Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jesper knew he was running out of options by the tenth round. 

The other gamblers eyed him beadily, closely resembling vultures scavenging for carcasses on the Reaper’s Barge. Jesper did not want to be on this metaphorical Reaper’s Barge anytime soon, and he knew that Wylan would put him on the real one if he found out that he’d been playing at the Crow Club without his or Kaz’s consent. He’d been warned countless times that Jesper Fahey was a dead man walking if he showed up anywhere near the club or the Slat again after an unfortunate incident involving a rifle and Kaz’s bad knee. But, at the moment, his name wasn’t Jesper Fahey. His name was Kellan Bankole, and, as far as all the other players were concerned, he was a wealthy Zemeni tourist with an interest in donating a couple kruge to the poorer men of Ketterdam. 

He’d been catching some strange glances from the dealer of Three Man Bramble all night; he didn’t recognize who it was, but Jesper pulled his hat farther down on his head anyways. He’d splurged on his disguise—perhaps a little too much. A fake black mustache rested atop the one that had been shaven while he sported a manacle on his right eye. His hat perched neatly on top of his head like a crow on a branch. His garish style had been replaced with one a little less… conspicuous. 

The rest of his luck hinged on Kaz not showing up to the Club and identifying him immediately. But, according to a very anonymous source (it was Anika), Kaz hadn’t been down to manage it all week. Unfortunate and very odd for Kaz, but perfect for Jesper’s plan. He’d been clean off his gambling high for a couple months. He deserved to indulge a little, right? Well, technically Wylan was the one indulging. It hadn’t been Jesper’s proudest moment to steal kruge from his own boyfriend, but he was desperate . The itch had been unbearable. Always pinching him in the neck, punching him in the gut. Ripping his brain to shreds until it was all he could focus on and dream about. Wylan, of course, had noticed that something was different about him. Jesper had lied and said he was just sick so he wouldn’t upset him too much. In a way, it had been making him sick. 

So, really, he was doing Wylan a favor by curing his disease. He would earn or steal the kruge back tonight, and Wylan wouldn’t even notice that he’d been gone. Wylan was supposed to be going out to the Kooperom with Marya anyway. Jesper wouldn’t have left him alone if that wasn’t the case. 

“That’s the round,” the dealer announced, fumbling with the dwindling deck of cards in his pale hands. “Anyone in for eleven?” 

You’ve already lied and stolen from him once tonight. Do you really want to dig yourself into a deeper hole? the little voice in the back of his mind asked. It sounded strangely like Inej. 

Jesper raised a guilty hand, setting more kruge and his fake manacle on the deck. “I’m in.”

The rest of the table cast furtive glances at each other. Jesper noticed a disconnect between himself and everyone else. There had been some sort of stiff air surrounding them all night, and Jesper would have called out of the game earlier if he hadn’t been so eager to burn the money from his pockets. 

No. He wasn’t burning the money. He would get it back for Wylan and make them even richer than they already were. 

“Anyone else?” the dealer called out somewhat lazily.

Nobody else answered, either standing up from the table or shaking their heads in disbelief. 

“You must really enjoy losing, Bankole,” the dealer stated to Jesper. 

Jesper flashed the dealer one of his signature dazzling grins. “No. I’m just an idealist.”

The dealer frowned, his blue eyes flashing. “Don’t know what that means. Well, no sense in playing if no one else’s gonna call in. I’m heading to the bar for a brandy.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Jesper found himself saying. 

What are you thinking? Marya and Wylan are probably back home already. He’s really going to get suspicious if you don’t head to the manor soon.

Shut up, Inej. 

Jesper would do anything… anything to make sure that his itch didn’t come back. He used to let Wylan see his anxious fits. His frustration and his withdrawal symptoms. Wylan had held his hand and his restraints through it for so long, and Jesper had finally convinced him that he was over his addiction. He felt so pathetic for acting like it was some form of parem he couldn’t live without, and he didn’t want Wylan to see that side of him ever again. So, here he was. Feeding his hunger with empty calories and misfortune. 

The dealer simply shrugged. “Mkay. I don’t got enough for two tabs, though, so you’re gonna have to pick up your own.” 

Jesper eyed the kruge in his pocket and counted them. Oh, Saints, he’d lost so much tonight. But he had enough for one drink. Just one; hopefully it would be enough to wash away the itch that was already starting to form again.

They ventured over to the newly refurbished bar of the Crow Club. Its wooden countertops were painted a sleek black, and Jesper noted that the barstools had gotten cushions installed on top of them. The bar added an even classier look to the dark, dimly-lit aesthetic of the Crow Club. Maybe Kaz was investing his kruge in good things. 

“After you.” Jesper gestured to the chairs, discreetly pressing against his fake mustache to make sure it was still on properly. His Fabrikator skills were once again coming in handy.

The dealer sat down. His muscled figure barely fit in the seat, and he had to push his chair far away from the bar to properly put his legs under it. Jesper both envied and was attracted to his strength; he’d always had gangly limbs like a tree no matter how many battles he fought or body bags he lifted. 

Jesper called the bartender over, and they ordered their drinks. Jesper asked for a brandy as well; he needed something heavy enough to drown the anxious tapping he was doing on his thigh. After some light chatter about the Barrel and how ‘Kellan’ was liking Kerch, the brandy was brought out. Two big steins appeared on the bar–Jesper gulped his down. It was fiery and bitter in his throat and chest and it was disgusting, but it was also just what Jesper needed to keep himself from thinking too much. They both handed the bartender the kruge and Jesper smirked. He still had three left. The dealer finished his brandy shortly after Jesper did and grimaced. 

“I don’ feel all that great, Bankole. I’m headed to the bathroom. If he comes by for the tab, tell him I’ll be back.” 

Jesper shot him a curt nod. “Will do. Mine tastes fine, though.” Jesper was only half-lying; in his eagerness to forget his cares, he’d neglected to pay attention to any difference in taste. 

The dealer walked away, and Jesper was alone. The Club was almost empty, save for the bartender and the short man sitting next to him. His back was to Jesper, seemingly engrossed in a newspaper of some sort. He hadn’t ordered a drink at all. Maybe the brandy was just beginning to kick in or Jesper was feeling more risky than usual tonight. Either way, he found himself tapping the man’s shoulder eagerly. 

“No drink tonight?”

The man spun around, removing his hat from his head. 

“Haven’t decided what I want yet, Jesper.”

Oh, Ghezen. Oh, Saints. Oh shit. 

Wylan’s furious blue eyes met his, daring him to speak. Jesper’s mouth hung open like a door on squeaky hinges. How had he-? Why had he-? 

“I think it’s best that we take this conversation somewhere you’re not banned,” Wylan spat at Jesper’s silence. His icy tone dipped Jesper into the frigid harbor. Jesper couldn’t swim out of it, wouldn’t reach the dock anytime soon. 

Wylan spun on his heels and stormed out of the Crow Club, Jesper in tow. Once they were away from the club, the words began to tumble out of Jesper’s mouth in frightened blurts. 

“I’m sorry, Wy, I’m sorry , really, I just got caught up in–”

“Don’t try to play that game with me, Jesper! Acting like you’re sorry for going behind my back when I know you’d go there again in a heartbeat just to please yourself!” Wylan snapped, running a hand through his curls. 

Jesper furrowed his eyebrows. The brandy really was beginning to take hold of him now. “I did this for you. I did this so you wouldn’t have to deal with me when I get… itchy!”

Wylan buried his face in his hands. “I knew it. I knew it. I knew you weren’t over this!”

Jesper’s face fell even more. “I’m trying my best, Wy, can’t you understand-”

“I don’t care if you’re over it or not! I’d help you through it just like I helped you through it before. I would go to the ends of the earth to help you through it because I love you. But I can’t keep trying to help if you can’t even help yourself.” 

“I love you, Wy, I love you so much,” Jesper repeated incoherently. His voice had dropped to a beg. 

Wylan began to tremble as tears welled up in his eyes. “Then say it, Jesper. Say you’ll quit. If you really love me, if you– if you want to stay together, then say you’ll never step foot there again.”

“I will never step foot at the Crow Club again.” 

Jesper pretended, for Wylan’s sake, that he really meant it. 

Jesper leaned in to Wylan for an embrace and they hugged, Wylan resting his face in Jesper’s chest. Time stood still while Jesper stroked Wylan’s hair and drew in a shaky breath of relief. He’d done it. It hadn’t been great, but he’d done it. Everything was as it should be. 

Wylan shoved his hand into Jesper’s pocket, snatching the few stolen kruge left. 

“So you’re a liar and a thief.” Wylan’s shaky voice betrayed his harsh words. 

Jesper shut his eyes in disbelief. This could not be happening. This was a dream, this was a dream, this was a–

“I trusted you! I trusted you to live with me and I let you be around my–my sick m-mother! This is what I get, is it?! Is it?!”

“Wy,–” Jesper began. 

“Don’t fucking call me that. Don’t– don’t fucking talk to me.”

Jesper bowing his head in silent obedience. His stomach had begun to churn with a more intense anxiety. If Wylan was stumbling over his words, he was really upset . 

“I can’t believe… after everything…” Wylan threw the kruge on the cobblestone and shook his head. “Take it. Keep it. Spend it at the Crow Club. Let Kaz Brekker seek his wrath out on you. You’re right. It’s practically worthless anyway. I don’t give a shit anymore.”

Jesper broke his silence quickly. “Wylan, please, I don’t want it. I’m sorry. You aren’t thinking this through.”

Wylan’s mouth dropped. “I’m not thinking this through? I’m not thinking this through?”

His glare was sharper than Inej’s daggers. 

“I think we should stop seeing each other. Y-you can sleep at the Slat, Kaz-Brekker-be-damned. I’m going home.”

