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Chapter Text

17th of the Wyvern Moon, Imperial Year 1253

The creeping tillers of wheat are just falling dormant for the winter when their guest arrives.

In Almyra, the late days of the Light God’s Sun are cool and breezy. The wind ripples down through the mountains and breathes across the plateaus, whistling through the canyons and gullies of the arid landscape. Summer’s grip falters, the sun’s brutal beams obscured by much-appreciated storm clouds harkening the coming of the rainy season.

This time of year is when the aches start to set in, swelling knees and pressuring heads and aggravating every old wound Khalid forgot he’d ever earned. But he loves this season nonetheless. The summer sunflowers bring a smile to his face, as do the little beaded stalks of millet, but it is the winter wheat that pleases him most. Something about it always strikes him as special, seeing the green shoots pushing up through the soil at a time of year when so many other things are dying.

In Fódlan, the summer harvest would be ending now, the leaves changing color and falling to their deaths ahead of another long, cold winter. Khalid doesn’t miss those winters, though he thinks back on those beautiful autumn colors from time to time. It’s been well over half a century since he last saw them—not that he can see all that well these days, anyway. He feels a kinship with those Fódlani trees: his own beauty and vigor have long fallen away, and while he’s still fairly spry for someone his age, his body seems intent on reminding him just how old he is in new and surprising ways each day. He can still make out some things at a distance, but anything close up is a blurry haze of color.

He feels a gentle touch on his shoulder before he comprehends the low rumble of words by his ear, and he turns to the source of the sound with a creaky grunt.

“Speak up, Fatemah,” he chides, “don’t you know that’s my bad ear?”

The poor girl blanches. Most of his staff have worked for him for years—decades, even—but she’s new here, having only started a few months ago. It means she doesn’t know all of Khalid’s games and jokes yet, which makes her so very fun.

“I am sorry, King Father,” she says too formally, tripping over herself to move to his other side while attempting to apologetically bow, but he stops her with a hoarse laugh and a pat on her upper arm, shaking his head and offering her a grin. He still has most of his teeth—he’s proud of that, and might as well show them off while he can.

“Don’t bother, dear girl,” he tells her, “they’re both the bad one. What was it you said?”

The girl blushes. Gods, she’s young. As young as his little granddaughter, and skinny, too. He thinks to scold his housemaster for not feeding his workers enough, but he’s distracting himself. The girl was saying something, and it would be rude to ask her to repeat herself a third time.

“There is a stranger coming up the road,” she tells him. Loud, but slow, the way everyone talks to him these days, as if he can’t hear or understand. “The guards don’t recognize her, and she is not a merchant.”

Khalid strokes his white-streaked beard and hums. It’s more of a rasp or a croak, he supposes, but it ought to have been a hum, anyway. “Then she is a guest,” he says decidedly.

“King Father,” Fatemah says, giving Khalid an almost furtive look, “she does not appear to be from Almyra.”

Khalid hums again, louder this time; the noise would be better described as a scratchy squawk. Once, he was so charming, but something happened.

“Then she is a special guest,” he declares, and claps his hands to his knees as he makes to rise from his chair on the porch. It’s a bit of an ordeal, and Fatemah doesn’t know what to do with herself—she reaches her empty hands toward him, then retracts them, then extends them again in a near embrace as she sees him wobble while finding his footing. All her awkwardness makes Khalid laugh, and he almost feels bad when her blurry features become flushed with pink. “Have her welcomed,” he tells Fatemah. “Ask Iraj for food and drink, for Zeinab to draw a bath, and for Ramin to prepare a room.”

He begins to shuffle his way down the lane and hears Fatemah scrambling behind him.

“K-King Father!” she stammers. “You would bid me leave you?”

He waves her away without turning back to look at her. “You heard me, little one. I can walk a few steps without needing my hand held.”

But she scrambles her way in front of him—annoyingly fast, these youths—and bows her head respectfully as she presents him with something. He frowns, but takes the cane from her as an act of compromise. Let it never be said that Khalid is not a diplomat.

“I thank you,” he says, ensuring his tone is gentle as he offers her a warm look. “Go now. I’ll greet our guest.”

He can make out the relief on her features even through the blur, and as Fatemah bows again and departs, he watches her go with a chuckle. She still respects him for now, but she’ll learn.

Turning his attention back to the road, he squints, shielding his watering eyes against the bright mid-afternoon sun. He can make out the figure now as she approaches, and as he studies her, something in his chest grows warm, an indescribable feeling settling low in his stomach. The figure is still too far away to fully make out, but he can’t shake the strange sensations that are overtaking his body and making his blood thrum hot in his veins for the first time in so very long.

She nears, accompanied by two of his guards on horseback, who fortunately have elected to be polite in escorting her to the house. Her head is covered with a deep blue cowl, made almost brown with dust and dirt and sand, but as she approaches, that hot feeling thrums harder and a smile breaks out over Khalid’s face. How she still has that damn gray cloak after all these years, he’ll never know.

“Heya, Teach,” he calls out in Fódlani, and despite the distance, he feels those green eyes snap to his, recognition causing their travel-weary haze to brighten in an instant. “Long time no see.”

While she’s just as stoic as he remembers, her blank face and easy posture giving so little away, he can tell she’s as surprised as he is at the chance encounter. Those eyes of hers are so bright, and even with his poor vision, he can see her mouth fall somewhat slack when she finally reaches him. She seems to fumble for words; he waits for her to come to them, but she says nothing in the end, simply extending a hand to him.

She’s definitely surprised when he ignores it in favor of pulling her into a tight hug. It’s strange for him, too; he remembered her being much shorter, but he scarcely has an inch or so on her now. Her body is stiff at first, but she eventually returns his embrace, all her rigidity falling away. She wraps her arms around him and breathes out a long, low breath, hot against his shoulder.

“It’s good to see you, Claude,” she says, earnest as ever. Her words buzz in his ear, and he can’t tell if her voice is wavering or not.

“You, too,” he tells her, and for once, he’s just as earnest.

It takes longer than he thought it would for her to begin to pull away. He lets her go when she does, and she moves back just enough to get a look at him, their respective pairs of green eyes roving each other’s forms. Even though it’s difficult for him to make her out through the milky fog of cataracts marring his vision, she looks exactly how he remembers her, as if she’s walked directly out of a seventy-year-old memory. She’s pale as porcelain, her body a lithe bundle of muscle and power. Beneath her dusty cowl, her hair and eyes gleam with holy light.

And while time has had its way with Khalid, weathering his features as the sea erodes the shore, she doesn’t appear to have aged a single day. His youthful beauty has long since been worn into an assortment of crags and wrinkles. She, on the other hand, could easily be mistaken for one of his granddaughters’ friends rather than as his former teacher.

She is different, though, he acknowledges. She’s thinner, for one, if no less muscular; her cheekbones are pronounced, and there are dark, heavy circles under her eyes. He wonders if she’s been eating. Her clothes are baggy, nondescript, and practical for traveling across the Almyran steppes under the unforgiving sun.

And she doesn’t seem to be carrying a weapon.

She’s the same. She’s different. And gods, he hadn’t known it until now, but he’s missed her. A lifetime has passed since they last met, but seeing her again is like coming home.

His white-streaked beard scratches her smooth, unblemished skin as he presses a kiss to each of her cheeks—a proper greeting for an old and beloved friend. He can’t stop smiling. He pats her arm, overwhelmed with emotion, tongue-tied for one of the first times in his long, long life.

Then they’re beset by his stewards and retainers, and the moment is over. They take her bag and cloak and cowl, escorting her into the house, and the sudden flurry of attention nearly makes her balk. But she recovers well, falling into a gracious and respectful mien, and the slight wrinkle in her brow is all that betrays her to Khalid. As she’s whisked away to bathe and be shown to her room, he sees her off with a wink and a two-finger salute.

“What are the odds,” he mumbles to himself once she’s gone. He gazes up at the sky for a moment, shaking his head. Readying his cane, he releases a rasping sigh and begins his own trek into the house.

With each step he takes, he has to suppress a laugh. He still can’t stop smiling.

It takes little convincing for her to accept his hospitality, though Khalid is charmed to learn that she’s knowledgeable enough in Almyran etiquette to refuse at first. While she bathes, he settles into his favorite chair in the courtyard, and even with his fading hearing, he can make out the hum of her brief, stilted conversations with Zeinab and Ramin, conducted in a mix of broken High Almyran and Fódlani. Then the afternoon sun hits his face just right, and its warmth feels wonderful on his skin, and he doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he feels Iraj’s hand on his shoulder and her voice in his ear. He’s a bit groggy as he makes his way to the dining room, but he begins to come around when Iraj presses a cup of wine into his hand, and by the time his unexpected guest comes to join him, he’s awake and alert again.

With the dust and grime of travel washed away and her worn clothes exchanged for clean, loose-fitting robes, his former professor looks more youthful than before. As Fatemah escorts their guest into the dining room, it takes Khalid a moment to recall that the woman is his contemporary and not his young steward’s. Her long, damp hair is the color of jasmine leaves, and its ethereal glow so captivates Fatemah that the hapless girl nearly blunders into the doorframe. She recovers only to trip over her own foot as she goes to pull out a chair; Khalid laughs, making the girl’s flushed face all the redder, though their guest pretends not to notice. Once his teacher is seated and settled, poor Fatemah can’t seem to flee the room fast enough, bowing and bleating out an awkward goodbye before speeding to the exit.

Iraj enters just as she’s leaving, and a near-disaster is miraculously averted when the cook maneuvers out of the way before Fatemah can stumble into her, scarcely managing to keep the contents of the steaming-hot bowls in each of her hands from sloshing onto the floor. They can hear Fatemah’s gasp of shock clear as day from her place of exile in the hall, but Iraj is ever professional and gives no indication that anything is amiss. She sets the bowls before Khalid and his guest, topping off their drinks before bowing and taking her leave. The young one doesn’t escape unscathed, however—as soon as Iraj disappears around the corner, Khalid recognizes the all-too-familiar drone of her scolding hiss, accompanied by Fatemah’s continued apologies as the two retreat down the hall. Only once they fully fade does Khalid break into a laughing fit.

“Useless bunch,” he says, rubbing his brow with the edge of his thumb. “It’s like they’ve never had a guest before.”

“They’re very sweet,” the professor says, deflecting graciously. There’s a tightness to her tone that betrays her true impressions, and the sound warms Khalid’s heart.

“They are,” he acknowledges. “And I’m grateful for ‘em. They take good care of me.”

He takes his cup of wine in hand and raises it.

“There’s much to be grateful for today. It’s an honor to have you at my table.”

His teacher raises her cup in response. “The honor’s all mine.”

They tap their cups together. Khalid takes a sip of his; his guest lightly thumps her cup against the table and waves a hand over it before following suit. When she lowers it again, she stares into the dark liquid, pensive.

A silent moment passes before a dry, crackling sound emits from her throat. It takes another moment for Khalid to recognize it as a laugh—it sounds unpracticed and borderline uncomfortable.

“It’s really you,” she murmurs. Her tone is flat, but something about it makes Khalid’s chest ache.

“It’s me, Teach,” he assures her, making his voice slow and steady. “It’s really me.”

She lifts her intense, piercing green eyes to Khalid. Then she sets her cup down to reach across the table and take his hand. His skin is a mosaic of scars, wrinkles, veins, and age spots, speckled with patches of leather from years of being kissed by the hot Almyran sun. Hers is smooth and pale, the contrast stark against his rich, golden complexion. But faded pink scars marble her exterior, and he can feel the layers of calluses on those slender palms, and there’s a weight to her grasp that he doesn’t recall from all those years ago. Maybe it’s new; maybe he’s simply forgotten.

The look in her eyes, though... he remembers that. Her eyes had been blue when they’d first met, but in their green hue over half a century on, they look just as they did way back then. Blank. Empty. Betraying nothing, as though there’s nothing to betray.

That vacancy is both old and new, and it pains him to see it. There used to be something there. He’d been sure of that once.

He claps his other hand over hers and gives it a gentle pat.

“Food will get cold at this rate,” he says softly. His mouth pulls into a crooked grin. “Not that I mind having my hand held by a beautiful woman.”

That crackling sound echoes from her throat again, and her gaze softens as they separate.

“You’re still you, Claude.”

He laughs, raising his cup in another toast and taking a sip. “Yep,” he drawls. “A little older, and a lot uglier, but still me.”

And you’re still you, Teach. You’re still you.

She’s hungry, Khalid is happy to discover. That hasn’t changed either, then—back in the day, she could put Raphael and Ingrid to shame in the dining hall, and their combined appetites would run the risk of eating through all the monastery’s stores in the span of one meal. Oh, Raphael... It’s been too long since he thought about the man, and far longer still since he said his last goodbye. He thinks about having Ramin write to check up on the brawler’s daughters, but forgets about the idea almost immediately.

“You look good for your age,” he tells his guest, sipping mindlessly at his wine while watching her demolish her bowl of khoresh. He picks at his own every so often. All compliments to Iraj—the stew is delicious, but he doesn’t have much of an appetite these days, so he mostly just observes his guest. “You’ll have to tell me your secret.”

“I’m blessed,” she says with that too-familiar deadpan, and Khalid looses a rusty-sounding laugh.

“How about that? You’ve still got jokes, Teach.”

She pauses her assault on her stew to stare at him, but the corners of her mouth briefly twitch upward, and the sight fills Khalid with warmth.

“You look well,” she says after a few more bites.

He snorts another laugh. “Oh, sure. I’m breathing, so I must be doing well enough. I didn’t think to send you an invitation to my ninetieth last year. I guess that was rude of me; it was quite the affair.”

He chuckles, beset by memories of a late night of drunken antics. Farid fell in the lake. Zeinab awoke the next day on the far edge of the millet fields. His grandkids learned that Baba could be fun. And, to top it all off, he made a killing playing cards with Yousef. Let the record show that the Master Tactician’s mind is still sharp, after all.

Ah... he digressed, if only to himself.

“Quite the affair,” he repeats with a click of his tongue. He sniffs, shooting her a pointed look paired with a toothy smile. “Though, in my defense, I didn’t know you were still alive.”

She pauses again, her fork partway to her mouth. A hunk of mutton slips free and falls back into the bowl; she doesn’t seem to notice, even when it splatters a bit of broth onto the hem of her robe.

“Am I supposed to be dead?” she asks.

Khalid shrugs. “You tell me. I hardly even keep up with Almyran gossip these days. But anytime a queen disappears, it’s cause for talk. And for questions.”

The once-professor, once-queen lowers her fork. Her lips curl upward again, though her eyes don’t respond. They’re fixed hard on his own, so glazed with cataracts and watery with age.

“You want answers,” she says, flat and direct.

“Eh.” Khalid scratches the loose skin at his neck, tugging at a white lock of his beard with a noncommittal tilt of his head. “Who doesn’t.”

She stares at him for a few silent moments. Then her posture relaxes as something within her releases, and finally—finally—the softness in her lips is reflected in the set of her eyes.

Khalid smiles back at her, and although he hadn’t recognized the tension until it was gone, something tight in his own chest falls slack.

“Eat up, Teach,” he urges. “And have as much as you like. I get so few visitors these days; Iraj barely earns her keep running my kitchens. I’d appreciate it if you kept her busy.”

Two more bowls of khoresh and scarcely a handful of words later, the woman across from him is finally sated. Claude’s on his third glass of wine; Iraj, that old nanny-goat, only ever lets him have two, but whenever she’s out of the room, Teach kindly refills his glass with some of her own. He sips happily at it now, content to appreciate the warmth of the alcohol as it ambles through his veins and brings a flush to his cheeks—and, of course, to study his guest.

She studies him too, on occasion, though she spends much of her time taking in the room as though finally seeing it. It’s a cozy, intimate space, despite its ornate decoration. Shirin was fond of traditional Apaman architecture and interior design; he’s not as familiar with southeastern Almyran culture, having grown up in the northwestern part of the country, but he’d become partial to it himself through her influence. The intricate patterns painted on the walls, the mosaics of tiles on the floor, and the masterfully-woven tapestries scattered around the room have all faded over the years, especially after his wife was no longer around to ensure their upkeep. He’s sure they’ve only gotten worse since his eyes started to go. Still, they’re objectively beautiful, and they must fascinate the professor, who scans each texture and surface as though committing the place to memory.

“Can I ask you some questions?” she says after some time, having apparently found his dining area satisfactory.

Khalid hums, scratching his beard. “I don’t know,” he responds, as if giving ample consideration to the request. Then he arches an eyebrow. “Can you?”

She opens her mouth, but when she catches the grin slowly growing on his face, her eyes glint and she releases a sharp breath through her nose.

“A joke,” she observes. She can’t laugh, or won’t, so he does for both of them.

“Couldn’t resist,” he says, apologetic. “It doesn’t work in Almyran. Ask away.”

She nods and takes a drink of her remaining wine, falling silent as she formulates her words.

“How long have you lived here?”

“In Almyra?”

She shakes her head. “This house.”

Khalid thinks. “About twenty years now. It’s my son’s estate, technically.”

Her face softens. “You have a son?”

“Two,” he tells her, beaming. “And two daughters, nine grandkids, and three great-grandkids. We welcomed my second great-granddaughter last winter.”

She nods, then raises her cup. “Congratulations.”

He raises his in thanks, and they drink to his happiness.

“You ever wind up getting hitched?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“No.” She tilts her chin to the side. “Considered it a few times, politically. Didn’t ever become necessary, so I didn’t bother.”

Khalid sighs, inflecting the sound with a hint of melodrama. “What a shame. Nobody stole ol’ Teach’s heart in the end.”

He’s needling her on purpose, but she doesn’t play into it as he hopes she will. There’s just that crackling noise again—it’s closer to a laugh this time, if still far from sounding pleasant, and there’s a distinct edge to it that her tightly-clenched jaw does nothing to help.

“I was married fifty years,” he says as a peace offering. “Lovely woman, my Shirin. You would’ve liked her.”

The tension in her jaw slacks, and her tight mouth relaxes. “I’m sure.”

“You would’ve,” he says again, his tone growing fond as he briefly indulges himself with the comforts of memory. “Beautiful little thing with a mean streak—and much, much smarter than me. I was lucky she thought my accent was cute; she didn’t care for my jokes. Been gone twelve years this spring.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Her tone is soft and honest, which he appreciates.

“I’m sorry everybody’s stuck with me and not my better half.” He laughs at himself. The glare she would’ve given him for a comment like that would cripple a man lacking Khalid’s tolerance for her debilitating looks.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Teach murmurs, pulling him back to the present. She’s always so earnest; he doesn’t know how he forgot. It sobers him.

“Kind of you to say,” Khalid says with a small, sad smile. “I’m glad you are, too, Teach. Don’t think there are very many left from our day. Class reunions must look pretty sorry.”

“The last one for our year was in ‘46. It got down to just me, Bernadetta, and a handful of others. Sixty-five years seemed as good a time as any to stop.”

“That’s a shame,” he muses. “Maybe ’51 would have been the year I bothered to come.”

There’s no bitterness in the words. There could be. But it’s too soon to start with that kind of talk, and he is legitimately happy she’s here, and besides, it would be rude. She seems to realize that he’s considering being rude, anyway, as she changes the subject.

“Your stewards call you ‘King Father’. Why is that?”

His shoulders relax, and he leans back in his chair as a proud smile overtakes his face. “It’s what I am. King Yousef Iskandar is my son.”

“He’s your son,” she repeats, her green eyes flaring wide.

“Ever since he was born. Have you met him?”

“No. I did meet King Shahid once.”

Khalid scowls. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It was an interesting encounter,” she states—grossly understates, by Khalid’s guess. When did she become such a politician? “Though I’m sure I would have much preferred your son.”

Khalid huffs his agreement. “You would’ve recognized him, for sure. Looks just like me, but with his mother’s eyes and, thankfully, her good sense. Terrible shot, but you can’t win ‘em all.” He resists the urge to grumble further on the matter. All those archery lessons...

Teach’s mouth starts to curl at the corners, and her eyes are soft. “I’ve only heard good things. I wish I’d gotten to meet him.”

“Wish he’d ever listened to me when it came to foreign policy. You might’ve had the chance. Any little domestic problem, it’s ‘Father, Father, what do I do?’, but as soon as a border’s involved, he suddenly knows everything.”

It’s a sore point. He’s close with his son, and “the Fódlan issue” is the only topic that’s nearly caused them to come to blows. But Yousef has always been angrier about Khalid’s short tenure as Leicester’s leader than Khalid himself ever was, and the boy has yet to trust in the possibility of lasting peace with Fódlan. It saddens Khalid to think he never will.

“He’s fortunate to have you to advise him,” the professor says. Her placid look has changed into something contemplative. “I hope he knows that.”

“He does,” he admits. “He’s a good boy.” A boy in his sixties, sure, and a king at that, but always his boy. “I left court when my wife and I moved out here. Haven’t done much politicking at all since his mother passed. Of course, whenever he comes to visit, there’s always something he wants my ear for, but he doesn’t really need it. I just tell him what he already thinks, in different words.”

She sips her wine, nodding. “Sometimes, that voice of confidence makes all the difference.”

Khalid covers his mouth with his hand as he stifles a yawn, then tilts his head from side to side. “I certainly can’t complain. It’s an easy job, and he shows his appreciation—puts me up here, keeps me fed and entertained, and all he asks is that I write to tell him how the crops are doing, and that I play nice with the stewards.” He grins wickedly to display his remaining teeth. “The latter, I won’t do. He might be the king, but my son’s not the boss of me.”

“I get the impression that you keep them on their toes,” the professor says, a brow arching and one side of her mouth drawing back.

He shrugs. “Can you blame me? Can’t ride, can’t walk too far, can’t hear well, and can’t read anymore, either. Outlived all my friends. Family visits every couple months, if that—not that I blame ‘em. They’ve got their own lives. Just means I haven’t got much left, besides bothering Zeinab, Iraj, and Fatemah with my bad jokes. Ramin’s going deaf now, so he gets off easy.”

He’s chuckling to himself, but Teach is quiet. She won’t meet his eye.

“Stop that,” Khalid scolds, which startles the professor into looking up. “I’ve had, and have, a good life. My stewards are kind to me. My family thrives. I’ve had many wonderful friends, and built things I’m proud of, and never saw another battlefield after I left Fódlan.” He fixes his cloudy gaze on her, his chin angled down. “My years have been filled with love. That I’ve lived long enough to have boring days is a blessing.”

She breathes out slowly through her nose, and he sees her throat twitch as she swallows hard. She raises her cup again.

“To life’s blessings,” she says simply. Some part of him expected more poetry from a toast delivered by the woman who was once Fódlan’s holy leader, but despite everything, she’s still herself. The realization makes him smile.

“I’ll drink to that,” he nods, and quaffs his wine as she takes a slow drink of her own. He smacks his lips and glares sourly at his now-empty cup. “Do us a favor, Teach, and fetch us some more wine. Should be another jug or two in the cabinet by the window there. Pick whichever you like—just don’t tell Iraj about the stash. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

His guest’s mouth quirks at its edges, and she rises from the table. “Got something to open it with?” she asks as she approaches the cabinet and retrieves one of the jugs.

“Should be a knife in the drawer above it.” He’s a little surprised she doesn’t have a knife of her own on her person, even in her borrowed robes. He hears her shuffling through the drawer, then the distinctive sound of steel leaving a sheath.

“This is quite a dagger.”

He chuckles. “It was a wedding present from Nader.”

“It’s beautiful.” There’s a muted pop as she breaks the wax seal on the jug. He gives her a grateful smile when she comes over and refills his cup, then watches as she fills her own and retakes her seat. He goes to take a drink, but stops before the liquid touches his lips.

“If Iraj comes back, this is still my second glass.”

“Of course it is,” she says, deadly serious. “I’m very thirsty.”

He cackles at that, raising the cup to her before knocking it back. “Don’t think you ever met Nader,” he comments, frowning at the realization. “He was my first instructor when I was learning to fight. Took good care of me when I got back from Fódlan.”

“‘Nader the Undefeated’?” the professor asks. The name makes him chuckle.

“A nicer title than he deserved, the coward. But yes, that was him.”

His teacher nods. “I didn’t meet him, but I came close once. In ’93.”

“Ah, yes, I remember.” Khalid leans back in his chair again, rubbing the scraggly white hairs on his chin. Damn beard never did fill out properly. “Would have gotten to see Holst again if that had escalated, although I can’t say I would’ve been happy to be killed by him.” He thinks a moment, then shrugs. “Might have been worth it if he’d taken out Shahid, too.”

“Holst was something special,” the professor remarks, an amused tone humming in her throat. She looks at him over the rim of her cup as she sips her wine. “I always wondered if Hilda followed you here.”

He shakes his head. “Hilda fell at Gronder, Teach,” he says gently.

Something flashes in the professor’s eyes. She blinks it away, then stares down into her cup again. She’s silent for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs eventually. “I didn’t know.”

Khalid sighs. He’s used to talking about his wife’s death, to a degree. It still feels fresh, but it’s been over a decade, and he’s had room to grieve with others who knew her and loved her, too. Talking about Hilda, though... it’s like re-injuring an old wound that had never properly healed.

“For all her laziness, she was brave that day. I took a bad hit from an Imperial general, then got cornered by two Demonic Beasts. Thought I was a goner. Hilda put me on her wyvern and held ‘em off long enough for me to get away.”

He still has the scars and the aches and the lingering weight of guilt in his chest to prove his story. In the early months of healing—and in his weaker moments in the years thereafter—he’d begged any god he could name and hundreds he couldn’t to inflict those pains on him a thousand times over, if only for one chance at doing things differently. But those kinds of bargains and prayers never got him anywhere other than deeper in the quagmire of regret and misery and endless “what-ifs.”

Realizing he’s been too quiet, too long, he looks back to the professor, only to find that she’s also quiet, processing.

“She was always brave,” she says in the end, briefly meeting his eye.

“Always,” Khalid agrees. “To her last.”

Silence overtakes them again, and while there’s a gloomy weight to it, there’s such fondness there that it never becomes uncomfortable. They lose themselves in shared memory until Teach’s gentle voice eases through the hush.

“I tried to find out what happened to everyone that day.”

“Oh?” Khalid sits up a little at that, arching a brow. He’d never bothered to find out for himself; despite the spark of curiosity struggling to catch in his mind, he’s not sure he wants to know. He’d been someone else then, and it wouldn’t make a difference now. It would just chafe at wounds that had scarred and faded and been scarred over anew many, many times throughout his too-long life.

But it might make a difference for her to tell him, so he waits for her to go on.

“I knew about Dimitri, of course,” she starts, and Khalid nods. There was no denying the Faerghan king’s fate. The Adrestian Empire had ensured that particular victory was known far beyond Fódlan’s borders. “And most of the other Blue Lions. Sylvain, Ingrid, Felix...” A bitter breath scrapes its way through her lips. “Easier to say who survived, I guess. Annette, for a few more days. Dedue.”

Although it’s a sad topic, he can’t help finding it a little bit endearing that she still thinks of them all in terms of their old house names from the academy days. The name ‘Annette’ doesn’t register in Khalid’s memory—he’s sure he knew her once—but the mention of the late King Dimitri’s loyal retainer surprises him. His reaction must have been audible, as those celestial green eyes flick up to meet his own pale, foggy ones.

“He was presumed dead, but went into hiding and sought us out when we made our final assault on Enbarr. He—”

Her hand suddenly closes around her cup, tight enough for her knuckles to turn white. A slight cracking sound brings her back to herself, and there’s a flash of something akin to embarrassment on her features as she eases her grip, returning the cup to its place on the table. She breathes out. Her momentarily slanted brows fall back to their neutral state.

“His body was returned to Duscur,” she finishes.

He nods again in acknowledgement. That’s all he’ll get to know of that.

It takes her a bit to continue. She lays her hands on the table, her fingers occasionally touching the cup, rotating it back and forth.

“As for the Golden Deer... I couldn’t confirm what happened to most of them. Apart from Lorenz.” She takes a sip of wine, wiping a drop of red liquid from her mouth with the edge of her thumb.

Khalid nods again. In his eyes, Lorenz was dead long before the battle at the Great Bridge of Myrddin, but it makes sense that Teach wouldn’t feel the same.

“I heard about Judith, too,” she says softly.

Khalid grunts. Turns out that one still stings. The sound attracts her gaze, and she swallows hard.

“I’m—”

“Don’t.” His voice is harder than he intends it to be. He wills the tension in his body to ease, and it leaves his chest with a grainy rattle. “Once we start with that kind of talk, we’ll run ourselves in circles and get nowhere, other than a whole lot sadder.”

Her jaw shuts. She nods. Her face is as impassive as it ever was, but there’s something like gratitude in the set of her mouth. It’s a strange and bittersweet complement to the tired, age-old melancholy in every other part of her body. Her nails drum an arrhythmic tattoo on the table as she pushes her next words across her lips.

“Do you know what happened to the rest of the Deer?”

Khalid frowns. He’d known this question was coming, yet he’s astonished by how much it hurts to answer it. Maybe it’s because she looks exactly the way she did then—as if she’s walked directly out of his memory, or like he’s been transported back in time.

That perfectly preserved hand is suddenly resting on his. His eyes are blurrier than usual, and he has to blink hard to bring the world back into any kind of focus. He must have taken too long to respond. He hasn’t struggled like this since he was a young man.

“You don’t have to tell me, Claude,” she says. “We don’t have to talk about this anymore.”

Her voice is so gentle, and her touch is so warm. He feels like that young man again—the one who’d grabbed that hand the night of the annual academy ball, stealing her first dance before anyone from her own house could even catch a glimpse of her. Before that night, he’d thought her an unshakeable enigma: more machine than human; powerful and precise and perfect. But she’d changed his mind, and what’s more, she’d made him laugh—she was a terrible dancer. In his arms, she was awkward and uncertain, stepping on his feet and struggling to keep up with the rhythm. To her credit, she’d stuck it out, and even got a feel for it as the song went on—although she’d fled as soon as there was a break in the music, proceeding to prowl the perimeter of the ballroom for a socially acceptable length of time before disappearing into the night.

Watching her retreat to the sanctuary of the wall, he’d felt a twinge of guilt. He’d been wrong about her: she was human, after all.

At least, she had been then. He’s not sure she still is now. Her touch is the same, her benevolence unchanged, but she is different, and he has yet to identify how much of her has been altered throughout their years apart.

“Raphael made it,” he answers, not acknowledging the out she’s given him. “Honestly, I’d thought he was already dead by the time I got off the battlefield, but Lysithea found him a few years later, and we kept in touch. He said Ignatz saved his life; never did explain how.” He strokes his beard, trying to determine how best to sum up a lifetime. “He was a knight for a bit, but his injuries from Gronder were so bad that he couldn’t serve for long. Went and worked at his family’s inn, got a little family of his own, and from what I know, the rest of his days were happy ones. A fever took him, oh... seventeen years ago now, I think.”

His teacher nods. She draws her hand back, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her robe. “That was all?” she asks. “You, and Raphael, and Lysithea?”

He raps his knuckles on the table, his mouth in a grim line. “That was all.”

She sits with his words, and for a moment, she goes somewhere else, far away and long ago. “After the war, I asked Seteth to have the Knights investigate what happened to all the students. He told me about the deaths of the Lions, but said the Deer got away and went into hiding.”

Ah, Seteth. Khalid can’t help bristling at the mention of the man. He arches a brow while trying to decide whether to be nice. “I’m sure Seteth said a lot of things,” is what he goes with. “I’m guessing he’s alive, too?”

Her own brows rise at his question. She gives him a long look with those eyes like dry wells. “Yes,” she confirms. “And Flayn.”

He grunts. He’d bet money that, like the professor, they still look exactly as they did all those years ago.

“But not Rhea,” he guesses, fishing.

She finally averts that intense gaze. Several seconds go by without remark.

“No,” comes her eventual response. “Not Rhea.”

That’s interesting. He’d heard, of course—he figured half the known world was aware of the Archbishop’s passing, and the other half had been at the funeral—but some part of him had thought it was a ruse, suspecting the Archbishop was living out an undeservedly happy retirement somewhere. It’s cruel of him, sure, but he’s a little bit satisfied to learn that’s not the case. He hopes that satisfaction isn’t outwardly apparent.

“You surprised me, you know,” he tells her. “I didn’t think you would take up her mantle.”

And he’s surprised again: at his words, her face goes briefly and utterly blank, as though she’s stepped out of her body, leaving only a husk behind.

“It was my duty,” she says, her weary timbre betraying her age. “I did what I had to do.”

It’s a rehearsed response, and not far off from one he used to use himself, back when he had to justify such things. At least his dreams and ambitions had the courtesy to die young, leaving him ample time to find other, humbler duties to fill his days. There’s so much he wants to ask her. So much he wants to understand.

“I know,” he says, instead of all his questions.

Her jaw clenches—he’s surprised her this time. He can tell she’s suspicious, but when he doesn’t go on, or let any of those questions escape, something within her gradually flickers back to life. She exhales like a sluice gate opening, and on her soft inhale, she flows back into herself.

“Do you know how Lysithea survived?”

That’s the end of that—they’re back on Gronder again. Khalid makes an affirmative noise, unable to keep a sad smile from overtaking his face. “By my order. I wouldn’t let her go past the forest at the eastern edge of the field.” He chuckles. “She hated me for it. It was sentimental, sure, but also practical; she was already so sick, and wasn’t much use on the front lines.”

“She was sick?”

The professor’s question pulls him out of his reverie. “You didn’t know?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

She shakes her head, and Khalid sighs. It’s not his story to tell, but there’s no one left to be upset with him for sharing it, anyway.

“When she was young, she and the other children of House Ordelia were victims of Crest experiments. She was the sole survivor. The experiments gave her a second Crest—it’s what made her such an incredible mage, for someone so young—but it destroyed her body. She left us just before her twenty-fifth birthday.”

He falls silent. It’s hard to talk about. Part of him still feels responsible. What keeps him silent is the arrival of the sudden storm that overtakes the professor’s face, clouding her blank features with a profound darkness. Her knuckles blanch again as she digs her nails deep into her palms, her posture so stiff that it borders on being brittle. She mutters something that’s not for his ears; he assumes he wouldn’t be able to make it out even if his hearing was as good as it had been in his younger days. He lets her think. He could use the time for himself, anyway.

“I tried to do something,” he continues once the worst of the storm has passed. “Do anything. Read whatever texts I could get my hands on... got in touch with physicians, healers, Crest scholars... anything or anybody that could cure her, or at least ease her pain. I had some pull here in Almyra, but not enough to get anywhere at the time.” He laughs bitterly. “Not enough for me, and definitely not enough for some girl back in Fódlan.”

His teacher is unresponsive, but he can tell she’s listening. Whenever he’s silent for too long, her eyes flit up to his, roving away again before he can attempt to parse what might be going through her head.

“I actually came back to see her just before she died.” He’s not sure why it feels like a confession; to diffuse his own discomfort, he lifts the edge of his mouth up into a lopsided smirk. “Hope you can understand why I didn’t stop in to visit.”

It’s a joke, sort of. Not really. She knows. He continues.

“I stayed with her through her last weeks. We talked a lot. She’d been living in hiding since Gronder, but she was able to help her family get things in Ordelia territory thriving again before they dissolved their house. She was proud of that. Didn’t seem to have many regrets.”

Of course, that was a lie. Lysithea was an ambitious girl. She had lists and lists of things she’d wanted to do. She’d cried a lot at the end. It was a long end. Every precious second of her short, sad existence had to be wrenched from her grasp.

... Oh, gods. Was that a sniffle? It was, and worse yet, it came from him. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his watery eyes and running nose. Begrudgingly, Khalid admits to himself that he must be a little drunk. He hasn’t shed tears over any of these people in so long.

But it’s not just the wine—it’s all of it. It’s everything. It’s Hilda. It’s Lysithea. It’s the professor, fresh from the depths of his memory, a ghost given flesh. It’s the things he’s forgotten he’s lost, and the friends and dreams he buried so long ago.

It’s being with the one who’s at the heart of all his pain, but who’s also the last living person that could help him shoulder its weight, here in the sunset of a long, long life.

His next exhalation leaves his lungs with a loud, husky sound. His lower lip trembles as he flashes the professor his widest smile.

“Sorry, Teach,” he says, his laugh catching and breaking. “Knew we’d talk about this at some point, but thought we’d get through dessert first. Or at least a little more wine.”

She frees a jagged breath of her own through her tight-pressed lips, and she shakes her head, a frantic edge to the motion. “No, Claude, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

They reach for each other across the table, their fingers interlacing. With age comes loss, and at some point, he’d lost much of his grace. Fortunately, he’d also lost his self-consciousness around the same time, although he now finds himself feeling shy. He doesn’t want her to see or hear him. He hates his horrid, honking sobs and the gurgling sounds in his throat. He hates how awful he must look with his rheumy red eyes and his quivering lips and his terrible, terrible tears. They streak through the crags of his face, a flash flood rushing through dry canyons.

She doesn’t cry, even though she should, and she looks like she might. He wonders if she can. He’s embarrassed, and he’s so very sad, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. He keeps holding on, and they sit together in their ancient grief until Khalid’s breathing settles and his disgusting, sputtering noises abate.

She courteously warns him of her intent to speak by giving his palm a gentle squeeze, but he beats her to it by snorting a loud honk into his handkerchief.

“Oh,” he groans, sighing heavily. “I’m beat, Teach. I turn in early these days, and don’t ever get this kind of excitement. Forgive me for being rude, but I won’t be good company if I doze off at the table.”

“It’s all right,” she assures him. She rubs her thumb on the back of his hand, then lets go, sitting up in her chair. “We can—we can talk tomorrow. I’m tired, too.”

He can tell. The more they’ve talked, the older she’s sounded. There’s a lot on her mind, and plenty on his, too, even through the growing haze of drowsiness settling deep into his bones. She doesn’t move to get up yet; her brows contract, and her teeth worry the edge of her lip.

“Can I make another request of you?”

He smiles at her and nods as he finishes off the last of his wine, blotting at his eyes and mouth with his handkerchief. Thank the gods his sniffling has finally stopped. “Sure,” he tells her. “Go ahead.”

Whatever it is, it’s a challenge for her to get out. She starts and stops a few times, then shakes her head, biting her lip again as she orders her words.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I-I’m afraid this is going to sound insensitive.”

