Archive of Our Own

The second night was the hardest.

The first had been a breeze—after Nina, Kuwei, Mr. Fahey and the rest had sailed away and Kaz had left the mansion, there had been silence between Inej, Jesper and Wylan. Wylan wasn’t sure how long it had lasted, only known the comforting presence of the people beside him, and the stillness of the night.

Jesper had cleared his throat then, breaking the spell, and they’d all blinked awake out of a stupor, and looked at one another.

“We should sleep,” Inej said, her voice soft.

Wylan wasn’t in any shape to disagree. His ribs still ached, having been half-healed, and he was two minutes from tripping over his own two feet and sleeping on the hard ground. Jesper seemed the same, rubbing away the tiredness in his eyes when he thought Inej and Wylan weren’t looking, and even Inej seemed weary.

They’d made their way back to the house together—it was still an odd feeling, knowing his father wasn’t here to taunt him, to fill the house with his glares and slaps and insults. The house seemed brighter, more spacious and full of cheer. Happier.

Was Wylan happier? He glanced up at Jesper as they ambled through the doorway, and drank the sight of him in. Tired, sleepy, shadows underneath his eyes. The most wonderful thing Wylan had ever seen.

“I know I’m handsome, but you don’t need stare at me for that long,” Jesper had said, with a wry smile.

Had Jesper said that to him a week before, he would have flamed a bright red and been unable to speak without stuttering. Now though, he grinned back up at Jesper, knocking his shoulder against the other boy’s. His smile grew softer, and then Wylan blushed.

“This is all very entertaining,” said Inej, who quirked her lips into a tired smile. “But is there anywhere I can rest for the night?”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

In the end, Wylan had given her one of the bedrooms nearest to the roof. He knew his instincts had been correct when she’d glanced out of the window, gaze scanning for footholds that lead to the roof and along the house.

“Thank you,” She had said, when he’d turned to leave her in peace, her dark eyes warm.

“What are friends for?” Wylan had replied, with a duck of his head and an equally affectionate grin.

Now he stood in one of the smaller living rooms downstairs, with plush golden sofas and a few throw blankets dotted around on them. What was he looking for, again? Exhaustion had erased it from his mind.

This was more of an informal room, Wylan mused to himself. Somewhere where his father wouldn’t have occupied often.

Good, he thought, resolutely.

Looking at the comfortable couches and cushions, he suddenly felt the events of the day catch up on him, and his legs wobbled slightly, forcing him to sit down onto the floor before he fell.

He leant his head back against the armchair behind him and crossed his legs beneath him, and let out a long sigh. The ache in his ribs was back, as was a now pounding headache, but he couldn’t bring himself to care all that much.

“That doesn’t look comfortable,” someone in the doorway said.

Wylan didn’t need to turn to see who it was—he’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“It’s fine if you’re exhausted,” Wylan mumbled, eyes slipping shut and then forcing them open again.

Jesper walked over to where he was sitting, and flopped down beside him. His expression was gentle, caring. His dark skin looked like mahogany in the low light, and his lips were as gorgeous as ever. Wylan’s chest hurt, looking at him. Maybe that was just his ribs though.

“That’s fine with me,” Jesper said, stifling a yawn, and stretching his long legs out. “I might just go to sleep here, if you don’t mind.”

“I was thinking—” Wylan paused, yawning. “The exact same thing.”

He tipped to the side, grabbing a cushion as he went, and curled up on the floor. Jesper did the same, and scooted so that he was facing Wylan and inches away from his face. He could see the different shades of grey this close, some were close to charcoal and others like the sky on a cloudy day.

“There’s too much I want to say,” he exhaled, taking Jesper’s hand and entwining his fingers with Wylan’s own. Jesper leaned his forehead against Wylan’s.

“We’ve got all of tomorrow and after. Sleep.” He murmured, and pressed a light kiss onto Wylan’s lips.

It was with the thought of that kiss that he fell asleep to, too drowsy to think of anything but the way Jesper’s lips felt on his.

(A servant found them curled into each other like their world was depending on it. She draped a blanket over them.)

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The next night was not as simple.