Jesper’s sawed heart dropped into the pit of his stomach, the gravity of Wylan’s words smacking him across the face. No. No. He could not lose Wylan. He could not lose his best friend, his boyfriend, his life. His future. Every thought, every motion screamed at him to plead with Wylan to reconsider. To take him back. To give him one more chance and he’d prove himself stronger than his temptation. But one conflicting notion stood out clearer to Jesper than all the rest, and that was that he did not deserve another chance. He did not deserve what he had not earned. 

Wylan spun on his heels and stormed away, neglecting the tears that were streaking his cheeks and dripping onto the rocky pathway. Jesper had done this to him. Saints, did he despise himself right now. He was weak; pathetic. Not built for or worthy of love. Tears threatened to spill from his own eyes, but he resisted them. He would keep what little shreds of dignity he had left in the Barrel and try to find a quiet alley to stay in. Jesper patted his pockets, thankful once again that he always carried his revolvers. He couldn’t sleep at the Slat. He just couldn’t; Kaz would kill him before he had the chance to explain himself. 

“Wylan, please, at least let me walk you back to the Geldstraat. It’s not… safe…,” Jesper slurred; he was too late. Wylan was already shrinking in the distance, his shaking figure barely visible in the pitch-black night.

Jesper didn’t know whether the blurring of his vision had to do with some stray tears that had escaped from his tear ducts or the nausea that was overtaking his gut. He needed to sit down. He needed to lie down. Once Wylan was fully out of sight, he stumbled down the alley between the Crow Club and its adjacent building. Oh, Saints, this definitely was not a result of heartache. Could heartache make you want to rip out your intestines and chuck them in the harbor? The rancid taste of brandy from before bubbled up in the back of Jesper’s throat, erupting through a belch like a volcano. It was the brandy. The brandy. Someone had spiked the bran–

The last thing Jesper remembered before passing out was vomiting onto the lid of a nearby trash can. 

Chapter Text

The crows outside the window cawed relentlessly, unaware that the sun had barely risen and Kaz Brekker was armed with a gun. He could shoot them. He could silence them with a single bullet, blow their heads off before they even knew they were dying. Kaz’s gloved thumb hovered over the trigger and he squinted, considering pulling it back at a particularly tall one. 

He would just as soon shoot himself. This sentiment stemmed less from an affinity for birds and more from the knowledge that with every step he took, he was running closer and closer to his grave. He knew Jesper hadn’t meant to put a bullet in his bad knee all those nights ago, and he’d made quick work of extracting it right after it had happened. No, that incident had only amplified the underlying issue that marinated in his bones. Wounds could heal. Wounds could disappear. But the agony that was spreading through his extremities and that had been since a week after the auction was no wound; rather, there seemed to be something malfunctioning within himself that was causing him to ache and drown in the harbor again. 

Kaz snapped his gloves higher across his wrists. He decided on firing a warning shot instead of murdering the murder of crows. Ghezen, he was getting soft. The bullet pierced through the windowpane, shooting shattered glass down its outside section. The crows flew away from the windowsill with swooping bursts. Kaz sucked in a breath. He could not get soft. 

Kaz sank into his mattress. In these early hours, hardly anyone was awake unless they were active. This was the time of day he preferred the most. While his mind ran rampant at night and forbade him from the comforts of sleep, it provided good fuel for him to scheme and remember why he did what he did at dawn. It was also a rare occasion for someone to come knocking on his office door when the sky was such a deep  and unwelcoming orange; not that he had many visitors anyways. 

Kaz rose from his bed again. Inej was one of the brave few who used to visit. He could envision the plait in her thick hair, the lithe joints that so easily scaled walls and caressed the weaker parts of his mind. The Wraith. The Wraith was not a cure, but rather a treatment to his failing body. Thinking of her eased his symptoms just enough so that he could breathe. 

Kaz sat down at his desk, ignoring the huff of pain threatening to spill from his lips. He dipped a quill in ink, ripping off a sheet of parchment and narrowing his eyes. He wasn’t a poet, that was certain. But he was motivated. That had to count for something. His quill began to scrawl:

Dearest Inej, Inej. 

In these days when I grow sicker, nothing is of more comfort to me than picturing your face. Replaying your laugh. I’m not trying to sound psychotic, even though I am. Perhaps it’s a result of whatever I find myself struggling with currently. I don’t know how it is so easy for you to believe in Saints when they have done nothing but curse you. Since my residence in Ketterdam, I’ve only truly believed in one higher being: whoever can make me the most money. That being is usually myself. 

What I’m trying to say is that I don’t believe in your Saints. I don’t believe in what isn’t real. But I do believe in—

A resounding knock sent the quill flying out of Kaz’s hand. He cursed. Apparently some did still have the nerve to interrupt him this early. 

“What do you want?” he snapped, scowling.

“Unlock the door, Kaz,” Anika’s dismembered voice sounded. 

Kaz rose from his desk chair and reached for his cane. He rocked it back and forth in his grasp before shifting his expression to a glare and unlocking the door.  

“I run the risk of repeating myself, Anika.”

Anika rolled her eyes. “Can’t you quit your remarks one time? We were at Fifth Harbor, managing the goods, and we got ambushed. A whole pack o’ Grisha. Keeg is bleeding out real bad.”

Kaz glanced down at Anika’s palms and noted that they were soaked in blood. The contrasting shades of red and brown suggested that she’d recently taken some revenge. Good. Kaz had built a ruthless reputation for the Dregs, and it would not be toyed with by some power-hungry Grisha scum. Pity about Keeg, though. One less Dreg would mean one less devoted individual to carry out that reputation. 

“Were they on parem ?” Kaz asked with an eyebrow raise. 

“You think we would’ve made it out alive if they were?”

“So you took care of them?” Kaz’s tone was ice cold. 

To his annoyance, Anneka shook her head. “Too many to take care of. They ran off before I got to everyone.” 

Kaz pressed his lips into a thin line, gears already beginning to spin and click together in his mind. Anika didn’t even mention the use of a Heartrender and she’d been outsmarted. An entirely Grisha gang would bring a whole new level of danger to the Barrel. Kaz had been able to do more than enough damage with Nina working for him, and that had only been one of them. She hadn’t even been fully trained. No, Kaz would not let these new Grisha flip his Barrel inside out. He’d worked far too hard on taking it away from Rollins for them to waltz in a year later and take it all back. 

Rollins. 

What if they were working for Pekka Rollins?

Kaz’s lips turned farther downward. The slight bit of sunlight had shifted its appearance in the window, casting his face in shadow. Kaz clenched his cane tighter and allowed his finger pads to dig into the grooves on the silver crow’s head. He should’ve killed the fool when he’d had the chance. The one time a Crow had pinned down a Lion and he’d flown away instead of ridding him of his life. He’d had one chance . That chance would not be offered to Kaz again, and he knew it. 

“Did they have any tattoos?” Kaz asked, eyes narrowing at Anika. 

“I don’t know, boss, I wasn’t paying attention to their ar-”

“Did they have any tattoos?” Kaz rasped more intensely, lifting his cane off the paneled floor. 

Anika raised her hands in defense. “Brekker, if I took my attention one second away from that fight, I would’ve died.”

“Find them again. I want you to find them again and tell me if they have any gang-affiliated tattoos.”

“Why?” Anika muttered. 

“Why? Because they might-”

Kaz stumbled forward, breath hitching as both of his legs gave out. He collapsed onto the floor, his palms just catching the bulk of his weight before his chest could hit the ground first. He scrambled for his cane, ignoring Anika’s offered hand up. He knelt up to one knee and used the bottom of it to put his weight on, shutting his eyes at the pain coursing through his leg. His left leg. His right leg was the one with the limp. The rest of his body was freezing. Freezing through layers of pants and long sleeves and leather gloves. Kaz suppressed a bloodcurdling shiver threatening to spill through his bones. 

“Boss…”

Kaz raised a gloved, silencing finger at her. Anika shut her mouth dutifully, but her eyes scanned him worriedly. 

“You spread this around and you’ll end up floating on the Reaper’s Barge next to every last sorry Dreg you tell,” he threatened. 

Anika said nothing, just crossed her arms and sighed. 

“Assemble a crew to go find the Grisha. I want them all dead by next dawn. Do we understand each other?” 

Anika arched a brow at Kaz. “Now?”

“Oh, no, next week. Yes , now,” he hissed. 

Anika scoffed at him and shook her head in disbelief. Kaz’s expression remained unchanged and furious. On seeing this, she mumbled a short “fine” and exited her spot under the doorframe, leaving Kaz alone. 

Kaz sunk back into his desk chair and allowed a small grunt of pain to escape his thinly pressed lips. He’d only been standing for five minutes and he’d nearly let everyone in the Barrel know that he was weak. At least it’d only been a leg spasm. He could blame it on Jesper’s bullet if need be. It was always easier to push someone’s suspicions away from your health when they thought that you were going to kill them. 

Kaz crumbled up the parchment he’d started the letter to Inej on, ripping it into thin sheets and then into even smaller squares. He swept them into a wastebasket underneath his desk and buried his hands into his slicked back hair. His gaze shifted to one of his wrists when he noticed that a button had popped off of the edge of his black sleeve. He rose from his seat, pressing his cane against the ground and scouring the floor for the button with his eyes.

Kaz found it by the doorframe and knelt to pick it up. As he rose, he heard the front door to the Slat slam shut. Good. Anika must’ve finally headed out. Kaz slid his gloves tighter over his hands and breathed in deeply, turning to the open door. Then, he froze. Downstairs, Dregs had begun to shout. The pounding of boots echoed throughout the lowest level’s hallway as Kaz listened to them all fly to the front door. 