Khalid laughs. “That’s promising,” he says with a smirk, and she winces. “Go ahead and shoot. I won’t kill you for asking.”

The lightest flash of color dots her cheeks as she breathes out a puff of air. Then there’s another round of stops and starts before her words can finally escape her lips.

“I’m not from Almyra,” is the end result of all her labors, and Khalid laughs hard.

“Are you asking me to confirm that for you?”

“No,” she retorts, her brows pulled tightly together, “I know that. I know that. But I want to ask something significant of you, a-and I’m trying to be... I don’t want to impose.”

If this is how she handled cultural sensitivity in the days of her rule, he’s amazed any of her attempts at foreign policy ever got off the ground. Then again, for all her awkwardness, her efforts are kind of endearing; maybe that same clumsy charm is what secured her that truce with Dagda back in the ‘20s. He snorts another laugh and kicks her foot under the table. “Ask. I’ll answer honestly.”

Some of the stiffness leaves her posture. She takes another moment to pose her request.

“Is it all right if I stay here for a while?”

Khalid nods. “Of course.”

“I don’t mean just for tonight,” she clarifies, still looking stiff. “I really, really don’t want to impose, though. You’ve already shown me so much hospitality.”

“Stay as long as you want,” he tells her, offering her his warmest smile. “That room’s all yours. Promise I’m not just being polite.”

She remains uncertain, but her gratitude is evident as she returns his nod. He’s remembering how to read the little traces of expressions that flit across her features.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you, Claude.”

Khalid chuckles. “Don’t thank me yet. I might well drive you crazy sooner than you expect. Besides, I don’t get many visitors. If anything, you’re doing me a favor by keeping me entertained and giving my stewards something to do.”

She bows her head in appreciation. “I don’t have any money, but I can—”

“Nope,” he rebuffs, waving dismissively. “None of that.” He slides the jug of wine across the table toward her. “If you really want to repay me, you can take this with you to your room and finish it off so Iraj doesn’t have my head.”

He might be imagining it, but he thinks something almost like a smile plays at the professor’s lips. “I can do that.”

Regardless of whether or not it is a smile, he returns it with a proper one, then pushes his chair back from the table. “Help me up, would you, Teach?” he grunts. “Don’t want Fatemah thinking I actually need the damn cane, or she’ll make me use it all the time.”

She gets up and rounds the table to his side, taking both of his hands in hers. Her arms are strong as they ever were; she pulls him to his feet smoothly and effortlessly, as if he weighed nothing. There’s less of him these days, but he’s still not a small man. She ensures he’s righted and steady on his feet, then grabs the jug of wine from the table and passes him his cane from where he’d leaned it against the wall.

“Thank you,” he says, clapping a hand to her shoulder and giving it two quick pats. “Now, if you hold my arm like this, and take my hand with the other, you can hide that jug between us and give the impression that you’re being a good friend and keeping me from falling over. Which you’ll also be doing.” Iraj might have been right about that two-cup limit on wine, but he’ll never tell her that.

The professor takes his arm as instructed, though she raises her eyebrows as she shoots him a sidelong glance. “It’s not also an excuse to have your hand held?”

He crows a laugh and grins at her. “Of course it is, but you don’t need to say that part out loud.”

He hangs the crook of his cane on his arm and they begin the slow trek out of the dining room and down the hall, meandering through the house toward his bedroom. He could go faster, but he takes his time. He wants to savor this connection as long as he can.

“You remember where your room is?”

“I do.”

“Yell for Fatemah if you get lost. She’s sweet on one of my stablehands, so she might be out at the barn instead of doing her job, but if you yell loud enough, she’ll come.”

An amused sniff escapes the professor’s nose. “I think I can figure it out. But if I wind up needing the help, I’ll call for her.”

They’re at his door much too soon. He doesn’t want to let go, but he does, letting his cane slip down his arm and into his hand.

“I know it’s early in the night yet; feel free to roam the grounds, or ask Ramin or Iraj if you need anything. Ramin speaks better Fódlani, but Iraj’s ears are better. Between the two of them, they’ll get you sorted. Nothing’s off-limits to you here, and my guards already know to leave you be.”

“Thank you,” she says, touching a hand to his arm. “I’ll be fine. To be honest, I’ll probably sleep soon, too. It’s... been a long day.”

He returns her touch, letting his gaze linger on the empty pools of those intense green eyes. He wants to remember them, just in case. “Rest up. We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll give you a proper tour then, too. I’ve been a poor host, not doing that already.”

“If anything, you’ve been too kind.” She takes his hand once more to give it a last gentle squeeze, and her eyes narrow even as they grow soft. “Good night, Claude.”

“‘Night, Teach.”

With near silent footsteps, she disappears down the hall, and he’s pleased to note that he can’t even tell she’s holding the wine jug. He knows he’s not much of a judge, with how poor his vision is, but he’s sufficiently confident that Iraj won’t be able to tell, either.

As the professor turns the corner and disappears, it feels like she takes some of the warmth from his bones with her, and he breathes out a soft sigh. He really has missed that woman. He wonders how long she’ll stay. He wonders if she’ll be here when he wakes.

That night, Khalid dreams of walking amidst tall, bare trees, their boughs adorned with white drifts of snow that obscure every inch of the forest floor beneath them. He dreams of fallen leaves of red and gold, set adrift on a little blue stream that fights to keep from being seized and sealed over by winter’s unforgiving clutches. He dreams of following the stream to where it meets a frozen lake, its expanses stretching on and on until its edges blur with the feet of the distant mountains. He dreams of kneeling to press his palm to the ice, and the swirling faces beneath the surface speak to him in the language of his old life, and what they ask of him, he’s not sure he can provide. When he wakes, he doesn’t remember what they said.

Chapter Text

The tillers of wheat lie dormant in the fields as the rainy winter season takes hold.

That first morning, Khalid and his guest are sitting at the little metal table by one of the marble planters in the courtyard when Iraj comes by, bringing them coffee and bread with honey. His cook relays her morning updates to him in Riverland Almyran: they’re having chicken khoresh for the midday meal; supper will be chickpea soup; they’re low on salt, among other things, so if there’s anything Khalid wants to add to Ramin’s shopping list, he should tell the housemaster within the next two hours. His professor sits placidly while they chat. Khalid can tell she’s listening, even if she doesn’t understand what’s being said.

“Would you prefer I call you ‘Khalid’?” she asks him once Iraj bows and takes her leave.

“I don’t mind you calling me ‘Claude’,” he shrugs. “You’re the last one who knows me by that name. You might as well wear it out.” He arches a brow and regards her with a smirk. “Do you mind me calling you ‘Teach’ instead of ‘Your Majesty’?”

She grimaces. It’s one of the first real expressions he’s seen her make, and despite feeling a bit guilty for having caused it, the sight nearly makes him laugh.

“I wonder how many people know my real name,” she wonders aloud. “It was always something else. ‘Ashen Demon’, ‘Professor’, ‘Your Majesty’... I don’t know that I ever was any of those things.” She glances away, worrying her lip with her teeth. “None of them ever felt right.”

A full wave of guilt washes over Khalid as he blanks on what her name actually is. “Would you prefer I call you ‘Byleth’?” he manages in the end, pulling it free from the depths of his memory and dusting it off.

“I don’t mind you calling me ‘Teach’,” she says, and the grimace falls away, turning into something close to a smile as her green eyes crinkle up at the corners. “You’re the last one who knows me by that name. You might as well wear it out.”

After breakfast, he sketches a rough map of the property on a piece of paper for her. Ever since his stroke in ‘31, he’s had a tremor in his right hand that makes his handwriting illegible at best, so he passes the paper to her so she can label each of the buildings herself. He points out where she can find the cattle and sheep barns, stables, storehouses and myriad other farm buildings to the south and west of the main house. He shows her the roads used to get to and around the farm: the private path she came in on from the main road, leading directly to the house; the public track leading to the mill and bathhouses at the far west of the property; all the small paths that criss-cross the land between the fields and pastures, dividing them up like squares of a quilt. The professor listens closely as she labels each road, field, and building, transcribing her own notes in small, steady print in the margins of the map.

He then sets to giving her a tour of the house itself. Two or three hundred years ago, it was little more than a one-room stone shack; now, it’s an immense, sprawling thing, built of solid alternating bands of light and dark-colored stones, accented with marble, and adorned with adobe roof tiles. It’s built in the eastern Riverland style, and the long inner courtyard at the house’s center is the clearest giveaway of Apaman architectural influence. The professor is clearly taken by the greenery in the courtyard, studying the leaves and flowers of each plant with an intense curiosity he remembers too well.

From where they sit at the little table, he points out the raised platform and vaulted ceiling of the vestibule at the south end of the courtyard, just past the well. Atop the platform are a number of plush chairs and sofas surrounding a long table with a firepit set into it. The decor is similar to that of the dining room, pulling heavily from Apaman stylings in its spiraled mosaics of tiles and the intricate painted patterns adorning the domed ceiling. The space hasn’t seen much use in years, which is a shame. Back when his wife was still alive, it was the site of many late-night talks, celebratory dinners, and introspective conversations in the dying hours of parties. He tries to avoid steps these days whenever possible, but it’s still nice to take a meal there on special occasions.

They rise from the small table and he takes his cane in hand, leading her around the rest of the building’s ground floor. It’s divided roughly into staff rooms at the west and living spaces in the east; the second floor is entirely his staff’s domain, save for the rare occasion when he has enough guests staying over to require use of the additional bedrooms up there. He shows her the drawing room and sitting room, as well as the library in his study—mostly abandoned as it is these days. Near his own bedroom is Ramin’s room and office, should she have need of anything from the housemaster at odd hours. The professor listens attentively, asking questions on occasion, those green eyes of hers scarcely blinking as they take everything in.

Tired already from the brief walk, he leads her outside to the porch and settles into his favorite chair, pointing out landmarks in the vicinity for her to compare to her map. Fallow flower fields span forth from just beyond the porch to the guardhouse at the edge of the main road. They’d once been Shirin’s pride and joy, though he hasn’t had the heart to do anything with them in the twelve years she’s been gone, outside of occasionally sitting in the little gazebo at their center. He’d built it for her as a birthday present—with his youngest son’s help, of course, which is to say that Farid built it, and Khalid provided moral support. Even if his wife only got to enjoy it for a single summer, sitting out there makes him feel close to her all the same.

Just to the north is the prayer house and burial ground; the lake, cattle barn, stables, and pastures all lie to the south. Behind the house to the west are the garden shed, ice house, fruit orchards, and greenhouse. Surrounding everything are the tufted rows of the dormant wheat fields, stretching out over acres and acres as far as the eye can see, meeting the forest at the base of the mountains in the northwest and fading into the horizon line on all other sides. At this time of year, it’s obvious just how dizzyingly flat the terrain is east of the mountains, though Khalid thinks it’s most disorienting once the wheat starts to head and mature. When the stalks are tall and full and lush with grain, the fields seem to stretch on forever, as though the wheat is all there is.

“I’ll get you a horse and saddle, and you can go take a look at it all for yourself,” he tells the professor between ramblings and musings. “I’ve got a beautiful dun rouncey that I haven’t ridden in a long, long time. She could use the exercise.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she replies softly, bowing her head in appreciation as she continues to make notes on her map. She lifts those big, empty eyes to his. “You really don’t mind me staying here?”

“Not at all.”

“I might stay a while,” she cautions, glancing furtively toward the main road before looking to him again.

Khalid turns his kindliest, most grandfatherly gaze upon her, paired with the sincerest smile he can make. “All the better that you do,” he says honestly. “You’ll be doing Iraj and Fatemah a favor by keeping me entertained, anyway.”

Her throat makes that crackling sound again—the one that’s almost like a laugh, if a laugh was a painful, hoarse thing. “Thank you,” she says. “I’m not known for being entertaining, but I’ll do my best.”

Khalid laughs properly at that. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll do fine, Teach. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

They speak more those first few days than they do over the next three weeks combined. When they do talk, it’s not about anything serious. He chats with her about the weather, or asks her to read his letters aloud, or inquires about the crops. She asks him about the names of birds and insects she’s seen while roaming the grounds, or pens responses while he dictates, or inquires about the various buildings around the farm and the staff members in charge of their operation.

Khalid never wonders how long “a while” might be. He doesn’t care. Admittedly, he’d been a little worried that they might get sick of each other, but he’d forgotten what easy company she is. There were a few awkward moments and strained silences those first two days while they learned how to be around each other. Now, they comfortably share space when they want to and take their independence at their leisure.

Every morning when he comes to have his breakfast in the courtyard and finds her already there waiting for him, he struggles to keep the extent of his happiness and relief from being written all over his face.

The bulk of her first days are spent matching up each shaky block on Khalid’s rough map to its physical counterpart, meeting his farmhands and workers, and learning about the animals roaming the pastures and lowing in the barns. Of all the animals around the farm—the sheep, goats, cows, horses, chickens and cats and sheepdogs—she’s particularly taken with the birds nesting in the pigeon tower. There are dovecotes in Fódlan, but not of this size, and they’re not very common outside of eastern Leicester. The Fódlani predilection for using owls over carrier pigeons never made much sense to Khalid, given the comparative difficulty of training owls and their penchant for distraction upon spotting potential prey. Pigeons are nicer, too, which she seems surprised to learn. More than once, he catches her feeding them seeds and breadcrumbs, tentatively stroking a ringed neck with a crooked finger, sometimes even toting a dove around in her arms as she wanders the grounds.

Fatemah spends every spare minute of those first few days glued to the professor’s side, following her around like a puppy as she explores the place. Whenever she remembers she’s supposed to be Khalid’s assistant, she asks him question after question about the woman, or regales him with the minutiae of what she’s done that day. Khalid doesn’t need this level of intelligence on his former teacher, but Fatemah’s infatuation tickles him—and secretly, he’s grateful the girl is no longer spending every moment of the day hovering over his shoulder.

“She’s very dedicated,” the professor remarks over supper one day, once Fatemah has finally left the room.

“If she’s bothering you, tell her to back off,” he advises. “Or I can, if you’d rather not.”

The professor shrugs one shoulder, shifting her focus to the spread of food before them. “She’s harmless. I don’t mind.”

Khalid studies her a moment, then begins to laugh, the sound starting low and becoming a noisy, full-bellied thing.

“I suspected you were more of a lech than you let on,” he manages to say between chortles. The professor shoots a glance at him over her wine as she takes a drink.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, the portrait of innocence, though there’s an unmistakable twinkle in her eye that makes him think he’s right.

It’s interesting, getting to know her again all this time later. She’s still the same in so many ways, still a composite of contradictory forces: energy and restraint, power and caution, detachment and benignance. She’s still curious about everything, dedicated to mastering whatever she puts her mind to. Her grasp of High Almyran is elementary at best, and between the Riverland dialect’s many variances in vocabulary and the thick, throaty clipping of its accent, what little knowledge she does have is nearly useless. But she sets to learning it right away, quizzing Khalid and Fatemah on the names of things and making constant notes in her journal—just as diligent and disciplined as he remembers.

And, he notes with a hint of amusement when he retires to his room one night to find a pristine owl feather wrapped in a cloth laid on his pillow, she’s still a thoughtful gift-giver. A little overzealous, sure, but thoughtful nonetheless.

She’s different, though, as he’d noted that first night. He remembers her in a bizarre assemblage of armor and lace, swathes of bare skin and hard muscle on display between the gaps in the plates. These days, barring when she strips down to loose-fitting clothes for her daily calisthenics, she dresses conservatively, cladding herself in robes or long-sleeved shirts with trousers, wearing a hood or headscarf to obscure the luminous sheen of her hair. That obfuscation goes deeper, too. She was never exactly an open book, but she’s somehow more closed-off than ever—even more than how she was when she first came to the monastery, after that fateful meeting in the woods of Remire all those years ago. Back then, she at least tried to put pieces of herself into conversations, but now, she asks a question or changes the subject whenever it sounds like she might be about to reveal anything of significance.

There’s a weariness to her, too. Some of it is from the years; her appearance might not betray her age, but time has frayed her nonetheless. She’s old. He knows its presence from experience. It’s in the slope of her shoulders, in the surety of each breath, in her eyes and how they linger too long. It’s in her easy, loping gait, each footfall confident even when the direction is unknown; it’s in the way she’s content to sit with her own company, sometimes for hours, having made some tenuous peace with the world. It’s in the darkness and sorrow that envelop her like shrouds when that peace is tested by little remembrances and flashes of memory.

He hasn’t forgotten their conversation from the night she arrived here. He wonders what she’d wanted to say before he’d cut her off, too overcome by the weight of the past to bear its burdens a moment longer. But he doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t bring it up.

“How long do you think she will stay?” Fatemah asks him one morning after the professor has wandered off in search of something to do.

Khalid chuckles, giving the girl a pat on the arm. “She’s too old for you.”

The day after the professor’s arrival, Khalid had individually warned his farmhands, guards, and house staff that—sooner rather than later—their guest would surely be making efforts to join them in their daily work, and to please permit her to assist where she can. All acknowledged his warning with an air of doubt, but they quickly learn that he’d been telling the truth. By her fourth day on the farm, Teach has made numerous laps around the property to flesh out her map of the place and is ready to get her hands dirty.

While the sun is up, she immerses herself in the various duties of the farm’s day-to-day operations; at night, she joins Khalid for supper, then adjourns to the courtyard or sitting room to write in her journal, retiring to bed after an hour or so. She’s positively chatty some nights during her second week, peppering Khalid with questions about the mill’s workings until he runs out of answers. On her third week, she’s nearly silent, having spent the first half of it assisting with the long, hot, and arduous work of stacking hay in the barn, then dedicating the latter half to helping the farmhands clean and fix a spill in one of the granaries.

“Is farm work as glamorous as you thought it’d be?” he asks her one night that week when he catches her staring into her stew, struggling to stay awake through supper.

“I had no delusions of there being any glamor to it,” she remarks dryly, blinking back to something resembling wakefulness. “But I actually like it a lot.”

He chuckles in response. “Of course you do,” he says, and though it’s obvious that she doesn’t know what he finds funny, she doesn’t ask him to explain.

Half of her fourth week is spent in the butchery. The other half is spent in the tannery at the southeast edge of the property. It’s the first week where they don’t have supper together each night—the smell of the tannery clings to her skin long after bathing and laundering, and she passes her evenings outside to prevent the odor from permeating through the entire house. Fatemah bravely attempts to maintain her post hovering just over the woman’s shoulder, but her dogged admiration for the professor is no match for the tannery’s stubborn stench. Khalid figures the additional privacy is a boon for his guest, though he, too, is thankful when she moves on to following the shepherds out to the distant pastures at the start of the next week. Those are long days, and she usually returns shortly before Khalid goes to bed—just long enough for them to share a cup of tea together and to trade brief pleasantries before going their separate ways.

The fifth, sixth, and seventh weeks pass similarly as she familiarizes herself with the farm, the hands, and the endless work to be done. They spend their evening hours alternating between practicing the language and talking about nothing.

They’re sharing a bottle of wine one night after supper when Khalid yawns and goes to stretch his arms out to the sides. He only manages to extend them halfway before he has to give up on his right one.

“Ooh,” he grumbles, rubbing at his shoulder, “it’s gonna rain tomorrow, Teach, I’ll bet you money. My arm and knees know better than any ol’ almanac. Do you feel it, too?” She shakes her head, and he huffs. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all have young bones forever.”

“You’re in pain,” she says, rather than entertaining his gripes. The way she says it is somewhere between a statement and a question.

He snorts, cracking a grin that’s not quite as strong as he’d like it to be. “What gave me away? Was it all the moaning and groaning?”

She doesn’t say anything. She just takes his hand and presses their palms together. Her other palm comes to rest against the back of his, her slender fingers laying flat against his thick and gnarled ones. Her skin feels normal at first—rough with calluses, and a little cold—and then it suddenly flares with heat.

White light emanates from where their hands meet. The glow makes Khalid’s eyes water, but the flood of endorphins that rush through his veins moments later eases the sting. His atrophied muscles and too-frigid bones are bathed in that heat, all the ancient aches fading away. Even the tremor in his right hand that’s plagued him for years finally eases. It’s a simultaneous physical and mental relief, a kind he hasn’t felt in so long: like sinking into a real bed after a grueling march through the desert; like seeing a friendly face push through the haze of snow along the Faerghan border, just to bring him a hot drink and keep him company while he stands watch; like tearing open an envelope with Almyran cavalry letterhead in fear of seeing the steady-handed print of a scribe, only to find his youngest son’s haphazard scrawl hastily relaying all his well-wishes.

There’s an emotional component to whatever this is, too, he acknowledges, once the itch at the edge of his eyes forces him to do so. He feels safe, and content, and twenty years younger—thirty, even. The combination of sensations is nearly disorienting, but he feels no trepidation. There’s just an all-encompassing calm, accompanied by a not-insignificant sense of awe as he flicks his half-hooded eyes to the professor’s face.

“That’s quite the party trick,” he murmurs.

“I learned a few things at the academy, too,” she responds, as though that’s all this is: regular old faith magic, like any healer can do. He’s received his fair share of healing spells in the past—too many times for his liking—and none of them have ever made him feel like this.

“Must have had one hell of a professor,” is all he says, and she makes a small sound that’s so close to a real laugh.

“You could say that.”

The light fades, and she lets go of his hand. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though: he still feels warm, relaxed, and pain-free.

“A fella could get used to this,” Khalid muses, slowly sitting back in his chair. He lifts his eyes to her, arching one white eyebrow. “What’s the catch?”

She shrugs. “There isn’t one.”

“Bah! C’mon, Teach, think better of me, would ya? I paid attention in class. Magic this powerful always has a price.”

She just shrugs again, shaking her head dismissively. “I can’t do it too often. That’s all.”

Can’t, he wonders, or won’t?

While he ought to know better by now than to bother, he looks deep into those hollow green eyes anyway, trying to find what he’s looking for. As usual, she gives nothing back. There is a price for this, and it’s that he’ll never get to know what it is.

He decides he can accept that.

“Thank you,” he says, still holding her gaze.

She stares back at him, and a trace of something flits across her face. It’s like that first day all over again: him, pushing; her, resisting; him, letting go; her, responding with surprise, then relief and gratitude.

“It’s no problem,” she replies, some of that softness coming into her face. “It’s the least I can do.”

He doesn’t doubt that. Nor does he push further. He pours them more wine, and sips at it in the easy quiet, and he asks her about her day.

It takes nearly a week for the aches to start setting back in. He doesn’t make a point of grumbling about them when they do.

To Khalid’s bemusement, Teach joins all the weekly worship services in the prayer house. Considering who she is, he wasn’t even going to bother inviting her, but Zeinab had apparently asked if she intended to come, and the professor affably agreed. She’s unfamiliar with any Almyran gods or their religious customs, and her grasp of the language is still rudimentary at best; even so, she listens attentively through the services and asks questions afterward. Despite his wife’s best efforts, Khalid is no more religious now than he ever was, so Zeinab fields most of them while he helps translate the more complex concepts.

They sit on the porch after one such service: Khalid in his chair, barely fending off an oncoming nap; the professor, scribbling away in her journal, brow furrowed and deep in thought; Zeinab working at embroidery and Fatemah pretending to do the same.

“Are there gods in Fódlan?” Fatemah asks. Her question is blunt and borders on being rude, but Khalid has to admit her Fódlani is getting better.

The professor pauses, the nib of her quill dripping a spot of ink as it hovers just above the page. “We have a Goddess,” she says.

“There is only one?”

“Yes.” Her hesitation is so brief that Khalid barely catches it.

A look of concern crosses Fatemah’s face, her slender lips pursed and her big brown eyes staring at the embroidery hoop in her lap. “That is a lot of work for one god.”

The professor makes a noise that qualifies as a laugh, and Khalid is pleased to note it sounds less painful and unpracticed than it used to. “We also have saints, which are like your lesser gods.” She uses the Riverland Almyran word, and although her Fódlan accent is thick, her pronunciation is impressive. “Someone might pray to Saint Seiros for strength, or Saint Cichol for wisdom. But you’re right. She could probably use some help.”

Fatemah nods, her curiosity seemingly sated, and Khalid nearly drifts off to sleep when Zeinab’s voice breaks the hush.

“What is She like?” she asks in slow, stilted Fódlani. “Is She a loving god, like the Creator?”

Khalid cracks an eye open at that. The professor is quiet as she considers the question.

“I’d like to think so,” she says eventually. “At least, I think She tries to be.”

Zeinab turns to Khalid, who repeats the response in Riverland Almyran. Her honey brown eyes narrow, as if that’s what she’d thought the professor said, and she glances back at the woman just as Khalid does. But she’s gone back to writing in her journal, either unaware of their combined gaze or unwilling to acknowledge it. They return to themselves—Zeinab to her embroidery, Fatemah to her distractions, and Khalid to the whims of the sun.

She’s rarely still. In that way, she’s just as Khalid remembers. She does calisthenics in the early morning while Khalid meditates and listens to birdsong on the porch. They take breakfast or coffee together, and then she’s gone for several hours.

She works with whoever will take her for the day—the shepherds, the stablehands, the house staff, the millers or the farrier or the blacksmith or whoever needs assistance. The greenhouse keeper doesn’t let her touch any of the plants, but cedes a selection of empty pots to her, along with a curated assortment of seeds and fertilizers. Khalid laughs when the professor tells him this. While the slight arch of her eyebrow tells him that she doesn’t get the joke, she doesn’t ask him to explain.

With her around, whatever jobs need to be done are finished significantly faster than usual. The hands start to call out to her for assistance with one thing or another, and she always graciously accepts, lending her strength and her body and, once she becomes familiar with the duties each job entails, her gift for strategy. The language barrier is initially brutal: barring the odd hand who grew up in the northwest of the country as Khalid did, most were born and raised in the Riverlands, where Fódlani is rarely heard. But she practices daily, both with him and with his stewards, and little by little, her understanding improves.

It’s not perfect. The xenophobia and prejudice Khalid experienced in his youth have lessened with each new generation, though they’re far from being stamped out, particularly when it comes to Fódlan. Most of his staff are suspicious of the professor at first, and some are flat-out annoyed by her presence. But she stays out of the way when she’s not wanted, and she does the little things that get overlooked, and offers help to anyone who needs it, and is deferential to their authority in their respective roles. She wins some of them over, and to the rest, she becomes a fact of life—if not a boon, then not an obstacle or threat, either.

And when the work for the day runs out, she still doesn’t stop, prowling the grounds until she finds something that needs doing. Although the estate is far from being run down—Khalid can proudly point to all the parts he’s had built or remodeled throughout his time as its head—the farm has been in operation for over three hundred years, and there’s always more to be done. Daubing clay and plaster to shore up the pigeon tower. Felling trees on the mountainside, then hauling them in to be hewn into planks for mending the paddocks. Patching leaks in the roof with thatch and bricks of adobe. Fixing creaky doors and loose floor tiles and clogged drains and broken shelves and wobbly table legs. Whatever helps to fill in the gaps and keep up with the passing of the days.

Sometimes, Khalid sits outside on the porch or in the courtyard and watches while she works, content to observe or make idle conversation when she wants it. He knows better than to tell her to stop; asking her to sit on her hands is as good as asking her to leave. The third time he sees her toting a ladder into the courtyard to fix a crooked gutter, he shuffles over to stand in the doorway.

He looks at her, clinging to the edge of the roof, a hammer thrust into her belt and a couple of nails held tight between her lips. Her luminous hair is uncovered and messily tied back, fallen hanks of it frizzing in the heat of the midday sun as sweat plasters her bangs to her forehead. The sleeves of her robes are hauled up above her elbows, her arms splattered with dust and grime as she wrangles the gutter into its proper place. The only sign that she’s enjoying herself is the low hum he sometimes picks up when he tilts his head to the perfect angle and the wind catches the sound just right—she’s singing something under her breath as she works, with absolutely no regard for pitch and what seems to be a tenuous grasp of the words.

He stifles a laugh as he feels a pang of sympathy for Seteth. It’s funny, Khalid has to admit, seeing her like this and then trying to imagine her on a throne somewhere in Fódlan, pushing papers and blessing worshippers and sitting in meeting after meeting with envoys and nobles from across the known world. He pictures her in that outfit the old Archbishop had made for her before the Goddess’s Rite of Rebirth. He imagines it similarly splattered with grime from the gutters and mud from the roof tiles, and his laughter escapes.

At the sound, she startles out of her song and cranes her neck to look down at him. He just gives her a two-finger salute and snickers as he calls out, “Don’t mind me.”

A little flash of color dots her cheeks, and for a moment, he thinks there’s a smile there. She turns back to her work, and though it takes a while, she eventually resumes humming her tuneless song, too.

Somehow, she never seems to run out of energy. Even after her hardest days, when she’s slow in making her way back to the house, she still spends her evenings with him, retiring to bed around the same time he does and rising just before dawn. More than once, when he’s awakened from thirst or a dream or a sound in the night, he’s caught sight of her through his bedroom window, wandering the grounds. It makes him all the more grateful for the occasions when she elects to be still and while away time with him. She always seems to show up whenever he’s looking to chat or when he finds himself wanting company. He’s almost forgotten what it is to be lonely.

Over supper or during the rare instances when she takes a midday break, he’ll ask her what she’s been up to that day, or who she’s met, or what she’s learned about the intricacies of the estate. She’ll answer succinctly, and ask him questions, and think over his answers until she’s certain she understands.

Every so often, she compares something to how it’s done in Fódlan, or she makes a connection to a memory from long ago, and Khalid thinks this will be it: they’ll get to talking again, like they did that first day and haven’t done since. It doesn’t happen, though. She never lingers on those kinds of thoughts, and he doesn’t probe deeper.

They pass weeks like this, settling into a comfortable routine. He likes it. He’s amazed by how much he likes it. Maybe it’s the company, or the consistency of their days, or the novelty of having a new, yet familiar face in his life. Maybe it’s just that it’s her. He doesn’t care why, or how long it will last. He just appreciates it for what it is.

“What is the canal?”

At the sound of the Steppe Almyran pronunciation of the word, Khalid flicks one eye open. He’s been intermittently dozing in his chair on the porch while the professor re-hangs the shutters and oils their rusty hinges. She’s fidgeting with one of them now, trying to get the alignment just so, little beads of sweat from the late afternoon sun running tracks down her cheeks and the side of her neck.

“The canal?” he repeats, using the Steppe term as she did; she hums in assent. “It means ‘waterway’, but it refers to how water is transported throughout the country.” He nods his head northward, stifling a yawn. “There are natural springs in the mountains to the north and west of us; they flow underground and turn into the heads of the rivers south of here. Way back when, over a millennium ago, the people who lived here dug tunnels to divert some of that water and make artificial springs in the more arid parts of Almyra. You know how we’re in the rainy season now?”

“So I’ve heard.”

He chuckles at the hint of skepticism in her tone. “Is it that hard to tell?”

“I thought it would live up to its name a little more,” she admits, a noise of exertion rumbling in her chest as she maneuvers the large wooden shutter. “Feels like we’ve only had a few decent rains since I got here.”

“This one’s actually been pretty good so far, as our rainy seasons go. How’d you like those big thunderheads last week?”

“They were impressive.”

“Shaping up to be a really good season at this rate,” he muses. “Probably the best since ‘41 or so. We ought to get a good crop out of it.”

She makes an affirmative sound, and while it’s inflected with genuine interest, it amuses him. He’s learned that this is how she responds when she’s humoring him, despite wanting him to get back on topic or arrive at his point. She’s more patient than most, but still young in that way. Sometimes he meanders on purpose just to see if she’ll force the issue, but she never does: she lets him talk, and kindly redirects whenever it’s natural. Part of him appreciates that kindness, while another wishes she were easier to needle. He gives in, scratching lazily at his beard as he refocuses on the subject.

“Most of Almyra doesn’t get much rain,” he continues once he’s done ruminating. “Here in the north of the Riverlands, we can rely on the Idigina for water, and on our farm, we have the lake, too. But the village out east of here is completely reliant on those tunnels for water, and nobody would be able to farm much in the Steppes or get water in the deserts out east without them. It’s a communal effort—everybody who owns land helps maintain the system.”

“That’s interesting,” the professor comments. There’s a funny hesitation to her tone, and before she can begin her aborted attempts at sensitivity, Khalid chuckles.

“Surprised?”

“A little,” she admits, and he fully laughs.

“Almyra’s been less allergic to unity these past thirty years, but when it comes to water, we’ve always looked out for each other.” A thought strikes him and he blinks open his eyes, turning his head to look at her. “We call it ‘the channel’ in this part of the country, though. Who’d you hear calling it ‘the canal’?”

“Some men at the mill yesterday,” she answers, and Khalid grunts in response. The mill on his land is open for public use, so it’s not surprising to find a mix of Almyran languages and dialects there. Still, it gives him pause.

“Did Sufian talk to them at all?” He checks in with his guard captain once or twice a week, but the man usually comes by promptly if there’s something to report before then.

She shakes her head, pressing the shutter into place with one forearm while ordering her hammer and nails in her free hand. “Not really. He just checked over their wagon and made sure they paid the access fee. I heard them talking while they were unloading; I wasn’t sure what that word meant, but Sufian was too busy to answer.”

Khalid hums, settling back into his chair. “At the bathhouses out by the mill, there’s an access tunnel for the channel. The headspring of the Idigina River is on this land, up on the mountainside, and there’s another access tunnel there. You meet Kinza yet?”

“I think so,” the professor says, beginning to hammer the top hinge back into place with solid, consistent strikes on the nails. “She works at the bathhouse?”

He titters nervously at that. “Well, her office is at the bathhouse, yes, but if you phrase it like that around her, she might bite your head off. She’s the engineer who maintains the channels that pass through our land, including the ones that flow to the bathhouse. She can tell you more about it, if you have specific questions—I only have a rough idea of where they run and how they work. I lived in the northwest most of my life; we didn’t have them there, but they’re very important in central and eastern Almyra.”

“I see.” She double-checks the alignment of the shutter, then starts on the bottom hinge. “I’ll have to talk to her at some point. I’d like to learn more.”

Khalid settles back in his chair, absently rubbing his chest with a closed fist and letting his eyes drift closed again. “Tread carefully with Kinza. She reminds me a lot of how Leonie and Lysithea could get at their worst—stubborn and blunt like Leonie, whip-smart and hot-tempered like Lysithea.”

Teach makes another little affirmative sound, but there’s a decided hint of affection to it this time. “I’m sure I’ll like her.”

“Just don’t be offended if she doesn’t like you,” Khalid chuckles. “You might win her over by helping her clear some of those tunnels. Even if she won’t say so, she’d probably appreciate the help.” He whistles low, shaking his head. “Dark and dirty work. Not for me, that’s for sure.”

The professor hums as she taps in the last of the nails. He hears her open and close the shutter a few times to test it; seemingly satisfied, she gives the hinges a final rub-down with an oiled cloth before moving to the other side of the window to start on the next one.

“I think I’ll go over there tomorrow,” she says, long enough later that Khalid has almost forgotten what they were talking about.

“Good luck,” he says without opening his eyes.

As he expected, the channel becomes the next subject of the professor’s focus. It’s confirmed when Kinza comes up to the house early in the morning two days later. He hasn’t seen her or her ancient bay roan horse in some time, and he’s astounded the old nag is still kicking. It scarcely seems to notice she’s astride it, automatically coming to a stop near the porch without her even needing to touch the reins.

The engineer pulls down the dusty scarf covering her nose and mouth and nods at him. “Old Bones,” she drawls in her thick eastern Almyran accent, instead of saying ‘Greetings, King Father’, or ‘Hello, Khalid’, or even a curt and simple ‘Morning’. She looks good, though, he notes as he watches her slide smoothly off her horse—she’s small and wiry, as most channel workers are, and she looks healthy, if never happy. That scowl of hers had made itself permanent well before she began her tenure here fifteen-odd years ago, and her dark eyes are as focused and serious as ever. Sometimes he forgets that she’s so young. She’s got an ingrained surliness to her that he thinks would be better suited to a woman a decade or two older than she is, although she’s only in her mid-thirties.

Maybe her late thirties by now, he concedes, or early forties. It’s getting harder for him to keep up with these things.

“Kinza,” he greets her, cracking a toothy smile. Ignoring the arch of her thick, dark brow and her aborted attempt at waving him off, he rises from his chair on the porch and shuffles over. He is using the cane, if only because she will make him use it. “It’s been a while.”

Her scowl deepens and her eyes narrow as she crosses her arms over her chest, adopting an authoritative stance that threatens to make him smirk. “Who’s this hummingbird you’ve got hovering around my tunnels?”

Right; it’s straight to business with Kinza. He does appreciate the lack of honorifics and gratuitous pleasantries, though he would have liked to ask about that horse before getting into things. “A friend of mine. She bothering you?”

“Not yet,” she sniffs. “I’d like to keep it that way. What’s she want?”

“Just curious, I think,” he says with a shrug, resisting the temptation to inject his voice with a bit of Kinza’s twang. “Surprised it took her this long to make it to you. She’s been everywhere else already.”

“Well, make sure she knows not to go sniffing around any of the tunnels without telling me. There’s a section we’re rehabbing now that’s a collapse risk. I’m not doing search and rescue in there for a tourist.”

“Oh, you will, if it should come to it,” Khalid says firmly, and somehow Kinza’s frown grows deeper still. “She’s my guest. But it won’t, as she does have a lick of sense. You might know that if you bothered to talk to her. Did she ask you about—”

“She asked about everything,” Kinza responds, flat and scathing. “‘What’s a channel.’ ‘Where does the water come from.’ ‘Who built the tunnels.’ ‘How do we maintain this or that.’ ‘Where do they feed to.’ Do they teach anything in Fódlan?”

Khalid laughs, and in response, Kinza scuffs one of her long leather boots in the dust, her nose twitching. She’s not really mad, because she hasn’t spat yet; it’s his least favorite of her many abrasive habits, though she’s kind enough to temper it until he inevitably pushes her too far.

“They don’t have channels there,” he informs her. “And, if you’d bother to give her a chance, you’d find out you have a good worker available for whatever you need help with. Learns fast, and she’s strong, too.”

Kinza just shoots him a look; while it makes her scowl ease, her distrust is all too obvious.

“You want me to take her on,” she says, sounding tired already.

