wall. Crossed my arms.
He stood three feet away, still holding his cup from the feast. Half full. He hadn't drunk much. Of course he hadn't. Eryndor didn't do anything that dulled his edges. His edges were the whole point.
"Go back inside," I said.
"No."
"That wasn't a suggestion."
"And that wasn't a refusal. It was a fact." He took a sip. Watched me over the rim. "You left. I followed. That's how we work."
"That's how a leash works."
"Interesting." His eyes didn't leave mine. "Which end do you think you're on?"
"The end that got chased through a sewer."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Tunnel."
"It smelled like a sewer."
"Your memory is selectively dramatic."
"My memory is perfect," I said. "I remember every single second of you pinning me to a wall and telling me to yield."
His eyes darkened.
"And I remember," he said quietly, "every single second of you meaning it when you said make me."
The corridor got smaller. Or maybe that was just the air between us, compressing itself into something dense and flammable.
I pulled a blade from my thigh sheath and started spinning it. Slow loops between my fingers. Anything to do with my hands that wasn't touching him.
His gaze tracked the blade. Then my throat. Then my eyes.
"You're fidgeting," he said.
"I'm armed. There's a difference."
"Not for you."