The street noise thinned as I moved deeper into the city, the laughter and bargaining fading behind stone walls and narrow turns. My boots echoed softly against damp cobblestone.

  Then I felt it.

  Footsteps.

  Measured. Unhurried. Not trying to hide—just close enough to be noticed.

  Lucius wouldn’t stalk me like this. He’d shout first. Ashe moved too quietly to leave a trail that sloppy. And no city watchman walked with that kind of patience.

  I turned sharply into an alley and spun, the SIN already in my hand, its weight familiar, its heat answering my pulse.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  The figure stopped a few paces away. Cloaked. Hood low. The alley seemed to dim around him, the light from the street bending strangely at the edges.

  “I’m sure you’ve met my kin,” he said calmly.

  He reached up and drew back his hood.

  His face was sharp, ageless, carved with a severity that made my chest tighten. His eyes were bright—too bright—not glowing, but alive in a way that felt wrong to look at for too long.

  “I am Uriel,” he said.

  The name struck like a bell.

  “I’m sure you know who I am.”

  My grip tightened on the SIN. “Why did you stop me?” I snapped. “I could’ve saved that woman.”

  Uriel’s expression didn’t change. Not pity. Not anger.

  “In time,” he said evenly, “the Father’s wrath will manifest. Not yours.”

  I took a step forward. “That’s what they always say. In time. People die while you wait.”

  He studied me then, really studied me, like a teacher watching a student repeat a mistake he’d already been warned about.

  “I learned that lesson the hard way,” Uriel said. “When I intervened at Deermarch.”

  He lifted the flap of his cloak.

  Where his arm should have been, there was only a clean stump—healed, scarred, final.

  The sight stole the air from my lungs.

  “SIN always comes at a cost, Thomas,” he said quietly. “You felt its price. I paid mine.”

  I lowered the SIN slightly, my anger faltering, replaced by something colder.

  “But don’t mistake restraint for blindness,” Uriel continued. “Injustice is not overlooked. The Father sees all things.”

  He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the pressure of his presence, like standing near a storm.

  “And the Church,” he said, voice dropping, “is counting its days.”

  The alley seemed to breathe again.

  Uriel stepped back, shadow reclaiming him. “Walk carefully, Thomas Verity. Judgment that comes too early only multiplies the cost.”

  Then he was gone—no sound, no rush of wind—just absence where something impossible had stood.

  I stared at the empty alley, the SIN cooling in my hand.

  For the first time since Bredford, my anger didn’t demand blood.

  ***

  I made my way back to the inn as dusk settled over Bredford, the streets dimming into torchlight and shadow. My head was still buzzing—Uriel’s words, the woman dragged away, the heat of the SIN cooling too slowly at my side.

  I pushed open the door to our room without thinking.

  Ashe was there.

  He was halfway through lifting his shirt, bandages wrapped tight around his torso—old ones, new ones, layered like he’d stopped counting wounds a long time ago.

  For half a heartbeat, we just stared at each other.

  His eyes went wide.

  “Get out,” he stammered.

  He scrambled back, lost his footing, and hit the floor hard. I barely had time to register the sharp panic on his face before the door slammed shut in my face with a crack that rattled the frame.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  I stood there, stunned, my hand still on the latch.

  “I—sorry,” I muttered to the wood, but there was no answer.

  So I did the only thing I could do without making it worse.

  I went downstairs.

  The common room was loud, thick with smoke and laughter. I took a seat at the bar and stared at the worn grain of the counter, replaying the moment again and again—his fear, not anger. Shame. Something else.

  Lucius slid onto the stool beside me like he’d been there all along.

  “Two ales,” he told the barkeep.

  He glanced sideways at me. “Rough day?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Walked around a little.”

  Lucius snorted softly. “You snuck into the church, didn’t you?”

  I stiffened. “How did you—”

  “Kid,” he said, accepting the mugs as they were set down, “you’ve got a knack for getting into places you don’t belong.”

  I huffed a humorless laugh. “That makes twice today, then. A record, I suppose.”

  Lucius raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

  I took a drink, the ale bitter on my tongue. “I almost walked in on Ashe taking off his shirt.”

  “Oh?” Lucius said mildly, sipping his drink. “Did you now.”

  I shot him a look. “What’s his deal anyway? He’s always so serious. Like the world’s about to end.”

  Lucius didn’t answer right away. He stared into his mug, swirling the foam with one finger.

  “I’ve known that kid longer than you,” he said finally. “And there are things he wants to keep hidden.”

  “Like what?” I pressed.