Khalid offers her his most warm and innocent smile. It’s not that effective, given he doesn’t have quite enough teeth left for it to have been as charming as it once was, and Kinza knows him too well, besides. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he says, sounding as wizened and grandfatherly as he can manage. “It would bring an old man a little joy, knowing his two dear friends are getting along and doing good work together.”

She makes an incredulous noise that’s somewhere on the border of a scoff, a laugh, and a snort. “You’re pushing it, Old Bones,” she says, stalking her way back over to her horse and swinging herself aboard the ancient thing just as smoothly as she’d dismounted. “I’ll give her one chance. She blows it, and she’s out of here, and you don’t ask me for anything again.”

“I’m lucky to have you, Kinza,” he says completely honestly, despite the laugh in his tone.

She nods in agreement, her lower lip puffing out with the motion. “That, and you’re lucky I like you.”

“Don’t I know it.” A thought strikes him just before she makes to ride off, and he calls out to her. “Hey, Kinza!”

“What now?” she huffs, arching one of those formidable brows again as she pulls on the reins to slow her awful horse from a lethargic crawl to a full stop.

“Did you happen to see a couple caravans out your way the other day?” Khalid asks.

That brow arches even higher, nearly disappearing below her dustworn headscarf. “At the public mill? And the public bathhouse? You want an update on every snake and bird I see, too?”

“Sheesh, Kinza, come on,” he grumbles, “you know what I mean.”

She rolls her eyes, both of her brows finally falling back into their usual furrowed position. “Isn’t that Sufian’s business?”

He shrugs, clasping both hands on the handle of his cane. “Sufian didn’t mention it.”

She looks westward in the direction of the mill and bathhouse, then sniffs loudly, rubbing sweat and dust from her face with the hem of her sleeve. “Then it sounds like he didn’t think there was a problem.”

“Did you?”

She sighs, and the sound comes out almost like a scoff. “I don’t think about that stuff. It’s not my department.”

“Will you keep an eye out?” Khalid presses. “Just in case. Especially since my friend will be with you.”

Kinza scoffs properly this time, wagging a finger at him as she nudges her horse’s sides with her heels to goad the decrepit thing into motion. “You are pushing it, Khalid,” she warns him as she goes.

“Is that a yes?” he hollers after her. He already knows the answer, but he prefers to hear her say it.

Of course, she doesn’t give him the satisfaction. “You’re lucky, Bones,” she yells without slowing down or turning to look at him. “You’re lucky you’re so old and I feel sorry for you.”

“And that you like me,” he calls back. “If you’re making a rude gesture, you’ll have to come back over here; I can’t see it.”

“Remind me next time, old man. I’ll show you up close.”

Kinza and the professor hit it off, just as Khalid expected. Kinza likes a good, reliable set of hands, ideally attached to somebody who listens well and doesn’t chatter much. Khalid thinks sometimes that the professor would be happiest if she were only a set of hands, not expected to talk or call the shots.

What Khalid didn’t expect is how well they’d hit it off. About a week into their work, just before suppertime, he blinks awake from a nap in his chair on the porch and sees two figures riding up to the house: the professor astride Khalid’s beloved dun-coated mare and Kinza aboard her awful, ancient bay roan. It’s only the fourth time in Khalid’s memory that Kinza has accepted an offer to sup at the main house, apart from brief appearances at the odd party or feast. Kinza even bathes before the meal. It’s odd to see her in his house at all, let alone without her usual coating of dirt, dust, chalk, and grime, but Khalid knows better than to say anything. When she joins them at the table, he mimes buttoning his lip before she can so much as shoot him a glare.

He listens as they debrief with each other over the day’s work, making somewhat of an attempt to translate from channel-ese for him whenever they remember. There’s an issue with materials that were used to reinforce some of the tunnels a few years ago, and they’re wearing out much faster than they should be. It sounds complex, dirty, and delicate—and very, very frustrating, if Kinza’s intermittent curses in Fódlani, Riverland Almyran, and her native Haroivan are anything to go by. It’s going to take weeks or possibly months to get it all fixed. Khalid is very pleased that it’s none of his business.

When their conversation runs its course, the professor excuses herself to the washroom and Khalid turns his attention to his favorite engineer.

“Everything going well with you and my buddy?” he asks innocently.

“Well enough,” Kinza admits, blatantly ignoring his smug smile. “Hasn’t caved anything in yet. And she’s strong, like you said.”

When Khalid begins to laugh, she glares at him, and her briefly neutral face falls back into her usual deep frown.

“What’s so funny?”

“She’s too old for you,” Khalid responds in a singsong voice, and only laughs harder when she scowls and delivers a too-light punch to his upper arm.

Khalid is already in a good mood when he makes his way out to the courtyard one bright afternoon to take his midday meal, and he’s made all the happier when he sees the professor there. She’s in the loose shorts and top she wears when doing calisthenics or lounging around afterward, as she appears to be doing now—she’s laid out flat on one of the large marble planters, sunning herself like a cat and sipping at a cup of water.

“You’re back early,” he comments, pausing to lean his cane against the wall. “They run out of sheep? Or did you and Kinza have a falling out?”

“I was out at the barn this morning, actually,” she says, lifting her head to glance up at him. “They needed a hand; one of the cows went lame.”

“No!” Khalid exclaims. “Not Mahsa again?”

“Yes,” the professor says, rolling up into a seated position, “but she’s doing all right. We trimmed her hoof and cleaned up her claws, and Hassan put a block on her other foot to help take the weight off of it. She’s already getting around well—much better than she was just a few hours ago.”

He breathes out a heavy sigh, lifting his eyes skyward. The next time he makes it out to the barn, he needs to thank his stablehands and farrier. He’s always been partial to Mahsa. “That’s a relief. She was struggling with it when she was with calf last year. The poor girl was so sick.”

“I heard,” she says with a grim nod. “They caught it early this time, though, and Hassan says she should heal up quickly.”

Khalid smiles wide, clapping his hands together. “Good news on good news. Thank you for helping them.”

“It’s no problem,” she says, shrugging. “We wrapped up about an hour ago; I took a bath and have been hanging around since then, being lazy.”

“Well, at your age, you ought to be as lazy as I am.” His heart is full of warmth, and it turns his smile into a full grin. “By the by, I got a letter from my youngest, Talia. She’s coming to visit this summer, along with my grandson and his children. They’re going to stay through the autumn.”

The professor’s brows raise, and she meets his wide grin with her best approximation of one. “That’s wonderful, Claude.”

“It is,” he beams. “I haven’t seen my daughter since my ninetieth birthday, and I haven’t met my new great-granddaughter yet. I’m looking forward to it—plus, it’s as good an excuse as any to have a feast.” He tilts his head toward the sofas on the raised platform at the south end of the courtyard. “Why don’t we sit in the vestibule? There’s much to celebrate, and you might as well be comfortable after all the work you’ve done today.”

“That sounds nice,” the professor says, her features soft and her mouth curling at the corners.

He smiles back, then turns and shuffles toward the platform, casting a glance at her over his shoulder.

“You’ll have some company on your side of the house when they come,” he tells her, “but the children will stay upstairs. That way, you can still get some peace and—”

“Claude—!”

He feels himself tripping, and for a fraction of a second, he feels a terrible ache in his head, as if it’s been split wide open. But before he even can recognize the feeling for what it is, it’s gone. Teach’s hand is on his shoulder, her other hand gripping his opposite arm tightly.

“Oh,” he starts, blinking himself back to awareness. “Oh my. I—I thought that damned step finally got me. It’s been trying to take me down for years.” He swallows hard; his mind feels oddly foggy, though he figures it’s just the shock of having nearly fallen. “Good thing I have you around, huh, Teach?”

He glances back at the professor and has to blink again as he takes in the look on her face. She’s wide-eyed and pale—paler than he ever remembers seeing her—and there’s an unmistakable pain and terror etched deep in her features. She’s clutching him so tightly that it’s starting to hurt.

“Did I scare ya?” he asks, trying to sound calm by laughing it off. “I’m all right now, Teach, I—”

“Please sit down,” she says. It’s not a request, but an order. He’s so stunned, he doesn’t respond, letting her strong arms lift him up onto the platform and frogmarch him into one of the plush seats with the kind of care afforded to porcelain dolls and ornate vases. She makes sure he’s settled, adjusting his position with firm, assertive touches not unlike those she used to use to correct stances and posture in combat training way back in their academy days. Once she’s satisfied, she grabs his cane and presses it into his hands, her wide eyes fixed on his all the while. When she finally sinks into the seat across from him, it’s a relief.

He was fairly certain he had fallen. He almost remembers doing it. The harder he tries to cling to the memory, the further it slips away.

“Good catch,” he says to try and break the quiet. It’s embarrassing, the way everyone gets worked up over the slightest wobble or stumble. He’s had a few proper spills over the years, some of which scared the living hell out of his family and stewards, but he’s always been fine, and he’s never seen any of his loved ones look quite like the professor does now. She doesn’t just look afraid, she looks sick. She’s so pale, and she’s pressing one hand tight against her chest, taking short, forceful breaths through her nose. “Are you all right?” he asks, alarm quickly outweighing his shame.

Her eyes somehow widen further, then narrow as her mouth pulls into a hard line. “Don’t ask me that,” she says, almost snapping at him. “You’re the one who—”

“Didn’t fall, thanks to you,” he retorts. He glances down at where her hand is resting on the table, balled into a white-knuckled fist. “You’re shaking, Teach.”

“I’m fine,” she states flatly, despite looking like the dictionary definition of ‘anything but’. “You—you scared me. That’s all.”

His heart is beating hard in his chest, but he’s not sure why. He didn’t fall. Sure, he was startled, and he’s embarrassed besides, but there’s no reason for him to be this affected.

Except...

He swears she had still been sitting on the planter when he tripped. He remembers glancing at her moments before he fell, and he remembers her sitting there, but the memory becomes increasingly muddled the more he thinks about it. He’d been so certain that she’d been sitting on the planter. Either she was, and she moved thirty feet in half a second, or she’d been a step behind him all along.

He doesn’t know what to believe. He can’t comprehend it. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore.

“Should have used the damn cane,” he mutters, and she lifts her head to offer him a sympathetic look.

“It’s all right, Claude,” she says quietly, still holding a fist to her chest. “It’s all right.”

They’re quiet until Iraj comes out with rice and stew for each of them. His cook must have been in a good mood, too: there’s a rare smile on her stern face as she pushes open the door leading into the courtyard, but the grim atmosphere she’s met with makes it fall away in an instant. She gives Khalid a concerned glance; when she opens her mouth to ask a question, he shakes his head ever so slightly. Later, he tells her with his eyes, and fortunately, she accepts it despite her all-too-apparent worry. She deposits the food and pours wine, departing in silence that remains intact for long minutes after.

Neither of them eat much. Khalid makes an attempt, just so Iraj won’t be any more worried than she already is. The professor excuses herself only a few minutes later without touching any of hers.

“Please use the cane,” she says—another order. “I’ll ask Iraj to come back out in a minute. Don’t get down by yourself.”

“I won’t,” he promises. “Thanks, Teach.”

“Don’t,” she says in that same sharp tone she used earlier; she winces as soon as the word leaves her mouth and she closes her eyes, exhaling softly with a shake of her head. “Don’t,” she repeats, gently this time. “Please.”

She turns and disappears into the house, leaving Khalid to his thoughts and two bowls of stew. Iraj comes outside a few minutes later to help him down, as Teach said she would, and for however concerned she had been earlier, the look on her face makes it clear that she’s twice as worried now.

“What happened?” she asks him, hurrying over to the vestibule.

“I almost fell,” he says. “It gave us both a fright. That’s all.”

When supper rolls around a few hours later, everything is back to normal. They talk about the weather, and the farm, and Khalid tells her about his grandchildren. But the professor is quieter than usual, and whenever she thinks he isn’t looking, she brushes her knuckles against the center of her chest.

They don’t talk about what happened or didn’t happen earlier that afternoon. They don’t talk about it that night, or ever again.

Before breakfast one morning, Khalid finishes his meditation and takes a detour to his study. The place is a shrine to days gone by: his legendary bow, Failnaught, hangs above the mantle; his shelves are crammed with well-worn books and records, adorned with various trinkets from his years in Almyran politics. With his poor eyesight and tremor leaving him unable to read or write anymore, he doesn’t spend much time in the room except to take a nap in a secluded space—or to raid its storage closet, as he does now. It takes Khalid some time to find what he’s looking for, but he emerges victorious from the depths of the closet and ambles his way out to the courtyard.

His guest is waiting for him at the table, and she blinks in surprise when she catches sight of the items in his hands.

“I’ve seen you eyeing the lake,” he says as he holds them out to her. “Thought you might want to do some fishing.”

She rises and takes the rod and tackle box from him with a reverent grace. They sit loosely in her palms, and several silent seconds pass before she finds her words.

“You remembered I like fishing,” is all she says, almost as a question.

He smirks at her, though he’s still trying to parse her reaction. “Couldn’t exactly forget. Used to be an ordeal, pulling you away from the pond. And you thrashed half my class in the fishing competition that one time. That rod’s old, but should have barely any wear. I never was much of a fisherman—got no patience for it. Hopefully, it’s in decent shape.”

Setting the tackle box down, she hefts the rod in her hand, sighting down the length of it. There’s an edge to the set of her mouth and a glint in her eye that he likes.

“Been a long time since I’ve gone fishing,” she says, something fond in her tone. “I used to go with Alois every weekend.”

Alois... He racks his brain to put a face to the name, but he doesn’t come up with anything. “He was a friend of yours?”

“My father’s, first,” she tells him as she inspects each of the guides in turn. “But mine as well, yes. He took over as Captain of the Knights after the war. We were—we were close.”

A deep wrinkle appears in her brow, and she blinks, lowering the rod.

“Fifty years,” she murmurs, her voice sounding hollow. “Sothis. It’s been fifty years.”

Khalid smiles, and laughs, but there’s no real joy or humor in it. “Goes by fast, doesn’t it.”

“Yeah.” She looks back up at him, that wrinkle growing deeper than he’s yet seen it. “How does that happen? How could I not notice?”

“Beats me,” he shrugs. “Time has a way of sneaking up on you. In many ways, I still feel the same as I did when I was young, but there’s no denying the years.”

The antithesis to his last statement fixes her gaze on his. She’s like a statue, a memory given form, a painting of something long lost. When Khalid pictures himself, he looks like she does: young and strong and full of life. But he’s never had the luxury of fooling himself into thinking he’s still that same man. There’s no envy in the thought—it’s a truth, a fact, something honest and undeniable. If he feels anything, it’s pity.

“It’s worse with kids,” he says, more to distract himself than anything. An ungainly grunt escapes his chest as he eases into his seat at the little table, moving slower than he really has to. “They spend forever as these little grubs, and then you blink, and they’re scraping their knees and back-talking you. That lasts forever, and you blink again, and they’ve got their own lives without you.”

It never ceases to amaze him how easily his chest warms and tears spring to his eyes at decades-old memories of his daughter’s coming-of-age celebration, or helping his son pack for his first unchaperoned hunting trip with his friends, or how he and his wife held each other and wept bittersweet tears when their youngest went off to school and left the halls of their house so quiet. He shrugs off the thoughts, bidding them goodbye with a wan smile.

“The years get shorter,” he says gently. “You have to put in more effort to use the time well. Too easy to get stuck in a rut and have ‘em all fly by, otherwise.”

The professor doesn’t move to rejoin him at the table. She just stands there, frozen in place with the rod in her hands, staring at it as though something will change if she looks at it long enough. One side of her mouth lifts and she exhales with a soft huff. “I could have used your wisdom, Claude.”

Khalid chuckles at that. “Hey, I gave you the opportunity. You could’ve joined my house, way back when.”

It’s almost a joke; he’s almost serious. She takes it seriously anyway, because of course she does.

“What do you think would have happened if I had?” she asks, turning her head to look at him again.

“Aw, Teach,” he grumbles, “come on, don’t start this. Especially not this early in the morning—we haven’t even had coffee yet.” He curses his errant tongue. Where is Iraj, anyway? He knows he started this line of talk, but he’d love an excuse to not have to finish it.

“Just—just indulge me,” the professor presses. “Please.” She swallows hard, sparing a brief glance down at the rod before fixing those big, empty green eyes on his. “Do you wish I’d sided with you?”

They haven’t talked like this or asked foolish questions like these since the day she got here. Some part of him hoped they never would again. But there’s a need in her face that he’s never seen before. It scares him. He thinks over his answer, though he doesn’t really have to. He never has.

“Of course,” Khalid says softly. “Of course I do.”

He’s honest because she wants him to be, although he finds no catharsis in speaking that long-held truth aloud. It feels cruel, and the way her blank face doesn’t so much as flicker in response only makes him feel worse. He continues before she can respond, already too aware of what she’s thinking.

“But that’s easy for me to say, especially knowing what I know now, and how things turned out. It’s nice, thinking that I might have achieved all I’d dreamed of with you at my side, but for all we know, we might’ve both crashed and burned and lost everything. It’s not your fault that my life didn’t go how I’d hoped it would when I was young. I know you’re not so conceited as to truly believe that.”

She finally blinks, though her composure doesn’t falter. Her tongue darts out to wet her lip and her mouth hangs as she wills her words across her teeth.

“If you could go back, though,” she manages to say, “if you had the power to do things differently... would you?”

Khalid takes a deep breath, scratching at his beard. It’s a struggle not to get angry. It’s too early to get angry. He thinks hard on her question anyway, and he issues a long sigh when he goes to voice the answer he’s already known.

“No,” he tells her, firm and decided. “If you’d asked me when I was younger, I would have jumped at the chance. But a person changes a lot in a lifetime. The man you knew, naïve fool that he was, might gladly give everything up for one more try. But the person I am today wouldn’t dream of it.” He gives her a hard look, knowing full well that she can see all his sadness and pain and regret in his eyes as he does it. “Don’t come to me now, all these years later, and ask me to live through all that strife twice, or to envision a world where I never met my wife, or had my children. I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t.”

For all his resolve, he nearly breaks into laughter as he realizes he’s regarding her with the same stern, yet affectionate demeanor he used to adopt when lecturing his daughters. Not for the first time, his professor’s youthful appearance must have gotten to him.

“It does neither of us any good to chase ghosts,” he says, intentionally making his tone gentle. “Life, living... It’s as much about asking questions and finding answers as it is about figuring out how to accept those answers—even the ones you don’t like. I got my answers, Teach. I’ve found my truth, and I’m satisfied.”

The professor holds his gaze for a few moments more, then nods as she lowers it. She’s quiet for a long time, standing there holding the rod, looking like a statue again. Her shoulders drop ever so slightly as a heavy breath leaves her chest, and when she glances back up at him, there’s a glimmer of life in her eyes. She tilts her head toward the rod in her hand as she lifts it indicatively.

“I’m going to find out if I can remember how to cast.”

That gets a much-needed laugh out of Khalid—a real one this time—and it feels like the thundercloud hanging over them has finally cleared away. “Do that,” he urges her. “Let me know how it goes. And if anything needs replacing in your tackle, let me know. Ramin’s going to the market tomorrow and can pick up parts.”

“I will,” she says, so very solemn. The tension in her brow doesn’t ease, but the hard set of her mouth does. “Thank you, Claude.”

“Catch me something nice for lunch, and we’ll call it even.” He reconsiders, then lifts his hands in peace. “No pressure, though! No pressure. Take your time.”

She almost laughs, and he treasures that little huffing sound for what it is. Picking up the tackle box, she spares one last glance at him over her shoulder before turning to walk out of the courtyard and back through the house.

Khalid lounges back in his chair and rubs his face. The sun’s barely up, and he’s tired again—it’s way too early for all this fuss. Iraj appears with two cups of coffee in hand and looks around in confusion.

“Where is our guest?” she asks in Almyran.

“She’s otherwise occupied. I’m alone this morning.” He gestures to the seat across from him, offering her a smile. “Join me for breakfast, would you?”

In the days thereafter, Teach spends many of her early mornings down at the lake, rising a little earlier than she did before so she can get in some fishing before doing her calisthenics and having breakfast with Khalid. She doesn’t always come back with a catch, but it usually does something good for her, anyway. Although she hasn’t slowed down in the slightest, she’s been especially quiet over the past few weeks, spending more time in her own head, carefully considering Khalid’s words whenever he speaks and delivering precise, measured responses. After some time out by the water, she tends to be in a better mood, and Khalid’s all the happier for it.

He’s standing on the porch with two cups of coffee when she treks back from the lake, and he nods his head in congratulations when he catches the telltale sloshing of the bucket in her hand.

“What’d you get?” he asks in Almyran, waiting until she sets the bucket down at the edge of the porch before handing her one of the cups. She takes it gratefully, wiping her brow with the sleeve of her robe.

“I’m not sure,” she replies in Fódlani, glancing back at the bucket. “It looks like some kind of barbel, but it fought like a pike.”

Khalid hums in response. He’s got nothing to contribute here. “Well, whatever it is, I’m sure Iraj can figure out something to do with it for dinner,” he declares, easing into his chair with a heavy exhalation. “How do you like those clouds?”

Just as he does, Teach sips her coffee and looks up at the clouds hanging low and heavy in the darkened morning sky. “It’s beginning to drizzle,” she tells him in Almyran. “It started when I was walking back.”

“That’s a relief,” Khalid says. “We need it, bad.”

They fall quiet as they sip their coffee, alone with their thoughts in each other’s company. They sit on the porch and watch the storm roll in, and to no one in particular, without so much as noticing which language he’s speaking, he says, “Thank you for the rain.”

Every once in a while, Khalid dreams of the frozen lake. When he wakes, he never remembers the details of the faces beneath the ice, nor what they say to him. All he can recall is the changing nature of the clamor, sounding less and less like a question and more like a warning with each passing day.

Chapter Text

The wheat emerges from winter’s spell, its green tillers lengthening into sturdy sheaths, and with each passing day, its rapid growth signals the imminent arrival of another welcome spring.

“Happy New Year, Teach!” Khalid shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth so his voice can be heard over the noise of the celebration raging around them.

“Happy New Year,” Teach says in Almyran as she makes her way through the crowd to where Khalid and Fatemah are sitting by the bonfire. The professor has a jug in one of her hands and a cup in the other. “Can I give either of you some more wine?”

“Yes, please,” Fatemah says, brushing a lock of her dark hair behind her ear and holding out her cup. There’s a little color in her cheeks, but Khalid is pretty sure the wine isn’t to blame; she intently studies her cup until it is filled, then offers the professor a nod of gratitude. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the professor says with her little placid half-smile. “Claude, any for you?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Khalid intones, holding out his own cup for her to fill. “Enjoying yourself?”

She nods. “Yes. I think of—it reminds me—” A small furrow appears in her brow and she tilts her head to the side, that half-smile inverting into a frown. Somewhat sheepishly, she continues in Fódlani, “It reminds me of festivals in the villages I’d visit when I was growing up. I haven’t been to something like this since I was very young.”

“Do they do firewalks in Fódlan?” Fatemah asks.

Teach makes that hoarse noise that’s almost a laugh, shaking her head. “No. I mean, I’ve seen someone jump one before, as a dare.”

Khalid raises his brows. “Did you do a walk?”

She shakes her head again. “As fun as it looks, I think I’m too old for that kind of thing.”

“I don’t think so,” Fatemah objects, nobly coming to her defense. “Hassan did one, and he’s older than you.”

That makes Khalid laugh. Fatemah looks back and forth between the two of them, a trace of a pout on her lips.

“What?”

“Nothing,” the professor shrugs. “All the same, I’ll leave those kinds of feats to the braver among us.”

Fatemah doesn’t seem done with this line of talk, but Khalid elects to show his professor some kindness and jumps in before the girl can push further. “Feeling homesick, Teach? Want to do a round of a song?”

The professor hums. Her eyes glint and her face pulls into a strange expression, baring just the bottom edges of her upper row of teeth. “You really don’t want that.”

He laughs. “What? You shy?”

“Just trying not to ruin the party,” she says, taking a sip of her wine. “I’m not much of a singer. Another few glasses of this and you might convince me, but please remember that I did warn you.”

“Is that what you do for New Year’s in Fódlan?” Fatemah asks over the sound of Khalid’s laughter. “Sing songs?”

Teach nods. “Some do. There’s one song in particular that is usually sung on the eve of the new year. We give thanks for the coming of spring and pray that we’ll realize our potential in the year ahead.”

Fatemah listens attentively, turning to Khalid for clarification; he translates the professor’s last sentence and she intones her understanding.

“That sounds very serious,” the girl says, and Khalid’s inclined to agree. He’s prone to forgetting that the woman spent the better part of a century as a holy leader until she drops something like that mid-conversation.

Teach rubs the back of her neck, seeming oddly flustered by Fatemah’s assessment. “It sounds more serious than it is,” she says. “In general, our celebrations weren’t too different from this: we’d have a big party, a feast with music and dancing. I miss the jam buns they make in Leicester—they only make them for the New Year celebration, and if you don’t get one then, you’re out of luck. You have to wait a full year for another chance.”

“Oh man,” Khalid groans, tilting his head back, “why’d you have to remind me? I haven’t had one of those buns in seventy years.”

Teach sighs in sympathy, staring off into the distance. “I don’t think I have, either.”

Fatemah giggles at the pair of them. “You’re both very funny,” she says, switching back to Almyran, apparently having given up on her attempts at diplomacy. “I’m going to get cake—would either of you like some?”

“No, thank you,” the professor replies, just as Khalid says, “Gods, yes. Thought you wouldn’t ask.”

The girl giggles again, getting up from her seat and politely offering it to the professor. “You can sit there, if you like,” she says, bowing her head, and her face flushes when the professor gives her a grateful nod.

“Thank you, Fatemah,” she says, easing into her vacated spot as the girl bustles through the crowd toward the tables laden with food.

Once she’s out of earshot, Khalid lets loose the cackle he’s been holding in for far too long and elbows the professor’s side. “So? What about that other little Fódlani New Year tradition, hmm? The midnight kiss?”

“What about it?” the professor asks, the picture of innocence, eyeing him over the rim of her cup as she sips at her wine.

“Bah! You know what I mean!”

“Claude,” she says, using her dreaded teacher voice, “you might be the only person in this part of the province that’s remotely close to my age.”

He tuts at her, closing his eyes and pressing his palm to his chest. “I’m very flattered, Teach, but unfortunately my heart already belongs to another, and she took it with her when she left.” He kisses his fingertips and blows on them like they’re the seeds of a dandelion; it’s a gesture wrapped in conflicting layers of sincerity and facetiousness, but he does mean it. Of the various traditions Khalid brought to their family from his shared Fódlani and Almyran heritage, that little midnight kiss might have been the one Shirin had liked best.

Teach sniffs in response, bringing Khalid abruptly back to the present. He thinks he even catches her rolling her eyes, which delights him to no end.

“Fatemah’s right,” she says. “You are funny.” She uses the Almyran word, and something about it makes him cackle again.

“Ah-ha! You finally recognize my genius! Now, if I can just get you to laugh at my jokes, I could die a happy man.”

“I’ll hold off on indulging you, then, so you’ll have to stick around.”

He gives her thigh an affectionate pat with his free hand. “Oh, don’t you worry your shiny green head, Teach. I’m not in any rush.”

They fall quiet, drinking their wine and listening to the raucous din of the party as it continues to roar around them. Khalid settles back in his chair, enjoying the warmth of the alcohol and the heat of the bonfire across from where they’re seated, letting his eyes wander. The fire is still blazing high, surrounded on all sides by revelers. They come from all walks: they’re mill workers and river runners, people from the village and people from the camps on the mountainside, his stewards and his farmhands and his friends. Two of Kinza’s channel excavators are beating drums, while one of the stable boys is strumming on some sort of long-necked lute. There’s also a girl with them who Khalid thinks works at the mill, and she’s playing a pipe with such vigor that he doesn’t know how or when or if she’s breathing. They’re good, too, this little impromptu band. A circle dance has opened up around them with participants cheering and clapping along to the music as they spin and twirl with each other.

After a time, he tears his attention away from the merry-makers to spare a glance back at the professor. She’s looking very comfortable as she lounges in her chair with her legs sprawled out in front of her, one hand on her chest and the other keeping her cup of wine balanced on her thigh. He’d be convinced that she was dozing off, if not for how her half-lidded eyes flit back and forth to scan all angles of the ongoing festivities, taking everything in with the lazy cognizance of a well-fed leopard.

“It’s nice that the weather has held,” he says to her, scratching his beard as he studies the cloudy night sky. “I was worried we’d get rained out.”

“I know,” the professor agrees, looking up at the sky as well. “Seems like it’s been coming down every day for the past few weeks.”

Khalid clicks his tongue. “It’s unusual, that’s for sure. So long as we don’t see a flood like we did in ‘41, I’ll stay thankful for it. We’re going to have a bumper crop this year for certain.”

“The wheat’s looking good already. It’s up to here in most of the fields.” She gestures to a spot just below her knee and Khalid whistles in appreciation.

“Well, my son will be happy to hear that. I’ll have to write to him and let him know. Which reminds me, Teach—would you write my son and let him know?”

“Of course,” Teach replies, cordial and gracious, though there’s a playful edge to the look she gives him that makes him smile.

They lapse back into a comfortable quiet, both active participants and passive spectators in the sport of celebration. Beyond the bonfire, Khalid can make out the large tent where more partygoers are partaking in food and wine while they socialize and play games at the long tables within. If Yousef was here, Khalid would have hit the card table with him hours ago, and they’d be ringing in the new year with their pockets full of everyone else’s money. But Yousef is in the capital; Marah, Khalid’s eldest daughter, is surely celebrating with her own family and her friends from her university job on the northeast coast. Who knows where Farid is—if he’s on leave, he’s probably on a fishing boat in the Pearl Sea, happy-go-lucky as ever. Talia, he knows, is at her home in Apama, and Khalid would bet she’s working overtime to wrap up all of her various research projects so that she can attempt—and, inevitably, fail—to relax when she comes to visit him this summer.

While he’d be happier if his family were here, too, he’s not as sad to be without them as he’s been in past years. Earlier in the week, he got well-wishes from his daughters and eldest son, and he’s sure to get a greeting card from Farid any day now—in his youngest son’s fifty-five years of life, the boy has never sent a letter on time. Besides, Khalid will be seeing Talia and the rest of her brood soon enough. He’s been counting down the days until they arrive, trying to decide whether it’s too early to start preparing the rooms and putting in orders for the kinds of foods and gifts his grandchildren and great-grandchildren will enjoy. It’s much too early. He intends to start tomorrow, anyway.

Wherever the members of Khalid’s family are tonight, they’re safe and loved and content, and that’s good enough for him.

Having wholly lost himself in sentimentality and the comforting embrace of memory, he only realizes that Teach has been trying to get his attention after he catches what he hopes is just the second or third repetition of her gentle voice calling, “Claude.”

“Hm?” he blurts with somewhat of a honking sound. People younger than him can worry about things like dignity. Having to remember to respond to two names is work enough at his age.

“Thank you,” Teach says, with all her earnestness. It makes him feel a bit bad for having been so defensive a moment ago, even if it was only in his own mind.

“I haven’t done anything,” he responds, but she shakes her head, staring at him with those big green eyes of hers. They’re intense as they are barren, although he finds there’s something new there now—a trace of what could have been, and might yet be, less like a wasteland and more like the aftermath of a forest fire. Her lips are slightly parted in the way they get when she’s struggling to gather the right words, and when she speaks, it’s with such gravity that the rest of the world seems to fall away.

“These past few months, here with you... It’s been so different. In a good way,” she clarifies quickly; she averts her gaze for a moment, and Khalid does his best to keep a straight face when he notices the little dash of color that’s appeared in her cheeks. She rubs the back of her neck as she continues her internal battle with the art of communication, meeting his eye once she’s assembled her thoughts. “I-I don’t think I’ve felt like this in a very long time,” she confesses, her voice low and sincere. “Or much at all, really. Maybe not since the Officers Academy. Maybe not before that, either.”

The words flood him with a tender sentiment, and if there’s a slight sting in his eyes, he pretends not to notice it. “Are you happy, Teach?”

“... I think so,” she says. Then she nods, as if she’s only just realized it herself. “Yes. I am. I’m happy. And I—I can’t thank you enough for that.”

“I should be thanking you,” he chuckles; he hopes the hard reversal will keep that now-unignorable sting in his eyes at bay, because if she keeps talking, he’s going to lose that fight hard. Leave it to poor old Baba to cry at every holiday and make people fret. “I’ve been happy, too, though. It’s been nice, having you around. And not just for all the free labor—which is nothing to sniff at, by the way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this place in such great shape.”

She shrugs, and although she turns her head away, he can see that color is back in her face, and the corner of her mouth is curled up in a soft and gentle way. “It’s the least I can do to repay you. Don’t say anything, please—I know I don’t need to repay you. But I want to, somehow. However I can.” She swishes the remaining liquid in her cup of wine, then takes a drink, keeping her gaze on the cup long after she lowers it. “This—I think this has been good for me. All of it. The work, and the people... but most of all, being with you again.”

Yep, there it goes. He exhales long and low, swiping at the corner of his eye with his thumb. When he extends his hand to the professor, the smile on his face is so wide that it makes his cheeks hurt.

“I’m glad,” he says; she takes his hand, and he gives it a squeeze. “I didn’t know I’d missed you until I saw you walking up to my house. I’m glad you’re here, and I’m happy you’re happy.”

She looks at him, and for the briefest of moments, there’s a tightness in her features that he can’t parse. Before he can give it much consideration, it’s gone; she squeezes his palm in return, and that’s all Khalid needs to understand what she’s trying to say.

“Don’t work too hard, though, eh?” he tells her as he lets go of her hand. “Especially not for the likes of Kinza. She ever even say, ‘thank you’?”

That rough almost-laugh scrapes its way out of the professor’s throat, and she cocks her head to the side. “No,” she admits. “But I know I’ve done a good job when she says, ‘You didn’t fuck anything up today.’”

Khalid snickers, clicking his tongue. “That’s the best you’re gonna get out of her, I think.”

“Oi, Glow Worm!” Kinza’s voice hollers in Almyran from some distance away, her pronounced drawl now thrice as thick in her drunken revelry. “Come arm wrestle this clown!”

“Speak of a devil and it appears,” Khalid mutters, levering a smirk at the woman beside him. “Am I correct in assuming you’re ‘Glow Worm’?”

The professor shrugs, spotting Kinza somewhere in the crowd and acknowledging her with a wave. “She likes nicknames,” she informs him, gesturing to a lock of luminous hair that’s escaped the confines of her cowl.

That makes Khalid snort, even as he rolls his eyes. “She must like you,” he says, nudging her shoulder with his knuckles. “Why don’t you go on, then? Arm wrestle that clown. Put ‘em to shame.”

Teach puffs out her lower lip and nods her head, clambering to her feet. “I think I will,” she says in Almyran, badly imitating Kinza’s drawl. The attempt delights Khalid, making him roar with laughter.

“Get ‘em, Teach!” he whoops as she goes. “Show ‘em what you Fódlani girls are made of!”

He watches her leave, chuckling when he spots her raising her hand to Fatemah when she passes. With a plate in each hand, the younger girl struggles to return the wave; as she hurries over to Khalid, her face is noticeably flushed.

“Here’s your cake, King Father,” she says, proffering one of the plates and making a valiant attempt at pretending she’s never been embarrassed in her life.

“Oooh,” he hums as he sets his cup of wine aside and takes the plate from her, eyeing the little square of custard-topped sponge cake with an appreciative smile. In all the fuss with Teach, he’d forgotten where Fatemah had gone; while he’d prefer to have the excellent short-term memory of his youth, it’s nice to have the occasional pleasant surprise. “Thank you, Fatemah. I was getting worried that we’d missed it and it was all gone already.” He takes a bite, letting the creamy custard melt in his mouth and enjoying the sweet, nutty flavor of the cake. “Are you having fun?”

She nods, then leans in to speak in a low, conspiratorial tone. “I’m going to dance with Bayram,” she confides, a determined fire in her big brown eyes.

“Good for you!” he grunts, gesturing emphatically with his fork before taking another stab at the cake on his plate. “The boy’d be a fool to turn down a dance with a pretty thing like you.”

“He would,” she agrees, making Khalid laugh again.

“Wise girl. Know your worth.”

Fatemah’s sudden gasp startles him into nearly dropping his fork. “Look!” she says excitedly, pointing at Khalid’s slice of cake. “You got the almond!”

He looks down, and to his surprise, there’s an almond sticking out of the morsel of sponge cake on the end of his fork. “How ‘bout that?” he murmurs, unable to keep a pleased grin from splitting his face. “You know out of the ninety-some New Years I’ve celebrated, I’ve never gotten one of these damned things?”

“Well, you have one now!” Fatemah beams. “What are you going to wish for?”

He shoots the girl a look, squinting at her. “You think I’m going to ruin my first ever New Year wish by telling the likes of you?”

His young assistant pouts back at him, wrinkling her nose. “That’s only for birthday wishes! You can share your New Year ones!”

Khalid sniffs, shaking his head. “I can’t afford to take that risk, dear girl. I’ll be keeping it to myself, thank you very much.” He pops the almond into his mouth, savoring the salt and the flavor as he crunches it between his remaining teeth.

He’s so happy. He can’t think of anything to wish for.

The rains continue to come down every day after the New Year festival. Teach still goes fishing most mornings, though she joins Khalid on the covered porch for breakfast instead of at the table in the courtyard. On days when the breeze and the chill are too strong for Khalid’s old bones to bear, they give up and have their coffee in the dining room, watching the rain drip down the windows looking out to the inner courtyard.

“Good thing you’ve been around to fix up my roof,” Khalid comments one morning as he picks at the crust of his honey toast and sips his cooling cup of coffee. “We’d have long run out of buckets for all the leaks by now.”

Teach makes an amused sound, turning her attention to the window as well. “Kinza’s been worried about the water levels. I’m going over to her office to help her with an inspection.”

“I don’t get you,” Khalid says, all his affection in his tone. “It’s wet and cold enough out there already, and you want to go hang out in a tunnel to get wetter and colder. Youth is wasted on the old.” A thought strikes him and he turns away from the window to look at her. “By the by, have you been out to the barn much lately? How’s Mahsa’s hoof?”