Kaz began to limp out of his room, approaching the stairs and taking the railing with caution. The shadow of a large figure ran across the closest brick wall and Kaz furrowed his eyebrows. The Dregs continued shouting at it, slinging around vulgarities and threats like they were rocks from a child’s slingshot. One voice rang clear throughout the rest and, upon hearing it, Kaz’s jaw tightened. 

“I need to talk to Kaz, you oafs, don’t you see the crow?!” she announced, thrusting her arm out for proof. 

Kaz parted the crowd of Dregs with his cane until they were properly facing each other.

“Zenik.”

Her lips curled up into a smirk, eyes glinting with mischievous intent. 

“Brekker.”

Kaz jerked his head towards the small Slat dining room, turning on his heels for Nina to follow him. They entered together as Nina threw open the door to the pantry and rummaged around for something edible. The rest of the Dregs dispersed back to wherever they’d been before, mumbling to themself about “special treatment.” 

“Really, Brekker? All you have are coffee packets in here.” Nina pouted, approaching the dining table where Kaz sat. 

Kaz raised a brow. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Then you should’ve joined the Kooperom staff instead of the Dregs.”

Nina chuckled, hazel eyes twinkling. “Suppose I’m out of practice with your ruthless quips now. This year has taken quite the toll.”

“What do you want?”

Kaz didn’t have time to deal with Nina’s pleasantries. Anika’s crew wouldn’t be able to find those Grisha alone no matter how much he threatened her. He rapped his knuckles against the table, darkening his scowl. 

Nina raised her brows. “Alright then. I need a favor.”

Kaz glared at her. “And?”

“There have been Grisha defecting to Ketterdam to join this… cult. There’s a leader, a man named Damien Abdulov, who’s been converting them. I need to apprehend him and the other Grisha and send them to Ravka for the Triumvirate to deal with.”

Kaz twisted his cane in his fingers. “What comes out of this if I do this for you?”

“The Triumvirate will pay us. You. Anyone. Unless you’re opposed to getting even richer?” Nina quirked a brow. “They’ve also been, you know, killing off all your pigeons to use as sacrifices. Less pigeons in the Barrel means less money to scam them out of, and you definitely don’t want that.”

Kaz sighed. A Grisha cult. How had Pekka Rollins managed to get them on his side? Bribery? A promise to join their church? Pure threats? Anything was likely. All Kaz knew was that things with the Dime Lions had been quiet for too long and he was ready to kick their asses again. That was, assuming he lived long enough to do so. 

Nina’s gaze shifted to meet Kaz’s, her arms beginning to fold. “Have you been to a medik? Your bones… they-”

“Hope you had a sunny holiday in Fjerda with Matthias,” Kaz stated loudly, eyes narrowing in cruel warning.

Nina stood up from her chair and pushed it into the table, hurt eyes betraying her cold expression. “Inej was right. You really do know just how to get to a girl’s heart.”

Kaz turned away from her in his seat and stared at the crow on his cane. How did he not consider the fact that Nina could sense death? Oh, now she would be onto him like a dog on a slab of meat. Hopefully that jab would be enough to keep her from prying. No one could know. If he was going to die from disease, he was going to do it by himself with a bottle of Ravkan whiskey beside him. 

“Inej misses you, poor thing. She’s coming back to Ketterdam soon, by the way,” Nina said, spinning around and walking toward the hall. 

“What? When?” Kaz rasped. But Nina had already disappeared.

Chapter Text

The sun was blinding. 

Jesper blinked a few times, squinting up at the sky. His head pounded like someone had been playing percussion inside of it. He dragged his hand between his neck and the brick it had been resting on. When he pulled his palm towards him, it came back bloody. Jasper grimaced, squinting again. That grimace turned into a belch, which turned into retching, which turned into vomiting. Jesper turned to his side and choked up the contents of his gut, clutching his stomach. He pinched his nose and grunted at the putrid scent, eyes watering. He blinked again to clear his vision. 

Why was he dozing in an alleyway? Wylan wouldn’t have let this happen. Wylan wasn’t here. Wylan wasn’t-

Jesper sucked in a breath as last night came rushing back in to greet him. He ran a hand through his hair, wincing again when he made contact with his upper neck. He must have hit it on that brick in his sleep. Jesper didn’t know. Jesper didn’t know anything. His mind was foggy.

He tried to push himself up but his muscles gave out and he fell back down, crashing into the barrel of an empty trash can. Saints , was he out of it. Jesper exhaled, scooting against the dark wall of the Crow Club. He brought his shaking hands forward, squeezing his eyes shut. He needed to get to the mansion and apologize to Wylan. He didn’t care if Wylan took him back or not. Well, that was a lie. He did care if Wylan took him back or not — he loved him so much. Wylan was the most genuine, most incredible partner he’d ever had. But Jesper had screwed up so badly . He would understand if Wylan never wanted to see him again after this, but he had to try and at least make cordial amends with him. 

Jesper’s eyes focused and unfocused, eventually pinpointing two crows squawking at each other over a slice of rye. He chucked a trash can lid (which he soon learned was filled with vomit when it spilled onto his lap) at them, and they flew away, wings flapping in choppy arcs. Jesper groaned, rubbing his face with his fingers. In order to apologize to Wylan, he had to stand up first. Who cared about how he looked? There’d been worse slums in the Barrel. All of his clothes were at the Van Eck Mansion anyways, so it wasn’t like he had an option. 

Holding himself by a divot in the brick wall beside him, Jesper finally made his way to his feet. He turned to exit the alleyway, cracking his knuckles. Jesper took his first step of the morning and felt his foot catch on a brick. He tumbled back down, scraping his palms against the uneven cobblestone as he hit the ground. One of his revolvers fell out of his pocket and slammed against the ground with him. Jesper snatched it up and immediately began inspecting the large white scrape across its metallic black surface. 

“Fuck you,” he mumbled, eyebrows furrowing. 

Jesper’s mumbling began to gather more intensity as he pounded his fists against the cobblestone, ignoring the red hot pain that seared through them in retaliation.

“Fuck this! Fuck the Barrel! Fuck Kaz Brekker and his fucking limp! Fuck the Crow Club, and fuck myself most of all! Fuck… fuck everything!”

Jesper rammed his shoulder into the wall, still on his knees. It popped out of its socket, and Jesper nearly bit his tongue off trying not to scream in pain. Fresh blood leaked from his neck onto the already-dried spots on the tops of his shoulders, and the blaring sunlight only increased burning in the cut. Jesper pounded things and shouted until his anger subsided, until he couldn’t keep moving. He breathed in heavily, letting the wreckage of his body soothe the agony in his mind. Why was he born this way? Why was he so impulsive? Acting on impulse always meant doing something Jesper regretted. He couldn’t just think . Why was that so hard? To think?

A throat cleared. Jesper spun around; it sent stars swirling through his vision.

“Hey, er… are you done?”

Nina wagged her fingers at him, offering an awkward smile. Kaz —oh, Saints, Kaz— stood next to her, gazing at Jesper like he was a soggy waffle on his plate at the Kooperom. Jesper shut his eyes, his face warming in embarrassment. 

“You didn’t hear all of that, did you?”

Kaz simply arched a brow. 

“Fuck Kaz Brekker,” Nina agreed. 

Jesper groaned. “You heard all of that.”

Nina walked up to Jesper and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, helping him up and hugging him at the same time. Jesper shot her a grateful smile as they trudged toward Kaz, Jesper pocketing his scraped revolver and Nina updating him on her life as of recent. 

“So, how long have you been back in Ketterdam?” Jesper asked, self-consciously wiping some more blood off of his neck. 

“Oh, we just docked this morning. I had to get to the Slat first thing, to tell this one–” she gestured at Kaz–”about a small favor that needed doing.”

Kaz shot Nina a dark glare. “I don’t hand out favors, Zenik.”

Nina raised her arms in mock fear. “Oh, yes, sorry, a job . How dare I imply that he’s doing this out of the kindness of his heart and not because I offered him money.”

Jesper laughed, ignoring the way it made his dislocated arm wiggle at his side. “I don’t think Kaz knows what the word ‘kindness’ means.”

Kaz didn’t even spare Jesper a glance before announcing, “Inside the Crow Club should be good, Zenik.”

“What? What do you need to do in the Crow Club?” Jesper asked, raising a brow. 

Kaz ignored him yet again, walking up the steps to the entryway and disappearing inside. 

“Nina, what’s so important? What are you two doing?” Jesper hissed once Kaz had slipped inside.

Nina bit her lip. “Well, Kaz told me not to tell you…”

Jesper smirked, mischief igniting in his eyes. “But Kaz isn’t with us right now, is he?”

Nina grinned back. “Well… if you insist. I’ll have to start at the beginning. So, basically-”

The Crow Club door was thrown open again and Kaz narrowed his eyes into slits at the two of them. Jesper glanced at his closest sleeve and noticed that it was missing a single button. 

“Inside now, Zenik,” he growled, gloved fingers looking more like claws than fingers.

“I can’t just leave him looking like this. At least let me stitch him up first,” Nina pleaded, gesturing at Jesper’s soiled clothes and injuries. Jesper shot Kaz a pouting face. 

Kaz peered at Jesper for a moment, his eyes holding a mixture of loathing and something Jesper couldn’t recognize. His pupils were black pits, and they almost resembled Wylan’s from last night. Jesper suppressed a shudder at the thought of Wylan being compared to Kaz. He’d never met such polar opposites, but the auction had hardened Wylan. Maybe Jesper had hardened him a little too. 

After another hour-long moment, Kaz shot Nina a curt nod and she brought him inside. They wove through the already crowded tables, past the very barstools Jesper had been confronted at, and into a dimly lit room in the back. It was usually reserved for those who’d scheduled a private game, but, seeing as it was vacant right now, Jesper figured it was alright for them to use it. Nina pulled out a chair from underneath the round center table and forced Jesper into it, examining his wounds. 