  Lucius shook his head once. “Not my secrets to tell. I made a promise.”

  I slammed my mug down harder than I meant to. “You’re frustrating, you know that?”

  Lucius laughed quietly—not mocking, not amused. Tired.

  “Kid,” he said, leaning back, “when you’ve lived as long as me, you learn something important.” He glanced toward the stairs, then back at me. “You keep your friends close. And you learn when to respect the weight they’re carrying—even when you don’t understand it.”

  I stared into my drink, the anger draining into something duller.

  “Finish your ale,” Lucius added. “Tomorrow’s a long day.”

  I nodded, though my thoughts were already upstairs—at a slammed door, bandages, and a look of fear that didn’t make sense.

  Not yet.

  “I saw your uncle—Uriel,” I murmured into my mug.

  Lucius stilled.

  Just for a breath. Just long enough that I noticed.

  Then his eyes widened, sharp and alert. “Oh, really?” he said lightly. “Did he fly in with flames on his back and anger in his eyes?”

  I shook my head. “No. But he did lose an arm to save us in Deermarch.”

  That wiped the humor from Lucius’s face.

  He exhaled slowly and leaned back against the bar, the wood creaking beneath his weight. “Figures,” he muttered. “Always throwing himself between trouble and people who didn’t ask for saving.”

  I glanced at him. “You sound proud.”

  Lucius snorted. “I sound annoyed. Big difference.”

  He lifted his mug and took a long drink before continuing. “Uriel’s always cared too much. About us. About the Father’s people. About doing things the right way.” He shot me a sideways look. “Bleeding heart. Like you, Thomas.”

  I huffed. “That supposed to be an insult?”

  “Only if you let it,” he replied.

  I hesitated, then said, “He said the Church is counting its days.”

  Lucius barked a short laugh. “Good. That’s good. About time, really.”

  He raised his mug slightly, like a mock toast. “To overdue reckonings.”

  We drank.

  The noise of the inn rolled around us—laughter, dice clattering, someone singing off-key in the corner—but for a moment it felt like the world had narrowed to just the bar and the two of us.

  “I’ve never had the chance to say this before,” I said quietly. “But… thank you, Lucius. For saving me. For taking care of Sophie and me.”

  Lucius froze mid-sip.

  “What was that?” he said, leaning in with exaggerated seriousness. “Didn’t quite catch that.”

  “I said thank you,” I repeated, rolling my eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

  “Oh, it’s already weird,” he said. “Say it again.”

  I scoffed. “I take it back. You’re an ass.”

  Lucius laughed, loud and genuine, and reached over to ruffle my hair like I was still a kid from Deermarch.

  “Good,” he said. “Wouldn’t trust you otherwise.”

  He drained his mug and set it down with a thud. “You’re family now, Thomas. Whether you like it or not.”

  The word settled heavy in my chest.

  Family.

  Not lost. Not burned. Not taken.

  Still here.

  For the first time that day, the weight in my hands eased—even without the SIN.

  And for a little while longer, I let myself believe that might be enough.

  ***

  The room was dark when I slipped back inside, lit only by the thin stripe of moonlight leaking through the shuttered window.

  Ashe was already in bed, turned toward the wall, shoulders drawn in as if he were trying to disappear into the mattress. His breathing was slow but uneven—not fully asleep. Restless.

  I moved quietly, not wanting to startle him again.

  My boots came off first, set neatly beside the nightstand. Then my belt, the weight of the SIN settling onto the wood with a soft, dull thud. I folded my cloak, laid my sword where I could reach it if needed. Habit. Always habit.

  When I finally lay back, the bed creaked faintly beneath me. The city noises outside—distant voices, a cart rattling over stone—blurred together as sleep began to creep in.

  Just as my thoughts started to drift, Ashe stirred.

  His voice was barely more than breath.

  “Don’t leave me by the lakeside,” he murmured. “Run away with me.”

  The words slid into the quiet like a blade.

  I stayed still, staring up at the ceiling, my chest tightening.

  A nightmare, I told myself. Something from his past—burned docks, water reflecting fire, a place he couldn’t save. Everyone here carried ghosts like that.

  Ashe shifted again, fingers curling into the blanket as if grasping for something just out of reach. His breathing hitched once, then steadied.

  I didn’t speak.

  I didn’t move.

  I just lay there, listening to the sound of him sleeping, the echo of his words lingering far longer than they should have.

  Somewhere in the dark, beyond the walls of Bredford, a lake I hadn’t seen in years shimmered in my mind.

  And for reasons I couldn’t name, sleep took longer to find me than usual.