“All better,” Teach tells him, “but she’s very unhappy. She’s had to spend most of her days in the barn to allow it to heal, and now that she’s better, she’s still cooped up. The cows haven’t been out to pasture much, with how stormy it’s been.”

“Poor thing,” he sighs. “Well, we’ll be coming to the end of the rainy season here soon. She’ll be out cavorting around with all her cow buddies in no time.”

The professor makes an attempt at chuckling, and it sounds so close to a proper laugh that Khalid can’t help but smile. “I hope so,” she says. She drains the last of her coffee and wipes her mouth with her napkin, standing up and pushing in her chair. “Would you please give Iraj my thanks for breakfast? I don’t think I’ll be back for lunch today, but I should be home well before sunset.”

“Sure,” he nods, his heart warming at the way she says home. “Good luck with that tunnel business. I’m going to see a chair about a nap.”

“Good luck with that sleeping business,” Teach replies with a flicker of mischief in her eye, making him laugh. “I’ll see you tonight, Claude.”

“Toodles, Teach.” Khalid gives her a two-finger salute as she turns to head out of the dining room. Then he settles back in his seat, returning his attention to the window, watching the droplets slide down the glass and letting the rain’s easy tattoo lull him into a peaceful daze.

“King Father!”

Khalid snaps to wakefulness with a snort, jerking upright in his armchair. The door to his study has burst open so quickly that it’s slammed against the wall, and when the bleariness clears from his eyes, he sees Fatemah in the doorway, her usually warm complexion looking ashen in a way he’s never seen before. Her doe-like eyes are wide, her pupils so immense that her brown irises almost disappear. She’s fidgeting with her dress, her hands curling and uncurling in the fabric, a decided trembling to her frame.

“What is it, dear girl?” he asks, her fear causing a spike of adrenaline to surge through his veins, making his heart start to hammer in his chest.

“Th-there’s a rider,” she stammers, “from the mountain. He says—there’s been an accident in the channel tunnels. Please, King Father, come quickly.”

Khalid’s stomach drops. Faster than he knew he could still move, he pushes himself out of his armchair, grabs his cane, and strides across the room to the door.

“Take me to him,” he says, putting the girl’s hand in his. Both of them are trembling, and she squeezes his palm tightly as she escorts him through the house.

They’re silent as they proceed, except for Fatemah’s hitching breaths and the steady drum of a light rain against the windows. As they turn into the front hall, Iraj walks out of the dining room, an empty linen basket in her hands.

“What’s happening?” she asks, immediately clocking the grave looks on their faces.

“We’re about to find out,” Khalid says before Fatemah can speak. “Please, come with us. I might need your help.”

Iraj discards her basket in the hall and joins them in their trek to the door. When the three of them step out onto the porch into the gray afternoon drizzle, Zeinab and Ramin are already there, along with the rider from the mountain. Ramin’s tall, broad form is unusually stiff, making him look grim even as he speaks to the rider in his low, easy rumble. Zeinab has one hand on Ramin’s back and the other on the rider’s forearm, her face pale. The rider is leaning against his horse, and Khalid recognizes the young man as a member of Kinza’s maintenance crew. In spite of the rain, he’s coated in dust and chalk, his face drawn. He leans hard against his horse’s froth-coated flank as he pours the contents of a waterskin into his mouth and over his neck and shoulders. His right knee is trembling, his leg struggling to support his weight.

“Where’s your hospitality?” Khalid says to his stewards. “Get out of that rain and come up to the porch. And someone get this man a chair.”

“Apologies,” Ramin says, his blue eyes glancing at Khalid before returning to the rider. “Come with us, my boy.” He and Zeinab each take one of the rider’s arms and lead him up to one of the chairs on the porch; he sinks into it gratefully, bowing his head.

“Thank you, King Father,” the man pants, his voice thick and rough.

Khalid forces a smile and nods, moving to take the empty chair at the rider’s side. “What’s your name, son?” he asks.

“Ibrahim, King Father,” comes his breathless reply. There’s a cut on his forehead that’s spilling a steady stream of blood down the side of his face, though apart from the incessant quaking of his right leg and a few scrapes on his elbows and forearms, he doesn’t have any other obvious wounds.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Ibrahim,” he says, giving the boy a warm, sincere smile. “Are you injured?”

“No, King Father,” he responds, shaking his head. “It’s—it was—”

“It’s all right, son,” Khalid says gently, “take a minute to breathe. Don’t bother with formality, just catch your breath. You’re going to be all right.”

Ibrahim slumps into the chair, gratitude washing over his pallid face. His chest heaves, and he’s clearly struggling to formulate his words. Khalid realizes that underneath all that dust, he’s little more than a boy—maybe twenty or so at most—and with how exhausted and shaken he is, he’s useless right now. Khalid’s not going to get much out of him like this.

His brow furrows as he glances back at his stewards. He’s forgotten that the bunch of them are also useless in a crisis. Thankfully, his old military instincts kick in, and he starts issuing orders. Looking to his older stewards, he nods to each of them in turn.

“Iraj, get more water for our friend Ibrahim, along with some towels, bandages, blankets, and a pen and paper. Ramin, ready the cart, please. Zeinab, bring over another chair—I’ll need your assistance. Fatemah,” he says, turning to the girl still clinging to his side, “get Ibrahim’s horse cleaned up. Give him some water, too, then ready your horse and follow Ramin back.”

“King Father,” Fatemah starts, but Ramin puts a hand on her shoulder and whispers something in her ear. She seems no less reluctant, but takes hold of the horse’s reins and hurries to follow the housemaster toward the carriage house. Iraj ducks back inside without a word, leaving Zeinab, Khalid, and Ibrahim on the porch. Zeinab sets the chair down to sit across from Ibrahim and Khalid, her eyes flitting between the two of them.

“Thank you, Zeinab,” Khalid says. He looks to Ibrahim, angling his chin down to meet the nervous boy’s eye. “Do you know your verses, Ibrahim?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding, then corrects himself. “Yes, King Father.”

“Good lad,” Khalid smiles. “My friend Zeinab is going to say a verse, and I want you to close your eyes, and listen, and focus on your breath. Okay? Breathe as deep and slow as you can, low in your stomach and then up through your chest. Can you do that?”

The boy nods again, focusing on Zeinab, who similarly nods at Khalid. She takes a deep breath in, closing her eyes, and Khalid and Ibrahim follow suit as she leads them in meditation.

“The gifts of the Creator; the blessings of the gods; the bounties of the earth. I raise my voice in thanks: for my lungs; for my life; for the love in the world.” With each statement, she guides them through taking slow breaths in and out. “The gifts; the blessings; the bounties... For lungs; for life; for love.”

Once their collective breathing regulates, her voice fades, and they focus on the rhythm. By the time Iraj comes back outside, Khalid’s mind is clear and his heart has slowed, and the boy across from him has some color back in his cheeks.

“Thank you, Zeinab,” he says to his steward. “You, too, Iraj. And well done, Ibrahim.”

The boy shudders as he takes a long drink of the water Iraj hands to him, bowing his head gratefully when she drapes one of the towels across his shoulders. She pulls over a small wooden table, then moves to place a ewer and a box of medical supplies atop it before coming to stand beside Khalid.

“You feeling any better, son?” he asks. When Ibrahim nods, Khalid smiles at him. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“There was a collapse,” the boy begins. His narrow throat twitches as he swallows hard, locking his dark, serious eyes on Khalid’s. “There are three people trapped in the tunnel. I got out—I don’t know how. I went for help. The rest of the excavators—they’re trying to get them out now. They said to tell you.”

Khalid nods his understanding. “Who’s still in the tunnel?”

“The overseer,” Ibrahim says, referring to Kinza. “My trainer, Zaid. And the Fódlani girl.”

His heart sinks, a cold flood of dread washing through his veins and settling low in his stomach. He wills himself to stay calm, keeping his breathing level. “Has anyone made contact with them?” he asks, ignoring his dry mouth.

Ibrahim shakes his head. “I don’t know. Not by the time I left. I went back to base for help, and then I rode straight here.”

Khalid nods again. “Can you tell me more about the collapse?”

The boy exhales hard, his dark eyes flitting back and forth as though scanning something. He swallows, then takes a long drink of water, his tongue collecting the moisture on his cracked, dry lip.

“I don’t know,” he says, something despondent in his tone. “We were near the outlet of the tunnel. Tunnel eleven—one of the ones that runs east, toward the village. I-I was helping Zaid with the inspection, checking the lining. We found a strut that was on the verge of giving out... we put temporary supports in place to hold it until we could come back with a full crew to fix it, but as I was shoring it up, it all gave way. Th-the soil—it was too loose, too heavy. It caved in the supports. It happened so fast—I pushed in the support beam, and I heard something snap, and I—and I—”

His voice catches hard in his throat with a choking sound. He turns his bloodshot eyes to Khalid, his mouth quivering like a small child’s as tears stream down his face, his slight, youthful frame trembling and his head shaking back and forth with an automatic fervor.

“I thought I was dead!” he wails, his water cup falling to the ground with a clatter as he collapses forward, burying his face in his hands. “I saw the rocks falling on me! I threw my arms up and felt them hit me—I felt them on my head, my shoulders—they pushed me to the ground, they fell on my chest, burying me—I couldn’t breathe! I-I couldn’t see! I couldn’t even scream, it was all so fast, and then—then—”

The boy is overcome by his sobs, his throat too choked up for any more words to escape. Zeinab drapes a blanket around him, putting one hand on his knee and another around his shoulders; Iraj picks up his fallen cup, refilling it from the ewer and setting it on the table.

“It’s all right son,” Khalid tells him, shooting grateful glances to each of his stewards before looking back to the boy. “It’s all right. You’re here with us. You’re alive.”

“I’m alive,” he repeats, a manic laugh rattling his chest and causing his shoulders to tremble even harder. “I’m alive. Something hit me, hard—on my back, near my shoulder, and I fell. I—I don’t know how long it took me to get up. I opened my eyes, and I saw light, and I thought the gods had welcomed me home. But I felt an ache in my head, and a pain in my leg and my shoulder. And I breathed, and I knew I was alive. I was alive.” He marvels as he says the word, as though discovering it anew. “I-I was outside, looking up at the sky. I was out of the tunnel. Not under the rocks. I’m alive. I don’t know how, but I’m alive.”

Ibrahim lurches forward and takes each of Khalid’s hands in his, kissing his knuckles and pressing them to his forehead as he’s overcome again by sobs.

“I don’t understand,” he says, “I should have died. I was sure I had. Please, King Father, please help the others. If I—if I caused this, and if they—if they died, and not me—”

“None of that, my boy,” Khalid shushes, squeezing the boy’s hands. “None of that. It’s not your fault. We’ll get to them. Everything will be all right, Ibrahim. You’ve done well today.”

“Please help them,” the boy says again, clinging so tightly to Khalid that his arthritic fingers ache; he ignores the pain, letting the boy take what he needs. “Please, King Father, please help them.”

“We will, Ibrahim,” he tells him with as much steadfast authority as he can force into his tone. “We’ll help them. We’ll make sure they get out. I need you to do some things for me, okay?”

The boy nods his head, sniffling, finally lowering Khalid’s hands again. His grip loosens, though he doesn’t let go.

“I need you to sit up in a moment. I’m going to have Zeinab look at the cut on your head and make sure you don’t have any other injuries. My friend Iraj is going to draw you a bath, and then I want you to get some rest.” He looks the boy in the eye, imbuing his expression with all the paternal kindness he possesses. “You’ve done all you can, son. You’ve done very well, and we’ll help from here. I’ll have my riders go check on the excavators, and we’ll make sure everyone comes home.”

“Thank you,” the boy murmurs, releasing his hold on Khalid. A little calm has returned to his voice, if only from exhaustion. “Thank you. Please. Please.”

“I’ll be back,” Iraj whispers to Khalid, squeezing his shoulder. Khalid whispers his thanks before watching her turn to dip back inside the house.

Beside him, Zeinab fishes through the box of medical supplies, wetting a cloth with water from the ewer and using it to wash the blood from the boy’s face. Once it’s clear, she utters a quiet healing prayer, soft white light glowing at her fingertips as she hovers them over the length of the cut. The dark red edges of the gash vanish, leaving behind only the slender white line of a newly-formed scar. Khalid releases a slow breath as he watches it take shape. The boy will live, but he’ll do so with a permanent reminder of the events of the day.

Hearing the clamor of hoofbeats behind him, Khalid turns just in time to watch Ramin pull up with the cart, Fatemah right beside him on her little black gelding. They slow their horses to a stop, the mud and dust flicking up behind them in the ceaseless rain. Acknowledging them with a wave as they hop down to come rejoin the others on the porch, Khalid turns to Ibrahim, taking the cup of water from the table and pressing it into his hands.

“I have to talk to my other friends now so we can go check on the others,” he tells the boy. “I need you to drink this water and listen to Zeinab and Iraj. They’ll get you a bath, a bed, and something to eat. I want you to try and rest, and eat something—even a little bit is fine. We have to keep your strength up. All right?”

Ibrahim nods. Now that he’s no longer being flooded with adrenaline, his exhaustion has fully set in, and he looks so much like a child that it tugs at Khalid’s heart. “Thank you,” he says. “Please—if you hear anything, will you—will you—”

“I’ll make sure you’re told right away,” Khalid assures him. “Promise. Rest now, son. I swear, we’ll tell you as soon as we learn more.” Clapping the boy on the arm, he offers him one more gentle smile before creaking his way to his feet. “You’re all right, Zeinab?”

She pauses her inspection of the boy’s scratched-up forearms to give Khalid a nod. “I’ve got him.”

“Thank you, my friend.” He knows his gratitude is apparent, but he wishes he could do more to make it clear how much he appreciates his stewards. He’ll have to badger his son into giving them all big raises this year. “Take a look at his shoulder and at his right leg, please; that knee is probably going to need a splint.”

Once Zeinab nods her understanding, Khalid takes his cane from where he’d leaned it against the wall and picks up the pen and blank sheets of paper from the pile of supplies, moving to join Ramin and Fatemah. He briefs them on the situation—a frank and clipped recap—then gets back to issuing orders before emotion re-enters the equation.

“Ramin,” he starts, turning to his gray-haired housemaster and gesturing to the materials on the porch, “I need you to take these blankets, towels, and medical supplies up to the engineering office at the bathhouse. Wait there until the excavators return, in case anyone needs to be taken into the village for further medical attention.”

Ramin nods his understanding, setting to work right away. Khalid then turns to his assistant. The dark-haired girl looks slightly less worried than she did earlier, though she’s already threatening to fret again.

“Fatemah,” he says, stern and authoritative, “I want you to go along with him on your horse in case we need to run any messages.” He presses the pen and papers into her hand and she takes them automatically, looking down at the materials with a blank expression.

“But you’ll be alone here,” Fatemah realizes, shaking her head in disapproval, but Khalid just smiles.

“I’m old, my girl, but I’m not helpless.” He lifts the cane in his hand, however begrudgingly. “Promise I’ll behave, and Zeinab and Iraj will be inside if I somehow get myself into trouble. I’ll wait for you right here on the porch. Come back at sundown, regardless of whether there’s any news; I’ll have Iraj prepare some meals to take back.”

Fatemah’s brow furrows, her slim lips in a frown that looks foreign and unfamiliar on her usually cheerful face. “I don’t want to leave you.”

He takes her empty hand in both of his, giving it a gentle pat. “I know, dear girl. But you’ll be a bigger help going along with Ramin than you will be sitting around here, babysitting me. I need you to be brave today, and trust me as I’m trusting you. Will you do that for me?”

The girl sighs through her nose, pursing her lips, her brows so tight that they almost seem to connect together in a line. “All right,” she says eventually, nodding and squeezing his hand. “I will. You promise you’ll stay here?”

“Promise.”

She bites her lip, then nods again, her resolve straightening her posture and sloping her shoulders back. “All right. I’ll be back at sundown.”

“Thank you, my girl,” Khalid smiles, letting go of her hand. He backs up to move out of the way, watching as Fatemah puts the pen and papers into her saddlebag before helping Ramin to finish loading up the cart and securing the supplies. His housemaster climbs up onto the cart and takes hold of the reins; Khalid’s assistant swings back aboard her own horse, tying a kerchief over her head to keep the rain from her hair.

“Ready?” he hears Ramin ask the girl; “Ready,” she answers.

“Let them know Ibrahim’s all right,” Khalid calls to his stewards. “And for the gods’ sake, don’t either of you get involved in that tunnel business yourself, you hear me?”

“We won’t, King Father,” Fatemah promises, tapping her heels into her steed’s sides as Ramin flicks the reins to get his draft horses moving. They head out into the gray afternoon, cart wheels and hoofprints leaving deep tracks in the mud and dust behind them.

“Be careful, you two,” Khalid calls again. He stands there in the rain, watching until they fade from view. With all his soldiers dismissed, he makes his way back to the porch, settling into his chair with his eyes on the horizon. There’s nothing he can do now but wait.

Khalid sleeps. He didn’t think he would, but his tired old limbs have no respect for emergency situations, and all the excitement leaves him wearier than he remembers feeling in years. The day has brought back too many familiar sensations—the thrum of adrenaline, the focus of command, the strain of remaining calm while his logic and emotions go to war.

And, of course, the impotence of waiting.

He stirs when he hears the creak of the front door’s hinges; blearily blinking open his foggy green eyes, he finds Iraj’s blue ones meeting them as she makes her way over, taking the seat at his side. It’s still at least an hour before sundown, and the dying beams of light cut through the thinning gray storm clouds, casting shadows over the porch and bathing their skin in a muted orange haze. Iraj’s expression is as serious as ever, but there’s a tired softness to her features.

“The boy’s asleep,” she tells him. “He has a broken kneecap and a severe sprain in his shoulder; Zeinab did what she could to heal him, but it will be a few weeks before he’s back to full strength. He’s still a little confused from hitting his head. We put his leg in a splint and his arm in a sling, then bandaged the rest of his cuts and got him cleaned up.”

“Thank you,” Khalid smiles, reaching over to give her hand a brief squeeze. “Did he eat anything?”

“Only a little bread, though he drank some broth as well. He’s still very shaken. Zeinab’s staying with him to make sure he doesn’t get sick from his head injury.”

Khalid hums, nodding. “You both have been wonderful today. You all right?”

Iraj nods back, sighing heavily. “I am,” she says. “As well as one can be. And you, King Father?”

“As well as one can be,” he repeats, sighing as well. He fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt and plays with his cane, spinning the handle. “I just hate the waiting. That, and having to stay out of the way.”

Iraj gives him a sidelong glance, pairing it with one of her rare, precious smiles. “You’ve been a guiding force to us.”

“It’s all I can do,” Khalid says. “Talk! If I were even ten years younger, I’d be out there myself.” He gives it a moment’s thought, then shrugs. “Not that I’d probably be able to do much if I were there, anyway, other than talk. Suppose there’s not much of a difference between waiting around here or waiting around there.”

His cook is quiet. Her lips twitch as she looks to him again. “It makes a difference—having someone take charge, who knows what to do.”

“I can’t say I know what to do,” Khalid chuckles humorlessly, “but it’s not my first crisis. Not a great thing to have experience in, but if it helps, I guess it’s worth it. I’m just glad we don’t get this kind of excitement too often.”

A tension comes into Iraj’s brow. “You’re thinking about it, too?”

He slowly raises and lowers his head. He raps his knuckles on the arm of his chair, then scratches at his beard. “Hard not to. Sufian’s got us covered, though. Just have to stay trusting and gut through it.”

Iraj nods, considering his words. He thinks she might say something more, but his reticent cook remains mum, merely touching her hand to his before rising to her feet. “I’m going to see if I can spot anything,” she tells him.

“Please do. Keep an eye out for Fatemah. She should be back within the hour with news.”

Iraj wanders to the edge of the porch, squinting and shielding her eyes against the sun, staring down the path that leads westward toward the rest of the farm buildings and the distant gray rises of the mountains. Khalid studies her, quietly appreciating his faithful steward. She’s a true Riverland farm soul, the kind that’s becoming difficult to find nowadays: sturdy and stoic, hard-tongued and hot-tempered and utterly loyal, the product of hard work and a hard life. She was here before him, and she’ll be here after he’s gone, too.

He settles into his chair again, releasing a long breath. He’s trying to think about anything other than the tunnel, but his mind replays every other crisis he’s seen, and when he tries not to think about all of those, he winds up back on the tunnel again. He closes his eyes, though for all his nigh-constant napping, sleep abandons him now. His thoughts loop. It’s useless.

As hard as he tries to hold it off, anxiety builds, and he’s about to get up and make a slow, shambling attempt at pacing when Iraj’s voice draws him back to the present.

“King Father—I think it’s them!”

He pushes himself to his feet, taking hold of his cane and hurrying over to her as fast as his stiff old limbs can carry him. He squints as if it will make much difference to his failing eyes, but through the drizzle and the haze of sunlight, he thinks he can make out a cloud of dust in the distance.

“Gods, I hope you’re right,” he says, leaning on his cane with one hand and resting the other on her arm.

They wait with bated breath, neither of them daring to speak, and as the minutes pass, the dust cloud takes on a more defined shape.

“It is them,” Iraj says, confident now.

“Can you make them out?” he asks her.

“Not yet,” she responds, shielding her eyes with her hand. “But I see the cart, and a rider beside them.”

Khalid breathes a sigh of relief. “Must be Fatemah. That’ll be them.”

Those final minutes are easily the most agonizing. Khalid and Iraj are frozen in place, their eyes locked on the approaching dust cloud, and only once it comes fully into view does Khalid manage to get his breath again. He spies Fatemah astride her little black horse, riding dutifully alongside the cart; though Ramin’s tall figure blocks much of the rear of the vehicle from view, Khalid can see three shapes huddled together. As they near the house, Khalid gets a better look at them: in the back of the cart, Khalid spots a fellow he recognizes as another member of Kinza’s excavation team. Then he makes out the filthy, frowning figure of Kinza herself, with one arm around the excavator and the other around the slumped figure of the professor.

“They found them,” Iraj breathes, and Khalid releases a breath in tandem. Though his heart has yet to stop hammering in his chest, it’s no longer lodged in his throat, and some of the tightness in his limbs eases with the blissful wave of relief that floods his veins.

When the cart rolls to a stop, the professor stirs, pushing herself up into a seated position. The excavator—Zaid, Khalid presumes, if he’s correctly recalled what Ibrahim said—seems to be in good condition, as does Kinza herself, though both bear dour, stony expressions and are covered in even more mud and dust than usual.

“Thank the gods,” Iraj says. “They’re all right.” She gives Khalid’s arm a quick squeeze before rushing forward to lend a hand, helping Ramin to remove the slat at the back of the cart so the others can get down.

Kinza guides Zaid off of the cart, then comes back for Teach. In good news, the professor is able to move under her own power, albeit slowly. She slides to the edge of the cart, leaning heavily on Kinza’s shoulder for balance as she eases herself to the ground and into Ramin and Iraj’s care. She’s favoring her right leg, and she looks absolutely miserable—like a half-drowned rat, swaddled in blankets that are soaked through with water and mud, her cowl gone and her hair a dark green mess of tangles.

But she’s alive. They’re all alive. And although Khalid’s not much of one for prayer, he silently offers his thanks to anyone and anything that will take them.

“Rude of you all to go scaring a fella like that,” Khalid drawls at them; Kinza spits in response, which means she has enough energy to be grouchy, and that makes another wave of relief wash over him. “Anyone injured?”

“We got lucky,” Kinza says as she hops to the ground. She grips the professor’s shoulder tightly, and Khalid frowns as he realizes that the engineer has a filthy, bloodstained cloth tied around the palm of her left hand. “We’re in okay shape, apart from Glow Worm’s foot and a couple scrapes.”

“I’m all right,” the professor claims, managing to respond in Almyran, though her weak voice alone would out her as a liar even if she wasn’t so obviously in need of Kinza’s help.

Kinza scowls at her and spits again. “Shut up. Zaid, give us a hand.”

“I’m here,” the excavator says. Closer up, Khalid can get a better look at the man beneath the dust and estimates that Zaid is around Kinza’s age, possibly a little younger, with a similar wiry frame and what might, under all that grime, be a reddish-brown beard. He hurries to the professor’s other side and the three of them hobble up to the porch.

Fatemah has hitched her horse to one of the support beams of the porch and hurried to Khalid’s side. “What can I do, King Father?” she asks, and he smiles at her; she’s a good kid, and he’s lucky to have her.

“Thank you for your help, my dear,” he tells the tired-looking girl, patting her arm. “I’m much obliged. Go inside and fetch Zeinab—she’s sitting with Ibrahim in the room next to Teach’s. Have her start another bath; I need her to get a look at Teach’s leg, too. Once you get her up to speed, I’d like you to keep an eye on Ibrahim in her place. He hit his head pretty hard, and someone needs to make sure he doesn’t get sick while he’s resting.”

The girl doesn’t protest; she just nods her head and bustles off, and he’s all the more proud of her for it.

“Get inside, everyone,” he calls, “out of all that rain. Ramin, leave the horses for now—they’ll be fine there until everyone’s settled. Show our friends inside and draw two more baths—use the rooms upstairs, if you need to. Iraj, please get some food and drinks for everybody. And for the gods’ sakes, dear boy, don’t worry about your shoes at a time like this. A little more mud’s not going to hurt anything.”

Beneath all the grime on his face, Zaid’s cheeks flush; Kinza snorts at him, rolling her eyes.

“I’ve got to talk to you,” she says to Khalid, her voice firm.

Khalid nods. “All right. Get inside and get cleaned up. We’ll talk.”

Before she’s whisked away, the professor manages to catch Khalid’s eye. She looks like she might say something, but Khalid just shakes his head, waving her off. They’ll have time enough to talk once everyone’s settled and rested.

Besides, he doesn’t want her to know just how worried he was, or how much he regretted that the last words he might’ve spoken to her were, “Toodles, Teach.” He really needs to get in the practice of saying proper goodbyes, but at his age, it’s probably too late to change.

“Wish this wasn’t what it took to get you to come up to my house twice in a year, Kinza,” Khalid says as he settles on one of the sofas in the drawing room. The room sees so little use these days—he’s not sure he’s been in it himself in months, or possibly even since his ninetieth birthday party over a year and a half ago. It’s still in nice condition thanks to the dutiful maintenance of his stewards, although it’s admittedly a time capsule of twenty-year-old interior decorating. Since Shirin passed, a lot of things have remained frozen in Khalid’s world, but he can’t let himself get sidetracked by thinking about all of that now. The channel overseer has already been sitting on the matching sofa across from him for well over a minute, and by how she’s perching on the very edge of the paisley cushion, he can tell she’s grown impatient while waiting for him to shuffle over to his own seat and make himself comfortable.

She simply snorts at him in response, squinting her dark eyes and shaking her head. As Khalid sits up and gets a proper look at her, he realizes Kinza’s more than impatient—she’s exhausted. He’s never seen her this tired. Usually, a bath and a change of clothes do wonders for the woman, but trading her filthier-than-usual coating of dirt and grime for a set of clean robes has somehow only made things worse. Between all the stress and the labors of the day, it looks as though she’s aged ten years. The circles under her eyes are dark and heavy, and she’s unusually still, her posture slumped and her elbows resting on her knees. Whenever she blinks, she has to make an effort to open her eyes again. Even her constant scowl is little more than a weak line.

“You should take it easy,” he says softly, but she shakes her head again with a dismissive wave of her bandaged hand. Thankfully, the filthy cloth has been replaced with clean, white wrappings; he hopes she at least considered having Zeinab heal it for her.

“I want to debrief now,” she says, an odd edge to her tone. “I don’t want to wait until tomorrow—I thought about skipping the bath, but I didn’t want to smudge up your fancy house. It’s just that if I wait any longer, I might forget, or rationalize something, and I need you to have heard so you can call me out later if I say something different went down.”

The hairs on the back of Khalid’s neck stand up. “All right,” he says, pulling together the remnants of his composure and adopting his most stoic, confident leader face. “I’m listening, Kinza.”

Her dark eyes flit to his and she starts in without any hesitation.

“We were working near the outlet of tunnel eleven, doing an inspection to prepare for summer dredging. That tunnel provides water to your northeast wheat fields, and it also feeds one of the retention ponds that the village uses. I checked my reports, and we’d last inspected this section of the tunnel three months ago. We’d noted that it was in slightly worse condition than we’d expected for it to be, but it wasn’t past our threshold, so we had every reason to think it would hold up until we reached the dry months.

“When we got a look at the lining today, some of the supports were significantly warped. They shouldn’t have failed like that; we replaced the entire section two years ago, and they’re rated to last at least seven years. As we’ve been finding out, though, the batch of struts we used for those replacements have metallurgical defects—you’ve heard me and Glow Worm complaining about it.” She growls out a lengthy curse in Haroivan and looks like she’s going to spit, but luckily remembers her manners before Khalid has to say anything. “I’m gonna have that smith’s head. Especially after today.

“For some context, we had a team of four working on this inspection. There are two things about that which deviate from standard procedure. One, that’s a lot of folks to have actively working in just one section of a tunnel for what is, technically, only an inspection and not a work order. The tunnels are tight—you ever been in one?”

Khalid chuckles. “Nope,” he says, drawing out the ‘o’. “Even when I was a young man, you couldn’t have paid me enough to go in one.”

Kinza smirks at that. It’s nice to see her look a little less severe, even if it’s merely a weak and brief respite. “I get it,” she says. “Channel rat life ain’t for everybody. Most of the time, the tunnels are wide enough for one person to walk, if not comfortably. And when you get multiple people in there, maneuvering gets complicated. It’s all right on a dig, but on an inspection, you end up tripping over each other, and it’s not safe. So inspections, like the one we were doing, are usually a two-man job: two engineers, or an engineer and an assistant.

“Deviation number two: as overseer, I don’t actually lead many of the projects—I scope ‘em, divvy ‘em up, and verify the work at the end. But between the defects and other quality concerns we’ve been seeing, as well as how bad the conditions have been in the other tunnels, I wanted to make sure everything was done right. So I made myself lead engineer on this one, and I brought a bigger team so we could take our time, be thorough, and have extra backup for safety.

“I picked Zaid as my second engineer. He was my first apprentice, back in the day, and he knows these tunnels better than just about anyone—other than me, of course. Then we each had an assistant. Assistants are often apprentice engineers, but not always. You don’t need a lot of brains to know how to hold a lamp or carry a pack or lug out bags of dirt and rock.” She shoots him another weak smirk, raising those dark brows of hers. “No offense to your friend, I’m sure she’s got brains.”

“I’m sure,” Khalid drawls, glad for any opportunity to see a non-dour expression on her face. It’s just as brief as the last one, and it drops away as she continues.

“Anyway, I brought her along as my assistant, and Zaid brought the kid as his. He’s been Z’s apprentice for about six months now, and they’re a decent pair.

“Z and I were working on the inspection while Glow Worm and the kid took sediment samples and checked the conditions for dredging. All of it was bad. It’s these rains—when rainwater sinks back into the ground, it replenishes the groundwater in the aquifer. That’s a good thing, usually, but we’ve had so much rain in such a short span of time that the water level in the channel has exceeded what the tunnels are designed to safely support. Apart from the flood in ‘41, it’s the highest water level I’ve ever seen, and while it was temporary with the flood, this has been sustained over the past few weeks. We’ve seen serious sediment buildup and soil quality issues, and I’ve not even been able to get into some of the tunnels because of how high the water level’s been. In this tunnel, we had all our reduction methods in place, and the water still came up past my knee. It’s fucking—urgh.”

Kinza cuts herself off and presses a thumb to the space between her brows, her nose twitching like a hare’s. She grumbles something unintelligible (and likely laden with curses) before squinting her dark eyes at Khalid, releasing a heavy sigh.

“Look,” she says with the air of having granted him a serious concession, “I’ll spare you the details, but just know it’s been a task and a fucking half to manage this shit.”

“I believe you,” he says, and thankfully, she lets the matter rest.

Dropping her hands back to her knees, Kinza continues. “Real close to the outlet of the tunnel, we saw that one of the struts was in serious danger of collapse. It was completely bowed. Never seen anything like it; I’m amazed it held for as long as it did in that condition. When we find a section that’s a serious collapse risk like that, we’ll put in temporary supports to tide things over and then come back with a full engineering team to do a proper repair. Me and Z worked out the placements and what would be needed, then we got the materials from one of our storehouses near the outlet and got to work setting ‘em up. We got most of ‘em in place, too, before it all went to shit.”

She winces, loosing another big, weary sigh.

“The kid didn’t do anything wrong,” she says pointedly. “If any of us had done it, it still would have happened, and it’s on me as overseer in the end, anyway. I swear to the fucking gods, I do everything I can to make this work as safe as possible, but this job is dangerous sometimes, and the work still has to be done. Otherwise, the village has no water, and your fancy son’s precious wheat fields go dry, and the mills stop being powered and everything around here shuts down.

“We’ll be starting a full investigation tomorrow before we begin the repairs, but I’m already certain we’re going to find out that there was nothing we could have done differently. Between the abnormally high water levels, and the soil conditions being so much worse than we thought they’d be, and the strut being so fucked, all it was gonna take was somebody poking the wrong spot in the wrong way for it all to fall apart. And it did. Me and Z realized it was going, and Z yelled at the kid to move, which just made the poor bastard jump, and then the strut gave and the supports snapped and it all came down.”

Kinza’s quiet after that. She’s quiet for a long time. She bites her dry, cracked lip, staring off at nothing, drumming her fingers on her bouncing knee and giving the slightest shake of her head every so often.

“When the collapse happened,” she says, meeting his eye again, “we lost the exterior lighting from the end of the tunnel, and the lamps we brought all got snuffed out. I called roll and only got Zaid at first. Then I heard Glow Worm. Some of the falling rocks had knocked her over and pinned her leg, trapping her under the water. Luckily, she managed to get her head above the surface long enough for us to find her.” She shakes her head. “Just about suffocated on her wet dust mask, the idiot. Not pleasant.

“It was pitch dark in there, and we were choking on dust. We couldn’t check the state of the collapse to see if we could safely dig her out. The tunnels are too tight for two people to fit side-by-side, so Z and I had to take turns holding her up to make sure she could breathe. When she caught her breath, she told me that before the rocks came down, she saw the kid make it out.”

Kinza stops there, covering her mouth with her hand and staring off at nothing. She chews the edge of her thumbnail, her dark brows knitted together. Then she goes on.

“Glow Worm cast a little fire spell, which gave us some light. We couldn’t risk keeping it up for long since we didn’t know how bad the collapse was and if it would burn through all our air. It let us find Z’s lamp and get it lit again—the other ones fell in the water, so they were useless. Then we were able to get a better look at where Glow Worm was stuck. Her foot got caught between two rocks, and then a larger boulder pinned her down at the hip, which kept her from getting loose. But she was alive, and according to her, the kid was, too, and that was the best news I could hope for.

“All that’s to say, we were lucky,” she states, her voice graver than he’s ever heard it. “We were really, really lucky. Our whole engineering team’s been working around the clock with all the problems we’ve had going on, and this was just supposed to be an inspection, so we didn’t have a backup team on the surface the way we usually do. If the kid hadn’t gotten out, it would have been a while before anyone knew what happened, and we would have been completely fucked if we’d had a total collapse. As it was, it was only a partial one—the cave-in happened right at the outlet where the strut gave way, but the rest of the tunnel held up all the way back to the access shaft, so we were only trapped on one side. Me and Z used some of the materials that were still in good shape to shore up the area around the collapse. Then we dug Glow Worm out and followed our other safety line back to the access shaft. It was a pain in the ass getting up that damn ladder with Glow Worm’s foot so fucked and me and Z having taken some hard knocks ourselves, but we got out.

“Then, just as soon as we got up top, right when I was thinking we were in the clear, Glow Worm passed the fuck out. Sat down next to the windlass and just... keeled over. That really scared the shit out of me and Z. I thought she’d hit her head or something in all the chaos and we hadn’t noticed. And then Z went to check her pulse, and I’ll never forget the look on his face when he told me her heart wasn’t beating.”

“What?” Khalid exclaims, feeling his gut drop and his own heart hammer in his chest.

Kinza’s throat twitches, her thick, dark brows drawn tight and her face hard. “I’m telling you, Bones, her fucking heart wasn’t beating. She basically dropped dead on us.” The engineer lowers her head and snakes a hand into her hair beneath her headscarf, drawing the fabric back into place. She exhales so heavily that her shoulders slump, but there’s a shimmer in her eyes that defies the tiredness in the rest of her form. “I’ve never had anyone die in one of my tunnels. My channel network has one of the best safety records in all of Almyra. I’ve never seen anyone die, and up there, right when I figured we were in the clear, I thought she did. I didn’t know what the fuck to do. Neither did Z. In that moment, everything went out the window.”

A sudden noise bursts from her throat, and it takes Khalid a second to recognize it as a laugh. That deep, deep scowl flips into something incredulous, and Kinza’s dark eyes blink, her brows raised in a clear expression of disbelief.

“Then she just... sat up,” she says, waving her hands. “I don’t know how long she was down for, but it felt like a while. I was trying to remember the one shitty healing spell I learned in school, and Z was about to start hammering on her chest or something when she just... opened her eyes and sat up, like she’d been taking a fucking nap. I thought Z was gonna go down next from a heart attack, it was so sudden. We were a gods-damned mess, but she told us to stop, and that she was ‘all right now.’ Said she was fucking sorry.”

Kinza levers a glare at Khalid, who feels himself wilting under its power.

“Did you know she has a heart condition?” she demands.

“No,” he says honestly. “I had no idea.”

The engineer’s glare doesn’t lessen. “You better not have,” she warns him, “‘cause if I find out you did, I’m gonna be pissed at you forever. And she’s a fucking idiot. If she’s got something wrong with her heart, she never should have been in my tunnels. I don’t like surprises. And I can’t have that kind of liability on my hands.”

“I’m sorry, Kinza,” he tells her, unsure of what else to say. His mind is racing, trying to reconcile what he remembers of the professor in their youth with what Kinza is telling him, but there’s so much new information to parse that he can’t sort it all out now. He just tries to retain everything he can to make sense of it later. “I’ll talk to her,” he assures the engineer, and she gives him a curt nod, her nose twitching.