“I didn’t think you could still heal after…” Jesper’s voice trailed off. 

Nina tilted Jesper’s head downwards, gazing at the gash on his neck. “I can’t. This is going to have to be done the old fashioned way.”

Kaz stared at them from the corner of the room, arms crossed. The light from the metal chandelier above them didn’t seem to extend to his side of the room. Jesper glanced at him and shifted his posture uncomfortably. 

“Can you ask Kaz to stop staring at me?” he muttered in Nina’s ear, eyes shifting to Kaz’s clenched fists. 

Nina quirked a brow, then approached Kaz and whispered it back to him. 

Kaz shifted his weight onto his good leg and adjusted his cane, expression morphing into a glare.

“Can you ask Jesper to stop caterwauling outside of my Club?” he drawled. 

Nina stared at Kaz and tentatively walked back to Jesper, repeating what Kaz had said to him even though Jesper had understood him crystal-clear. 

Jesper rose from his seat, gripping the edge of the table. “Well, can you ask Kaz to stop holding a grudge over an accident?”

Kaz slinked around to face Jesper opposite at the table, folding his cane into his arms. “Can you ask Jesper to not shoot me in a parley?”

“Nina, tell Kaz that he was being a bitch that day, so he kind of deserved it, even if I didn’t do it on purpose!”

“Nina, tell Jesper that he needs to learn how to be an asset and not a liability .”

Jesper pointed a finger at Kaz. “You’re heartless! No wonder Inej didn’t stick around after she got the kruge !”

Kaz limped over to Jesper and punched him square in the cheek, pressing his cane down hard on Jesper’s foot. Jesper used his other leg to knee him in the gut and push him away, storming toward Kaz as he blundered backwards. Jesper locked his hand around Kaz’s shoulder and slammed him against the wall. Kaz sucked in a breath, his eyes murderous. 

“Fight if you want, but I’m not stitching up two of you,” Nina warned, rummaging for the first aid kit tucked underneath the table.

“Sit. down,” Kaz spat at Jesper, jerking his head at the empty chair by Nina. 

Jesper crossed his arms. “What if I don’t want to sit down?”

Kaz’s glare darkened even more (if that was possible). 

Jesper sat down. 

Nina grabbed Jesper’s arm and popped it back into place, ignoring Jesper’s gasp. Nina then opened the first aid box and snatched a needle and thread from it, wiping off the needle with her sleeve so that it was clean. She handed Jesper a rag, at which he frowned. 

“You might want to bite down on this so you don’t take your tongue off,” Nina muttered, threading the needle. 

Jesper furrowed his eyebrows, but he put it in his mouth anyways. 

Nina stuck the needle into his skin. Jesper’s eyes watered as his jaw instinctively clenched down on the rag. That was one thing he’d never gotten used to as a Dreg — the constant injuries, their subsequent sewing up. Jesper’s stomach threatened to hurl again and he pushed the feeling down. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kaz exit the room, his limp more pronounced than usual. Jesper frowned. That was odd for him; he’d never moved quite so jagged before. 

Nina painstakingly finished the rest of the gash, which was a lot larger than Jesper had guessed. He spat the rag out, reaching to touch his sutures. Nina moved his hand away carefully. 

“You don’t want to break them. They’re still setting,” Nina advised, throwing the needle and rag back into the first aid box. 

“Shouldn’t you wash that?” Jesper asked, arching a brow.

Nina clapped her hands together and laughed. “Saints, I knew I was forgetting a step! Never paid much attention to traditional healing in the Little Palace because I thought I’d always have…” She gestured at her hands. 

Jesper frowned. “What do you mean you never paid attention to this in the Little Palace?” He suddenly felt very worried about the sutures in the back of his neck. 

Nina clicked her tongue against the top of her mouth. “Just be grateful I didn’t forget any of the other steps. I’m off to wash this.”

Nina excused herself from the room, carrying the needle and mumbling to herself about “the Little Palace” and “why couldn’t parem have kept her other powers with her”. Not a moment later, Kaz entered again. He was carrying a clean set of black pants and black button up, a gray vest resting on top of both. Kaz threw them on the table carelessly, scowling. 

“Change into this,” he grumbled, not meeting Jesper’s surprised stare. 

Jesper grabbed the clothes thankfully, first sliding off his vomit-covered pants and throwing his feet into the legs of the new ones. They fit up to his waist, but were snug around his thigh and hugged his rear. The legs didn’t quite reach his ankles, but they were pants nonetheless. Kaz’s eyes lingered on one corner of the room, his lips moving without forming incoherent words. Jesper slid off his bloody shirt and vest and buttoned up the new ones, tucking the shirt into the pants’ low waist. 

“Are these yours?” Jesper asked finally, breaking the silence. 

Kaz’s eyes moved to meet Jesper’s. “Not exactly your style, are they?”

Jesper’s lips curled into a smirk. “Nope.”

Another pause. Then, “You’re not mad at me anymore?”

Kaz pulled his gloves tighter over his hands upon noticing that they were slipping. “No Dreg walks around the Barrel looking like they just lost the biggest fight of their life.”

Jesper jumped wildly. “So I’m a Dreg again?!”

Kaz furrowed his eyebrows. “You were always a Dreg, Jesper. I never revoked that privilege. I just didn’t want to see you at the club because I didn’t want to get shot again.”

“For the last time, it was an accident!”

Nina reentered the room, poking her head in to look at the two of them. “No rush, really, but were we still going to Wylan’s?”

Kaz glared at Nina. “I can’t trust you with anything confidential, can I?”

Nina shot him a shrug. “You chose to work with me. I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

Jesper’s heart sank. “Why do you need to go see Wylan?”

Kaz and Nina locked eyes, engaged in a glowering contest until Kaz eventually nodded. 

“We need him to make some bombs.”

*******************************

“So, it’s a Grisha cult that’s taking hostages and sacrificing them to this guy, Damien?” Jesper asked briskly as they followed the path of the Geldcanal. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his pants, shivering as a wind swept through their insides.

Nina nodded. “And Kaz thinks they’re somehow connected to Pekka Rollins. Though, to be fair, Kaz thinks everything is connected to Pekka Rollins.”

Jesper glanced at Kaz. “Oh, believe me, I know that.”

One time, when Kaz was in a particularly broody mood after a fight with the Razorgulls, he stubbed his toe against the corner of the wall. Instead of saying “ow” or grunting like any sane person would, he’d yelled out, ‘Damn Pekka Rollins!’. Jesper had made it a habit to repeat that every time Kaz bumped into anything. Soon enough, it’d become common slang around the Slat. Every shattered plate, every rat-infested room was ‘Damn Pekka Rollins’s fault. 

“Nina’s paying us if we capture him and send him off to Ravka for the Triumvirate to deal with,” Kaz added, adjusting the black hat on his head. 

Nina scoffed. “I’m not paying you. Zoya is.”

Jesper shuddered. Zoya Nazyalensky was not someone he wanted to screw up with. Maybe he shouldn’t have offered to help them after all. He hadn’t even known what he was signing up for before he’d said yes, grasping at the opportunity to see Wylan again and make things right. There it was, his impulsivity getting the better of him once again. Jesper sighed, just barely catching the end of Kaz’s statement.

“-og bomb,” Kaz stated, digging his cane into the ground. 

“What?” Jesper blinked. 

“I need Wylan to make us a fog bomb,” Kaz repeated, eyes narrowing. 

Jesper frowned. “Right now? When are we planning on ambushing them?”

“As soon as we find out where they’re hiding.” Kaz’s lips upturned in what was almost a smile. 

“These Grisha… were they part of the Little Palace?” Jesper cleared his throat. 

Nina nodded. “I think Damien was a follower of the Darkling before he fell, but he somehow hid during the war and never got caught for it. We all thought he was dead.”

Kaz crossed his arms. “If he were dead before he reached Ravka, would we still get our money?”

“Well, Zoya and Genya want him alive, so, no .”

“I’ll have to tell Anika to stop hunting to kill, then.”

“These Grisha are definitely the same ones that Anika got into it with earlier, then?” Jesper asked, kicking a pebble out of his way.

Kaz drummed his fingers against his cane. “They have to be. There isn’t any other organized fully-Grisha gang in the Barrel.”

“That makes sense.” Jesper stared out into the canal, watching the water sway with the wind. The waves were small and choppy, like they’d been sliced into two. Jesper felt himself sway with the wind, pausing for a minute to gaze out at the picket-lined manors and hedges on the other side of the canal. Wylan was in one of those places somewhere, probably painting or playing the piano or doing something else incredible. Jesper shut his eyes in guilt when he realized that he’d left the last of his kruge in his old pants. Tucked in the other pocket of his pants had been a locket with a tiny painting of the two of them stuffed inside. Oh, how he wished he could run his fingers across it right now. 

Jesper’s eyes shifted back to the canal. He froze. 

Bobbing in the water was a red-haired figure clad in maroon. It had those same blue eyes that Jesper had always fallen into, those same ginger curls that Jesper had run his hand through. The waves pushed the body forward, towards Jesper and the others. Nina and Kaz bickered in the background, oblivious to Jesper’s panicked expression. 

“Kaz! Nina! Come here! Now!” Jesper shouted, foot tapping anxiously on the cobblestone. 

Nina ran over to him, Kaz a little bit slower with his limp. Nina’s eyes locked onto the body in the canal and she nearly gagged. Kaz’s breath hitched and his eyes widened. Jesper ran a hand through his hair, his own breath beginning to sharpen and quicken. His shoulders shook as Nina fished the body out of the canal and threw it onto the pavement with her summoning. 