They’d spent all day cleaning the house, fixing various things and sorting paperwork. Inej sharpened her blades on the roof, out of habit, he supposed. Wylan sifted through the bills and deeds with Jesper helping him—not at his father’s desk though, he could barely stand being in there for two minutes.

Jesper also, rather grudgingly, used his Fabrikator powers to mend the hole in the ceiling of the dining room. Wylan had managed to gently persuade Jesper into it, for there had been a few points of the day where he’d seemed to vibrate with unused energy, itching for action, and his eyes had looked a little lost.

Jes hadn’t been fond of the idea until he’d done the careful work of reconstructing the hole Wylan had burnt, and there’d been a sparkle in his eyes that was usually there before a battle or a game of cards. It had made Wylan so pleased that he’d grabbed Jesper’s shirt and kissed him, and consequently wasted half an hours work.

Then came the evening, and the awkward decision of which rooms they’d be sleeping in which they hadn’t faced the day before.

“I’ll take my old room, I guess,” Wylan said, peering into it. It had been half turned into a nursery, with a cot and most of the walls repainted, but his bed still remained. He’d fix the room up later.

Jesper fidgeted a bit, not sure whether to ask or be directed—

“There’s a spare room just down the hall?” Wylan raised his voice at the end, which turned the statement into an unknown question. Would you prefer? To stay?

“I—“ Jesper looked unsure. “Okay?”

Wylan pretended not to feel the blanket of disappointment fall over him. “Okay.”

They both looked at each other for a moment, in the dimly lit hallway. The light of the hall lamps splayed over both of their faces, displaying highlights and shadows, making Jesper look like a perfectly sculpted statue to Wylan, like out of the museums in other countries he’d visited as a child.

It wasn’t like other times though, where they’d catch each other staring in the middle of doing something and smile. Other times there were always things happening and stuff to be worried about. Even yesterday, there had been so much to do and say and think, they’d only managed about an hour to themselves for across the day. And at least thirty minutes of that hour had occupied kissing.

Now that they did, Wylan couldn’t think of what to say. How to tell Jesper that he wanted to hold his hand, lying next to him, going to sleep with him. He didn’t know how to do it, now that the adrenaline and the rush of everything around them was gone.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Jesper cracked half a grin and leaned down. Wylan met him halfway and their lips slid together, harmonising, syncing.

“Sleep tight, Wy,” Jesper murmured, their heads so close he couldn’t see anything but the sharpshooter.

“Night,” Wylan sighed, and took a step back. Jesper flashed him one last smile, then turned on his heel and walked down to his room.

“And don’t let the bed bugs bite!” Jesper called as Wylan made to close the door, startling a laugh out of him.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He changed into a loose shirt and cotton boxers, which felt loose and light against his skin. Wylan climbed into his old bed, which sent a wave of bitter nostalgia over him.

He lay in stifling silence, a sheet drawn up over him, and an overstuffed pillow behind his head. The ceiling had golden designs and patterns that glimmered in the moonlight, and he remembered a time where he hadn’t had to look up at it and blink hard so he could clear the tears from his vision and see the patterns.

Worthless. His father’s words echoed in his head, sharp edged memories that swam around his head now, without any distractions to block them out.

Wylan rolled over, closing his eyes. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea to camp out in his bedroom. Being alone in every room in this goddamn house set him on edge, like he was standing on a cliff, waiting for the slightest breeze to seize him and knock him over.

Weak.

Stupid.

He gave out a huff and pushed the covers off with his feet. It was unbearably quiet now, and stopgaps that had blocked out the memories from this place were crumbling. His room is where he’d hid when he couldn’t escape from his father in the house, the shame and guilt inflicted upon him forcing him to choke on tears.

He’d hidden under his bed, behind the door, anywhere to feel closed in and safe, until his room had begun to feel unsafe. The only place that didn’t make his skin crawl was the music room, and he couldn’t camp out there for the rest of his life.

Suck it up, Van Eck. Wylan told himself fiercely. He’s not here. He can’t get to you.

He grasped his pillow tightly and shook his head vigorously. Scenes were now playing back to him in the darkness, he couldn’t stop them. The day after his mother had “died”, where his father had slapped his hand away when he’d reached for him. When the seventh tutor left, unable to teach Wylan how to read his name, his father had taken out a bottle of whiskey and asked him to come to the study, broken his flute into pieces, and Wylan had ended up with a red handprint across his left cheek and a shocked expression.