“You can tell her she’s not welcome in my tunnels going forward. She’s going to have to find some other way of staying entertained. You can give her my thanks for telling me that the kid got out, but make sure she knows she’s a fucking moron.”

Khalid almost chuckles at that, the sound emerging from his chest as a soft hum. “All right. I’ll pass that on.”

Kinza’s glare finally eases, and for the first time, she fully sinks back into the sofa. She looks more exhausted than ever now, though she’s still bouncing her knee, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her borrowed robe.

“Well, that’s it, for the most part,” she shrugs. “Kind of anticlimactic, I guess, but I prefer it that way. We hunkered down to assess injuries, and not too long after that, some of my other team members came by, saying the kid had told ‘em there had been a collapse and we needed help. They brought us back to the office where we met your people; I had Z come with us so your healer could check him over, and here we are.”

She’s quiet for a bit. Khalid lets her work up to whatever else she has to say to him. He’s thankful for the opportunity to think, as it is; it’s been a long time since he’s had this kind of excitement, and he’s having difficulty keeping up as well as he’d like. His mind is churning, a tangled mass of concerns and theories and memories all raveled in each other, and he can’t find the end of any individual thought to start working through the knots.

With a short breath, Kinza sits back up, perching on the edge of the cushion again with her elbows on her knees. “Look, Bones,” she says, fixing those dark eyes on his, “I don’t think I’m crazy. But I’m going to tell you something, and it’s going to sound insane. I wanted to make sure I told you tonight, because I think by tomorrow, I’ll have talked myself out of it. I don’t need you to believe me. I just want you to hear me out.”

Khalid swallows. “I’m listening,” he tells her.

Despite the disclaimer, it takes her some time to work up her nerve. She speaks haltingly, with an uncertain cadence that seems alien from the self-assured, confident engineer.

“When doing a job with more than a two-person team, the standard procedure is to come in from two sides: in this case, the nearest access shaft, and the tunnel outlet. That’s for safety. If there’s a collapse on one side, we still have a safety line and an exit on the other one. We also walk in a certain order: the engineer goes in first, then the assistant. That’s for supervisory purposes, and also for safety, so the engineer can verify the conditions and the assistant can handle going in and out for tools or supplies as needed.

“Once we’re in the tunnel, we don’t change our walking order unless we absolutely have to. Like I said, the tunnels are tight. You can’t fit two people side by side. If you want to get past somebody, you have to turn sideways, and most of the time, it’s a squeeze—plus, you risk lines getting tangled and all kinds of other problems.

“On this inspection, we followed procedure to the letter. Me and Glow Worm came in through the access hatch and met up with Z and the kid near the end of the outlet. So the order, from farthest-in to closest-out, was Glow Worm, me, Z, and then the kid near the exit.

“You see the problem?” Kinza asks him, lowering her head and raising her brows. “You get what I’m saying? The whole time we were working, Glow Worm was behind me, farther down the tunnel. So how did she end up getting stuck in the rocks at the outlet? How’d she know that the kid made it out?”

Khalid wets his lip in an attempt to bring some moisture back to his dry mouth. He tries to say something, but can’t will any words to come forth; he closes his useless mouth and shakes his head, exhaling heavily through his nose to disguise the chill that raises the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.

Kinza stares hard at him. Then she looks away, falling quiet. They’re silent for some time before she speaks again without meeting his gaze.

“I have a good memory,” she says, as if daring him to contradict her. “And I don’t remember her passing me. At least, I didn’t at first. It’s hard to explain. It’s like—like I can picture it, but if I think about it too much, it gets harder to remember, or I start thinking other things happened. Like maybe she pulled the kid into the tunnel instead of him going out, and it came down on them both. Or like the kid never hit the strut, but it still gave way and fell on all of us a few minutes later.

“I know that sounds crazy,” she acknowledges, her eyes briefly flaring wide. “I know those things didn’t happen. I’m sure I’m just fucked up from being too tired, and maybe tomorrow, I’ll have a handle on it. But I know that at first, I was sure she didn’t pass me. With everything that was going on, I couldn’t think about it much at the time, but when we found Glow Worm under the rocks, I was fucking baffled. I thought I’d lost my sense of direction or passed out or something, but I hadn’t. I asked Z if she’d passed him, and he said no. But when I asked him later, after we got out, he said he wasn’t sure, and that she must have. Then he says he might have seen her pushing the kid out. And the thing that really gets me—”

She bites her dry lip hard enough to make a drop of blood pool in the crack, glancing at Khalid without raising her head.

“The thing that really gets me,” she says slowly, once she’s able to continue, “is that even if she did push past both of us... why would she? She wouldn’t have had any reason to. Not unless she knew it was going to happen.”

It’s a struggle to stay calm when Khalid’s heart is beating its way out of his chest and his stomach feels so heavy and sour. He fights to keep his face neutral while his mind whirls. He can’t help thinking about that day a month or two ago: that sunny afternoon in the courtyard, when he fell, or didn’t fall. When he thinks back on it now, he doesn’t remember falling. He remembers the professor being right behind him, grabbing hold of him just as he tripped.

But he knows that in the moment, he’d been so certain that he did fall, and that the professor had been some distance away—much too far to get to him in time.

His recollection is muddled now. That isn’t so surprising at his age, but it’s muddled in a different way—one that distresses him and makes his skin crawl. Typically, his failures of memory manifest as absence, but this is more like an overlapping presence, as though two or more things could have happened at once.

Or did.

Thinking about it hurts his head, making his blood thrum in his temples and a weight settle deep in his chest. And as hard as it is to remember what actually occurred, it’s too easy to recall the professor’s face in the minutes after. How sick she looked. The pain and terror in her eyes.

“What do you make of that?” he manages to ask Kinza, willing his voice to be steady.

The engineer shakes her head, her tongue curled over the edge of her upper lip. She loses herself in thought for a while, then rubs her chin with her hand, staring at the floor.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I don’t think she caused it, or sabotaged anything, if that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t see how she could have known it would happen when it did. I barely saw it go down, and I was just a couple feet away. But there’s no other way she could’ve gotten to the kid that fast. She couldn’t have. She had to have known.”

“Hey.” Khalid raps his knuckles on the door to the professor’s room before gently easing it open, poking his head inside. “You awake?” he asks in Fódlani.

“Enough,” the professor says, her voice hoarse. It’s been an hour or two since Kinza left, so the sun has long set; it’s dark in the room, but he can see her slowly sitting up and rubbing sleep from her eyes. “You can come in.”

He does so, shuffling inside and letting the door shut behind him. The space is nicely adorned, as all the guest rooms are—thanks to Shirin’s touch, of course. Like the drawing room, the furnishings are also outdated, but it’s homey and comfortable nonetheless. The professor doesn’t appear to have added or rearranged anything in the months since it became her space; the only personal effects present are her gray cloak, hanging on a hook by the door, and her journal, which sits on the small white desk near the foot of the bed. Next to the lamp on the nightstand is a ewer, a full cup of water, and a plate with a few bread rolls wrapped in cloth, similarly untouched. Teach leans over to the lamp, and while it takes several snaps of her fingers to accomplish the feat, she conjures a little flame and lights the wick, bathing the dark room in soft yellow light.

“How’re you holding up?” Khalid asks her, sinking less than gracefully into the chair at the desk.

She shrugs a shoulder, her head tilting to the side with the motion. “I’m okay,” she says, not meeting his eye. “Tired, mostly, and sore. I’m sorry for all the fuss.”

“None of that,” he chides. “How bad off are you?”

The professor pulls back the quilt covering the lower half of her body. Now that she’s clean and has had some rest, she’s looking much better than she was earlier—less like a half-drowned animal and more like a person again, although she’s paler than usual and sporting a host of new cuts and bruises across the exposed areas of her skin. She’s clad in her lounge clothes for sleep; her left ankle is wrapped in a linen-and-leather splint that extends up past her mid-calf, an inch or two of pale skin separating it from the bottom edge of a black brace around her knee. Khalid sucks his teeth at the sight of a nasty purple-and-red bruise emerging from above the waistband of her shorts, reaching far up the side of her bare midriff.

“Twisted my ankle pretty bad in the rocks,” she says. She’s too tired to make her typical attempts at expressions, but he can tell from her tone that she’s more annoyed than anything. “Aggravated a knee injury from when I was young, too, and bruised my hip. Didn’t break or tear anything, though. I’ll have to go easy on it for a while, but it’ll heal fast.”

Khalid grunts, nodding approvingly at the splints. Zeinab and Iraj took good care of her, and he doesn’t doubt that the professor will be all healed up much, much faster than anyone anticipates. “That’s good.”

She nods her agreement, pulling the quilt back over herself. “Kinza fired me,” she says as neither a statement nor a question, with no particular inflection to her voice.

“I think she’d have to be paying you to fire you,” he chuckles. “But... yeah. She said as much.”

“I’ve never been fired before,” she comments idly, a welcome trace of something like amusement in her features. “I can’t say it’s a nice feeling.”

“Sorry, Teach,” he says, consoling, though she just shrugs.

“It’s fair. I broke the rules.” She lifts her gaze to Khalid, her face blank once more. “Did she tell you what happened?”

He nods again. He’s not sure how to respond, so he just says, “Yes.”

The professor looks away, her tongue briefly resting on the edge of her lip. “You want an explanation.” It’s another not-statement, not-question, and Khalid can’t keep a small frustrated noise from escaping his throat.

“Well, yes,” he admits, electing to take it as a question. “At least, it would certainly help.” He stops, scratching at his beard and shaking his head. “I—I don’t really mean that, though. It’s just—sheesh, your heart, Teach... You gave Kinza and Zaid a real scare. And me, too, when I found out about it.”

Almost unconsciously, the professor’s hand moves to her chest, her knuckles pressing into her pale skin. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I didn’t think... It’s...”

She falls quiet, and before she can make an attempt to say anything further, Khalid reaches out to rest his hand on the quilt over her uninjured ankle. When she looks up at him and blinks in surprise, he meets her eye with the most sincere and honest gaze he can muster.

“Look,” he starts, “I can’t say I’m not curious. There’s a lot I want to know. But I’ve always thought of you as being, well... kind of like me. A kindred spirit, I guess. And folks like you and me keep secrets for good reason.”

As she processes his words, her hands slowly sink back into her lap, her green eyes fixed on his all the while. Despite the dim light, there’s a shine to them he’s never seen before; the sight does something strange to his body, making a warmth rise in his chest as a heaviness settles deep into the pit of his stomach. Her mouth contorts, but no words come out, and he continues before she can make another attempt.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, Teach. I haven’t asked you to do that at any point so far, and I don’t intend to start now. I’d like answers, but I don’t need them. And I don’t want them unless you choose to give them to me.”

“Unless I choose to?” she repeats, the slightest tilt to her chin.

Khalid nods. “You can think of it like a gift, if that helps. Something you want me to have, and not something you think I’m owed. I don’t expect anything, Teach. If you never choose to tell me, I won’t hold it against you, and I’ll still be your friend.”

Something hitches in the professor’s chest. Her big green eyes are shining in the flickering light of the little lantern, and he’s reminded of how they looked at the New Year festival: alive and alight with a trace of something new, something with the potential to be more than it’s always been. Her lips part, and he almost convinces himself that there’s the slightest of trembles in her lower one.

“Claude...”

Khalid smiles at her. Then he gives her leg a pat and takes a deep breath before leaning hard on his cane, pushing himself up to a standing position.

“Get some rest, Teach,” he says—it’s gentle, but it is a command. He’s been very bossy today, and unfortunately for everyone, it will take him a while to break the habit. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay.” The professor’s throat twitches, and as she sinks back into the pillows and draws the quilt around herself, Khalid’s struck by the thought that she looks so young and so old all at once, like an elderly woman and a small child sharing one body: independent and needy, timeworn and raw, venerable and brand new.

Khalid hears her blow out the lamp as he shuffles out of her room, easing the door shut behind him. His head is so full and his body is so tired; he knows he’ll be sore and grumpy tomorrow, though given the stresses of the day, he expects everyone will. He retreats down the hall to his own room, and once Zeinab helps him finish his nightly routines and he finally settles into bed, he falls asleep in an instant. He doesn’t so much as stir until he hears the sounds of the morning songbirds and feels the rays of the sun pouring through his window, unmarred by rain clouds for the first time in weeks.

In the wake of the accident, things are different.

At first, it seems like it will all be temporary while the professor’s leg heals. She gets around using a crutch, and whenever they set off somewhere together, Khalid jokingly offers to race her. Sometimes, she even lets him win.

Their morning routine changes. It’s too hard for her to get down to the lake, so her fishing rod and tackle box remain in their place on the porch. She does a modified version of her calisthenics, occasionally forgoing them to join Khalid for his morning meditation instead. They start having coffee and breakfast in the courtyard again, now that the rains have stopped pouring down incessantly.

Those first few days, she sleeps most of the time and barely speaks. When she does talk after that, it’s mostly in Almyran. Khalid can’t tell if it’s because she’s making a conscious effort to practice, or because it gives her an excuse to say less. He doesn’t bother asking.

Despite the already-taciturn woman’s shift toward muteness, she gives off a constant impression of being on the verge of saying something. Whenever they’re taking a meal or sitting on the porch together or relaxing in the courtyard, Khalid will glance over at her after a long silence and find that strange expression on her face that he recalls from the night of the accident, right before he left to go to bed: her lips pursed, her eyes alight, something or things on the edge of her tongue. A crack in a dam that’s one stubborn stone away from unleashing a flood.

But the stone holds. She doesn’t break. And although she’s obviously restless and frustrated by her immobility, she doesn’t complain. She passes her days with him, rarely leaving his side, and he’s thankful for every moment he has with her.

Of course, it doesn’t stay that way forever. Her leg heals fast, as she said it would. It heals faster than it should, as he expected it would. While she goes easy on it until it’s back to its full strength, it doesn’t take much time for her to resume endlessly prowling the estate, looking for things to occupy her days. She returns to her fishing and her calisthenics and to joining him for breakfast and supper, and they settle back into their familiar routine.

But things are different now. It takes a bit for either of them to realize how much has changed.

It’s not just that she’s no longer working with Kinza. Khalid kind of misses that, if he’s being honest; he so seldom got updates about his favorite engineer in the past, and it was nice to hear what was going on with the woman, even though the professor rarely had any insights to share beyond saying, “She’s as surly as ever,” or “Yes, she still brings salted cod with olive oil for lunch almost every day, and the smell is very unpleasant in the tunnels.” Somehow, Teach found out that the boy—Ibrahim, if he recalls correctly—healed up well and was able to return to work, but he quit his apprenticeship and moved to Urkesh after only a week or two back on the job. When she tells him that, he asks her what she thinks of it. She says she doesn’t know.

Khalid knew word of the accident would spread quickly around the farm. It’s not the kind of place where exciting things happen; it’s a place of routines and consistency, with very little variation in the day to day. The collapse of the tunnel is a hot topic for weeks. And a lot of people seem to have drawn their own conclusions about what happened.

Teach starts returning from her daily work earlier and earlier. She does more around the house: sweeping and mopping, scrubbing linens and dishes in the scullery, dusting and washing the windows and tidying the garden in the courtyard. It’s nice to have her this close, but Khalid eventually has to make a gentle joke implying that she’s going to put his stewards out of a job. She takes the hint with grace. After that, she spends more time out and about. She feeds the pigeons, or watches the sheep, or looks after her plants in the greenhouse. Sometimes, she takes off for hours, walking or riding around on Khalid’s sweet dun-colored mare. Khalid’s not sure where she goes. He’s just thankful that she always comes back.

There are other changes happening, too. Changes he can’t explain.

Like how his eyesight’s getting better. The world is a little less fuzzy, the colors brighter, the edges sharper.

He wakes one morning and stumbles to his favorite chair in the courtyard to listen to the birdsong, and when he realizes he can make out each individual leaf on the pothos plant that crawls around the well, he’s so overcome with awe that he nearly weeps. When he listens close and realizes he can hear melodies from birds singing at frequencies he hasn’t been able to make out in years, the tears fall free.

It must have been gradual. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes it’s probably been happening this whole time. Maybe it’s just become more dramatic recently, or maybe it’s finally become significant enough for him to notice.

And it’s not just him, either. Just last summer, Zeinab’s knee was getting so bad that she used to have to take an extra rest day every other week or so, but she’s been unusually spry of late. The other day, Ramin heard Iraj calling for him the first time, before she’d trekked across the house to holler at him from within the same room. Iraj’s mood has been brighter, and the swelling in her knobby, arthritic hands is looking better than it has in years.

Admittedly, Khalid was never much of a mage—his only foray into white magic was during his academy days, when he’d walked into the cathedral at the wrong time and got wrangled into joining choir practice. But he doesn’t think this kind of thing is typical of white magic, and from what little he’s learned of medicine over the years, he doesn’t know how these kinds of changes could be happening otherwise. Apart from that one instance, the professor hasn’t healed him directly; it’s possible that she’s been healing the others, but he doubts it. Whenever she’s not fishing or out working on the farm, she spends nearly every spare moment with him. And considering how his stewards like to keep him abreast of every minor happening in the house, it would be very unlike them to suddenly lose their tongues.

It’s as if just being in her vicinity is enough to affect them, curing their ailments and gradually healing age-old afflictions.

He considers breaking his promise and bringing it up. He tries to figure out how he would even broach the subject, but the question tangles with all the others he’s set aside. There are so many things he wants to know.

When she finishes her calisthenics and comes to join him for breakfast, they sip their coffee to the sound of songbirds. He asks her whether she thinks it will rain.

He hasn’t dreamed of the frozen lake in weeks.

Chapter Text

The wheat is heading when the trouble starts, foretold by the distant shape and pursuant dust cloud of a rider making their way up to the house.

“Is that Sufian?” the professor asks. “What’s he doing here?”

Her voice pulls Khalid out of his post-nap haze. For the last few hours, he’d been dozing in his chair on the porch while the professor finished cleaning up part of the fallow field in front of his house, and now, while he struggles to wake up, she’s hard at work transplanting some of the flowers she’s been growing in the greenhouse. She’s kneeling in the dirt with the sleeves of her robe rolled up and a trowel in hand; it’s one of those rare instances where she’s comfortable enough to have her cowl down, and she’s tied her lustrous hair back to keep it out of her face. It glimmers in the bright afternoon sunlight, looking more of a soft yellow hue than the pale seafoam green he knows it to be. Between the clement weather and her lack of employment of late, the professor’s been spending a lot of time on her gardening the past few weeks. As much as he hopes she’s able to find other things to occupy her time again soon, he’s enjoyed having her this close, and he thinks Shirin would be happy to know her beloved fields are once again alive with color.

“I’m not sure,” Khalid replies once he recalls that the professor had posed a question. He stretches wide, still too sleepy to bother stifling his loud yawn or keep from smacking his lips while shaking himself to wakefulness. “Not expecting him for two more days. Might just be one of the hands.”

The professor makes a sound of acknowledgement, continuing to muck about in her piles of dirt and plants. But there’s a tension in her that wasn’t there before, and it sets Khalid on edge, too, building and twisting until he can’t sit still anymore and rises to his feet with a loud grunt. He wanders over to the edge of the porch, holding his cane loosely in one hand and raising the other in a gesture of greeting as the rider nears.

“It is Sufian,” he realizes, watching as the man returns his greeting by raising the lance in his left hand.

As Sufian nears the house and comes into focus, Khalid can’t keep a fond smile from his face. The captain of Khalid’s personal guard is, like the majority of those in his employ, getting a little long in the tooth—which isn’t to say the man is any less capable of his job duties. Although the tight curls of his beard and thinning hair are teetering on the verge of being more gray than brown and the lines of his sun-weathered face have grown deeply defined in the past few years, his frame is significantly bigger and broader than it ever was in his youth. Khalid remembers when the man first joined his guard some twenty-five years ago as a scrappy, lean lad, barely out of his teens and eager to prove his worth. That boy is scarcely recognizable now in the sinewy, shrewd man who’s loping up to Khalid’s house on his massive dapple gray war horse, but his perpetual squint and the hard set of his jaw is exactly the same.

“Hail, King Father,” Sufian calls in his heavy Riverland accent, gruff and clipped and injected with more formality than Khalid cares to hear. The afternoon sunlight glints off the polished surfaces of the steel armor plates on his chest and shoulders. He slows his horse to a stop a polite distance away from the professor, preventing the dust cloud in his wake from choking her or Khalid as it settles. “Hail, Eisner,” he says, giving the professor a respectful nod.

“Hail, Sufian,” Khalid calls back, imitating the man’s voice and scarcely restraining himself from snorting a laugh. His stewards and hands all seem to have different ways of addressing the professor; when she responds with a placid, “Good afternoon, Sufian,” the Almyran words saturated in her Fódlani brogue, Khalid once again wonders which epithets she prefers. “Is the mill too boring today? Or are you just out for a ride to enjoy the weather?”

“Unfortunately, neither, King Father,” the man replies. He smoothly dismounts his horse, holding the reins of the massive animal in one hand and his hefty steel lance in the other. He spares a quick glance at the professor before looking back to Khalid. “Is it a good time to talk?”

“Of course. Got something on your mind?”

“I’ve received some concerning news.” When he fishes in the pocket of his trousers, he shifts his gaze between Khalid and the professor once again; when his russet eyes return to Khalid’s face, Khalid tilts his chin down and raises his brows. Anything he needs to say can be said in front of the professor. The man’s jaw clenches with his understanding, and he crosses over to hand Khalid a rolled-up slip of paper.

“Well, don’t keep me hanging,” Khalid says as he unrolls the paper, “what’s going on?” He quickly scans his guard captain’s small scrawl, squinting at the lines out of habit.

“Have you heard from His Majesty, King Yousef?”

At the mention of his son’s name, Khalid’s heart gives a hard pang, and he tears his gaze from the paper. The professor has shucked her dirty gardening gloves and risen to her feet, coming to stand at his side—as far as Khalid knows, she has yet to realize that he no longer needs help reading his letters, and she’s holding out her hand in a polite offer of assistance. He gives it to her automatically, turning Sufian’s written and spoken words over in his mind.

“I got his New Year greetings a while back,” Khalid replies, keeping up a jovial drawl in spite of his rising anxiety. “Haven’t been expecting anything from him.”

Sufian’s mouth tightens, and when Khalid glances at the professor, she’s looking back at him, her green eyes wide. She holds the paper in one hand and takes Khalid’s arm with the other, her fingers loosely wrapping around his wrist. He braces himself for impact and looks back to his guard captain, who speaks with the solemn frankness Khalid so appreciates from the man.

“There has been an attempt on the king’s life.”

Khalid exhales a long, unsteady breath. His mouth has gone dry; he wets his lip with his tongue, then sets his jaw, never taking his eyes off the guard captain’s face. “And?”

“He’s safe and unharmed,” Sufian continues, kindly pretending not to notice how Khalid’s shoulders slump with the force of his relief, “as are the queen and the princes. It was a bold attack during a public address in Halabi. The primary assailant was slain at the scene, and two conspirators were apprehended shortly afterward.”

“Well, that’s as good of news as anyone could hope for,” Khalid manages to respond eventually. He puts a hand over the professor’s and squeezes her palm, appreciating the security of her hold as she squeezes it back. “When did this happen? Have they conducted an investigation yet?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” the guard captain says, “though we only received word an hour ago. The investigation is ongoing; we can expect further news by pigeon tomorrow.” He stops, fixing those deep, russet eyes on Khalid’s pale green ones. He adjusts his grip on his lance, his other hand resting on the hilt of the curved sword belted at his side. “There’s no confirmation yet, but it is suspected that the attackers were separatists from Bardai.”

The low chuckle emitting from Khalid’s throat must surprise the professor: her grip on his forearm loosens and he can feel her inquisitive eyes boring into the side of his head. “That sounds right,” he says with a shrug, giving the professor’s hand a pat. “Figured they’ve been too quiet. Suppose we’re back to being on alert.”

Sufian nods. “I’ve already arranged to double the patrols, and we’ve increased security at the mill and bathhouses.”

That brings Khalid some comfort, accompanied by a swell of pride. Sufian’s a fine man; Khalid’s grateful for his loyalty. “Thank you. Don’t bother with scouts on the road or anything of the sort at this point, though. No need to get worked up if this was an isolated event.”

Sufian’s mustache twitches. He’s probably already got several scouts out wandering the roads and lurking in the fields. “Understood, King Father,” he says, straightening his posture. “Do you have any orders for me?”

Khalid shakes his head. “Just let me know as soon as you hear anything. All the better if you do so over supper.”

The guard captain’s gruff facade momentarily cracks, his mouth pulling into a rare and radiant smile that makes his eyes sparkle. “I should, I know. My apologies; it’s been too long.”

“Good lad,” Khalid laughs, clapping Sufian on the shoulder. With his own sons so far away, it’s hard not to look for traces of them in the man before him, especially with all his paternal anxiety desperately demanding an outlet. “Whenever you get the time—you’re a busy fellow. I know we’re in good hands with you looking out for us.”

Sufian bows his head. The man’s one flaw is that he’s never been good at receiving praise. “Thank you, King Father. I’ll ensure your faith in me is rewarded.”

“It always is. Be safe, Sufian.”

“I shall, sir.” The guard captain gives a parting nod to each of them before striding back to his massive horse and swinging into the saddle with a comfortable confidence. “If we receive no news, I’ll report at dusk tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Khalid calls after him.

The immense beast turns and lumbers forward as Sufian pulls the reins and nudges its sides with his heels. They depart as quickly as they arrived, the freshly-settled dust kicking up in their wake.

“Are you all right, Claude?” the professor asks in soft-spoken Almyran, pulling Khalid back to the present before he can get too wound up in history.

“I am,” he assures her, although it takes him a moment to decide whether that’s true. He lowers his head to his chest, trusting his cane and his friend’s steady hand to keep his body balanced and upright. He pulls in a long breath and holds it, then releases it slowly, collecting his composure before turning to the professor. “I am. I’m worried, of course. But it can’t be helped. And it’s not like it’s the first time, anyway.”

“It’s not?”

Khalid manages to lever a grin at the professor, whose brow is creased in concern. “Comes with being king,” he says plainly; when her brow creases further, his grin shifts into an inquisitive smirk. “What, you didn’t have your fair share of political radicals and assassins clamoring for your blood?”

The professor winces. It’s a bald expression, and the transparency of it takes Khalid somewhat aback. “Not really,” she shrugs, rubbing the back of her neck with her free hand. “I mean, there were some at first, and I’m sure there are more out there now. But there were only a few serious threats, and none of them ever got that close.”

That makes Khalid hum thoughtfully. He hadn’t expected her to give a full, honest answer. “Well, that sort of thing is much less common in Almyra than it used to be, but it’s always a risk of the office. Help me back over to my chair, would you?” He could make it on his own, but he wasn’t entirely rid of his post-nap drowsiness before Sufian delivered his news, and the disturbing subject matter has him feeling more than a little dizzy.

Of course, the professor moves without any hesitation, adjusting her hold on his arm and leading him back to his seat. Once he’s safely settled, he releases a heavy sigh. He smiles his thanks to the woman before him and gestures to the empty chair at his side; she takes it without a word.

They’re quiet for some time after, though it’s not a proper silence—not with the buzz of spring insects humming in his ears and the distant lowing of sheep and cattle in the barn. He can feel the professor’s eyes on the side of his head again as she patiently waits for him to collect his thoughts. He should meditate, but there will be time enough for that later; besides, it would be impolite to do so while his guest’s questions remain unanswered.

“Do you know much about Almyran politics?” he asks her in Fódlani.

She thinks over his question. “I wish I did, but I don’t. I was more aware back in the nineties, when King Shahid was making a play for the border. I’ve kept up with the various kings, of course, but I don’t know much beyond that.”

Khalid snickers. “Wouldn’t expect you to. Keeping up with Fódlan must have been work enough.”

She makes a low humming sound, and while Khalid’s not sure if it’s intended to be sardonic, it amuses him.

“My son became king about thirty years ago now,” he begins, despite not fully knowing what it is that he’s beginning.

The professor nods. “I sent your son my congratulations on his coronation.”

“That’s nice of you,” Khalid says, somewhat touched, though she merely shrugs.

“I would have been nicer if I had known he was your son.”

“Guess it would have been obvious if he was ‘King Yousef von Riegan,’” he laughs, “but he wouldn’t have gotten far in Almyran politics with a Fódlani family name, or even my Almyran one; he used my wife’s family name prior to becoming king. Between my mistakes and all of Shahid’s blunders, her family was in better social standing.”

“That makes sense,” the professor acknowledges, her lips pursed thoughtfully. She shoots him a look from the corner of her eye. “What do you mean by... if you don’t mind me asking—”

“It’s fine,” Khalid dismisses, preemptively waving off her apologies. “You know some of it already, though, so stop me if I’m boring you.”

He stops himself again before he even starts. He hasn’t talked about any of this in a long time. He’s reminded of that first day again in ways he does and doesn’t like, but he continues all the same.

“My campaign in Fódlan ended about as disastrously as it could have. I wasn’t able to reconcile with the Imperial-aligned lords as I’d hoped, which not only split the Alliance, but limited my resources and options. Gronder was my last major play; I’d been counting on the Kingdom’s support, and we’d planned to ally with them. But it failed. Dimitri—he was belligerent. He wouldn’t listen to reason. He attacked us, and we had no hope of holding our own against both armies. The casualties...”

Khalid swallows, closing his eyes. When he can open them, he stares down at his scarred and gnarled hands, fidgeting with a frayed thread of his shirt sleeve like he’s a nervous teenager again instead of the weathered and jaded thing that he is. After all this time, he still doesn’t want to go down this road. He doesn’t have to.

“Nader smuggled me back across the border—I told you about him before, I think. He was like an uncle to me. I got pretty messed up in the fighting, and it took me a long time to heal. My bow arm never was the same after that. Couldn’t draw like I used to. I finally got well enough to start putting my life back together, only to find out it was essentially over.” He chuckles darkly. “Probably was doomed from the start, if I’m being honest. I’ve always been too Almyran for Fódlan and too Fódlani for Almyra. I was never able to acknowledge my true identity in Fódlan, and after spending six years there, I wasn’t too popular with many of the Almyran lords. They thought I’d returned to Almyra as a Fódlani spy. I still could’ve become king with just my father’s support, but with how badly I lost in Fódlan, I also lost his favor. I’d failed to prove myself as a leader. Shahid inherited everything, and I think you know how that turned out.”

The professor’s attempt at a sympathetic grimace keeps Khalid’s ancient melancholy from stilling his tongue. “It’s a shame,” she murmurs. “You would have been a good king, Claude.”

“It’s kind of you to say so,” Khalid says, smiling. “I’d like to think that, too. But it was a naïve young man’s dream, thinking I’d ever inherit the crown, let alone see Fódlan and Almyra make peace. I was heir to two kingdoms, neither of which would ever want me if they knew who I really was. I spent my youth trying to hide the right parts of myself to win everyone’s favor and only got grief for all my efforts. I didn’t want that life for my children.” A laugh bubbles up in his chest, and fortunately, it’s tinged with only the slightest edge of all the bitterness he’s choking back. “Not that I had any hope of conveying all those hard lessons to Yousef. There are some things a person can only learn on their own.”

He pauses to let himself reminisce, a heavy sigh easing from his tired lungs.

“My son was fifteen when he told me he was going to become king of Almyra; I’d told my father the same thing at that age. I did what I could to support him, of course, but gods, did he scare me. He was twenty-two the first time we could have lost him. We nearly had a full-on civil war here after Shahid got himself killed in that stupid campaign down in Haroiva, back in ‘14—I’m amazed it took that long for his luck to run out.” He scowls. “Figures he couldn’t even do Almyra a favor by dying. He left two heirs barely out of swaddling clothes and had separately promised the throne to three adopted sons. The succession crisis nearly tore the whole country apart.

“As for my Yousef, he’d joined the navy a few years before all that. Wanted to be just like Nader, though he didn’t manage to secure Nader’s record: during the crisis, his entire division was decimated in a skirmish out in the Pearl Sea. When Shirin and I heard the news, we feared the worst, only to find out a day or two later that he’d turned up in an infirmary in Saida. Nearly lost his leg. He was incoherent for a month; we weren’t sure he’d ever wake up. But he finally came around, and when he did, I... I asked him to come home.”

His voice breaks on his last word. He laughs again, and this time, it’s too obviously acrid. His chest hurts; he rubs at it absently with his knuckles.

“Out of all the disagreements we’ve had, that was the angriest he’s ever been. He did everything short of call me a coward. Demanded to know why I didn’t think he was good enough, as if he was the problem. He got this idea in his head that I’d had something stolen from me and that he had to be the one to take it back—some Fódlani sense of honor I must have passed on to him, despite my best efforts. I’d tried to be a good father and protect him from the world. Talking to him that day, listening to my son voice all my ambitions back to me, knowing my dreams had almost killed him... I realized I’d failed at that, too.

“So I did what I had to in order to keep my son in my life: I promised I’d never ask that of him again. And I swore I’d do everything in my power to help him achieve his goals. Mind you, I wasn’t a complete pariah; I made a name for myself in western Almyra after I got back from Fódlan, considering I had more foreign policy and combat experience than most of the blowhards in court. I’d been one of Shahid’s advisers, too, for what good that did—like getting paid to talk to a tornado—but I’d mitigated some disasters he’d invented for us, and that won me a couple of strong connections throughout the country. I leveraged those for Yousef. I threw everything I had behind him.”

Although his voice is thick with emotion and his eyes sting, he smiles, a flush of pride welling in his aching chest.

“He didn’t need me, though. He did everything right: won the right battles, backed the right horses, got the right allies. Married the right woman, too, at least on paper. The night before his wedding, I asked him to think about what he really wanted his life to look like. By then, he was old enough to listen to me and wise enough to understand the consequences. He got married the next day, and a little over three years later, he brought Western Almyra under one banner. In all Almyra’s history, that’s never been done. But my boy did it. ‘Yousef Iskandar, Uniter’. He did the same in Eastern Almyra a few years later, and that won him the throne.” He gives a little chuckle, unable to keep a wry smile from his face. “Should’ve known he’d be the one to pull it off, with him being his mother’s son. He always had what it takes.”

“From how you describe him,” Teach says softly, “I think there’s more of you in him than you give yourself credit for.”

Khalid fully laughs at that—properly this time. “Maybe,” he shrugs. “Maybe just the worst parts. I’m inclined to think my daughter Marah got the best of me; she’s smart like her mother, but with my sense of humor, and enough sense to know when it’s time to fall back and regroup. Plus, she can fly and shoot.” Before he gets too far off-topic, he shakes his head, then tilts it to look at the professor. “Don’t get me wrong, Teach, I’m proud of my son—so, so proud. He’s done incredible things for this country. But I wish he didn’t have to be the one to do them. The last thing I wanted was for any of my children to suffer as I did; I knew they’d have trouble enough, with me being their father. And while my boy won’t ever admit it, he’s suffered.”

The professor is quiet. He can’t quite decipher her expression, but something about it smacks of pity, and a feeling of shame washes over him, sitting on his limbs like a heavy blanket.

“Almyra’s a complicated place,” he says, shifting the conversation before he can wrench his old wounds open further or allow Teach the chance to prod at them. “It’s big, for one thing—bigger than Fódlan and Morfis put together. Culturally, the western and eastern parts couldn’t be more different, and central Almyra has all these isolated pockets of civilization between the steppes, the deserts, and the mountains. We’ve only operated under one flag and agreed to the same king for so long because the central government’s been relatively hands-off, all things considered. But a lot has changed since Yousef unified the western and eastern halves of the country. We’re more cohesive, which is arguably a good thing—we’ve been able to apply that communal mindset that let us make the channels to other things: building safer roads, helping more people access education, and improving infrastructure in places that have needed it for a long, long time. We’ve done better with trade, too. I still don’t know how he did it, but my boy actually got us a decent agreement with Morfis.”

“Really?”

It figures that that’s what would impress the professor. Khalid nods. “Sure did, about twenty years ago. Wish he’d ever bother to try it with Fódlan, though I suppose that wouldn’t earn him any friends. Most of the changes have been good for us, with higher quality of life across the country, but there’s also been a lot of political restructuring that’s empowered the king’s position—and western Almyra, as the seat of the capital. And while our stability’s improved, we’re seeing cultural shifts across the country, especially in the west. We’re losing many of the old ways. Some say we’re becoming too Fódlani.”

He sneaks a glance at Teach, whose brow is furrowed and whose eyes are locked on something in the middle distance. She’s too focused on considering his words to react, even by feigning a polite response; it’s disappointing, but he continues on.

“As you can imagine, Yousef’s reign hasn’t been popular with everybody. About ten years back, a group based out of the southeastern steppe figured he’d gone far enough and started calling for secession, or for him to step down. It got ugly. Open rebellions, covert operations, assassination attempts; you name it, they tried it. After they went for his sons, Yousef stopped trying to play nice. He’s never been much of one for subterfuge, though—that’s more of my specialty. I pulled some strings and helped take out their leaders, and Yousef’s armies did the rest. Then the remnants of them came after me.”

“They came here?”

“Yep,” he drawls, popping the ‘p’. “Burnt the fields, raided the mill, and got all the way up to the main house. Would’ve killed us all if not for Sufian and his men fending them off. Iraj lost her son that day.”

The professor is suitably solemn as she digests his words. Despite the subject matter, her appearance could make Khalid smile; she looks so like a commanding officer, firm and official, with just the right amount of reticence in her posture. “I didn’t know she had a son.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “She doesn’t talk about him. I’d advise against asking.”

Teach nods her understanding, and Khalid lets himself fall quiet. He gnaws at the edge of his lip, trying to swallow down the guilt that’s been caught in his throat for so long, knowing full well it will never recede. Iraj has always been severe, but she’d had many good days before the last of her joy was returned to the earth with Sahil’s body. He owes so much to his stewards—more than he could ever hope to repay, even if he had several more lifetimes with which to try. The best he can do is attempt to keep from racking up yet more debts in whatever time he has left.