Jesper paced back and forth, his breath hitching and choking him. No. No. No. Please, please, please… let him be alive. Let him be alive. He needs to be alive. He’s not. He’s not alive. He’s not breathing. Jesper stumbled back, falling backwards and nearly hitting his head. Everything around him spun, just like last night when the brandy had taken hold of him. 

“Jesper! Jesper, it’s not him! It’s not him!” Nina shouted, grasping the body’s shoulders. “It’s not him… it’s… it’s….”

Jesper crawled back toward the body, frantically staring at the face for confirmation. 

Jesper’s jaw dropped. 

“It’s Marya.”

Jesper rose shakily, grasping Marya’s shoulders and shaking her. Two large gashes made an ‘X’ across her chest.  “Wake up, wake up, wake up… please, Marya, wake up…” 

The corpse didn’t budge. 

Jesper laid her back on the cobblestone, neglecting the tears welling up in his eyes. He’d done this. He’d lied to his boyfriend and inadvertently gotten Wylan’s mother killed. Maybe if he’d been there… maybe if he hadn’t been so damn selfish…

“The Grisha did this,” Nina exclaimed, her eyes widening in shock. “That’s what they do to all their victims. The X.”

Jesper stared up at Nina. “The mansion. Wylan. I have to go.”

He spun around and sprinted toward the bridge that connected their side of the canal, sparing Marya and the other two Crows one last glance. Nina was reluctantly lowering her body back into the canal, and Kaz was staring at Marya’s soaked figure, eyes like saucers and still as a statue. Jesper ran, ran past the other mansions who were oblivious to the horror coursing through his veins. The families in those mansions were probably eating lunch, spreading butter over the tops of their delicatessen-style sandwiches and slurping up beef stew. Jesper didn’t dare focus on anything else besides getting to Van Eck Mansion. He sprinted until hedges became green dots in his vision and the stairs to the manor’s entrance were under his feet. Jesper banged his fist on the door, but soon found that that was unnecessary. The front door swung open on its hinges, creaking in the otherwise silent entryway. 

Jesper ran into the house, calling out, “Wylan?!” He searched every room downstairs, starting in the kitchen and ending in the expansive backyard. Soon after he was done, Nina and Kaz walked in. Jesper didn’t meet Nina’s concerned gaze or Kaz’s calculating stare. 

Kaz’s rasp was the first noise to break through Jesper’s hyperventilating. 

“I’ll search the second floor. Zenik, you go up to the third.”

Jesper risked a glance up at Kaz from his shoes. 

Kaz locked eyes with him. “Until we’re certain he’s not here, we’re not giving up.”

Jesper’s lip trembled. “Thanks, Kaz,” he whispered. 

Kaz offered him a nod of silent understanding. Nina wrapped her arms around Jesper and embraced him while he buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of roses and frost. 

“It’s all my fault, Nina,” he mumbled, shaking. “He… he could be…”

Nina pressed a soft finger to Jesper’s lips. “We don’t know that.”

“Here.” She sat him down on a large sofa, stroking his hair. “Maybe you should take a break. Let me and Kaz do some of the searching.”

Jesper furrowed his eyebrows, perking back up. “I can’t stop, no, not until-”

Nina forced Jesper to rest against the back of the leather sofa. “You. Take a break. Now.” 

Jesper scowled as he watched them walk away, Kaz’s cane clicking against the wooden floor. They whispered in harsh tones to each other, and Kaz gestured back at Jesper. Their arguing faded once they went upstairs. Jesper slouched against the sofa, numbness clouding every other emotion threatening to spill out of him. His foot tapped against the floor with a severe intensity. Gradually, Jesper pushed himself off of the sofa and wandered around the bottom floor, subtly calling out Wylan’s name again; just in case.

Eventually, Jesper made his way into the music hall. Immediately, his eyes locked onto the empty baby grand. Memories came rushing back to him in a blur: Jesper fidgeting with his hands and growing anxious, Wylan offering to teach him piano as a substitute for his more violent hobbies. Wylan placing his hands on top of Jesper’s and suppressing his laughter when he messed up, Wylan teaching him a four-hand piece that could be done on one piano. Jesper had struggled to remember the notes for each key at first, but he’d become a natural with Wylan’s assistance. 

Before Jesper knew it, he was sitting at the piano and flipping through the sheet music to the song he and Jesper had played together. Jesper ran his fingers across the lower octaves of the piano, reading the sheet music as he played. His first section was solo, and Wylan usually joined in on the higher parts later. Jesper winded his way through the measures, letting the music flow through him as a bullet would. Jesper shut his eyes, building to the biggest moment of the first section, and released his hands from the keys, waiting for Wylan’s part to start. 

It never did.

Jesper stood up from the piano and slid the stool back under the piano, wrapping his fingers around the sheet music. The tears that he’d been suppressing for so long came cascading down his cheeks in waves, rolling down the sides of his jaw with an anguish so palpable it rippled across the rest of the room. Jesper sobbed audibly, slamming his hands against the piano’s keys. The high pitches created an odd sort of dissonance with his hiccups. 

“I’m sorry!” he shouted to the empty mansion. 

“I’m sorry I failed you! I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me most! I wish”--hiccup–''I wish it was me! I wish… it was me…”

Jesper felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He met Nina’s gaze and caught Kaz’s behind her. Any hope he had left dissipated when Kaz shook his head. Jesper bowed his head down. 

“This was Wylan’s favorite room,” he admitted, wiping his eyes. 

Nina squeezed Jesper’s arm sadly. “I know, Jes. I know.”

Kaz walked toward them, surveying the room, gaze calculating. His eyes curled downward at something Jesper didn’t care to look at. 

“Move your foot,” he said to Jesper.

Jesper stepped backwards, after which Kaz picked up a piece of parchment paper. Kaz stared at it for a long moment, at the blood on the corners of the page. Then, finally:

“Wylan’s not dead.”

Jesper wiped the snot from his nose. “What?”

Kaz showed the two of them the drawing. Nina and Jesper peered at it, Nina frowning and Jesper narrowing his eyes. 

“It’s Wylan. As a saint. These Grisha at the bottom… they’re praying to him.”

Nina snorted. “And the bloody ‘X’ in the corner of it?”

Kaz arched a brow. “Look closer. There’s something in Ravkan written on there.”

Nina stared at the inscribed message on the bottom of the paper, snatching it from Kaz. 

“On the day of Kerch Independence, Saint Lev of Ketterdam will rise and join forces with Damien to awaken the Drachentigren and rebirth the city as one of his one.”

Jesper laughed for the first time all day. “What the hell is a Drachentigren ?”

“This.” Nina handed Jesper the picture and he examined it. The Drachentigren was a prowling creature, a mixture of large wildcat and fire-spewing dragon. Its yellow eyes menacingly peered into Jesper’s soul, its mouth drained with blood. Half of a human body laid next to its paw. 

Jesper laughed again, but this time it was more desperate. “And they think that Wylan is their magical saint? Did they get dropped on their heads as children or something?”

Nina shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised. After all those Sankta Alina myths in Ravka, I’m sure it was easy to get a group to believe anything.”

Kaz tapped his cane on the ground impatiently. “Well, regardless of whether it’s real or not, it means that they haven’t killed Wylan yet. Key word is yet . When they see that he doesn’t pull off any of that shit they’re asking for, they’re definitely going to kill him.”

Jesper crossed his arms. “So we need to find him. We need to find him and stop them before they stop him first. When’s Independence Day?”

Kaz’s eyes fell toward the piano. “In four days.”

Jesper groaned. “Ah, shit.”

Jesper took a shaky breath. He couldn’t wait. He would spend every waking and sleeping moment thinking of how to get Wylan back. A familiar buzz shot through his veins, but this time it wasn’t about gambling. No, it was the rush of danger and action and getting the one stable thing in his life back. Jesper turned toward the open front door, letting the breeze dry the few remaining tears on his cheeks. He made a mental note to teach Wylan more combat when this was all over and the Grisha were gone. 

Jesper would never take what he had for granted again.

Chapter Text

Inej rammed her heel into the slaver’s nose, watching as blood gushed from his nostrils and he spluttered out incoherent threats. He grabbed her ankle and pulled her towards him. Inej felt the tug and reached her palms back to the ground so that she wouldn’t fall, arcing her back in a curve. She used her free leg to kick him in the gut, forcing him backwards and knocking him down. Inej walked out of the backbend, feeling the smallest of breezes ripple through the slip of skin between her pants and boots. The slaver stood back up, grunting and flexing his multitude of muscles. Inej huffed, removing Sankta Alina from her sheath and tucking the blade into her sleeve. 

The slaver charged, full force, slamming into her side and knocking her off balance. He pinned her down, sticking his clammy palms onto her shoulders and digging his knees into her feet. Big mistake. His hands should’ve gone to her wrists if he’d wanted to stop her from plunging Sankta Alina into his waist. The slaver fell off of her once again, thick arms wrapping around his frame. Inej threw two more daggers in his direction: one at his neck and one at his heart. 

They punctured both regions with an accuracy so close Inej wondered if the spirit of Jesper had met her in Kerch. The slaver slumped to the ground, his chest slowly rising…. and falling…. and not moving at all. Inej sighed, approaching his body and yanking the daggers free. His eyes stared up at the azure sky, unseeing and unfeeling. Inej knelt down and closed them; she was both disgusted with him and with herself for feeling guilty about what she’d done. Had he felt any remorse when he’d plucked innocent children from their homes and forced them into an ‘indenture’ that paid them nothing and cost them everything?

Inej rubbed a splatter of blood off of her palm and onto her dark pants. Saving lives was worth being somebody else’s villain. She glanced back over at The Wraith , docked in the nearest harbor in all its glory. The village she’d intercepted, a coastal one with the Kerch double-fish flag proudly flying, looked drab in comparison to the view it hosted. The hill Inej stood on overlooked a vast green valley, spotted with tulips of peach and purple. No geraniums, she noted. She could breathe in their scent from a mile away. 