He’d always kept the hope that deep, deep down somewhere, his father did love him. Even after mocking him mercilessly, even after he’d given Wylan a black eye, even after bruising his stomach badly enough that the house medik had to heal it (out of sight from his father, the medik was fired anyway). Even after his father had sent him away and attempted to kill him without getting his hands dirty.

(“Ever been beaten until you can’t walk?” Kaz had asked him, a hint of mockery in his voice.)

(“No.” Wylan had said, firmly.)

(L i a r.)

That tiny flicker of hope had only been viciously stomped out when he’d been disguised as Kuwei and heard every single thing his father truly thought of him. It hadn’t broken him. It had hurt like hell, but he’d just been angry and vengeful. And now that revenge had been served, it left him feeling empty and cold.

He had denied that his father was evil to Jesper. After finding out his mother was locked away in an asylum, he wasn’t so sure.

These thoughts were suffocating him, he felt as if he couldn’t breathe, and there was a weight on his chest which was crushing him—

He can’t hurt you anymore, Wylan repeated to himself. He can’t.

Wylan could hear his own ragged breathing in his ears, and forced himself to take a few deep breaths.

                                                                                                          (“Just stop.

                                                                                                                             .

     Breathe.

                                                                                                                                                      …

                                                                                                                                                               Again.”)

But he couldn’t, and he could feel Prior’s hands around his neck, hands that were only there because his father wanted to kill him—

Wylan shot up in bed, blindly groped for his pillow and jumped out of bed, unable to stand it any longer. He strode across the room and threw the door open, flinching slightly when it made a bang in the silence of the night. He didn’t know where he was headed, only that his feet were automatically taking him there.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Jesper was pacing.

He had lain down in the plush bed in the room Wylan had directed him to, feeling slightly disheartened but unable to explain why. Jesper had stripped off and into clothing that was actually made for sleeping, unlike a lot of the things he’d worn across the past month, and had almost felt relaxed for a moment.

But then his skin had started to itch and Wylan wasn’t there, his grounding presence was absent, and Jesper had started to tap his fingers on the coverlet, suddenly wide awake.

But the movement wasn’t enough to distract him, so he’d slipped out of bed and started to fiddle with the curtains, pulling on a loose string and unravelling it so that the hem came loose, sparing a second to feel guilty before moving on.

Maybe the gambling district…

No. He shook his head firmly.

As a distraction, he’d taken his unloaded revolvers and tinkered with them for a while, but it began to feel repetitive so he’d unloaded and reloaded the whole bookcase. Then he’d messed with the lamp on the bedside table, flicking it on and off.

On. Off. On. Off.

Van Eck is locked away.

On. Off. On. Off.

Pekka Rollins is still out there.

OnOffOnOffOnOffOnOff.

Matthias is dead.

OnOffOn—

Jesper looked down at the lamp in surprise. He’d broken the switch.

He’d then hopped up onto the window ledge, breathing onto the glass and doodling onto the condensation, then watching the little drawings of hearts and smiley faces fade with it. It was calming, but not enough. Still not enough.

He wanted to see Wylan. Wylan always made everything more calm, made him slow down and less anxious without even trying.

Then the door burst open and he was so startled he fell off the window ledge with a thump, but managed to snatch his revolvers before popping back up and pointing the guns at the person who’d entered.

“Well speak of the devil,” Jesper said, exhaling and lowering his babies down to his sides, and placing them onto the floor. “Or think, more like.”

Wylan was standing at the door, clutching a pillow with both hands, wearing boxers and a plain shirt that slid off his shoulder. His eyebrows quirked upward. “You were thinking about me?”

“All the time, darling,” Jesper drawled, propping his arms onto the bed in front of him and holding his head up with them, hoping to make Wylan blush. It was one of his favourite things, making his cheeks turn the same colour as his hair and watching him become flustered.

But the other boy didn’t blush, only smiled tiredly and came to sit on the bed. Jesper frowned, then unfolded his legs and stood, and came to sit beside Wylan. “Everything alright?”

He made a non-commital noise and drew his legs up to rest his arms on them. “Didn’t want to be alone.”