“There’s no guarantee that whoever went after Yousef yesterday will come all the way out here to try their hand with me,” he says once he’s able, “but it doesn’t hurt to play it safe. There’s still a price on my head in some circles. It’d be kind of a shame to lose it now.” He thinks for a moment, then glances at the professor, fixing her with his most stern and parental glare. “Don’t go getting any ideas, though. I don’t want to see you kitted out with a shamshir and parading around with Sufian’s boys.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she assures him. “I don’t know that I’d be much help, anyway. I haven’t held a sword in a long time.”

That surprises Khalid, and she notices. She’s making that frozen expression again, lips pursed and eyes too wide, having realized too late that she’s given away something she can’t take back.

But he doesn’t take it. He leaves it where it lies. He just holds his stare a moment longer so that she’ll remember it if she should happen upon some ideas later.

“Good,” he says once he’s satisfied, settling back into his chair. “It’ll be trouble enough keeping those boys from getting worked up over nothing. Any excitement happens and suddenly, it’s weapons and armor everywhere. And their form, gods above! You’d be embarrassed to see ‘em, Teach.” He chuckles, mostly to himself, but he’s pleased to hear the professor give him her hoarse-sounding courtesy laugh. “Ah, well. It’s for the best. I’d rather have guards that are wet behind the ears than to have ones that know enough of war and conflict to be well-disciplined.”

The professor shakes her head, the edges of her lips curling ever so slightly. “I’m not sure I agree, but I understand what you mean.” She stands, dusting dirt off her robe. “I think I’d like a cup of coffee,” she says, as if she’s still making up her mind. “Can I get you one?”

Khalid huffs. “Wouldn’t a shot of brandy do us more good? But nah, you’re right, Teach, it’s the better choice. Could use the pick-me-up, anyway.” He taps his toe on the porch and gestures toward the last remaining pot with his foot, eyeing the little green buds that have yet to bloom. “Where are you gonna put that one?”

As she looks back at it over her shoulder, yet another strange expression comes over her face. It should be easy to decipher, considering how dramatically it warps her features, but it’s as though so many things are clamoring to break the surface at once that they only serve to cloud the waters further. Then she shrugs and it all clears. Her face is impassive again, although when those big green eyes flick over to his, it’s with something akin to nervousness.

“I was going to put it in my room, if that’s all right.”

“I certainly don’t object,” he shrugs. “You can put whatever you want in your room; it’s yours. I’ll meet you in the courtyard in a couple minutes. I’m going to look at all your pretty plants a little longer.”

Something like a blush washes over the professor’s cheeks, and while she turns away before he can confirm if it is one, it makes him smile. “I’m glad you like them,” she says, wiping her brow, and Khalid likes the satisfied set to her shoulders that arises as she surveys her own work. “I’ll be a while myself; I’m going to clean up and change clothes. See you inside?”

“See you inside.”

Giving him that almost-smile of hers, the professor gathers up her gardening tools and her last pot before heading off in the direction of the greenhouse.

Khalid watches her go, then looks out at the flowers the professor has planted in what were once his wife’s beloved fields, letting himself almost smile, too. Once again, Teach has surprised and impressed him. She’s grown quite an assortment, and while her arrangement lacks artistry, the vibrant colors and pleasant bouquet of aromas immerse him in a heady fog of nostalgia. Bright poppies are centered amidst a line of hyssops and pansies, vibrant red petals standing in stark contrast against the gradient of gentle purple hues. A row of hyacinths frames each end of the plot; she must have started growing those shortly after she got here in the early winter, as they’re in full bloom now.

It’s oddly funny to sit and stare at the burst of beauty in front of him while he struggles to digest Sufian’s news and contemplates horrors past, present, and future. There’s so much on his mind and so much he should be doing, but he gives himself the gift of time. He sits and looks at the flowers and thinks of what Shirin would say.

There’s no value in asking for excitement on the farm. Whenever Khalid gets bored enough to wish for some, it arrives, and he almost always regrets it. It feels like the buzz about the channel business only just died down, and now all anyone wants to talk about is his son’s near-death experience. Most of his hands are too polite to talk to him about it, but his ears have gotten much better in recent months. Now, he can make out conversations that would have completely escaped his notice only a short time ago. Now, he can hear the chatter through the floorboards or open windows as his staff and farmhands confer with each other, asking how and where and when and will we be next.

And even if he couldn’t hear them, his eyes are better, too. He can see how they stop talking when he enters a room. He can see how they look at him, consoling and fearful, pitying and expectant, as if a man in his nineties can or should be their salvation. Gods be damned, he’s supposed to be retired, but even now, he’s expected to put on a brave face, to take command and set the tone.

So he does. And he does so by doing nothing.

In the following days, Khalid’s routine remains exactly the same—or as close to exactly the same as he can make it. He rises with the birds and does his morning meditation. He takes his coffee and breakfast with the professor. He idles away the daytime hours by badgering his stewards and doing his nap tour of the house. He meets up with the professor again for supper and interrogates her about her day, then trundles off to bed once she gets too quiet and introspective to be fun anymore.

It should be the same as it was. It should be nice. It isn’t.

About a week in, Khalid starts to wonder if he’s taken the wrong stance. His indifference seems to have done nothing to make the tension dissipate—if anything, it’s made it worse. At first, he’s tricked by how well everyone else adopts his position of normalcy, but as the days go by, he realizes they’ve adopted it too well. Just like him, everyone is waiting. Waiting for news. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting to die or to not die.

It’s nothing new for Khalid. It’s new for the rest of them.

The damned weather isn’t helping morale, either. The rains have picked up again, making every day a gray haze of intermittent drizzles and sudden downpours. A little sunshine would do everyone a lot of good, so naturally, their late spring is full of storms and wind. It’s not the kind of weather they usually get around here, especially at this time of year, but Khalid figures he shouldn’t be surprised at this point, what with how many strange and unprecedented happenings they’ve been having. At least it’ll be good for all of Teach’s flowers.

That first week, as the news gets around the farm, into the village and beyond, Khalid’s inundated with letters and visitors. It’s sweet and well-intentioned, but it annoys him, as their condolences are all the same:

How are you doing? Is the king safe?

And their unvoiced questions are the same, too:

Are we safe? Do you have a plan for us?

Too many times throughout his life, he’s been asked these questions, and he always hopes it will be the last time he hears them. But the world turns. Pain flows. Given enough time, even the most hard-won peace erodes back into strife. While it’s a bitter truth, it’s one he’d accepted long ago. It just sickens him to see it proved over and over and over. He sees it proved again now, day by day, watching as more of his farmhands begin carrying weapons, cladding themselves in armor, and drilling with each other in what free time they have.

Every time it happens, he hopes it will be the last. It never is.

A rare day comes where the professor joins him for lunch and they take it on the front porch, enjoying an equally rare late afternoon unmarred by rainclouds. Although Khalid sees the woman at least twice a day, he feels like he hasn’t really seen her in a while. Maybe it’s because she’s talking less, or because she’s been spending so much time by herself recently. Sometimes he spots her as she prowls around the estate, her head cocked to the side like she’s listening for something, constantly looking like a dam about to break even when she’s all alone. He doesn’t push her, though. He just makes sure she knows how grateful he is for the time they share together.

They finish up their meal and she bids him goodbye, set to venture off into the wild gray yonder, only to stop at the edge of the porch when she spots Fatemah out by the pigeon tower. The poor fool’s gotten herself a sword somehow; Khalid curses under his breath at the sight of it, shaking his head. There’s no way she’s ever wielded anything larger than a steak knife, and it shows in how she’s swinging the blade around without any consideration for form or defense or economy of movement. He thinks about yelling for her to knock it off, but before he can figure out how to do so nicely, the professor makes her way over to the girl.

He watches as they talk; for a moment, he thinks she might have convinced Fatemah to throw the thing away, but his hopes are dashed when he sees her move to stand parallel to the girl, striking a basic one-handed guard. Fatemah emulates it clumsily, repositioning her legs and turning her torso sideways, adjusting her grip on the sword until it’s held with slightly more confidence and slightly less wavering about. The professor nods her praise, gesturing to Fatemah’s limbs to correct her posture.

“Teach is gonna teach,” Khalid grumbles to himself, sourly sinking lower into his chair.

“She’s a fighter,” Iraj comments.

Her voice startles him—he didn’t hear her come out onto the porch, although he suspects his ears are not at fault for the lapse. He turns to glance at her, but her gaze is locked on the professor, who’s now adjusting Fatemah’s stance, nudging her limbs into place with light touches on her back and forearms. Even from this distance, he can tell that the poor girl is so red, and that does brighten his mood a little bit.

“Yep,” Khalid says, because it’s true, and because it’s obvious. It’s obvious in how easily she rolls through the guards and stances, how fluid her movements are as she demonstrates how to advance and retreat, how to parry and strike, how to feint and slash and block. It’s obvious in the power she exudes with each of her motions, still blindingly fast after all these years. It’s obvious in how reverently she appraises Fatemah’s blade, although she doesn’t so much as touch it. And despite her own weapon being imaginary, it’s obvious in how complete she looks like this, as though a sword in her hand is all that’s needed to fill the empty well inside her and make her whole again.

Something about it all makes Khalid feel sick to his stomach. He thanks Iraj for lunch and retreats into the house, getting back to another long, hard day of waiting.

Waiting for something. Waiting for nothing. Waiting to die or not die.

He wonders if the professor can die. He decides not to think about it.

Khalid’s experimenting. Testing his limits. Seeing how much he can do. It’s difficult, considering there’s almost always someone around who’s used to helping him with every little thing, but he’s making strides wherever he can in his moments of privacy.

A day comes where everything aligns: Iraj and Ramin are off at the market; Zeinab and Fatemah are at the prayer house, helping prepare for the morrow’s service; the professor left early in the morning on Khalid’s dun mare, bound for destinations unknown.

There’s no reason to let Teach have all the fun. Khalid decides to go for a walk.

He thinks it through, of course: he uses his cane, and he doesn’t try going too far, just in case he overestimates his rejuvenated energy stores and winds up a conspicuous distance from the house without enough stamina to get back on his own. But by the time he’s walked all the way past the cattle barn and herb gardens, he’s still feeling spry, so he goes a little farther.

It’s gray and wet outside as it always seems to be now. The odd thick raindrop soaks into his shirt or splatters against his head through the shoddy barrier of his remaining hair. He doesn’t mind it. It’s a beautiful day.

He dawdles along, taking his time, enjoying how the late spring breeze teases the dust in his wake into lazy spirals as he goes, picking through the layers of sounds his ears haven’t been able to separate in years. Once, he’d been able to recognize each of the cows and horses by their lows and nickers alone; he’s not good at that game anymore, but he tries anyway, and he smiles whenever he hears Mahsa’s gruff bellowing. He doesn’t even mind the strong odor of damp manure or the odd scent of the pear orchard or all the unpleasant smells of the butchery, too taken by the flowering wheat and the cloying scent of the lavender blooming in the herb garden.

Out by the barn where his beloved wyvern’s tack has sat unused since her passing over a decade ago, the road ends at an intersection. Going right will take him out to the mill and the bathhouses. The path left disappears into the chartreuse sea of wheat. He could go farther yet, but it’s starting to get hot, and he’s happy with how far he’s gotten, so he stands still at the edge of the road and takes it all in.

His world has been so small for so long. He didn’t think it would ever be this big again.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He turns and makes his way back to the house.

“Do you ever get news about Fódlan?”

At the words, Khalid snorts himself awake. He’s got more vigor than he’s had in a long time, but his grace is slower to return. Blinking to alertness, he realizes he’s still in his seat at the little table in the inner courtyard; he must have dozed off after breakfast. Between having his belly full of food, a once-hot cup of coffee in his hand, and the gentle heat of the morning sun on his shoulders, he didn’t stand a chance.

“What’s that, Teach?”

“Do you ever get news about Fódlan?” the professor repeats in Almyran. She’s been weeding one of the planters in the center of the courtyard, but has paused to inspect the drooping, bell-like red flowers of the fritillaries. He can’t see her face from this angle. He wishes he could, for what good it would do.

He considers her question for much longer than he considers his own. “What do you want to know?”

The professor is quiet. She doesn’t look back at him. She just trails a finger across one of the flower’s speckled, snakeskin-patterned petals, then along its bent stem, as if she can will it into standing straight again.

“Nothing,” she says, going back to her weeding. “Never mind.”

He sits, swirling his cold cup of coffee. It was a mistake to chance a sip, but it’s a mistake he’ll make again. “Do you miss it?”

“Yes,” she answers without looking up from her work. “But I’m not sure it misses me.”

Khalid’s now thankful that she’s turned away, as he can’t keep his thoughts from making themselves all too apparent on his face. He recalls the day he got the news of Fódlan’s missing queen, of the rumors that swirled in the wake of her vanishing—the coverups, the rug-sweeping, the empty-casket funeral, the appointment of the new Archbishop. The grief. The questions. The ensuing quiet.

Pain flows. The world turns, anyway.

“You’re hard on yourself,” he says too softly.

She looks over her shoulder at him. Her brows pull together, and there’s something vulnerable in her face he’s never seen before. All these new looks of hers keep surprising him, but he does his best to prevent it from showing in his features. He doesn’t have to try for long, as she looks away again after a moment or two, refocusing on her work.

If his ears were as bad as they’d been when she’d first showed up at his farm, there’s no way he would have been able to hear her murmur, “Not hard enough.”

Zeinab’s suspicious. It doesn’t surprise Khalid; if anything, he thinks she’s held off on bringing it up for a long time. She’s easily the most pious of his house staff—the kind to find signs and meaning in everything, prepared with a mantra, hymn, or verse of scripture for any situation—and she’s always been astute at picking up on the little things, all the gradual changes that are too easily missed in the busy haze of life. She’s the first to notice when someone is troubled, or when something will break, or when a hard rain is coming on.

Or when Ramin’s cough starts clearing up months earlier than usual, or when Khalid no longer issues a daily request for someone to read his letters aloud, or when aches that used to be debilitating suddenly abate.

They’re in his bedroom on one typical morning, shortly after breakfast, going through their usual routine. He’d labored at dressing himself while she made his bed and tidied the space; now, he’s perched in his armchair while she’s fixing his work and kneeling on the floor to help him tie his shoes. He could probably do them himself at this point, but he’s trying to keep up appearances just a little bit, and he doesn’t want to push his luck. As it is, pride and independence are luxuries at his age. He’s grateful for any he’s clawed back over the past few months, but he’s not so foolish as to think he’ll ever recover them completely.

Zeinab’s straightening his laces and buffing out a scuff in the leather when she suddenly glances over her shoulder. His bedroom door is just as closed as it has been since she came into the room, and they’re just as alone. She stops, her lower lip curled, still with the polishing cloth in hand.

“Who is she, King Father?” she finally asks him, her voice low and uneven.

She doesn’t need to specify. He knows who she means and what she’s asking. He looks into the honey-brown eyes of his faithful steward, his kindly caretaker, his long-time friend of circumstance. He considers how to respond.

“She was a professor at the Officers Academy in Fódlan,” he answers. “Not my professor, though.”

Zeinab continues to stare at him, locking their gazes. They both know his answer is meaningless. They both know what she meant. They both know that just a few weeks ago, his eyes were pale and foggy with cataracts, and they both know there’s no reason why they should be a clear jade green now. There’s no explanation. They both know it.

“How could that be true, when she is so young?” she questions. “How could you have known her, when it has been so long since you returned here?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs, because he doesn’t. “She’s not as young as she looks. But I don’t know why that is.”

His steward processes his response, then gives him a furtive glance. When she speaks, her words flow in a trickle through the weir of her lips.

“I know that you do not care for the teachings of the prophets,” she begins, “and I don’t mean to impress my beliefs upon you. But in recent days, I have been reminded of certain songs—ones I had not paid mind to before I met your friend.”

There’s fear and reverence alike in her tone, and if she’s a bit hesitant, it’s not for fear of offending him. She knows he won’t be upset. It’s a different fear—as if to speak is to will conjecture into truth.

“What is it they say?” Khalid asks. He tries to make the question come out sounding like all his other ones do when she talks to him about religion: skeptical, but respectful of her views, and with genuine interest in hearing her perspective. He’s not quite sure he pulls it off this time.

“While most of the songs are guides for following the path of the Creator,” Zeinab tells him, “other songs are warnings, telling of forces that might lead us astray. Some of those warnings speak of monstrous beings—evil ones who disguise their wings and scales with flesh, or hide in ash and dust to spy on the workings of the heavens.

“When walking in the shape of men, they are tireless, with unnatural strength and skill; they live many years, yet do not age; they sow discord in their wake, and maneuver themselves into positions of power, and use that power to exert their will over the mortal realm, bringing men to ruin. And some of them...”

She pauses again, that same hesitation stilling her tongue.

“Some of them have hair and eyes that glow like stars,” she says slowly. “The newer songs call them ‘daeva’.”

Khalid hums, considering the word. Demons. He almost chuckles when he recalls the moniker his professor held when he first met her, the title she’d earned through blood. He doesn’t think she’d find the comparison as interesting as he does. “Do you think she is a daeva?”

“No,” Zeinab says quickly, shaking her head. “No... Not as they are described in those songs. I don’t—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head again and averting her gaze. “Forgive me, King Father. Forgive me.”

“Please,” he says gently, reaching out to touch her shoulder, “speak, my friend. There’s nothing to forgive. It honors me for you to share your thoughts.”

It takes her a moment to raise her head again. He waits for her to work through whatever has caught her words, letting her come to her destination on her own time. She collects herself, and in a voice bordering on a whisper, she says, “In the oldest songs... in those songs, daeva are not inherently evil; some are capable of cruelty, yes, but they are not all cruel. And from what some of those songs say, and what I take them to mean... it may be that these daeva are aspects of the Creator: representations of the Creator’s spirit, made in the Creator’s image, through which the Creator is given form on earth.”

Khalid sits with her words, turning them over in his mind. His wife would have so much to say right now, bless her; although he’s never paid much attention in worship services himself, he’s not so ignorant as to take Zeinab’s assessment lightly. To accuse someone of being a demon is one thing. But speaking like she did just now—to put a mere human at the level of the Creator—is nothing short of blasphemy. He gives his devout steward’s transgression the respect it deserves.

“Which songs speak the truth?” he asks her, and another long quiet stretches out between them.

“I don’t know,” she admits. Her head is still bowed, her gaze fixed on her knee. “It is not my place to decide what is true. It is certainly not my place to cast judgment on another, especially to make a judgment of that kind. I can only see what I see, and know what I know, and decide what I believe as my truth. And I believe...”

She lifts her head, and for all her questioning, there’s conviction, too. It’s in the set of her jaw, in the depths of those warm brown eyes, in the way her shoulders draw up from their uncertain curves into something solid and resolute.

“I believe there is something holy here, King Father,” she tells him. “And I believe you know what it is.”

He nods in acknowledgement, releasing a low and slow exhalation. He has to respond. He’s not sure what to say.

“I don’t know,” he says, electing to be honest. “I’ve got my thoughts, and I don’t think they’re far off from yours. I’m not inclined to use the word ‘holy’. But I don’t know what else to call it. I don’t know what else it could be.”

Zeinab nods back, thinking over his response. She might not believe him; he’ll have to come to terms with that, as will she. She gives his shoes a final once-over with the polishing cloth and double-checks his laces, then rises to her feet. It’s an easy motion, free of pain, with no need for assistance or compromise. They both know it hasn’t been that way for a decade or more.

She helps him stand and they part without another word. He spends most of the day in his study, settled in his old favorite chair with one of his old favorite books. He reads until the golden sunlight streaming through the windows becomes tinged with orange, then he rises to light a lamp and takes a seat at his desk. In his own hand, he pens his best wishes for his granddaughter’s upcoming birthday, and he reconsiders what he finds holy.

It’s windy today. The zephyrs sing in the distant canyons, rippling through the wheat like a hand smoothing a quilt. Khalid’s sitting in his chair on the porch, sorting through his mail and watching the evening storm roll in. There’s a letter from Yousef—a proper one, rather than the quick reassurances and curt updates he’s been sending via pigeon. With how busy Yousef has surely been, Khalid’s all the more appreciative of the effort his son has put into the message. He’s doing well, as are his wife and children; he and his wife intend to remain in the capital, but they’re considering sending the children away for their safety until things die down. Khalid’s still thinking about how to reply. He wants to offer for the boys to come stay at the farm, but as much as he’d love to see his grandchildren and their families, he dreads what might happen if Sufian’s worst-case scenario comes to pass and another attack happens here, with both the heirs to the Almyran throne present.

He sighs as he folds the letter again and puts it back in its envelope. After all these years, the consequences of his choices continue to plague him. So much for his peaceful retirement.

His daughter Talia wrote as well, saying she still intends on coming out with her son and grandchildren just after the summer solstice. She also asked about Khalid’s health, and Khalid doesn’t know how to reply to that, either. He could be honest and say that he feels twenty years younger, hoping that she’ll take it as a joke—‘just Baba being Baba,’ as she’s prone to telling her kids.

He should probably say something about it. She’ll be able to see the truth for herself soon enough.

He doesn’t have much time to mull over the issue, though, because he’s caught sight of Kinza astride her decrepit bay roan horse, one hand holding her headscarf in place as the atrocious animal ambles through the wind and rain to bear her to the house.

“You’ll catch cold out in all that,” Khalid says sternly as the miserable beast trundles to a stop at the edge of the porch.

“Speak for yourself, Old Bones,” Kinza scoffs in response, her voice muffled by her dust mask. She slides off her horrid horse and hitches it to one of the support beams of the awning, which strikes Khalid as completely unnecessary. He doesn’t think it’s so much as blinked since it stopped moving.

“Want to put that thing in the stable? I could have Hassan’s grooms dry him off.” Or put him down, he doesn’t say. Kinza, of course, shakes her head, pulling off her dust mask to reveal her characteristic scowl. Those formidable eyebrows of hers are already sharply angled downward—she’s not going to be much fun today.

“I’m not staying long.” She steps up onto the porch, her dark eyes glancing around as if to make sure Khalid’s really alone; satisfied with his solitude, if nothing else in the world, she jams her thumbs into the loops of the tool belt at her waist and turns that intimidating gaze on Khalid, jerking her chin skyward. “You believe this?”

The question makes Khalid laugh, although the humor is lost on the engineer, judging by the way her nose is twitching. “Skip the rhetoricals, Kinza. What’s eating you?”

“That,” she says, pointing to the darkening storm clouds as they drift eastward. “We should have come to the end of the rainy season three weeks ago, but these damn storms still haven’t let up.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this,” Khalid tells her unapologetically, “but I don’t control the weather.”

She bares her teeth, fidgeting with her headscarf in an obvious struggle to keep from spitting. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, raising a hand in peace. “What do you need?”

Kinza huffs, but at least she stops shooting him the stink eye. “What don’t I need? Tools. Supplies. Struts made by a smith with any competence. Eight engineers and sixteen more hands.”

Khalid whistles low, drumming his fingers on the pile of mail in his lap. “That’s no small ask.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.”

“I know.” He audibly considers the issue, grunting his displeasure. “How soon do you need everything?”

She crosses her arms over her chest, shifting her weight to her back foot and arching one of those brows. “Best case? A month ago. At minimum? Yesterday.”

“It’s that bad?” he asks, alarmed, and he sees the true depth of her exhaustion as she fixes her dark eyes on his.

“I assure you, Bones, I’m underselling it.” She sounds as weary as she did the last time he saw her, just after the accident, and she looks nearly as haggard. “We barely got tunnel eleven shored back up after the collapse when tunnel six started to go, and now we’re seeing problems in three more tunnels. The channels weren’t designed to sustain this kind of water volume. Every single day, there’s someone from the village or the bathhouse in my office, whining about the water flow or the quality or the sediment issues. We haven’t had the chance to think about summer dredging yet because we’ve been so damn busy just keeping the tunnels from caving in.” She taps her foot on the wooden floorboards of the porch, running her tongue along the bottom row of her teeth as she messes with her headscarf again. As fatigued as she is, she’s more anxious than he can remember seeing her. “Our whole channel system’s on the verge of a crisis. If these rains keep coming down the way they are, we’ll see complete collapse in three, four weeks. Five, tops.”

At the gravity of her words, Khalid’s blood runs cold. He wets his lip with his dry tongue, thinking.

“I wrote to some colleagues of mine for help,” Kinza continues while he mentally assembles his battle plan. “They’re going to send us two engineers from Lagash-Ur and two from Bardai. I know,” she says over the incredulous noise he makes, “I know. It’s not your preference, especially considering all the fuss with your fancy son recently. But if the villagers and your boy’s fields are to have water through the summer, we need all the help we can get. I wouldn’t ask you if we didn’t.”

“I know.” Khalid sighs again. “I’m not usually a judgmental person, Kinza, but you understand why I’m not thrilled about the idea, don’t you?”

“I do,” she says too gently, standing still for once as if to better communicate her earnestness. She looks so grim when she’s not in motion. He doesn’t like it. “And I’m sorry. I can promise these guys are thoroughly vetted, and as it is, they’ll be too busy working with me to try and pull anything. They’re already on their way; I just wanted you to know.”

“Well, thanks for that, I guess.”

Kinza shifts from foot to foot. “I really am sorry, Bones. And I’m sorry I have to ask for more, too.”

Khalid waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t be. Tell me what you need, and you’ll get it.”

Some of the strain in Kinza’s jaw eases; she inhales slowly and then exhales a long puff of air. “The supplies, for one,” she starts. “But mostly, I need your backing. The engineers the union’s sending will be a big help, but I practically had to beg just to get four of them. I sent all the weather data and water table levels I’ve collected this year, but they’re so extreme that they don’t believe them.” That scowl of hers contorts her features, her nose wrinkling and lip curling into a near snarl. “Said there’s a ‘preponderance of unusual figures’ and offered to send someone out to recalibrate my tools.”

“Did you tell them to go fuck themselves?”

Just as he’d hoped it would, the profanity gets a smile out of the engineer. “A little more nicely,” she says, “but yeah, pretty much. A good word from you would go a long way towards convincing them of how serious this is.”

“Welp, you’ve got it,” he tells her. “Just tell me where to send it and I’ll have something out tonight. I can get someone to hurry up on those supplies, too. Do you have a list?”

She nods, rummaging through the pockets of her trousers and pulling out a folded bundle of parchment. “These are the purchase orders for the materials. There’s a copy of the response from the union there, too.”

He takes the bundle from her and is pleased to find it’s not wet. “I’ll do my best to be nice as well, but no promises. I don’t take kindly to anyone insulting my favorite engineer.”

Kinza snickers at that, which further pleases Khalid. “Do you even know any of the other engineers?”

“There’s what’s-his-name,” Khalid replies airily, making Kinza laugh again. “And the other two.”

“Close. I’ve got five total. And you met Z last month, old man—is your memory that bad?”

“Aw, Kinza,” he groans, “you ask so much of me! Isn’t it enough to be my favorite?”

“It is,” she says with uncommon kindness in her tone. “It is.” She exhales hard again, looking like some weight has come off her shoulders. “Thank you, Bones. I really do appreciate it.”

He shakes his head, offering her his warmest smile. “Thank you, Kinza. I know you’ve been working hard. I’ll do whatever I can to get you the help you need.” He stretches his arms out to his sides, not bothering to contain his yawn. “Any chance I could convince you to stay for supper? Think Iraj is making pomegranate and walnut stew.”

Kinza’s smile drops. She glances at the front door, and Khalid’s not sure he’s seen that look on her face before—it’s hesitant, pensive, and oddly somber. He’s not enjoying all the new things he’s been noticing about his friends. It might have been better for his eyes to stay as bad as they’d been before.

“Nah,” Kinza replies flatly, shifting her gaze back to Khalid. “I mean, no, thanks. No offense to your cook or anything; I’m not big on pomegranates.”

“None taken,” he says with a shrug, still trying to work out what that look was all about. “It would be nice to see you outside of emergencies, though.”

Kinza smiles again, although it’s much too apologetic. “I’ll come by for lunch sometime,” she concedes, “once things settle down a little.”

“They will, Kinza,” he assures her with more confidence than he actually has. “They will.”

Eight new engineers arrive without issue, according to Sufian, who finally deigns to come over for dinner a week and a half later. It’s nice to have him at the table again—Sufian attempts to argue that it hasn’t been that long, but standing near Khalid at the New Year’s festival for the amount of time it takes to eat a piece of cake does not count as sharing a meal together, and Khalid ensures he knows this. The relentless ribbing makes Sufian blush, which is always a fun look on a man as strong and powerful as he is, and Khalid delights in every smile he coaxes out of the stoic guard captain. Sufian’s been working hard, as always. He needs a break, and Khalid gives him one, plying him with food and wine until he’s red-faced and relaxed, freely giving away more and more of his rare, radiant grins. He reminds Khalid so much of his youngest son, if Farid had any discipline or a serious bone in his body. He ought to write to the boy soon and check up on how he’s doing.

The professor is quiet throughout the meal. Every so often, she asks a question or leans over to Khalid to clarify the meaning of an Almyran word, but for the most part, she seems content to sit and listen while they swap stories and reminisce on days gone by. Khalid doesn’t miss how she perks up when Sufian grows solemn and relays the details he and his guards have learned about the attack on Yousef. One of those arrested in the aftermath has identified additional conspirators in Urkesh and Apama. It’s much too close to home for Sufian’s taste. Khalid’s inclined to agree.

When he steals a glance at the professor, her mouth is tight and her brows sit at a scant upward tilt, her gaze focused on the tired guard captain’s face. He half-expects her to volunteer to help. She doesn’t, but when an unusually jovial Sufian rises from the table a few too many cups of wine later, slurring his thanks for the meal and company, she does offer to escort him back to the guardhouse. Khalid stands on the porch and watches them leave, the professor leading Sufian’s massive horse as he stumbles along beside her. The fading sound of their amiable chatter interspersed with Sufian’s raucous cackling makes Khalid smile. In times like these, they all can use whatever levity they can get.

The weather remains ugly throughout the rest of the week. Although Khalid tells himself he doesn’t believe in such things, it’s hard not to think of it as some sort of cosmic punishment for their brief respite from doom and gloom. He arranges additional help for Iraj so that they can send hot meals up to the engineering office each day, asking Ramin and Fatemah to pass along his best regards when they deliver food and supplies to the overworked engineering team. Kinza actually sends back a thank-you note, which Khalid treasures, damp and nearly illegible as it is. If nothing else, he can at least make sure they eat.

As if there’s not enough to be concerned about, the professor’s been worrying Khalid, too. Regardless of rain, she still goes fishing and keeps up most of her other daily routines: she does her calisthenics and joins Khalid for coffee in the mornings, then meets back up with him for supper and some quiet conversation before retiring to write in her journal before bed. But rather than roaming around outside in the hours between breakfast and the evening meal, she’s been haunting the house, whiling away the bleak and dreary days in the drawing room, on the side porch, or in her bedroom. More than once, he’s caught her with her head bowed and her eyes squeezed shut, massaging her temples or pressing a knuckle hard against her eye socket, right near the bridge of her nose; when he asks if she’s all right, she tells him that she is, and that it’s just a headache. He advises her to ask Zeinab for some herbs to help with the pain. He knows she won’t, but he does it anyway.

At long last, the weather breaks in the middle of the following week, and when Khalid wakes to the vibrant light of a sunrise amidst clear skies, a wave of relief floods through his bones and makes his heart feel light.

Like everyone else, Khalid endeavors to make the most of the much-appreciated gift of sunshine. He spends the morning in the courtyard, meditating and listening to the birds, then takes a long nap in his favorite chair over by the well, letting the warm rays of the sun lull him to sleep. When he revives a few hours later, he makes his way back to the front porch with big plans to pass the afternoon by watching the animals as they romp through the pastures.

“Who’s your friend?” Khalid asks as he steps outside.

The professor glances back at him from her seat at the edge of the porch, squinting into the late afternoon sun. She’s sitting on the ground with her legs crossed and her back pressed up against one of the awning’s support beams. She’s wearing her old gray cloak again, and its long sleeves are pooled in her lap. Nestled amidst them is a little gray dove, its eyes closed and its slender beak tucked into the tawny feathers of its breast.

“I found him by the pigeon tower,” the professor says, a crease appearing at her brow as she studies the bird. “I don’t think he’s feeling well.”

When Khalid gets a better look at it, he grimly concurs: its feathers are rumpled and dull-looking, the areas around its eyes somewhat wet, and though it opens its beady black eyes and turns its head to look at him when he approaches, it’s calm and still. “He’s an old boy,” he hums, moving to lean against the wall across from the professor. “He might be on his last legs. Tough bastard, though—look at that crack in his beak! He’s seen some battles, this guy.”

The professor chuckles at that, and the sound almost throws Khalid off-balance. It’s a real laugh. It might be the first one he’s ever heard her make. He tries not to call too much attention to it, but he doesn’t have to worry—the professor’s focus remains on the bird in her arms. With a crooked finger, she strokes the black collar of feathers at the back of its neck, listening to its occasional soft coos.

“Do you know if he has a name?” She adjusts her arms to show Khalid a green ribbon tied to the dove’s scaly right leg. “Fatemah told me a few of them, but I don’t know this one.”

Khalid shakes his head. “I don’t.”

She nods in acknowledgement. “I’ll have to ask her. He’s looking better than he was earlier, though. I got him to eat a little bread, and I think he had some water.”

“That’s good,” Khalid says, his voice gentle. He doesn’t have the heart to tell the professor that he thinks it’s a lost cause, but he also doesn’t want to get her hopes up.

“I didn’t know they were so sweet,” she muses, still stroking the bird’s neck. “My father would always be pleased when we’d catch pigeons on a hunt. We mostly ate stews, since we could get more use of the meat that way, but if we had a good hunt or if it was a special occasion, he’d make a roast instead.” She stares dreamily into space for a moment, then frowns, looking down at the dove. “He always warned me not to get too attached to animals.”

“My father would say the same thing,” Khalid chuckles. “‘No spoiled prince is going to tell me what goes on my dinner table.’ It’s a luxury to have an animal as a companion.”

The professor spares a look up at him before lowering her gaze. “I guess that’s true. I never thought about it much before.” A quiet moment passes, the silence broken only by the soft coos of the dove in her lap until she says, “When I left Garreg Mach, it might have been thirty years since I’d last gone hunting. It took a while for it to come back to me. Longer than I thought it would.”

She pauses. Khalid stands stock still as he waits for her to go on, willing his face to be neutral. He’s not sure he’s even heard her mention the monastery since she arrived here, and he doesn’t want anything to startle her out of her recollection.

“I was in a forest somewhere,” she continues eventually. “I’m not sure where; maybe northeastern Adrestia, or along the border between Faerghus and Leicester. It was mid winter. I hadn’t seen another person in weeks. I was living off watercress, thistles, and pine needles. I wanted to stay on the move, but it got to the point where I had to build a better shelter so I could set traps and stick around to check them. No matter what I tried, I still couldn’t catch anything. I woke up in my shelter one morning, just as the sun was coming up, and I was so weak that I could barely move. My fire had gone out. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to try and start it again. I thought I’d made another terrible mistake.

“I was lying there, listening to the birdsong, thinking about going back to sleep. Then I heard a noise, and I looked out through the opening in my shelter, and there was a dove. A small white dove, standing in the snow, right in front of me. I watched it for a while. It hopped around some, but it didn’t fly away. Not even when I reached my hand out toward it. Not even when I grabbed it.”

She stops again, her teeth worrying the edge of her lip. Then she goes on.

“It was scared, of course. It tried to get away. But then it stopped fighting. I pulled it into my shelter and I held it in my hands, looking at it. I couldn’t believe it. I thought I was imagining it. But it was warm, and I was so cold. I held it for a while, and it let me. When I let it go, it sat on my chest and stayed there. I’ve never seen anything like that. I wondered if maybe I was already dead, or dreaming as I lay dying.

“I broke its neck, and I got my fire going again, and I melted some snow and made a stew. Once I started feeling better, I realized it was all real. It had really happened. It didn’t make sense. But it was real, and it gave me the energy to get up again. I caught a rabbit that night, and by the next day, I was strong enough to keep moving.”

The professor’s finger rests on the bird’s black collar of feathers. Her eyes are locked on it, slightly narrowed in the way they get when she’s thinking hard on something.

“I thought I was going to die in the snow under those pine boughs,” she murmurs, as if to the dove in her lap and not to Khalid. “And I probably would have, if not for that bird.”

Khalid’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t say anything—and doesn’t have to, as it turns out, for the professor laughs again, catching him off-guard.

She looks up to Khalid, and the edge of one side of her mouth is curled upward. The green pools of her eyes are as weary-looking as ever, but something is different about them, too. They’ve changed again: even more than at the New Year’s festival; even more than in the wake of the accident. There’s a presence, a reflection, a glimmer of something like life. He can’t stop staring at them, finding himself mesmerized, and for the first time, he realizes they’re beautiful. Her gaze has always been so intense and piercing that it’s been hard to maintain eye contact with her for long, but there’s a softness there now that stirs something in his heart and brings a lump to his throat.

“My father would have been so ashamed,” she says, all her stoicism and placidity transformed into something raw and real and aching. “I was so stupid. I left Garreg Mach with almost nothing—some clothes, flint, a couple of tools, a single waterskin. No money. No weapon, other than my father’s knife. No idea of where I was going. I should have died out there. I think maybe I wanted to.” She says it so plainly that it takes Khalid a few seconds to process the words. “But I didn’t, and I made it here. I made it to you. And I’m glad for that, Claude. I’m glad I made it to you.”

“I’m glad you did, too,” he responds, his voice thick. He swallows to try to clear it, still hopelessly lost in the sea of her shimmering green eyes. “I’m glad you’re here, Teach.”

She turns away, freeing him from drowning in her gaze, returning her attention to the bird in her lap. They say nothing for a while. The silence is heavy, but not uncomfortable. There’s something to its weight that feels right. Maybe the floodwater she’s been holding back didn’t break down the dam today, but some of the pressure has equalized all the same. He can see it, too, in the set of her shoulders and the easing of her brow. He likes how it looks on her.

Inevitably, their quiet is broken—not by either of their voices, but by a distant call echoing from across the open stretch of dust and earth between the porch and the barn. It catches both of their attention, and Khalid shades his eyes against the golden haze of the afternoon sun as he squints to make out a figure by the barn. One hand is cupped to their mouth, the other waving above their head.