A bulging arm wrapped its tethers around Inej’s neck. She gagged, her hands flying to her waist. Inej pulled out Sankt Petyr, struggling against its firm grip. She flung Sankt Petyr back towards his inner arm but barely grazed it. His grip —she’d soon learned it was a man when he’d laughed at her pitiful attempt of defense— only tightened. 

“Didn’t think there were more of us, ja ?” he sneered, swiping Sankt Petyr from Inej’s hand and slicing it across her shoulder. Inej grimaced at the sting.

Inej slammed her body weight hard into the man, but he didn’t budge. Neither did his arm; black stars seeped into the corners of her eyes. Inej wrapped her hand around half of his muscle, clenching her teeth for one final attempt at escape. She wrenched his arm away from her neck, powered by sheer adrenaline and the fact that she couldn’t leave her parents again. No, the Saints couldn’t allow that.

Inej sucked in a breath at the momentary relief and staggered away from him, her hand moving to cover her bruised throat. The attacker used that as leverage to lift her by the shoulders and throw her up, up in the air. Inej was shocked at how high she flew, at how slow time seemed to pass when she was flying. He’d covered quite the distance; Inej looked down, and she was already soaring above the tulips. 

She trained her eyes on the man, watching as he smirked in satisfaction. He crossed his arms, and then he crossed his eyes. What? Inej barely made out a dark hand plunging its own knife straight through his back into his abdomen. The man stumbled to his knees and collapsed. Inej squinted to find her revenger. 

Mama. Oh, Saints, Mama. What was she doing off of the ship?

Inej’s feet slammed into the ground and shattered. Inej cried out with a shocked gasp, bracing her skull for impact. The tulips had provided no cushion for a landing so high and so far. She tumbled down the rest of the hill, keeping her arms around her head. Her limbs hit the grass at odd angles, rocking her from side to side. Her only comfort was the soil tickling her skin. Her momentum increased until there was no possible way to slow down, no possible way to dig her heels in the dirt and stop.

Inej finally reached the bottom of the hill and forced herself to sit up, limbs aching and head pounding. Her vision was blurry, but she made out several scrapes on her arms. She should not have curled up her sleeves. Inej spotted her ship close by, tied to the dock and floating inconspicuously. She couldn’t make herself stand. She could barely make herself breathe. 

Her ankles pounded, pounded to the beating of the drum in her chest. Inej laid back into the tulips, puffing out a relieved sigh as she noted the rest of her team inviting the slavers’ captives on deck. They were safe. They were free. Tonight, the crew would chart a course for Ketterdam, and they’d be there in a day’s time. If she died here, it would not be in vain. 

“Inej,” a gentle voice whispered, cupping Inej’s head in soft hands. 

She exhaled.

“Inej,” more stubbornly. 

Inej blinked her eyes open, gazing up at Mama’s worried eyes. Strands of dark hair hung loosely around her cheeks, matching the dark circles under her eyes. Mama brushed a finger against one of the cuts on Inej’s arms, making her wince. At Inej’s cue, she moved her hand away. Mama tucked her arm under Inej’s back, raising her up. Inej hated herself for shaking her pounding head and forcing herself back on unsteady feet. She blinked a few times, waiting for the nausea to fade. 

“Don’t force yourself to be strong for me, my love,” she whispered into Inej’s hair. 

Inej simply forced a tight-lipped smile and limped forward. “I’m not, Mama. I promise.” 

Her right ankle greeted her with a sickening crunch. Inej stifled a gasp and her eyes watered. She wondered if this was how Kaz had felt when he’d broken his leg. The difference between them was that his had never healed, and she had a Healer on deck for her every need. She would’ve healed Kaz if she had the power. But then again, she wondered if anyone could’ve healed him. However much it must’ve hurt, it matched his personality perfectly: stubborn and broken. She loved both parts.

They finally reached the dock, at which Inej’s crew came rushing toward her. First, the Healer named Lizavet who examined Inej with a concerned but intrigued eye. Two Squaller twins she’d picked up in Ravka with Lizavet, who bore matching faces of worry. Among the rest of the sailors was her father, who gazed at her with a sad glint in his eye. 

Mama guided her onto the ship, Papa trailing. Inej barely registered when Lizavet grabbed her from Mama and laid her down on a wooden table in the nurse’s cabin. Mama explained what had happened while she clutched Inej’s hand as Inej tried to focus on her breath. On staying alive, keeping herself from fading. Papa leaned against the doorframe, staring intently at Inej’s probably-battered face. 

The Healer slid off her boots, and Inej cried out in anguish. The room tensed; Lizavet stopped. 

“No… do what you have to,” Inej managed. Speaking really hurt.

Lizavet nodded, curly auburn locks bouncing around her round cheeks. She continued to slide Inej’s other boot off, and Inej gritted her teeth over the pain. The widening eyes on all three of their faces made Inej realize that her feet looked about as bad as they felt. 

“The bones… they’re shattered…” Lizavet stammered, running a gentle hand over Inej’s right foot. 

“Can they be fixed?” Inej clutched the edge of the table with her free hand, but stopped when she realized that she was squeezing Mama’s hand too. 

Lizavet bit her lip but nodded. “You might feel… a small amount of pain.” 

Inej breathed in deeply. “That’s alright. That’s… that’s alright.”

Lizavet pressed her hands on Inej’s feet without another word and Inej squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think of anything else besides the searing agony in her ankles. Her times in the Menagerie and the Dregs had taught her how to deal with pain, but this was… unreal. 

Kaz. Kaz would be able to handle this , Inej thought to herself foggily.

No, that’s a lie. Kaz would despise being touched like this.  

Inej wondered what he was doing right now. Perhaps he was scheming. Perhaps he was heist-ing. Perhaps he was thinking about her too, Inej thought rather selfishly. Regardless of what he was doing, she hoped he was the Kaz-equivalent of happy. Sometimes, when she stood on the deck of The Wraith and the breeze hit her right, she was brought back to that moment all-too-long ago on the Ferolind when he’d wanted her. Not her flexibility, not her willingness to work for him. Her. And she’d wanted him. Oh, how she’d wanted him. But Inej did not want to wait. For all her patience and love for Kaz, he did not belong with her on The Wraith . He belonged where his title said he did; the bastard of the Barrel belonged in the Barrel.

“Finished,” Lizavet mumbled, taking a step back from Inej.

Inej wiggled her toes. They didn’t give so much as an ache in return. Inej smiled and jumped to her feet, slipping them into her boots. She looked down at her arms and noticed that Lizavet had healed her cuts as well. In the time that it had taken Inej to think about Kaz, Lizavet had completely fixed her. 

“Thank you so much.” Inej offered her a warm smile, which Lizavet returned. Lizavet left the room, but not before risking a glance at her parents. 

Inej met Papa’s eyes, and Mama undid Inej’s plait. 

“Sit down, my Inej.”

Inej perched back on the edge of the wooden table, trying to ignore the smattering of blood she’d left on it. Mama’s delicate fingers separated her long hair into three separate groups, weaving them in and out. Papa stared at them, but did not speak. 

Finally, his lips separated, parting each other in wistful thought. “When I was very young, about your age, I had the opportunity to perform for the Ravkan king and family.”

Mama raised an eyebrow. “Ishaan, I don’t know that she needs to hear this particular story at the moment.”

Papa sent a raised brow back at Mama. Without looking at her, he asked, “Inej, do you want to hear my story?”

Mama scoffed. “It doesn’t matter what she wants; it’s what she needs. And she needs to rest , love.”

Well, that didn’t sound like such a bad idea. When she was young, she was enchanted by Papa’s tales and thought of them frequently. It was one of the things that had shaped who she was now. But she didn’t know if she was capable of pondering his plethora of life lessons at the moment. If the Barrel had taught her anything, it was to take any rest you could get when you weren’t about to die.

 Inej yawned. “I think that might be a good idea. Tell me another time, Papa.”

Papa’s eyes crinkled with his understanding nod. “Alright, my Inej. I suppose it wasn’t in the cards for now.” He sauntered up to her and placed a kiss on her cheek. He and Mama shared a glance that Inej’s tired eyes recognized as concern before they both approached the door to exit. Papa held it open for Mama and her lips turned upwards. With joined hands, they left.

Inej forced herself onto her other side, towards the wooden wall that the healing room’s cot was pressed against. A bone-deep exhaustion replaced the screeching pains that had been ricocheting throughout her body before Lizavet had healed her. She sighed and thought of her mother and father. She’d always dreamt of having a love as tranquil and pure as theirs. She’d seeked it out in the villages she’d played in, in the mountains they’d crossed. Inej had experienced the opposite of love under Tante Heleen—revulsion. Disgusted with Tante Heleen and the men who took advantage of her, and disgusted with herself for letting them. But, then—the sparks had lit again. A match and a flame, a sizzling of a bomb. That had been him. Kaz. He wasn’t tranquil, and he definitely wasn’t pure. But neither was Inej anymore. Even now, after months of not adding to the fire, her flames were burning, unhindered and immovable. 

She could only hope that his hadn’t died down. 

Inej wasn’t set to sail to Ketterdam for another month. And, frankly, she wanted to keep it a surprise from Kaz and the rest of them so they wouldn’t plan anything outrageous. It had taken her a while to come clean to her parents about what she’d been doing in Ketterdam. Lucky for her, they’d been understanding of it. But she didn’t want to push that luck any further, even if she did miss the scheming and comradery of the Dregs.

A quiet knock broke Inej away from her thoughts. 

“Hello?” she rasped, turning back towards the door.