Jesper didn’t find it appropriate to quip at this moment in time, so he took Wylan’s hand and rubbed a thumb over his knuckles gently. “Why?”

“Memories. My Dad,” he said, sighing and leaning into Jesper’s side. Glancing at him, he saw that Wylan looked more tired and paler than usual, and a fury rose within him. If that son of a bitch Van Eck ever showed his face again, Jesper was going to make sure to he never saw the light of day again.

“You’re safe from him, Wy.” Jesper said softly. “He’s not getting out.”

“I know,” he muttered. “Doesn’t make it go away.”

Jesper felt something well up in him, a great protectiveness, and he pulled Wylan against him, wrapping both arms around him. He tucked his head into the crook of Jesper’s neck and dropped the pillow to the floor, placing his arms around the sharpshooter.

“Sorry about being weird earlier,” Wylan said, his voice slightly muffled by Jesper’s chest. “I didn’t know how to tell you—how to say—”

“Me either,” Jesper finished, knowing what he meant. “I think it just takes time. I’d like to formally invite you to stay here for the night now—if that’s alright,” he added hastily.

Wylan drew slightly away from him, looked at him and smiled. “Invitation accepted.”

Jesper brushed his lips against Wylan’s cheek, and the other boy grinned and leaned against Jesper, pushing him down onto the bed. “I was thinking about that down payment earlier,” he said, softly kissing him in a such a way that made Jesper’s heart stutter. “But I think it’s better to wait.”

“Mm,” He said, enjoying the drowsy feeling of Wylan’s weight on top of him. “Talking feels nicer at this sort of time anyway.”

Jesper lost track of the time, as they lay there, encompassed in the feeling of each other’s heartbeats falling into time. He also realised, with some sort of amazement, that he hadn’t felt the itch of his skin, the need to move, whilst Wylan had been with him.

“Jes,” he asked, some time later. “Is that lamp broken?”

“Ah…” Jesper started, but Wylan just gave a rueful smile. “I can’t really handle being alone right now. After everything.”

Those few words had come out rushed, half ashamed, but Wylan didn’t seem in any way fazed. He hesitated. “Me too. After Matthias—and my father…”

“Yeah,” Jesper said, feeling the weight settle on his chest that wasn’t Wylan, but a flash of memory of Matthias’s body, a wound so fresh it was still numb. Of Nina’s expressionless face. Of Wylan standing in the church, listening to his father publicly mock him.

They didn’t need to say anything to each other then, just sit in the silence of each others company.

“Should probably go to sleep,” Wylan murmured a while later, eyelids drooping of their own accord. Jesper felt the same, the haze of sleep slowly but surely falling onto him.

Jesper shifted so they were side by side, hands and legs intertwined. “‘M sorry it’s awkward,” Wylan mumbled, clearly close to falling asleep.

“What’s awkward?”

“Us,” he said through a yawn. “New to this.”

“‘S not awkward,” Jesper said blearily. “It’s nice.”

Wylan had his eyes closed, but his lips turned upwards into a sleepy smile. “Night, Jes.”

“Night, Wy.”

(It wasn’t perfect. But it was a start.)

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The nights passed quicker then, easier, happier. They’d wound up sleeping most nights in his old bedroom, and the darkness that had hid there before, baiting Wylan, had faded away with Jesper there.

He was like the sun, shining so bright that the gloom surrounding the house on Geldstraat shrank away to never been seen again. Wylan was beyond immeasurably glad that Jesper was here, and felt that if he weren’t, the careful structure that he’d built in place that held him up when reminded of his father and the things he’d inflicted upon Wylan and his mother, would fall to pieces, and he wanted to hang on so tight to Jesper and never let him go.

Fortunately for him, Jesper wasn’t going anywhere.

“Haven’t you ever thought about going back to the Slat? Or living in Ravka?” Wylan asked him one night, holding Jesper’s hand and tracing meaningless nothings on the dark surface. “Training with other Grisha?” Leaving?

Jesper gave him a quizzical look, and shook his head, rustling the pillowcase around. “Are you kidding? And leave this place? You?”