“It’s Hassan,” she says, returning the farrier’s wave. She looks down at the dove in her lap, at where her crooked finger breaks the black ring of feathers around the bird’s neck and reveals the white down beneath, then back out at where Hassan is standing in the open doorway of the barn. “Could you watch the bird for a little while, please? I’d like to see what he needs help with.”

“Of course,” Khalid smiles. There’s something in her face that he’s missed seeing—the promise of purpose has brightened her entire demeanor, and even though she’s sitting still, she seems to thrum with potential energy. He’s always liked Hassan, but he’s all the more appreciative of the man now.

“Thank you, Claude.” She rises, looking down at the bird in her arms again and giving its ruff another contemplative stroke. “And thank you for... listening.”

“Of course, Teach,” he says again, softer this time, recognizing the statement for what it is. There’s more she wants to say, but the moment has passed. He’ll be ready when it comes in full. “Anytime.”

He reaches out to take the dove from her, admiring the warmth radiating from its tiny frame and how its impossibly light little body seems to vibrate every time it coos. He’s relieved to find the noises sound heartier than they did just minutes ago.

“What’d you do to your hand?” he asks as he works to get the dove settled in his arms, finally noticing the slightly soiled cloth of the makeshift bandage on the professor’s right index finger.

“It’s nothing,” she shrugs, flexing her hand. “Just caught it on something while out at the pigeon tower, I think. Splinter, maybe, or a sharp rock.”

Khalid grunts, shooting her a stern look. “Hope you washed up. Why don’t you pop inside and see Ramin? He can get you a better bandage.”

“I’ll heal it,” she says dismissively. “I was just conserving my spells in case I needed to use some for the bird.”

“He’s looking better,” Khalid acknowledges, giving the dove another once-over. Its feathers are a little smoother, if no less faded and thin, and it’s looking around more attentively than it had been earlier. He can’t help smiling at it, stroking the feathers along its back with the tip of his finger. “Seems like he’s perking up. The bread and water must have done him some good.”

The professor’s mouth curls up at that. It’s so close to a full smile. “I’m glad,” she says. “I’ll come back and check on him in a bit. Would you have someone come find me if he gets any worse?”

“I will,” Khalid promises, his tone too tender. Not for the first time, he’s reminded of his children; he can’t help thinking about what it was like to assuage his daughters’ worries when one of their pets took ill. While he still doubts the bird will pull through, he’s been wrong before, and its condition is markedly improved from how bad it looked when he first stepped out onto the porch. “Go on, Teach. I’ll keep an eye on your little buddy.”

“Thank you, Claude.” She bows her head and flashes him a look, her gratitude apparent in her eyes, if not the rest of her face. Then she turns and lopes off toward the barn.

Khalid watches her go. Once she’s out of sight, he takes a seat in his chair with a heavy sigh, settling the dove in his lap. He strokes its feathers and listens to its quiet cooing, letting the gentle noises lull him into a drowsy haze until he’s awakened by the sound of the front door opening. It’s Fatemah, judging by the light footsteps and how she shuts the door a little too hard.

“King Father, I—” Fatemah cuts herself off, and Khalid opens his eyes to see the girl is staring at him. “Why do you have that bird?” she asks, an odd timbre to her voice.

“What do you mean, ‘why do I have that bird’?” he says, raising his eyebrows at her. “It’s Teach’s friend. He’s sick. I’m watching over him while she’s out at the barn.”

She starts and stops, her slim brows pulled together and her mouth tight. “Does it have a green ribbon on its foot?”

Khalid hums, taking another look at the bird’s right leg. “So it does.”

His answer only seems to disturb Fatemah more. Her slender lips tremble, her big brown eyes so impossibly wide as she makes her way over to Khalid. Gingerly, she inspects the bird in his hand, her eyes narrowing and her head turning back and forth.

“That’s Payam,” she tells him, struggling to get her breath. “But he’s—King Father, I was at the pigeon tower earlier this morning to collect the mail. And when I was there, I was checking on the birds, and in one of the roosts, I saw Payam—that bird. He’s the only one with a green ribbon like that. And he was dead.”

“He was dead?” Khalid repeats, blinking. A laugh overtakes him, and he shakes his head. “Well, he’s not dead now, dear girl. I’m not sure what you saw—”

“I’m sure of it,” she says adamantly. “I’m sure, King Father. I know the birds—I get the mail; I see them every day. And I checked. The bird I saw this morning had a green ribbon on his foot and that same crack in his beak. And he was dead.” She swallows hard, her gaze flicking down to the bird and then back up to Khalid’s face. “He wasn’t moving, so I picked him up, and he was cold. I took him out of the roost and set him on the ground outside the pigeon tower while I went to bring in the mail, but when I came back, he was gone. I—I thought someone else had come by to collect him.”

Khalid looks at the poor girl before him, standing there and wringing her hands, waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to lie to her. But how can he tell her the truth when he doesn’t know it himself?

“Here.” He extends his arms, holding the dove out to her; she glances at it warily, but reaches a trembling finger forward and touches it to the dove’s head. When it coos, she gasps, her eyes somehow growing even wider.

“I-I must have been mistaken,” she murmurs, swallowing again. “I’m—I’m sorry, King Father. I must have been mistaken.” She steps away, tucking her hair behind her ear, averting her gaze. “Y-You must think I’m very silly.”

The wave of guilt that washes over him brings tears to Khalid’s eyes. He blinks them back, willing some conviction into his voice as he says, “It’s all right, Fatemah. It’s all right.”

He hopes he still hasn’t lied to her. He fears he has.

Khalid thinks about the dove. He thinks about the dove a lot.

The tension is getting to him. It’s getting to everyone. It’s even getting to Ramin, of all people. Khalid’s housemaster is an expert at minding his own business—outside of the aspects of everyone else’s business he’s paid to mind—but he’s been spending more time with Khalid recently, sharing coffee or a late-evening glass of wine in mutual silence. Over one such glass the other night, the reticent housemaster had actually posed a question.

“Think we’ll have a better summer?” he’d asked.

Khalid had looked his housemaster right in his watery blue eyes, appraising him. The man’s sitting straighter these days, some of the stiffness having left his bones over the past few months, and it makes him look taller and broader than he already is. He could pass for a man in his fifties now, if not for his too-venerable bearing—and the fact that he was that age when Khalid first met him twenty-odd years ago. That simple question is the closest Khalid’s seen Ramin come to breaking down in all the time they’ve known each other.

“We’d better,” was all Khalid could think to say, and thankfully, Ramin had probed no further.

There’s been too much change happening lately—far too much for one as set in his ways as Khalid. He had no idea how much he would miss the repetitive nature of the many boring days he’d had before. He wants to believe that the attack in the capital was a one-off affair and all of this fuss will blow over without incident. He does his best to act like it’s the case, if just to keep up morale, if just to convince himself of it.

But it gets harder and harder to keep up the façade when every day, there are more reminders of potential strife. More swords. More shields. More rumors and suspicion and fear.

Khalid fears, too. He fears for his family. He fears for his stewards and hands. He fears for the professor. And as much as he hates to admit it, he fears her. He fears whatever it is that she’s becoming, or whatever it is that she’s been this whole time. He wonders whether she knows the answer to that question herself.

But despite it all, despite all the stress and the worry and the constant, nagging fear, the world turns. It always comes back around, if not exactly to where it was before. He knows that this, too, shall pass, and that peace will come again one day. He just doesn’t like to think about how long that might take, or what that peace might cost.

He’s been spending the bulk of his recent days in his study—mostly reading; occasionally writing. He’s missed this: the space, the agency, the solace of a book or of putting his thoughts to paper. From time to time, he gazes out the windows at the animals in the stables and paddocks, or toward the flower fields at the front of the house where Teach’s plants struggle to remain rooted under the constant barrage of rain. It’s soothing, watching the raindrops slide down the glass panes and seeing the wind ripple through the wheat. It’s ripening now, the grain filling and the stalks shifting from green to gold as they mature. It’s a nice way to mark the passage of time, to recenter himself even when meditation fails him, to remind him that life goes on. Something will grow even when he and everyone he knows and loves are long gone.

He passes another rainy afternoon with his nose in a book until he gets too restless to sit anymore; as he goes to stretch his stiff limbs, he shivers. With how chilly it is outside, it’s hard to believe it’s almost summer. He ought to ask Teach if she can figure out what to do about the draft in here. Maybe he’ll just get a thicker sweater.

Meandering over to the fireplace, he throws another log on and pokes at the dying embers until they glow and flicker back to life. As he stands there, waiting to make sure they catch, his gaze is drawn to the mantle, where his bow, Failnaught, has hung for so many years now. He admires the eerie weapon, running a finger along the curves of the bleached bone limbs and the metal plates framing the riser. He’d never bothered to find out if any of his children bear the Crest of Riegan. He wonders if anyone will be able to use the thing after he’s gone.

Something—perhaps his restlessness, perhaps nostalgia, perhaps a disturbed sort of empathy—compels him to take the bow down from its hanger. Although he hasn’t used it since he was a young man, it wakes for him in an instant, the Crest stone at its center glowing red at the first touch of his hand. He can feel its presence, how it resonates in his very blood, in every fiber of his body. It feels good. It feels natural. It feels like it’s been waiting for him.

He rotates it in his grip, turning it this way and that, amazed by how light the mass of bone is in his hands, amazed by how perfectly preserved it is. Any other bowstring would have degraded and broken long ago, but the cord remains intact and taut and perfect, just as he remembers it. He didn’t think it would be. It only serves to tempt him.

It’s preposterous to think that he could draw it. He’s over ninety years old. He hasn’t drawn any bow since Gronder. Sure, he’s now able to walk further than he has in years, and his eyesight and hearing are better they were when he was middle-aged, but there’s no reason to think that such ancient wounds could heal, that his strength might be a fraction of what it once was, or that he could ever draw this bow again like he did in his youth: so confidently, so easily.

He’s not confident. But it is easy. Maybe it’s him; maybe it’s the weapon; most likely, it’s both. He doesn’t know. He probably never will.

It’s just as easy to let it return as it was to draw it. There’s no reason it should be. He hangs it back on the wall, watching as the red glow fades from the Crest stone. He guides himself backward to sit in his chair again, staring at it all the while.

He sits there and thinks about it. He thinks about it long and hard.

In his youth, Khalid hated unanswered questions. He’d been so arrogant and determined then, fueled by his dreams and the relentless pursuit of truth. He thought he’d grown out of that brashness at some point—probably around the same time his dreams died—and not too long ago, he’d been satisfied with the truths he had found. But now, with all these new mysteries swirling in his mind, it pains him to think he might never find the answers he wants. He’s disturbed by how badly he wants them.

He sits in his chair and thinks and thinks until he can’t think anymore, at which point he falls asleep, waking only once Iraj comes to find him for supper.

It goes like this for a while. Spending time in his study. Reading or writing to keep from fretting. Rising once he’s fretted too much to keep his focus. Taking Failnaught down from the mantle. Drawing it, just to see if he still can. Replacing it on its hanger. Sitting and thinking until he can’t stay awake, then sleeping until Iraj or Fatemah arrive to rouse him.

When he sleeps there, under the watchful eye of Failnaught’s Crest stone, he dreams of the frozen lake, but like everything else, it’s different now. The snowy boughs weep in the gray dawn as he follows the stream down to the water’s edge. The ice is thinner, the surface no longer opaque and muted, but a whisper of fragmented, crystalline white over deep, dark blue. He walks out on it as he always has, if more cautiously than before; when he kneels to press his hand to it, the faces beneath swirl until they blend into a black fog, the clamoring voices growing so loud that they thrum in his very bones, the cacophony so intense that he can’t make out any one voice amidst the din.

It goes like this until a day comes when he dreams of kneeling on the ice and leaning down to speak to the faces below, only for the clamor to become a thunder, a howling and hammering of a hundred hands striving skyward toward the surface. Before Khalid can shrink away, one breaks the veil, its desperate, desiccated digits grasping and closing around his face to haul him below the water.

He flails and writhes, struggling to break free or right himself or simply keep from screaming so he doesn’t swallow any more water than he already has, but the cold shock seizes his lungs and paralyzes his muscles, and the swirling sea of faces distorts his senses, and those hundred hands cling to him too tightly as they drag him down, down, down, until his lungs burn for air, until the hole in the ice fades to a white dot in the distance, until all the fight leaves his weary, frozen limbs and the edges of his vision grow dark. Amidst the screams, he finally makes out a lone voice; it sounds familiar, calling his old name over and over, and when he finally comprehends that it’s real, he startles back to life.

He finds himself staring the professor in the face, her hand gently shaking his shoulder as she murmurs, “Claude. Claude. Claude.”

“I’m here, Teach,” he sputters, disoriented, uncertain of what language he’s speaking.

“Are you all right?” she asks in Almyran. Her hand is still on his shoulder, her brows pulled together and her large green eyes edged with concern.

“I am,” he manages to respond. “I, ah, I must have dozed off. Something the matter?”

The professor frowns—fully frowns—but lets go of his shoulder and takes a step back, giving him space. “There’s trouble outside,” she tells him. “Can you come?”

Rubbing his face and taking a deep breath in an attempt to slow the heavy hammering of his heart, he sits up, giving the professor a nod. “Let’s go.”

She returns his nod, helping him rise to his feet and ensuring he’s steady before moving to leave. He uses his cane as he crosses the room, but just before he reaches the door, he glances toward the fireplace; when he turns back around, the professor is looking at him as she stands in the hall, waiting.

“Just a moment,” he tells her, retreating into the room again. He takes his bow down from its hanger, slings it over his shoulder, and then follows the professor outside.

Chapter Text

Khalid and the professor speed through the house, making their way toward the front hall. It’s all too similar to the day of the accident, almost two months ago now—the waking terror, their path and pace, the rush of adrenaline and the thundering of his heart. He’s faster this time, though, his strides longer and his footfalls assured, and only once they pass the dining room does he realize that he hadn’t even thought to pick up his cane before following the professor. It’s too late to do anything about it. He hopes he won’t need it.

They encounter Fatemah coming down the stairs in the front hall, her face falling from her typical sweet smile into an expression of grave concern as she asks, “What’s going on?”

“Go get your sword,” the professor orders without so much as slowing her stride. “Cover all the first-floor windows. Stay inside. Don’t come out for any reason.”

Fatemah balks at her words and aggressive tone, but despite her obvious fear, the girl nods her understanding. Although it’s hard to spare a thought right now, Khalid still manages to feel a flush of pride at how quickly she recovers and scurries off to do as she’s told.

“Be careful,” he hears her shout after them as they step outside.

It’s raining again, of course, because a crisis never happens under sunny skies. Iraj, Zeinab, and Ramin are all on the porch, along with one of Sufian’s guards; a second is holding the reins of both their horses, standing near the muddy flower field where Teach’s plants are struggling to remain rooted amidst all the recent downpours. Khalid recognizes the guard on the porch as one of Sufian’s lieutenants, a lean and lanky red-haired lass called Cyra, or Saaya, or something of the sort.

“Hail, King Father,” the guards say in near unison, bowing their heads to him.

He waves off the formalities, ignoring his stewards’ concerned faces and all the eyebrows that raise at the sight of the vicious-looking bow slung over his shoulder. “What’s the situation?”

“There’s been an attack at the mill,” Cyra-or-Saaya informs him. There’s mud all over her guard’s uniform and the sleeve of her loose shirt is torn at the elbow, a telltale red sheen on her freckled cheek where flecks of blood have been smeared away by rain and sweat. “A band of riders came through about fifteen minutes ago. We’ve held them back for now, but our scouts report there are more riders on the way.”

Khalid nods; his pulse is pounding and his stomach is in knots, but he’s fully in command mode now, pushing his personal feelings aside. There will be time for them once this crisis is resolved. “How many attackers are there? Are there casualties?”

“There were seven fighters in the initial party. All but one of them were slain. There are four others dead and six wounded; three civilians were killed when the fighting broke out at the mill. And they killed Haydar, too, King Father. He was helping some of the others get away.” Her throat twitches when she tells Khalid this, and she blinks rapidly, straightening her posture. The woman is green, but she’s brave. “Me, Sufian, and two other guards took wounds,” she continues, rotating her left shoulder, “but they’re superficial. We can still fight.”

Khalid nods again. “Where’s Sufian?”

“Still at the mill. Aran—our healer—is helping the injured civilians while the rest are evacuated.”

“And the seventh attacker?”

“Alive and detained. She said—” The lieutenant shifts, wetting her lip with her tongue, her gray eyes flicking from Khalid’s face to the professor’s and back again. “She said they’ve come to arrest you for treason, and they’re demanding you hand over Fódlan’s Archbishop.”

“Treason?” Iraj blurts; Ramin gives one of his low, rumbling chuckles, but Khalid can feel Zeinab’s hard gaze boring into the side of his head. He doesn’t look at her, nor at Iraj as she sputters, “What is this? What could they mean? And what’s this nonsense about an archbishop?”

“They mean me.”

The words hang heavy in the ensuing silence as all eyes lock on the professor. She’s staring off in the direction of the mill, her jaw clenched and her brow furrowed, her empty hands hanging loose at her sides.

Khalid rubs his temple. The cat’s out of the bag now, and it’s not likely to go back in without some sort of divine intervention.

“Is this true, King Father?” Zeinab murmurs.

Her voice doesn’t waver. Khalid wouldn’t judge her if it had. He’s betrayed her, and he knows it. He hopes she can forgive him once all this is through, but that’s a problem for later.

“Well, that won’t be happening,” he says firmly, ignoring Zeinab’s question. He hopes she’ll forgive him for that, too.

“They want a parley, King Father,” the guard tells him. “The rest of their fighters won’t take long to arrive. We sent riders to the village for more help, but if the scouts’ reports are correct, we won’t be able to hold them off for long enough.”

Khalid shoots the professor a wry look from the corner of his eye. “Then I guess we’ll be having a parley.”

“Saaya!” the guard holding the horses calls out, and the woman on the porch looks over her shoulder at him. That answers one of Khalid’s questions, if not one of the more pressing ones. “I see Nabil’s signal!”

The guard named Saaya shades her eyes with her hand and peers in the direction of the second guard’s pointed finger, sucking her teeth once she spots whatever it is she’s looking for. “We have to go help the others,” she tells Khalid. “Can you meet us at the mill?”

Khalid nods. “We’ll be there shortly. Thank you both.”

“Of course, King Father.” She bows her head, then dashes off the porch; she and her companion mount their horses, slinging themselves smoothly into the saddles. “Gods be with you, King Father. Gods be with you all.”

“And with you,” Zeinab calls after the guards as they ride away.

Without so much as pausing to process their parting, the professor turns to Iraj, Ramin, and Zeinab. “Lock all the doors. Wait until Hassan and the stablehands get in here to lock this one. Grab any weapons you can find, then get everyone into the courtyard and barricade the exits.”

The stewards don’t move. Instead, they look to Khalid. He nods his approval, urging them on. They can question all they want once they’re through this.

“I don’t think I can ride,” Khalid admits to the professor. Her brows twitch, though her face remains impassive.

“Let’s have Hassan prepare the cart,” she decides. “Are you ready?”

“You go on ahead of me. I’ll meet you at the carriage house.”

The professor pauses as she moves to leave, turning to face Khalid’s stewards. “I’m sorry,” she says as she bows her head, her voice inflected with all her earnest sincerity. “You’ve been so kind to me, and I’ve repaid your kindness by bringing trouble to your home. Please, don’t be afraid. I swear to you, I won’t let anything bad happen.”

Iraj’s eyes are hard. “If what the guards say is true, then it is too late for such promises.”

The professor’s mouth opens, but she closes it without saying anything, flexing her right hand. She bows again, murmuring another quiet apology before slipping away toward the barn.

“I know you have questions,” Khalid begins, too aware of the magnitude of the understatement. “I understand if you feel I’ve violated your trust and your safety. I’ll give you all the apologies you deserve and all the answers you want once this blows over, but first, I need your help to make sure that happens. Please trust me for just a little longer.”

Ramin is silent as ever; Iraj nods, but won’t meet his eye, her arms crossed over her chest and her stance closed. It’s Zeinab who first meets his gaze, who first speaks, who first forgives.

“We’ll do as you say, King Father,” she tells him. Her honey-brown eyes are fearful, her face drawn, but her voice is strong, and it softens something in Iraj’s posture. The cook sighs, a series of expressions playing over her features.

“I’ll clear the upstairs,” Iraj says, moving to go into the house. Ramin opens the door and holds it for her; with one foot over the threshold, she turns to give Khalid a look. “Come home to us, King Father.”

“I will,” he assures her.

“You’d better,” she says, wagging a threatening finger at him. She wipes her eye with the edge of her hand, then disappears into the house.

“Gods be with you,” Zeinab murmurs as she follows Iraj.

Ramin lets the door fall shut and turns back to Khalid. He extends his hand, and Khalid takes it, giving it a shake. His housemaster’s palms are rough, his long fingers calloused, his handshake firm. Khalid smiles at him, grateful for the connection, knowing it’s the best the man knows how to do.

“You’ll take care of them?” he asks instead of “will you be all right?”

“Always,” Ramin rumbles in response, and Khalid’s smile widens.

“Good man,” he tells him instead of “thank you.”

“Safe travels, King Father.” He lets go of Khalid’s hand, folding his arms across his chest and moving to stand guard in front of the door.

Giving Ramin one last smile and a nod imbued with all the confidence he can muster, Khalid turns and steps off of the porch.

The trek from the farmhouse to the barn is shorter than he remembers—that, or he’s faster. He can hear the roosters crowing from the coops, the sheep and cows bleating and lowing in the pastures beyond the barn, blissfully unaware of the danger ahead. How nice it must be to be a beast. An animal doesn’t have to worry about things like duty or guilt; then again, Khalid doesn’t really have time to worry about such things, either. There will be plenty of time for them later.

By the time Khalid gets to the carriage house by the barn, the professor is out in front of it, talking with Hassan. The cart is ready, hitched to one of Hassan’s sturdy old draft horses, and the professor is holding the reins of Khalid’s dun-colored mare. The farrier is issuing orders to his stablehands while conducting what appears to be the world’s most mild-mannered argument with the professor, but he ends it and ducks back into the barn before Khalid arrives.

“What’s the issue?” Khalid asks as he nears the professor.

The professor glances at him, then back at where Hassan is barely visible inside the barn, directing the stablehands and corralling the animals. “He won’t leave the horses,” she tells Khalid.

He grunts. “No use trying to convince him. That man’s more stubborn than his own donkeys. Everyone else knows to get into the house?”

“Yes. We’re ready. There are four quivers of twenty arrows in the cart for you.” She eyes him, her gaze lingering upon the bow on his back. “Are you sure about this, Claude?”

“I don’t know that I’ll be much help,” he acknowledges, “but this is my home, and these are my people. If I can, I ought to try and do something. With any luck, I won’t need to.”

“We can hope,” the professor agrees. “Let’s get going.”

She helps him into the cart. It’s easier than it should be. Climbing up into the seat next to him, she flicks the reins and whistles for Khalid’s mare, who trots along beside them as the old draft horse lurches into motion, ferrying them in the direction of the mill. Although Khalid tries to keep his eyes on the road ahead of him, the itch grows too strong, and he grants himself a concession: he lets himself take one long look back.

He looks at the sprawling stone house, at the adobe roof tiles and gutters Teach fixed up, at the break in the roof over the inner courtyard, at the curtain-covered windows of the guest rooms and the back hall and his study. He looks at the porch with its awning and his favorite chair by the windows, at the stablehands rushing in through the open front door, at his faithful stewards who usher them inside. He looks at the flowers Teach planted, at the solitary-looking gazebo out in the fallow stretches of the field, at the prayer house in the distance, at the burial grounds where Shirin’s bones found their eternal rest. He looks at the lake, at the pigeon tower and the carriage house and the chicken coops, at the cattle barn and at the stables where Hassan’s forge fires steadfastly spit smoke into the sky. He can see Hassan standing just outside the stable, pushing the last of Khalid’s dawdling farmhands in the direction of the house; he raises a hand to Khalid, and Khalid returns it, giving his loyal farrier a solemn nod.

“He’ll be all right,” Khalid says, mostly to himself.

“He will,” the professor agrees, and her conviction makes him envious.

The muddy road stretches out ahead of them and the grim silence stretches with it as they travel on, and on, and on: past the barn and pasture, past the greenhouse and fruit orchards, past the butchery and the wyvern tack barn and so many of the endless, rolling fields of wheat.

“Might have been years since I’ve been out this way,” Khalid comments as they reach the intersection that only recently became the farthest edge of his world. “Can’t remember the last time I went to the mill.”

The professor hums. He didn’t expect her to engage in a proper conversation, but the intensity of her focus unsettles him, and there’s a strange strain in her face that almost leads him to think she’s biting back pain. He doesn’t bother to ask, letting the tense quiet envelop them again, distracting himself by taking in the parts of his land he hasn’t seen in so many years: the lines of mud-daubed, hive-like granaries; the rugged, wind-weathered storage barns; the tree-spotted mountains and flat-topped plateaus in the distance. The time-worn trails out to the sheep pastures. The golden seas of wheat. The slats and sails of the windmills on their high platform of wood and clay, the immense framing slowly growing more defined as they make their way closer.

“I see Sufian,” the professor says.

“I don’t think we have spare armor for either of you here,” Sufian says, pulling Khalid back to the present. “We’d have to send someone to the guardhouse for more.”

Khalid snorts. “Don’t joke, Sufian. You and I both know I’m hardly frontline material. I don’t intend to get close enough to need any armor. I’m here for the parley, and otherwise, I’ll stay out of your hair.”

The statement brings Sufian noticeable relief. “Understood,” he says, bowing his head. “Thank you for being here, King Father.”

“They’re coming!”

The lookout’s cry spurs all of the guards into motion. Sufian rushes across the road to the mill, the others trailing in his wake.

“Just the seven,” the man yells down from his perch. “I don’t see any others in the distance. They’ve just stopped, about a mile out.” He squints, raising his arm to keep the rain and sun from his face. “They’ve sent a rider ahead.”

“Sounds like that’s our cue,” Khalid grumbles. He glances at the professor, who’s as impassive as ever, her borrowed sword tucked into the belt of her robe and her eyes on the horizon. At least she’s inspiring to look at in a crisis.

“Mount your horses,” Sufian commands, slinging himself into the saddle of his massive dapple-gray steed. “Make yourselves ready. Do not attack until you receive my order. Remember the plan. If fighting breaks out, fall back to the mill and hold the line; should that fail, retreat to the stables. If they go for the animals or the fields, let them, but not one is to get within fifty yards of the house. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the guards sound off, bustling into their places.

“Do not so much as reach for your weapons until you receive my order,” he commands again, ensuring he’s been heard. He sets his jaw and adjusts his position in the saddle, releasing a heavy breath as he murmurs, “May the gods be merciful.” Signaling to the professor, he uses his lance to gesture back to where the cart and Khalid’s dun-colored mare remain hitched behind the bathhouse. “Eisner, can I entrust you with King Father’s safety?”

She takes Khalid’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Yes. I’ll protect him.”

“Thank you,” the guard captain says, then turns and bows his head to Khalid. “It is an honor to serve you, King Father.”

Khalid laughs, offering him a smile that’s inflected with far too much paternal affection. “Save it for when we get through this. I’d understand if you want to retire, though.”

Sufian smiles back at him, and although the expression is too tight, the sparkle of his russet eyes relieves some of Khalid’s anxiety. “We’ll see,” he says, and spurs his horse onward.

The guards form a line across the road between the mill and the bathhouse, framed on either side by the mill’s immense structure and the dense wheat fields. Khalid and the professor stand behind their line, taking cover near one of the hive-like granaries; the professor is positioned at his outstep, silently assessing the situation. It’s hard not to feel small and fragile, and Khalid has to remind himself that he is. As strong as he might feel now, his strength is nowhere near what it once was, and he has no concept of its limits. He’ll need to be careful to keep from pushing himself too hard and becoming more of a liability than an asset. His fingers itch to close around Failnaught’s metal grip, but he doesn’t indulge the urge. With any luck, he won’t have to.

The rider nears, clad in a rough assortment of armor, a dust mask covering what’s visible of his face beneath his leather helmet. A bow and quiver of arrows are strapped to his shoulders, and he’s waving a handkerchief in wide circles over his head.

“Parley,” the rider yells in a hoarse voice, “parley.”

“Parley,” Sufian calls back, signaling for his guards to lower their arms. “Approach slowly. Do not reach for your weapon.”

“Same to you, Captain,” the rider retorts, pulling up to a stop just outside of arrow range. “Will you parley with me?”

“Yes.”

“You assure my safety?”

“Yes,” Sufian repeats so patiently. It’s for the best that Sufian is the captain of the guard and not Khalid—he’s getting restless just listening to the man’s agitated voice, and judging by all the subtle sounds of the guards behind him adjusting their lance grips and shifting in their saddles, he’s not the only one.

“Should you draw on me, my friends will do the same,” the rider threatens. “There are seven of us, and our band will shortly be joined by others. If you do not honor the parley, we shall slay you all.”

“We shall honor it if you shall,” the guard captain says, firm and resolute.

The rider nudges his horse into a trot, stopping again right at the edge of javelin range. He scans their line, and when he spots Khalid, his eyes lock onto him immediately.

“You are Khalid, father of King Yousef Iskandar,” the rider declares, then shifts his gaze to the professor. “You are Archbishop Byleth Eisner, Queen of the United Kingdom of Fódlan.”

“And to whom do we owe the pleasure?” Khalid responds, and the professor moves with him as he steps forward to break through the line. Ignoring the unsettling feeling of so many eyes boring into the back of his head, he concentrates on the rider, working to make out what he can of his face: his eyes are a peculiar gold color, and while his dust mask obscures most of his features, he looks youthful. The man has a slender build, and Khalid can tell that he’s fast. He might be in his early or mid-twenties; he strikes Khalid as a boy who’s only just learned to carry himself as a man, one who’s still eager to prove his right to the space he occupies.

“I am Arjun,” the rider answers, which is a pleasant surprise. The man’s Almyran is perfect, although Khalid doesn’t recognize his accent.

“Shame we have to meet under these circumstances, Arjun,” he says, returning civility with civility. “You seem like a polite young man.”

“My leader will speak with you,” Arjun asserts. Perhaps he’s not as polite as Khalid hoped. “Do you accept the terms of parley with my companions?”

“We do.”

“Do you swear on your honor?”

“Sure,” Khalid shrugs, “for whatever it’s worth.”

The man straightens in his saddle. “Do not jest. Your situation is dire. You would be wise to respect me.”

“Oh, I respect you—as much as you deserve to be respected, anyway. I’m just not sure why you’d want me to swear on my honor of all things when your friends are accusing me of treason.”

What little is visible of the man’s face contorts beneath his dust mask; Khalid recognizes a scowl when he sees one. “Do you swear to accept the parley?”

“Yes. And your friends?”

The man raises his chin. “They shall honor it.”

Khalid glances to Sufian; when he nods, Khalid turns back to the rider. “Then tell them to approach,” he says, facetiously gracious and inviting. “They won’t be harmed.”

Without taking his golden eyes off Khalid, Arjun lifts his handkerchief and waves it thrice above his head; down the road, the clouds of mud and dust kick up again as the remaining riders begin to move, closing the distance.

“You’re mercenaries,” the professor comments, breaking the tense quiet.

The rider’s gaze flicks to her. “Yes,” he says, refocusing on Khalid.

“Are you independent? Irregulars? Or part of a free company?”

Arjun bristles. “That is not for your knowledge,” he attempts to deflect, but the professor doesn’t let up, her eyes narrowing as she scans his form.

“You’re Gray Shrikes,” she says, and her impressed tone raises Khalid’s eyebrows. “I didn’t know they were still around.”

Her assessment must be correct, because Arjun is now visibly disturbed. “You know nothing of me or my companions,” he spits, his limbs tensing; his horse snorts, tossing its great head and pawing at the earth.

The professor raises her empty hands. “Sorry,” she tells him with all her sincerity. “I used to be a mercenary—I haven’t seen anyone from your company in a long time.”

“You know nothing,” Arjun repeats. “Cease your conjectures. You will not distract me with such talk, and false camaraderie will not dissuade us from our mission.”

Khalid almost comments on the man’s penchant for distraction, but by the time he thinks better of it, it’s moot: the other riders have arrived. They pull up alongside Arjun with a clamor of hoofbeats and jangling steel, the dust drifting through the no-man’s land between their lines.

The assembled parties appraise each other. Eighteen against seven shouldn’t make for much of a fight, but Khalid has firsthand knowledge of the damage a small team of skilled warriors can do, and considering that the eighteen in question include two unusually spry nonagenarians and twelve guards who have never done combat with anything tougher than a grumpy farmer, he’s less than pleased with their odds. The mercenaries are just as the guard named Dalil described: two burly, well-armored riders in full-face helmets carry lances and slings filled with javelins, while another rider has an enormous axe strapped to her back. The axe-wielder is a stocky woman with gray-streaked tawny hair and intelligent hazel eyes. When she pulls down her dust mask, Khalid thinks she’s flashing a cocky grin, but it’s actually the work of a massive facial scar that puckers one side of her mouth and gives her a perpetual squint. Judging by the quality of her armor and her confident demeanor, she’s their leader. He makes a point of memorizing her face.

At the other end of their line, opposite of Arjun, there’s a second archer—a woman with sun-bleached curly hair erupting from beneath a fur-lined red coif. She’s next to a thin, frightening man who can only be their mage: his eyes gleam red from beneath his hooded cloak, his dark hair flowing well past his shoulders, his face locked in a painful-looking sneer. The pimpled and baby-faced rider at Arjun’s side appears even younger than the archer himself does, and when Arjun pulls his dust mask down to whisper something to the boy, Khalid’s startled by how similar they look. They share the same intense golden eyes, dark hair, and sharp features—the boy must be Arjun’s kin, probably his brother. He looks surlier than his elder, though, sitting high in his saddle with his fingers curled around the grip of a long, wicked-looking blade Khalid recognizes as a Killing Edge. Although the boy holds it loosely at his side, his obvious agitation reminds Khalid of a sighthound, straining to be free of its lead so it can lunge after its prey. He’s going to be annoying.

“Khalid, father of Yousef Iskandar, King of Almyra,” the axe-wielding woman proclaims in High Almyran. She has a Haroivan drawl, and she says the words as if she’s reading them from a script. “Also known as Claude von Riegan; also known as Khalid Bashar.”

“I’m fond of the latter,” Khalid drawls back. “It’s my wife’s family name, and I think it’s pretty.”

That puckered mouth pulls into an actual grin that makes some of her put-upon propriety fall away. “You’re as funny as they say,” she remarks, and he shrugs.

“If you can’t laugh, what can you do?”

The woman gives him a chuckle, which is kind, although she unfortunately gets right back to business. “You know why we’re here?” she asks.

“Rumor has it I’m a traitor,” he replies, remaining nonchalant, “but that’s rather old news. You’d think they’d come up with something else after seventy-odd years.”

“Rumor this time is that you’ve been harboring an enemy of the state,” the mercenary leader says, tilting her head down to regard him from below her raised brows. She rolls her gaze to the professor, then shifts those hazel eyes back to Khalid’s face. “And I have it on good authority that said enemy is standing right next to you.”

Khalid glances at the guard just over his shoulder. “Have you been naughty?” he asks the guard, and he does feel a bit bad when the poor lad blanches, stammering out a jumbled mess of “um”s and “er”s.

“Enough jokes, old man,” the youth beside Arjun snarls. He begins to point his wicked blade at Khalid, though he’s stopped when Arjun cuffs the back of his head and leans over to hiss something scathing into his ear.

“Stand down, Vikar,” their leader snaps, holding out an open hand to Khalid and Sufian as a promise of peace; the boy’s action has put all of the guards on alert, but to their credit, they hold fast, obeying the silent order of Sufian’s raised fist. The mercenary leader glares at each member of her band, ensuring they do the same. “There’s no need for this to involve any bloodshed.”

“Excuse me,” Khalid pipes up, raising a finger. “May I ask a question? If I am to be arrested for treason, I’m just curious as to why you have been sent to round me up instead of, say, the military. Or, I don’t know—the police?”

The ghastly-looking mage glowers at him, and when he narrows his eerie red eyes, Khalid swears he spots a flicker of flame in them. “It is a citizen’s arrest,” he states in his curt and cutting Dagdan accent. His husky voice is just as spooky-sounding as Khalid thought it would be—he’s so chilling that he’s starting to come around to being comical. “Given your relation to the king, the interested parties do not believe that the military or police would respond to the accusations.”

Khalid hums. “I see. So there’s no writ of arrest, and I don’t suppose that I or my son would get to know where I’m to be incarcerated. You’re not making this sound very appealing to me.”

“Our orders are to deliver the both of you to the interested parties,” the mage says coolly. “There was an implied preference that we deliver you alive, but there were no explicit instructions to that end.”

“Ah,” Khalid intones, “there’s the rub.” He flexes his brows, giving the matter some thought. “It’s quite a gamble, don’t you think? My son won’t be too happy once he finds out I’ve been unlawfully detained, and if I turn up dead, that might really upset him. Are these ‘interested parties’ willing to risk the possibility of civil war?”

The leader shrugs a shoulder. “It’s not my position to judge my orders,” she says, “but if you really want my opinion, treason is a serious crime. If you are guilty of it, I wouldn’t blame them for taking that kind of risk.” Leaning back in the saddle, she addresses the professor with a curt upward nod. “I’ll need you to remove your hood, please, so that we can confirm your identity.” It’s polite, but it is a command.

The professor’s been silent for a long time, listening and observing. While some part of Khalid wishes she’d spare a look at him, she keeps her gaze locked on the mercenary leader. Slowly, Teach reaches up, takes hold of the hem of her cowl, and pulls it down to her shoulders. With her youthful face unobscured, her eyes are an intense, unearthly vivid green, and when a few rays of late evening sun break through the ever-present rainclouds to land on her luminous hair, it glows with holy light.

“That’s her, Marjana,” Khalid hears the mage say to the leader. “No doubt about it.” The frightening fellow passes over a sheet of parchment and the leader—Marjana, apparently—inspects it, glancing back and forth between the paper and the professor.

“I still think we should consider the bounty Fódlan’s offering,” one of the armored lance-wielders grumbles in Fódlani; her voice is low and tinny through her steel helm, and Khalid’s ears perk up when he registers her Leicester accent. “It’s not small potatoes.”