One of the Squaller twins from earlier, Dakari, entered with a piece of parchment in his hand. “You have mail, Captain. I picked it up from the village post while you were, you know, killing slavers.”

Inej rubbed her heavy eyelids. “Thank you. Just leave it on the corner of the bed. I’ll grab it in a moment.”

Dakari nodded, putting it down and walking back toward the door. “Of course.” He paused before the door handle and spun back around.

“Mhmm?” Inej hummed, easily masking her annoyance. She was frightened at how much she sounded like Kaz. 

“Just… did you really steal from the Ice Court?” He grinned, twisting one of his braids between his fingers excitedly.

Inej’s gaze softened. “Yes. I did. But it wasn’t just me.”

“Well, you and whoever else it was are definitely some of the most skilled people ever.”

Inej laughed. “Thank you.” She decided not to mention that they were also the most reckless people ever.

“Oh! One more thing…” He stopped upon seeing her raised eyebrows. “Never mind. I’ll ask another time. Uh, see you, Captain.”

“Bye, Dakari.”

He nodded at her with another grin and disappeared behind the closed door. Inej reached for the letter, and smiled at who it was from. The front was labeled, in swirly cursive, To: Inej Ghafa. From: Your Girlfriend (Also known as Nina Zenik). Nina was coming up with all sorts of creative ways to address her letters. They kept in correspondence quite often; she expected a letter from her at least once a week and frequently told her . Inej had started the tradition, as a way to ease the loneliness of Matthias’s absence.

Inej unfolded it and scanned her neat rows of lines. Nina’s uniform handwriting was the opposite of her personality, which shone through her paragraphs. 

My dearest Inej,

I’m afraid that this letter might be a little more somber than the usual mail. It’s also a bit more urgent, which is why I made a few Squallers who owed me a favor deliver this via windpower. It’s five times as fast, believe me. If they did what I asked, you should be getting this the same day as I wrote it, sometime in the evening. If not, then I hope your boat can travel faster than what’s coming to haunt us. 

I suppose I should tell you what’s wrong. I came into town to ask Kaz if he’d do a job and then everything went to shit. Kaz is quite literally dying inside, Wylan’s been captured by a Grisha cult, and Jesper is a furious mess. That third one shouldn’t be a surprise, though. I can’t blame him. Saints, I know how it feels to lose someone like this. I digress. Can you please come help us find Wylan and capture the cult so I can get our money from the Triumvirate and never have to deal with this again? 

Oh, and Wylan’s pretty important too.

Of course, I understand if you can’t. You have so much else going on in your life that I would definitely not be valiant or good-minded enough to work through. I just wanted to reach out in case you might be able to, because I don’t know how much longer I can listen to Jesper and Kaz banter over what the best approach is. If you could get your Healer you told me about to come too, that would be great. However irritating he is, we don’t want Kaz to die . Then there would only be four out of six of us, and four of crows doesn’t sound near as good as six. Though I suppose it would be three if they killed Wylan. Wow. That got dark really fast.

Anyways, please come if you can. Kaz will only listen to you, and I’m not good at bringing Jesper out of crises. 

With love, 

Nina 

P.S. I forgot to mention we’re running on a strict time crunch—four days to solve this. 

P.P.S. Should I get a haircut? I’m in the mood for something drastic.

Inej stared at the letter. Her heart had sunk to the pit of her stomach, and she doubted that it would crawl back up her chest any time soon. Poor, sweet Wylan. Why would anyone want to kidnap him? Why was it always the best people who received the worst punishments? And Kaz. No. That couldn’t be possible. What had happened to make his body start decaying? If it was that bad that Nina had noticed on her own—she knew that Kaz wouldn’t dare tell her anything about how he was feeling—then he was already well on his way to the grave. 

Inej covered her eyes with her right hand, controlling her breathing with her left palm over her stomach. In, out. In, out. It was one of the many coping mechanisms she’d developed at the Menagerie. Visions of Wylan and Kaz trapped, dying flashed in her mind’s eye, but she willed them away. No. She needed to think rationally. The letter drifted to the floor, and the balls of Inej’s feet met the ground in silence. Once she made contact with the wood, her mind cleared. She had a very blinding, very clear idea of exactly where her crew needed to take her. 

They needed to go to Ketterdam.

Chapter Text

When Wylan awoke, he couldn’t tell if he was the one spinning or if it was the rest of the room. Wylan looked down at his shoes—huh. He was off the ground. That was funny. How did that happen? Something was around him. Maybe someone was hugging him. Maybe it was Jesper. No, it couldn’t be Jesper. Jesper was the wrong answer. He got the wrong answer a lot when he was being tutored. Wylan felt mad when he thought of Jesper (the wrong answer), and he hadn’t the faintest clue why. But whoever was hugging him had thin arms—thin but strong arms. They were cold arms, too. They were all around him like a snake, like a metal blanket. 

Hey, what was that weird round thing coming towards his—

Wylan’s mind cleared right after the punch ricocheted off of his shoulder. Craaaaaack. Wylan gasped, his eyes pooling with tears. His attacker was adorned with a crisp suit, a jutting jawbone, and snakelike slicked back hair. Most of all, he was the very person Wylan wanted absolutely nothing to do with: his father, Jan Van Eck. Wylan’s paralyzed body swung backwards. He glanced downwards and then upwards; he was somehow suspended between the ceiling and the ground, wrapped in a steel chain. What was even stranger was that he was on a stage. If he flexed his toes, they could touch the wooden top of it.

Wylan desperately tried to remember how he’d ended up in this situation. A memory fluttered down from the branches of his brain. Wylan grasped it—he and Jesper arguing outside of the Crow Club. Had Jesper brought him here? No, he would never treat him like this. Not even if Wylan had done something to make him argue. However, Wylan got the sense that this time it was Jesper who had done something. Oh, It had been Jesper. Then Wylan had walked away and gotten himself kidnapped. Or something like that. He still felt foggy.

Only now could he tune into the voice announcing his doom.

“You wished to see his strength. I assure you, this is your Saint.”

Wylan strained his neck towards the voice and his father punched him again—this time in the gut. Wylan hurled. 

“Da… why are you… why are you doing this to me?” he whispered, eyes widening. His throat burned and his eyes stung. He wanted to go home—he wanted Jesper. Not this horrible, uninviting theater of death. 

His father smirked, blue eyes narrowing devilishly. “You want to know why? I have a secret for you, boy.”

He bent down slightly, placing his lips close to Wylan’s ear. He raised his hand to cup it around his mouth, as if he didn’t want his whisper to escape Wylan’s eardrum. Then he pinched Wylan’s ear between his fingers and twisted it, ripping the top of it from his head. Wylan screamed in agony as blood gushed from the top. The iron smell of it tinged his nostrils and turned his vision red. Jan punched him again in the gut, and it was all Wylan could take not to scream again.

“No normal man can withstand being tortured and chained up for long. Have faith that his mental divinity will shine through and he will escape the clasp and the torturer. Either he is your Saint and he performs a miracle, or he dies. We aren’t set back terribly either way.” 

Wylan finally got a glance of the two people conversing in the audience. They were the only two in the theater besides Wylan and his father, and they seemed to specifically be surveying them. A woman continued talking, while a tall man next to her nodded hesitantly.

“Help m-” Wylan began, but his father’s fist collided with his cheek before he could finish his call. Wylan’s anguish was beginning to give way to anger. These people weren’t helping at all. They must’ve been his kidnappers. A pale-faced brunette young woman, a blonde man with one green eye and one blue, and his father . Wylan wanted to scream at them all, but they weren’t the ones tied up. He was. 

Wylan slumped in defeat, his finger sliding into the pocket of his pants. All he had in it was the stem of a dandelion he’d picked with Jesper and one of Kaz’s lockpicks he’d been gifted for his birthday. Well, technically Jesper had stolen it and called it a birthday present from Kaz. To his dismay, Wylan realized that the lock was behind him, and his arms were bound at his sides. Wylan bowed his head and moved his foot slightly upwards, kicking at one of the wraps on his shins. It fell loose with a clink . The entire loosened chain ever-so-slightly around his body.

Wylan stared at the piece of the chain below him. It looked so out of place with the rest of his bounds. No—he shouldn’t draw attention to it. He would definitely get beat up for that. Wylan pressed his arm against his ribcage and gently slid it out of one of the coils. The entire chain tightened, then loosened again. His father had briefly walked downstage to speak with the woman and man. Wylan tried to push down the pangs of disgust and pain circulating throughout his body and slid his free arm behind himself towards the lock. He immediately recognized it as a padlock. What had Kaz taught him about picking those? Was it right, then left, or just dig it in and hope it unclicks eventually? Wylan went for the latter. 

The lock didn’t budge. 

Well, are you going to escape or not? Kaz’s impatient rasp cut through his despair.

“Kaz?” he whispered.

A threatening glare from his father reassured him that Kaz’s voice was in his head. 

I can’t do this. I can’t unlock the chain, Wylan responded desperately. He hated how pathetic he sounded even in his own mind. 

Merchling, in this world you either kill or get killed. If you truly want to live, then stop crying like an infant and find a way out of these chains. 

Wylan sighed. Thanks, Kaz—well, figment-of-my-imagination Kaz. 

Kaz didn’t answer. 

Flushed with new determination, Wylan began fidgeting with the lock again. He was just in the nick of time too, because his father had begun heading back over. No matter how many times he was betrayed and wounded physically and mentally by his father, each one still stung like it was the first time. Jan stalked toward him like a wolf, his frame shrouding Wylan in shadow. 

Jan stepped one step forward. 

Wylan failed to undo the lock.

Step.

Fail.

Step. 

Fail. 

Step. 

Click . 

The lock clattered onto the top of the stage. 