Wylan didn’t say anything, but cast his eyes downward, finally admitting something that had plagued him since arriving at the house. “I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“How could I be unhappy when I’m with you?” His voice was so gentle, and when Wylan looked up, he saw the love and affection in his slate grey eyes, causing him to smile automatically. It was impossible not to smile when he was with Jesper.

“Also the house is genuinely the most luxurious I’ve been in, and the food is great—” Jesper was cut off and started laughing when Wylan elbowed him, an exasperated grin on his face.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Wylan announced that he’s bringing his mother back to the house to live with them one morning at breakfast, which caused some of the servants to drop the things in their hands to floor with various clattering noises.

After explaining the situation to most of the household (which came with a lot of shock and disbelief as they’d all thought Marya had been dead) he and Jesper threw respectable looking clothing on—most breakfasts are taken in their sleepwear—and ride on a boat out to St. Hildes. Inej said that she was going out to the market in town, unavailable to attend the family reunion, but Jesper suspected that it was out of privacy she declined attending.

Wylan looked slightly sick as they boarded the the passenger boat, which made Jesper clutch his hand tighter, grounding him. Most of the harbours were still closed due to the “plague”, but apparently being a millionaire helps with these sorts of things, because they’d managed to pull a few favours in.

There was a strong breeze which made Wylan’s curls fly around in the wind, and made Jesper draw his coat in further. They were standing at the railing of the boat again, and he was struck with how different things were to the time before when they’d made this journey. For a start, Wylan wasn’t wearing Kuwei’s face anymore, and he wasn’t the disgraced son of a merchant anymore, he was the merchant.

Jesper had changed too. His hands were still, relaxed, and he wasn’t looking over his shoulder for a gun fight any time soon. He was the assistant to the current Van Eck in power. He marvelled at how quickly their lives had flipped, and wondered if they would stay that way.

“Did you know that my father tried to kill me?” Wylan said, leaning over the railing, staring into the depths below, breaking Jesper out of his thoughts.

He blinked once. “Yeah, when he blew the ship up, right?”

“No,” Wylan said, absently. “When he sent me away to music school, he put me on a boat like this, with two of his henchmen who tried to strangle me.”

At Jesper’s shocked expression, he added, “Obviously I got away, I jumped overboard and swam to shore.”

Jesper was silent for a moment, and then said: “I wish you’d told me this before we locked him up so I could have had the pleasure of throwing him overboard myself.”

Wylan let out a peal of laughter at that, and shook his head. “I wish so too. I wish I could have realised it before. I kept making excuses for him—sometimes I still do. I thought because he’s my father, he can’t be all bad.”

“Yeah,” sighed Jesper. “At least he’s been brought to justice now. Does that make you feel better?”

It was a genuine question, laced with no sarcasm or malice. “It does,” said Wylan, and they fell silent after that.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

At first, Wylan’s mother didn’t look up at them. She stared out the window, hands clasped in her lap, eyes slightly glazed.

“Mother,” Wylan said, hovering to the left of her, his brows drawn together and his lips in a thin line of worry. She doesn’t answer, those hazel eyes unseeing.

His eyes shone bright. “Mom,” he said, his voice breaking.

Marya’s expression shifted, as if she was waking up out of a dream, and her eyes flitted to where Wylan was standing. She blinked once, slowly, taking in the sight of him.

“Wylan?” She finally said, after a few minutes, and her expression crumpled and she held out her arms, bursting into tears. Wylan’s face held a similar expression, and he clung as tight to her as she did to him. Jesper looked away, giving them this moment of privacy.

“We’ve come to take you home, Mother,” he said later, not bothering to wipe his eyes. “He’s gone. Father’s gone. You won’t ever see him again.”

Marya looked at her son as if he were a beacon of hope in the last dreary, clouded and confused years of her life, and fresh tears sprang to her eyes. Jesper didn’t see just happiness in them, he saw hope. Hope that had been locked in for a long time.

They took her home on the boat, and she wondered at everything around her, finally seeing after so long. There were points where her eyes glazed again on the journey, and the tension lines in Wylan’s face tighten. But they made it home alright, and the enthusiasm that greeted her at the door made her smile.

“I’m proud of you,” Jesper said, drawing Wylan close to him. He exhaled and took Jesper’s hand threading their fingers together.