Wylan shimmied out of the chains and fell to his knees. One of them cracked on impact, but he didn’t really care at the moment. What mattered was that he was free, and he could find a way out of here. He wasn’t lithe and acrobatic like Inej, but he had his small size on his side for once. They couldn’t catch him. His adrenaline was pulsing through his body way too much for that to happen. Rising to his feet, he began to sprint to the back of the theater.

Wylan stopped halfway to the back wall of the theater. Instead of running after him, his father and the man with heterochromia had begun to clap. The woman stood in silence. Her expression was as plain as the rest of her. 

“As I told you, this is the Saint Lev we’re seeking.”

It took a solid moment for Wylan to realize that she was talking about him . 

He began to shake his head profusely. “No—no, I’m not a… you have the wrong…”

The woman’s eagle eyes narrowed in a glare that looked suspiciously like Kaz’s. She shook her head sharply at him, and Wylan’s mouth clamped shut.

“Damien, you can grab the audience now. Friedrich, I want you to get the traitor. It’s time for his execution.”

Wordlessly, the two men nodded and walked onto the stage, disappearing behind opposite wings. They must’ve entered some hallway; Wylan heard two doors creak open and slam shut. Who was Damien, and why did she just call his father Friedrich ? 

As soon as they left, the woman gestured for Wylan to take a seat next to her in the audience. Too scared to see what would happen if he didn’t, Wylan obeyed. The young woman sighed—upon closer look, she couldn’t have been but a year older than him. Her round face betrayed her other more callous features.

Wylan had a million and one questions to ask her, but before he could burst any out, the woman simply stated, “Tailors can fool others quite easily if they’re skilled.”

“Is that how you…” Wylan mumbled. He paused after seeing her calculated nod. 

“So he really wasn’t…” Another nod. 

Wylan didn’t know whether he felt more horrified or relieved that his father hadn’t actually been the one torturing him. If they’d managed to Tailor someone to look like his father down to the birthmark on his neck, then that meant his kidnappers had at least one Grisha. A talented Grisha, at that. Then there was the other thing to worry about: why were they calling him a Saint?

“I’m not a Saint,” he mumbled, fiddling with the buttons on his sleeves.

“Of course you aren’t, Saint Lev.”

Wylan ran a hand through his red locks and winced when he realized it was the shoulder that had been hit earlier. “No, I’m really not. And my name is Wylan.”

The woman sighed. “You misunderstand me. We might learn to keep that secret to ourselves, is all I’m saying.”

“Why are you holding me captive?” he blurted out. 

“Because in four days, about a thousand Grisha expect you to kill an evil beast living in the Kerch catacombs using only your mind. And if I anger those Grisha by letting you go, then I can’t get what I want.”

Wylan narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you want?”

The girl pressed a surprisingly gentle finger to his lips. “Well, if I tell you that, then I’ve ruined the fun of it.”

Wylan cringed at the contact she made on his face. Her finger was cold, like the rest of the theater. The reality of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks; if there were a thousand Grisha here, then he was severely behind in both numbers and strength. He might not actually escape this horrid place.

“Please, you have to tell them it’s not me. Whatever you want, I can give it to you. Please .”

The girl’s stare turned icy again. “Is that so ? Then give me Kaz Brekker.”

Wylan’s jaw dropped. “I…”

She laughed cruelly. “That’s what I thought. I have to do everything myself in the Barrel, don’t I?”

She rose, dusting off invisible particles on her black pants and crossing her arms. “Now, that’s enough questions for the day. I’ve some executing to prepare for.”

“Wait!” Wylan called out before she could disappear behind the stage.

The woman hesitated before spinning back toward him on her heels.

“If you’re not going to tell me anything else, at least tell me your name,” Wylan pleaded.

Once again, the young woman’s lips upturned and her dark brow set. “I suppose.”

Finally . She was giving him one other shred of information about herself, even if it was something as trivial as a name. Wylan ran a hand through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut at the rippling pain in his arm.

“My name is Saskia.”

****************************

Wylan figured he’d only been wedged between Saskia and Damien in the audience for about ten minutes, but it felt like hours—even days—were wasting away, and he could do absolutely nothing about it. Wylan wasn’t religious, but he prayed to Ghezen anyways. Let Jesper be safe from this. And please, tell him in some way that I love him. When they kill me for being unable to fulfill their demands, tell him that there was nothing he could have done. 

It was hard for him to pray with the cacophony of screaming Grisha behind him. They filled the audience, even the aisles. If they weren’t lounging in the theater’s wooden seats, they were jumping and letting their whoops echo throughout the dark room. Wylan sighed and stared at his feet. Maybe he could make a run for it; the Grisha wouldn’t want to hurt their “Saint”, would they?

The only thing stopping him was the pistol in Saskia’s left hand. If she was half as good as Jesper, he’d be dead in minutes once it hit him. Her eyes glinted dangerously in his direction, like she knew he was thinking of escaping. Wylan tensed immediately after. The stage illuminated, and the entire theater went silent. 

The execution was about to begin. 

Da—no, Friedrich—walked out from one of the wings, his iron grip wrapped around two people’s arms. If Wylan hadn’t just been declared a Ravkan Saint and nearly died (thankfully they didn’t repeat the torturing part for an audience—they’d just announced him to the crowd), this sight would’ve been the most insane thing he’d seen all day. 

One of the man’s arms was clenched around Pekka Rollins’s wrist, and the other was around a young boy of about nine. Immediately Wylan noticed the striking similarities they had in face and hair. This was the son Inej and Kaz had talked about, Alby Rollins. Pekka Rollins threw dirty insults at Friedrich like bricks, while Alby looked like he was about to cry at any moment. However much he hated Pekka Rollins, he felt a tinge of pain for Alby. He probably had nothing to do with whatever his father had gotten them into. 

“The traitor!” Damien shouted, stalking up to the stage. The crowd went wild, hollering all sorts of Ravkan expressions at Rollins that Wylan couldn’t understand. A group of five Kerch converts shouted “Death awaits those who swindle the Empire of Saint Lev!” 

“I didn’t do a bloody thing to you idiots!” Pekka snapped, baring his teeth. “You’re the ones who stole kruge from me!” He pointed at Saskia in the audience, who simply raised a brow. “She did it! She convinced me to invest in your shitty business.”

Damien spoke over him, deep voice booming. “The traitor faces charges of thievery and heresy!”

The crowd roared back in affirmative cheers. Wylan watched in terror as a group of five other Grisha mounted the stage, one holding a gleaming silver sword. With a pang in his gut, he realized that the sword was faintly stained with blood. Wylan soon learned that one of them was a Heartrender; Pekka doubled over and clutched his chest, his breathing loud and staggered. Alby fought against Friedrich’s grip as he desperately tried to run towards his father. Friedrich held firm, his face amused. 

“In the name of Saint Lev!” Damien shouted, raising his arms in an X shape. The crowd mimicked him, their voices becoming an eerie “In the name of Saint Lev!” back. 

The Grisha with the sword raised it high above his head and slashed Pekka Rollins across the chest diagonally in both directions. Blood burst out of his chest like a fountain. Pekka cried out, a pitiful squeak. His voice didn’t last long. The Grisha sliced the sword straight through his neck. His head lulled backward and rolled to the back of the stage, his eyes open but unseeing. Blood gushed from his now empty neck and his body fell forward. The stage was now covered in blood puddles, like the theater had just rained it. Alby screamed, his body covered in his father’s blood.

Wylan covered his mouth. He leaned forward and vomited all over the floor. His hands were shaking, but his body was dripping in sweat. The cheers of the crowds around him were a buzz in his ears. No. No. This was what they did to people who wronged them. The Crows could not come save him. Please.

“Now, the sacrifice!” Damien cried, gesturing at Alby. Wylan’s horror mounted again as they shoved Alby to the front of the stage. Alby sobbed, kicking at Friedrich’s stone frame and clawing towards his father. 

Before Wylan could realize what he was doing, he’d run to the stage and was slipping over the puddles of blood on top of it. 

“ No !” he screamed.

The entire theater fell silent. He spared a glance at Saskia and her gun and found her smirking.

“You can’t… don’t kill him. He didn’t do anything.”

“His blood is soiled,” Damien boomed, glaring at Wylan. “You’re most forgiving, Saint Lev, but we must kill him for your sake.”

“As your Saint, I command that you leave him be. Find another sacrifice. Ghezen, sacrifice me. But don’t kill this innocent boy. He didn’t do anything.” Wylan had no idea what he was doing—this was Kaz’s enemy’s child, someone he should have no connection to. But he couldn’t watch another execution. He didn’t think his stomach could handle it.

The crowd whispered, hushed, to each other. Damien’s different-colored eyes screwed shut as he weighed his options. Confused, he glanced at Saskia. She simply rolled her eyes and mounted the stage to face the crowd. 

“Behold, the compassion of Saint Lev. The traitor’s progeny will be kept alive for now,” she announced. Her voice was as monotone as one could get. Wylan slumped in relief and placed a hand on Alby’s shoulder. 

“Instead, he will be killed in four day’s time, in celebration of Saint Lev conquering the Drachentigren .”

Alby sank to his knees, fighting against Wylan. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Wylan whispered to him. Upon recognizing that Wylan was the one who had saved him, he buried his face into Wylan’s stomach, tears and blood soaking Wylan’s white shirt and vest. 

“Why did they ki-kill him?” Alby choked out, staring up at Wylan with red eyes.

“I don’t know. I…” He held Alby tighter, wrapping him in an embrace. Alby curled into a ball on Wylan’s lap, his tears cleaning the blood from his cheeks.

Saskia, Damien, and Friedrich began ushering crowds up to the stage and through the wings. Why? He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. All Wylan knew was that it would be the two of them against the world for the four days leading up to Alby’s new execution date.