“I wish I wasn’t as worried. There were points where she didn’t recognise me,” Wylan said softly, so as to not alert his mother with his worries. His eyes tracked her movements with a worried divet between his eyebrows as she was introduced to Inej, who warmly greeted Marya.

“It takes time,” Jesper said, squeezing his hand. Wylan made a soft noise of agreement, and smiled when his mother perked up at the mention of the music room.

There were good days and bad days. On the good days Marya would be mostly alert all day, painting in the garden, sitting on the edge of the canal with Wylan, Jesper and Inej as they played card games—nothing too intense, Wylan made sure for both his and Marya’s benefit.

Although Jesper had come to a conclusion with him, that he’d be allowed to play a few games on the market with some allowance only if Jesper agreed to start trying to use his powers more regularly. Wylan was currently trying to negotiate a Fabrikator to visit, but it looked like Jesper would have to journey over to Ravka and discuss the matter in person.

The bad days though, were the ones where they couldn’t get Marya’s attention. Where they couldn’t snap her out of her daze, and she sat on her windowsill, gazing at the grounds. Those were the days where she’d scream herself awake with nightmares, and Wylan couldn’t console her, because she confused him with Jan, which made her more upset.

Those were the days where Wylan would shut himself in the music room and drown everything out with crescendos and symphonies and anything and everything else.

But slowly, surely, the good days begin to outweigh the bad days. Marya became more awake, and alert. She and Wylan were slowly knitting themselves back into a mother and son, and it made a sort of joyus ache rise in Jesper’s chest to see them happy and laughing together.

Marya also took a liking to him, gently dragging him over to a stool in the garden and insisting she painted him. She liked to play old fashioned card games, which Jesper was happy to play with her for a few hours up in the parlour.

“You’re a nice young man,” she’d said at one point. “I’m happy Wylan found you.”

Jesper couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as he shuffled the cards.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“You’re sure you’ve got everything?”

“Yes, mother.”

Wylan rolled his eyes fondly, leaning against the doorway. Jesper was dressed for colder weather, a small suitcase in one hand and tickets tucked into his coat pocket.

“Tickets, papers of identification, food, water—”

“Alright, alright.” Wylan leaned forward and flattened a part of Jesper’s collar that had been upturned. The worried divet had returned, so Jesper took his hand and planted a kiss on his knuckles.

“I won’t be gone for that long,” he said, while red flared in Wylan’s face. A look of hesitance passed over his face.  

“I know, I just—I’m worried. I can’t help thinking that someone might still be out there, someone who could hurt you.”

Jesper raised an eyebrow and gestured to his rifles hung at his hips. “What, with these bad boys?”

Wylan looked unconvinced. “Wy, no one’s going to mess with us. Pekka Rollins has fled, your dad is in jail and everyone else is none the wiser.”

“You’re right,” Wylan sighed, wrapping his arms around Jesper.

Jesper returned the embrace, quirking his lips into a smile. “Always am.”

Wylan looked up at him, and ran a thumb over his cheekbone, then holding his hand at Jesper’s jaw, leaning into kiss him. He tasted like honeysuckle and everything good in the world, and they parted too soon for Jesper’s liking.

“Be safe,” Wylan breathed, leaning his forehead against the sharpshooter’s.

“I will,” he responded, and pressed a final kiss to Wylan’s lips. “Don’t run the empire to the ground while I’m gone.”

“You have such little faith in me! Don’t shoot anyone in Ravka,” Wylan said, grinning. “Or on the way, for that matter.”

“Can’t make any promises,” Jesper smirked as he backed down the front steps. “See you in a few weeks!”

“Love you!” Wylan shouted after him, as Jesper walked down the sidewalk. His heart stuttered.

“What did you say?” He yelled back.

“I love you!”

Jesper gaped at him for a moment, but then beamed and shouted back: “Love you too!”

“Mr Van Eck, would you please stop that shouting!” The occupant next door had their head poked out of their window, and wore an annoyed expression.

Wylan rolled his eyes to the heavens, and blew a kiss at Jesper, who grinned and pretended to catch it.

I have to be the luckiest man in Ketterdam, Jesper thought to himself whilst walking to the harbour, swinging his arms, an extra spring in his step. Maybe in all of Kerch.

The smile didn’t fade from his face on the whole journey to Ravka.