“This isn’t up for debate,” Marjana retorts in Almyran over the sound of the second armored lancer’s affirmative mumblings. “We have a contract. We will be fulfilling it. And if we don’t, one of our cohorts will.” She gives Khalid a pointed look. “Like I said, there’s no need for bloodshed. It won’t do you any good. If you fight us, we’ll kill you, and if by some chance we don’t, we have friends on the way who aren’t as nice as we are. They won’t bother to say ‘hello’ before burning this place to the ground.” She pauses to let them sit with the words, shifting her gaze to the professor. “If you need a minute to decide how many of you want to die a pointless death, I’ll let you talk it out.”

“King Father,” Sufian murmurs urgently, gesturing for his attention; Khalid reflects the mercenary leader’s stern expression right back at her, then shuffles through the line of guards to regroup with his captain.

“Well, I don’t know about you,” he says to Sufian and Teach, keeping his voice low, “but I don’t like the sound of any of that.”

Sufian nods grimly. “We could slay seven. But if my scouts are correct, and two or more bands have yet to come through, we couldn’t hold them all back. We have numbers on our side, and the house is easily defensible, but my men lack experience in this kind of combat.”

“It’d be a slaughterhouse,” Khalid concurs. He tugs at his beard, scrutinizing their foes. “What are you thinkin’, Teach?”

The professor stares, her eyes slightly narrowed, her right hand flexing and contracting. Just as Khalid thinks she might spring into motion, she suddenly sways; she takes a half-step backward to catch herself, squeezing her eyes shut and bowing her head with a small noise of choked-back pain.

“You all right?” Khalid whispers. He feels a little off, himself—maybe the heat and the tension are getting to him, making him suddenly feel sick to his stomach, with an ache in his head that threatens to become a throbbing pain. But he’s still upright, and he’s pretty sure he can stay that way for now.

Whether the professor has chosen to ignore his question or can’t manage to answer it, she provides no response. She draws herself up to her full height and staggers forward on uneasy legs.

“I’ll go quietly,” she announces to all assembled. “And I’ll cooperate with your employers to whatever ends they wish. But I’ll only do so if King Father Khalid is allowed to remain here, and if you all leave these lands immediately without harming him or anyone in his charge. No more of your companions are to set foot on these grounds.”

Khalid goggles at her, his mouth agape. For one of the first times in his life, his words have utterly failed him. Although he knows the woman can be dense at times, he’s never suspected she could be stupid.

Marjana tilts her head to the side, regarding the professor. “That’s an offer,” she remarks, arching her brows. “But you forget that our contract is for the both of you.”

“The King Father is old,” Teach responds bluntly—she’s one to talk. “He won’t survive travel, let alone imprisonment. If your employers wish to make an example of him by dragging him from his home, they will kill him, and his death will galvanize King Yousef and his supporters. But if their wish is to make change, my presence and confessions will serve as a sufficient catalyst.”

The mercenary leader sighs, squinting at her. The mage mutters something that Khalid can’t make out; the lancer between them blurts out a sound of disbelief that reverberates in her metal helmet and causes Marjana to shoot her a glare.

“You make a point, Archbishop,” Marjana says. “Or do you prefer ‘Queen’...? Doesn’t matter, I guess. I’d like to know how we can guarantee your cooperation after we vacate the premises, though. It would be inconvenient if you fell mum the second we crossed the river.”

The professor places her hand over her heart. “You have my word as queen. And as I said, the King Father will not survive travel. Once I am in your employers’ custody, I will provide my confession; if I don’t uphold my end of the bargain, the King Father will still be here. Your companions can remain encamped across the river to ensure my compliance and that he does not escape. But if they cross the river, or make threats against him or his people, I will know, and I will not cooperate.”

“Teach,” Khalid starts, only for her to silence him with a hard look from over her shoulder.

“It has to happen this way,” she says sharply. He wants to argue, but he’s too distracted by the sudden change in her face: one of her eyes is bloodshot, the corner drawn up into a pronounced wince, and her complexion is decidedly paler than it was mere moments ago. “Nothing else works.”

“What are you talking about?” he exclaims. “Don’t be an idiot, Teach, it’s not going to work! It’s—One moment, please, Miss Mercenary, I need to talk to my friend.”

Ignoring the protests of the other mercenaries and the questioning rumble of Sufian’s voice, he catches the professor’s sleeve and tugs her back through the line of guards. Whether she’s willing or just too faint to resist, she lets him.

“It’s not going to work,” he repeats once they’re a few steps out, staring the professor right in that bloodshot green eye. “You’re giving them everything they want, and you’ll doom us all, regardless. If they have you, they win.”

She’s looking woozy; she pushes her knuckle against that awful eye and shakes her head again. “But you live,” she says simply. “If it goes like this, you all live.”

When she makes an attempt at pulling away, Khalid scoffs and tugs her closer, forcing her to meet his gaze. “And what about you?” he demands. “What happens to you in this scenario, since you know so damn much?”

“They take me with them to regroup with the other riders.” Her voice is low so that only he can hear it, but it’s still her teacher voice, which pisses him off. “The others camp across the river as instructed. When the military support arrives, they can repel or detain the mercenaries there, and you’ll be free of them.”

“That sounds nice, but it doesn’t answer my question. What happens to you?” he asks again.

She pauses for too long before answering. “I escape,” she says, “or slay them.” While it doesn’t surprise him, it’s still disappointing to learn that she’s a terrible liar.

“Uh-huh,” Khalid nods. “Right. Of course. And if you don’t manage to escape, or kill seven people, by yourself, while unarmed—what happens then?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she shrugs, and in spite of her weakness, he grabs her by the neck of her cowl and shakes her hard.

“It does matter! It matters to me! I care about what happens to you!” She’s as impassive-looking as ever, which only serves to make him angrier. “And beyond that, your whole idea is crazy. There’s no way they won’t simply kill everyone, including you, the moment they get your sword out of your hand!”

“They won’t.”

“They will,” he says harshly. “And you won’t be able to do anything about it. Even if they don’t—and I highly doubt they won’t, just by the way—what happens if you can’t pull off your insane solo escape attempt and they parade back to wherever with the Fódlani Archbishop in their custody? What happens to you? Or to me, or to my son? I’m sure plenty of people would love to hear his daddy’s a traitor, just as they’ve always suspected! You might as well tear his crown off his head yourself!”

Her face softens at that. “The king would survive. He would suffer, but he would survive.”

Khalid blinks, shaking his head in disbelief. “... Do you not hear the words coming out of your own mouth right now? You’re not exactly selling this scheme of yours, Teach!” He rubs his brows, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. The ache in his head is turning into a full-on pain that pounds in his temples and makes him wish for a nap. “What would you even ‘confess’ to? If they’re bold enough to send so many mercenaries after us, they’re already certain that they’ve got us both. They’ll want to know all the state secrets I’ve surely told you since you got here, and what will you tell them?”

“The truth,” she says plainly, and he growls in frustration.

“No one is going to believe you’ve been running around here fishing and doing farm chores for six months! They’ll torture you until you tell them what they want to hear—that, or they’ll think you aren’t cooperating with your own ‘bargain,’ and they’ll come back and torch the farm, anyway. Are you not understanding this?!”

She nods—too calm, too confident, too fucking condescending. “I do understand,” she tells him with that stupid, placid half-smile. “But you will live. All of you will live.”

“You don’t know that,” he spits back. “You don’t know that for certain.”

“I do, Claude. I know.”

He stares at her, his head pounding and heart hammering, his knuckles white with rage. He hasn’t been this angry since he was a young man—maybe not ever in his too-long life. But when he looks at her as she says those words, a tremor of pure, animal fear jolts through his body. She’s so assured in her prescience, so certain of her vision of the truth, so morbidly resolved and ruthlessly righteous that it’s terrifying. She’s terrifying.

She terrifies him.

“All right, Teach,” he manages to say, increasingly feeling like he’s arguing with a beast that’s about to consume him. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we don’t die. But this will still be the ruin of us all. It’ll be the end of my son, the end of peace in Almyra, and almost certainly the end of our truce with Fódlan, for whatever that’s worth—you think your friends back at Garreg Mach are going to take it well when they find out their missing queen’s been here, in enemy territory? There’ll be war before the week is out! How many people will die then? Will it be worth it?” He’s been rambling so much that he’s run out of air; he takes a deep breath, running a hand through his thin, damp hair and raising the other to keep Teach from cutting in while he racks his brain for a solution. “I see one way out of this, and it’s to fight. We take these guys out and hold the rest of ‘em off until the military support from Urkesh arrives. We have you hunker down and lay low somewhere for a while—do a little smoke and mirrors, make it like you were never here. Make it all sound like a crazy, baseless accusation by radicals and conspiracy theorists. Then, once it blows over, you can pop out again, and we can go back to coffee and farm chores and whatever the hell else you want to do.”

Teach slowly turns her head back and forth, and the deep green pools of her eyes are dark and cold as a winter tempest. “We won’t survive until the military arrives, Claude,” she tells him, the grim prophecy rolling off her tongue with a detached calm that chills him to the bone. “They won’t get here in time.”

A quiet falls between them. His head throbs again and he swallows hard. He doesn’t know how, but he knows she’s right. It’s already happened. They’ve already tried. He can picture it all so clearly, as if he was there. As if he’s seen it. As if it’s all played out before, right before his eyes, like thousands of sketches on translucent parchment layered over each other in a jumbled mass of truth and memory.

Waiting for help that doesn’t come. Fighting and losing. The blade. The fire. The darkness.

He has seen it. He knows. He doesn’t understand, but he knows.

“... Then you should go,” he murmurs, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You go. Let them kill us all, and when the military gets here and investigates, let them find no trace that you were ever here, and let the rest of us be remembered as martyrs. If I’m going to die, I sure as hell won’t allow my family or my country to go down with me.”

Something flashes across her face—something vindictive and vicious, cold and callous and hurting. She jerks free from his hold and shoves him away, hard; too shocked to catch himself, he stumbles backward, barely managing to get his footing again. When he recovers enough to look up at her, her green eyes are wide and her mouth is in a thin line. He’s reminded of how she looked that day in the courtyard, the day he fell-or-didn’t-fall, but while her features are etched with that too-familiar pain, she looks empty, hollow, like whatever life has slowly regrown within her has been reduced to desolate, scorched earth. Her bloodshot eye has gotten worse, flecked with yet more red, and there’s something strange about the iris: it almost looks fractured, and where it’s cracked, the color is a vibrant blue.

“You’re not going to die,” she says, pointing a finger at him. “I won’t let you. Not you, and not anyone else here.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.” His voice trembles as he hisses the words through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to die, but if you would doom my family and my country to save my life, I would never forgive you. You might as well kill me yourself.”

For too many long, silent seconds, the professor stands and stares at him. Then she turns away. “I won’t be the cause of any more death.” Her voice is firm, the words final, as if swearing them to the heavens. “This is my fault, and I will fix it.”

“Are you done over there?” Marjana calls, sounding bored as she sits there, leaning an elbow on her saddlehorn. “You’re doing a lot of chatting for someone who’s offered to ‘come quietly.’” Her mercenaries are still whispering among themselves, and Vikar looks particularly agitated. Khalid doesn’t like that boy. He keeps murmuring things to Arjun that appear to increasingly annoy the archer, and his golden eyes stare at the professor in a way that makes Khalid’s already unsettled stomach feel that much less settled.

“We’re done,” the professor answers before Khalid can tell either of them where they should stick that offer. She walks back to the edge of the no-man’s land without looking back at Khalid. “My offer stands.”

The mercenary leader huffs. “Glad to hear that. We’re inclined to take it.”

“Then you agree to my terms?”

“As you specified.”

The professor lowers her head, fixing her intense gaze on the leader. “The Gray Shrikes I once knew were warriors of their word. Are you?”

Marjana actually looks offended by the implication. “I am,” she says with a pointed sniff. “You hand yourself over, and we’ll uphold our end. Our friends will camp on the east bank of the river, and outside of making sure your grandfather remains under house arrest, they won’t bother any of your friends. No bloodshed, no tears. That work for you?”

Teach casts a glance back at Khalid. He takes a leaf out of her book by keeping his face blank and impassive, not letting her get anything out of him. Her features twist. Her eye looks terrible. She’s so weak that it’s hard to believe she’s even standing.

But he can’t let himself feel for her. Not anymore. Not now that he knows just how far she’d go, just what she’d sacrifice. Just what she deems worth sacrificing.

He holds her gaze, remaining locked in this staring contest, and for the first time, he wins.

“Yes,” she answers as she turns away. “We have an agreement.”

The mercenary leader’s imposed smirk pulls back into a proper one. “Very wise of you, Archbishop. Thanks for making this easy. Come on over now—this has taken too long already, and I’d like to get on the road before nightfall.”

Khalid snorts at that, but he keeps his tongue in check. He stares at the professor’s back and brushes his knuckles against the center of his chest, his stomach in knots, the ache in his head once more becoming a throbbing pain. He wonders if she’ll turn back around, but she doesn’t. She holds her head high and begins her solitary journey to her doom.

Keeping his focus on the professor, Khalid sidles closer to Sufian, moving slowly to avoid drawing attention to himself.

“As soon as she crosses the midline,” he tells the guard captain once he’s within whispering distance, “go all out.”

Good man that he is, Sufian doesn’t question the order. He simply nods and adjusts his grip on his lance. “It’s been an honor, King Father.”

“The highest honor,” Khalid agrees. “You’ve given me twenty-five years of your life; I hoped I’d never have to ask for your death, though. I’m sorry about that.”

The guard captain hums a contemplative noise. “A life worth living and a death worth dying. If I go, I go into the arms of the gods with the best of their graces.”

The captain’s words make Khalid smile. If nothing else, he supposes he’ll get to find out whether Sufian’s right.

The seconds drag like hours as the professor makes her way across the barren stretch of dirt. She nears the midline after what feels like an eternity, and just as Khalid is tightening his grip on Failnaught, she suddenly stumbles to a stop, swaying where she stands.

“What’s the matter with you?” the mercenary leader snaps. “Keep moving.”

One hand clutched to her chest, Teach recovers herself enough to look up at Marjana and shake her head. “I can go no further. If I do, the King Father’s guards will move on you.”

Khalid’s jaw drops. “Teach!”

There’s an uneasy clamor arising in both lines, the tension ratcheting back up to near the breaking point. Over the grousing of her mercenaries, Marjana raises her heavy axe and brandishes it at Khalid.

“We have a deal, old man,” she snarls at him. “Don’t make me regret my leniency. If your dogs move on us, we’ll put them down, and then my friend is going to start setting fires.”

“They won’t resist again.” Teach looks over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed to glare at Khalid. “I will stop them if they try.”

Khalid’s too stunned to figure out how to respond. He can’t believe her. He can’t believe she’d do this to him—to all of them. He’s hurt, but more than that, he’s angry, and only the sound of Sufian’s low whisper keeps him from screaming hostilities at her from across the divide.

“Do I hold, King Father?”

“... Hold,” he says hollowly, rubbing his temple again. His head is pounding, his blood thrumming with adrenaline and his heart beating too hard. “Without the element of surprise, we don’t stand a chance. She’s doomed us all.”

“Stop in the middle there,” Marjana orders the professor. “Don’t come any closer. I want your weapon and to check your pockets.”

“Don’t bother, Marjana. I’ve got this.”

At the sound of Vikar’s voice, the mercenary leader turns to look at him. The boy has slipped off his horse and is striding toward the no-man’s land, his long, wicked blade stowed in his belt.

“Vikar, wait,” Arjun calls, a conflicting urgency and hesitation in his tone; he rasps out something in a language Khalid doesn’t know and the boy snaps back with a comment that’s dismissive enough to make the archer balk. Seemingly satisfied with his brother’s deference, he turns his ire on Marjana.

“This situation is fucked,” he seethes without slowing his stride. “And if we keep fucking around, the others are going to show up and take this contract out from under us. I want to wrap this up and get out of here before this shit gets weirder.”

The mercenary leader’s pinched face twists, but before she can chastise him for his impudence, an ear-ringing boom of thunder claps directly overhead, and the horses spook.

Rain begins to pelt down as the animals rear and scream, stomping their hooves and throwing their heads, their eyes too white and their mouths frothing around their bits. On both sides of the divide, the solid lines of fighters break, staggering outward into loose crowds as their riders struggle to control their steeds—even Sufian’s dapple-gray war horse is disturbed, and that thing didn’t so much as flinch when a Meteor spell went off right next to it during a guard training mishap a few years back. Being this close to so many beasts in revolt makes Khalid nervous, feeling much too small and vulnerable on his two old and fragile legs, so he weaves through the line until he’s out of the way, holding his great bow in front of him for protection and support. He sees Arjun flailing and fighting to keep hold of Vikar’s horse while his own bucks beneath him; there’s a shout and a tell-tale thump from over Khalid’s shoulder, and when he glances back toward the noise, one of the guards has been thrown to the ground, his horse sprinting off in the direction of the stables on its own.

“Stay calm,” Marjana hollers as Sufian yells “Hold,” both leaders attempting to regain some semblance of order. Vikar and the professor are still at the midpoint, calm amidst the chaos. The boy stands a few steps away from her, his blade drawn and held low at his side. He says something to her that Khalid can’t make out over all the noise. The professor stiffens in response, but then nods her head and reaches for her belt, withdrawing her sword and casting it into the dirt. For the very first time, the boy smiles—smirks, really, looking much too sadistic and self-satisfied for Khalid’s taste. He kicks her blade aside and grabs the professor’s shoulder, giving her a harsh push. She’s so weak that her left knee buckles and she almost falls, although she catches herself before she does, stumbling a few steps toward the mercenary’s line. The boy doesn’t move to follow her, though. Instead, he casts a glance at his leader, who’s still trying to retain control of her own horse.

Then he turns those eerie golden eyes on Khalid, and the alarm bells start ringing in Khalid’s head as the boy shifts his focus back to the professor and raises his blade.

“Teach!” Khalid yells, just as the professor senses the change. In spite of her body’s failings, she whirls in an instant to face the boy, and when he moves, she moves; he’s fast, but she’s faster, and at the moment their paths intersect, the world explodes with light and sound.

The feeling of rain on his face is Khalid’s first sign that he’s fallen. He groans, lifting each of his limbs to check that they’re still working. Thankfully, everything appears to be attached and whole, although his back and hips hurt, and the ache in his head is now a ringing pain. Although he feels dizzy and dazed, he knows he needs to move, so he forces his eyes open and leans hard on Failnaught as he works to pull himself up. He’s too weak and unbalanced to get back to his feet again, but he manages to roll over and get onto his knees, which is far preferable to being laid out flat and affords him a chance to get the lay of the land. Whatever the hell happened has knocked him back a ways—he’s facing Sufian’s line, and the scene before him is one of utter chaos. The horses that haven’t already run off with or without their riders are now flat on the ground, and there are deep gouges in the muddy earth where their forms have been blasted backward by some great, concussive force. The animals’ cries are interspersed with those of their riders, trapped under their bodies, groaning and screaming in pain from bent and broken limbs. He spots Saaya crawling through the mud, trying to pick herself up; Sufian’s massive horse is clambering to its feet while the guard captain himself lies a few feet away, his face wracked with agony. He’s holding his forearm to his chest, and when Khalid realizes that the bend in the limb is not at the joint, his stomach lurches.

He turns away, fighting to calm his pulse or choke down the bile in his throat or comprehend anything he’s seeing. The swirling dust in the no-man’s land between their lines makes it that much harder for him to get his bearings, but to his relief, he can make out the shape of the professor. While he can’t tell if she’s injured, she’s at least been able to get herself onto her knees, and he takes that as a good sign.

Rotating his sore neck, he scans the mercenaries’ line. The mercenaries haven’t fared much better than the guards, with the lancers in their heavy armor seeming to have taken the worst of it. One of them is still, while the other screams a string of curses in Fódlani as her horse scrambles to right itself, trampling her limbs beneath its flailing hooves. Vikar’s horse is gone, sprinting off into the distance, followed closely by the one belonging to the curly-haired archer. Its rider’s foot is still trapped in the stirrup, and she screams as her horse runs away, dragging her behind it. Khalid can’t make out where Arjun or the mage are, though Marjana appears to be in better shape than the rest of her band. She’s used her axe handle to claw her way into a seated position, grimacing as she applies pressure to her knee, whipping her head around to make her own assessment of the situation. Her eyes flash when they land on the professor, and her scarred face warps through a convoluted series of emotions: a twisted mess of awe, confusion, disgust, and horror. It so alarms Khalid that he turns his own attention back to her, peering through the rain and slowly settling dust to make out what he can.

She hasn’t moved since he last looked at her, remaining on her knees in the mud. Now that some of the dust has cleared, he can see that despite the downpour that’s soaking everyone else to the bone, there’s an odd curtain around her, forming a perfect circle where the torrential rains abruptly cease. Within the circle, the dark storm clouds have cleared away, and at the curtain’s edge, the water droplets hang in space: some completely frozen, some oozing slowly toward the ground like honey from a spoon, and some appearing to go upward, returning to the skies. The sight is baffling enough, but when Khalid looks closer at the torn shoulder of Teach’s robe, his stomach heaves again and a cold rush of dread floods his veins before his mind even finishes comprehending what he’s seeing:

There’s something wrong with her right arm. It looks like it’s been ripped off at the elbow. When he suppresses enough of the initial wave of terror washing through him as to refocus his vision, he sees that the limb is still attached, but it’s been mutilated somehow: the skin has turned ashen white, roughshod with patches of tooth-like, iridescent specks that almost resemble scales. What once was her hand has been stretched and distorted, her fingers and thumb replaced by four long, ridged digits canvased with leathery skin and tipped with immense, curved claws.

Lying prone on the ground in front of her is the boy named Vikar, red rivers rushing through a gaping slit in his throat. The muscles in his skinny limbs spasm, his golden eyes rolling back in his head, pink froth spilling from his lips as wet, choking gasps catch in the bloody abyss of his neck.

The professor stumbles as she attempts to rise, scrabbling over to the boy on all fours and pulling him close to cradle his head in her lap. Her good hand presses flat against his chest; her disfigured one moves with impossible delicacy to touch the fault line in his neck, staining those bone-white claws crimson. She’s murmuring something as the boy convulses in her arms, her unintelligible words becoming increasingly frantic as the boy continues to choke on his own blood.

Too quickly, the rush of the wine-dark river recedes to a trickle, stark against the landscape of his ashen skin. His rapid convulsions subside to infrequent, violent heaves. The foam at his lips bubbles with each of his sodden, frail coughs, and his golden eyes are open wide, fixated on nothing.

With a guttural, croaking sound, another burst of air is expelled from his lungs. They don’t inflate again. He twitches once. Twice. Then his contorted muscles fall limp, and both the boy and the professor are still.

Khalid doesn’t know how much time passes. He can’t will his body to move. He doesn’t even feel like he can breathe. When the professor finally shifts, air finds its way back to his own lungs, although it doesn’t bring him any relief. He opens his mouth, but a heavy weight sits on his dry tongue, barring any sounds from escaping. He can’t speak. He doesn’t know what he would say.

Still holding the boy, the professor lifts her eyes to the heavens and speaks one word:

“Sothis.”

It’s a flat, emotionless utterance. It hangs in the silence amidst the cacophony of pain around them. Then her grip falls slack and the boy’s body slides from her grasp.

She blinks at his fallen form, her mouth ajar, her monstrous arm hanging loosely at her side. With tender care, she uses her good hand to arrange the boy’s limbs, then wipes the foam from his mouth and sweeps his eyelids closed. She stares at him. She stares at him for a long time.

“Vikar!”

Arjun’s voice shatters the silence, and all able eyes rove to seek the source of the sound. He’s clawed his way out from under his fallen horse, dragging the mangled mess of his legs behind him, but he barely seems to notice his own agony, too fixated on the body of the boy at the professor’s side. He wails, blood leaking from his mouth, his fingers scrabbling for purchase in the mud. He tries to pull himself across the ground only to collapse into the dirt, his body too broken and his limbs too weak to ferry him further. With a last determined cry, his hand grasps for something it will never reach; when it falters, he screams in a language Khalid doesn’t know, the words echoing across the lines as he rages for his impotence and weeps for his grief.

“My brother!” he sobs out in Almyran, directing all of the pain in his golden-eyed gaze at the professor. “My brother! You have taken my brother from me!”

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice small and brittle and broken. “I-I’m sorry. I—I—”

Her chest hitches and she clutches her distorted hand to it, her frame wracked with tremors that buckle her good arm and pitch her face-first into the dirt. As she attempts to rise and pull in a breath of air, a little noise like a whimper catches in her throat. Then it expels itself, and when it does, it rips free with a force that’s a hundred times as powerful, transmuting into a strange, bone-chilling sound—something akin to both a sob and a wail, primal and agonized and pleading.

She turns her head to look back at Khalid. Her face is wet. She’s weeping.

“This isn’t how it goes,” she says, as if saying the words to him, as if she’s apologizing for something Khalid can forgive or ever hope to understand. “It doesn’t happen like this. I did everything right this time. I know I did.” A tear rolls down to her chin and drips onto her arm; she blinks, touching her right hand to her face, only to jerk it away again as if she’s just discovered the ghastly appendage. The boy’s blood is smeared on her cheek, her tears cutting tracks through the streak of crimson. She doesn’t seem to notice. She stares down at her hand with a profound look of revulsion, then rises to her feet.

She looks at the carnage around her, at the boy still sobbing for his brother, at the masses of men and beasts and blood and blades strewn in her wake. She looks up at the sky, at how the clouds break in a halo around where she stands, at how the red rays of the setting sun glow through that break and bathe her form in light. She looks up into those clouds, her incessant tears washing the blood from her face, and she raises her mismatched hands to the heavens and murmurs words no one else can hear.

There’s another flash of white light and a feeling like a pulse of thunder in Khalid’s heart, and when his vision returns, everything has changed again. All is as it was minutes ago: he’s on his feet, standing just in front of Sufian’s line; the guards and mercenaries are back on their horses, the wounded healed, the unconscious revived. The world is still and calm and frozen. It’s silent. No one speaks. Khalid’s not sure if he can, and he doesn’t want to try. He should be disoriented, but he doesn’t feel anything other than weightless and detached, like he’s only connected to his body by a thin, taut tether that could break at any time. It’s as if he’s a piece being held above a game board by an unseen hand, reviewing the elements below, contemplating how to arrange them just to their liking.

Then the hand releases its hold, and the taut-stretched tether snaps him into his body like a bowstring returning as the world itself clicks back into place.

The sensation is jarring—despite the extended hang time, his muscles aren’t prepared to have suddenly gone from kneeling to standing, and he swoons, only managing to avoid collapsing all the way to the earth by catching himself with his bow. He eases back down to his knees, leaning hard on Failnaught in lieu of his cane while he struggles to reorient himself. His head is pounding, his throat burning as he spits out bile—judging by the hideous chorus of groans and retching around him, he’s not the only one whose stomach has failed him.

But not everything is exactly in its place. As Khalid’s vision slowly stops revolving, he sees that the rain has ceased, the clouds cleared away as if they had never been there at all, and that the area around the professor is unchanged. Her right arm remains distended into its monstrous shape—it actually looks worse now, the claws longer and darker, the scaly patches rougher and sharply defined, their colors shining an iridescent blue-green. She stands there, clutching it with her left hand, her face contorted with pain that expels itself through her lips in soft, childish whimpers; when she wrenches open her awful left eye, the fractured iris is now wholly a vibrant blue, and when its gaze lands on the body of the boy still lying lifeless at her feet, her whimpering becomes a shriek of rage and grief so loud that it nearly sends Khalid tumbling back to the earth.

Releasing her death grip on her monstrous arm to point it at the heavens, she snarls through her haze of tears and unleashes a sound akin to a bestial roar.

“No one was supposed to get hurt,” she shouts, her voice guttural and distorted and utterly inhuman. “No one was supposed to die.”

Her shouting spooks the horses again, the guards and mercenaries yelling as they fight to regain control. Khalid remains where he is, off to the side, leaning on his bow, his head pounding and his chest hurting and his heart beating too fast, too fast.

There’s more shouting and screaming from either side of the divide, the cacophony so intense that Khalid can barely make out the sound of a single voice among the masses of the fray. One of the mercenary lancers has apparently recovered enough to go on the offensive. She hauls back an arm and slings a javelin at the professor, but it never reaches her: when it hits the invisible wall where the rains had ceased, the speeding projectile fizzles with a distorted burst of blue-green light and then abruptly slows to hang in the air, drifting through space like it’s being carried aloft by a hidden hand. As it crawls its way through the center of the circle, it gets close enough to the professor’s head to brush her hair as it wafts harmlessly past; when it finally reaches the opposite edge of the curtain, it fizzles with that distorted light again and regains all of its momentum in a single instant, burying itself deep into the ground so quickly that Khalid jumps in surprise. At no point does the professor seem to notice it. She doesn’t seem to notice any of them, locked in her solitary battle with the skies, pausing only when her body is racked by another tremor that makes her clutch her chest and scream in agony.

“I fixed it,” she rages, clawing her way back to her feet, her whole form seeming to glow and pulse with more and more of that unearthly light. “I did it right. I did what you wanted. Give me this. Give me this.”

Over and over again, she screams the words, her voice growing further distorted with each repetition until it devolves into howling, a mass of inhuman tones layered over each other in discordant harmony, the noise abating only when she unleashes further shrieks in that aberrant voice each time that a new tremor buckles her knees and sends her sprawling back to the ground. Khalid doesn’t notice when the words change from “Give me this” to “Sothis.” He’s too busy trying to cling to something, to anything—too busy trying to get his heart to slow, to get his ears to stop ringing, to regain some balance so that he can do something other than lean on his bow. He can’t. He can’t do anything. He can’t do anything but watch.

And as abruptly as the chaos began, it ceases. The howling stops, the silence all the more deafening in the absence of the din. The winds slow, and the professor stands, her legs under her, her stance assured.

Then there’s a burst of a surreal, green glow, and with a flash, it expands to envelop everything in brilliant light. Khalid squeezes his eyes shut and throws his hand up to shield his face, but the light permeates his eyelids and sears his vision. He doesn’t even have time to wonder if he’s gone blind, as there’s a crack like a lightning strike and subsequent boom that shakes the ground, almost like a fault line has opened up under his feet. The shock wave reverberates through his entire body with a concussive force that would surely have blasted him off his feet, had he not already been kneeling, and the sound ringing in his ears is so sharp that it seems to echo in his bones. It’s paralyzing. He thinks he might be sick, or like his heart might tear itself free from his chest cavity, but he doesn’t move. He can’t. He can’t do anything other than sit there with his arm raised and his body on the verge of giving out, his senses overwhelmed to the point of near obliteration.

But the light fades, and the pain recedes, and some sense of control comes back to his nerves. His heart is still hammering hard in his chest, and the threat of nausea lingers on his tongue, but he lowers his arm, and blinks his eyes open, his vision and hearing gradually returning.

The first thing he makes out are the guards, just as they were, mounted on their horses, the animals’ fears calmed. It’s the same when he shifts his gaze to the mercenaries and to the body of the boy in the clearing, but where the professor was, there remains a bright green glow. He blinks again to clear the starburst’s lingering artifacts, and when they settle, he gazes up in awe and wonder and abject terror at the creature now standing where she stood: a creature he’s only seen once, one he’d hoped to never see again.

“D-Daeva,” one of the guards behind Khalid stammers out, his voice breaking. “It’s—it’s a daeva!”

“It’s no daeva,” Khalid says, swallowing his fear. “It’s a dragon.”

Chapter Text

The dragon stands in the no-man’s land, the boy’s broken body a mere speck between its feet, and in the presence of that numinous horror, Khalid can do nothing. His muscles are paralyzed, his bones are frozen, and his very mind bends at the sight of the beast, at the prospect of the return of a long-absent god.

He’d been a young man when he’d encountered the Immaculate One, and he had hoped his first dragon would be his last. As it was, he hadn’t seen the change come over the Archbishop—he’d been a little busy fending off Imperial soldiers and trying to keep the rest of his class alive. But then a shadow had passed overhead, large enough to block out the sun, and he’d looked up to see a creature unlike any he’d imagined could exist. It was an immense, scaled, reptilian thing, winged and clawed and terrifying, and when it landed, the ground had shaken with an earthquake that rattled the ancient stones of the monastery. It spread its wings and roared, unleashing a primal, animalistic sound that had nearly brought him to his knees. Then it opened its great maw, and from deep in its throat erupted a blinding beam of energy that obliterated all in its path.

Khalid had watched, awestruck, able only to bear witness to the devastation it wrought. He’s never forgotten it. Even all these years later, it still appears in his dreams. He can recall every detail of that battle, of the terror he felt—the sense of being so small, so inconsequential, so helpless in the face of raw, unbridled power—a helplessness he’d hoped to never feel again.

He’d heard about Fódlan’s megafauna before he’d gone there, of course. His mother had told him stories from her youth of brave knights’ battles with great beasts and monstrous creatures; similar tales have long been the stuff of legend in Almyra, proof and propaganda of the land’s horrors. In Fódlan, the wolves are as tall as mountains and the eagles can swallow a man in one gulp. Truly, the gods have forsaken that place. While at the Officers Academy, he’d learned what he could about the beasts, analyzing every battle with the monstrous animals to better prepare himself to face them—and, hopefully, to one day stop them at their source. He’d never seen another creature quite like the Immaculate One, though, and in the five years that followed, he’d spent what little time he had to spare searching for answers. He’d chased rumors, followed every lead, even snuck back into the ruins of the monastery once to raid the library for whatever information he could find—which was almost nothing: tales of a vicious, bird-like creature in the deserts of Sreng that could summon sandstorms; stories of a reclusive beast at the bottom of a lake who granted wishes to the worthy. Just the occasional allusion in myths and legends and songs, verbal traditions with no significant evidence of truth.

In fairness, he’d been too preoccupied with trying to hold the Alliance together to devote as much effort to the matter as he would have liked, but knowing what he knows now, he wishes he’d had different priorities.

He remembers the Immaculate One being impossibly large—larger than any Demonic Beast he’d ever fought, maybe even larger than all of them put together. It’s been too long now for him to know whether it was actually that big or if time has warped his memory, making the monster more than it was. He knows, though, that this creature is immense. It lacks the Immaculate One’s massive, bat-like wings, but from the end of its pointed nose to the tip of its brush-like tail, its lithe body is easily twice the length of his house and nearly as long as the mill’s sprawling base platform. Its cruel, curved claws, scaled skin, ridged horns, and rows of teeth like jagged mountain precipices tell him that it’s definitely the same type of creature as the Immaculate One, but the similarities end there. Rather than being pale, bony, and lizard-like, this beast is verdant and lupine: its narrow, angular head is nestled amidst a ruff of fur at its neck, its chest thick and barrel-shaped above its slender midsection, its four legs limber and its body long and lean. Patches of iridescent scales shine between breaks in its fur, glowing celestial green and streaked with shocks of cornflower blue that shimmer in the sunlight. The slits of its eyes are solid, icy blue, just as the professor’s left one had been in the moments before everything changed.

Those eyes land on Khalid, and when they do, the pain in his head turns to paralyzing agony, his mind overwhelmed with a sudden deluge of images that threatens to drown him in a torrent of dream-like memories, a cascade of lives and deaths and joys and horrors he’s known or forgotten interspersed with so many he doesn’t know, that he’s never known, that he could never possibly imagine.

Its gaze lingers so briefly. It’s enough. His knees buckle, and he retches, his entire body trembling from the strain put upon his mind. He’s dizzy and disoriented, his chest burning from the thunderous pulsing of his heart, and it’s all he can do to remember how to breathe, let alone shuffle his way back to his feet. He manages, but not by his own will—only by some automatic urge, like that invisible hand has returned to lift him up again, holding him steady while the floodwaters clear from his mind.

The beast crouches, stirring the dust with each thrash of its tail, its great head held low; it lifts it to the heavens, then looses a sound like a howl, mournful and haunting and so powerful that Khalid has to fight hard to keep from falling right back down to his knees.

His ears whine, his hearing slowly returning; the pain in his head recedes to a low throb. Feeling a little more balanced now, he takes a quick look around, but doesn’t seem like anyone has fared much better than he has. The guards are screaming and panicking, the mercenaries shouting among themselves, fighting for control of their horses. Glancing between them and the beast, Khalid staggers backward and waves to Sufian, who has broken from his awestruck daze and is attempting to corral his guards. They’re too close to this thing—much too close. They need to gain some distance from it, and fast.

“Fall back!” Khalid shouts. “Back to the mill!”

“Retreat!” he hears Marjana yell to her team, just as Sufian relays Khalid’s order, mercenaries and guards scattering in disorganized masses. Khalid keeps his head up, his gaze locked on the beast, but in his haste, he stumbles; catching himself with his bow, he looks up to see the beast thrashing and snarling, rearing onto its hind legs. Sufian must have seen Khalid’s struggle, for he’s riding toward him on his great gray horse, extending his hand—

Chapter Text

Then there’s a strange tugging feeling behind his navel, and everything is right where it was mere seconds ago: the guards and mercenaries are in their lines, Khalid stands alone off to the side, and the beast looms in their midst. His hand is clean; he wipes his face again, but this time, it comes away wet only with rain. It’s as if they’ve gone back in time, seconds or so into the past, before the beast roared, before the lines broke, before Sufian was crushed beneath that great limb.

“What the—” The Fódlani lancer doesn’t finish her curse, retching into her helm. Everyone looks shaken and sick, either struggling to reorient themselves or staring at the beast in terror. Khalid feels its eyes on him, though he doesn’t meet them this time: he keeps his gaze averted, watching it paw at the ground, snarling and snapping its terrible teeth, a thick foam forming around its mouth. Just like before, it howls; Khalid manages to cover his ears before the noise sounds, for what good it does. Then it leaps into the air, faster and nimbler than it has any right to be, landing in the wheat field north of the bathhouse with a force that shakes and splinters the ground beneath its feet.

“Retreat!” Marjana shouts again, or for the first time. The mercenaries turn their horses, galloping down the path toward the main road, but there’s something wrong—very wrong. The ground is still shaking, the cracks deepening, and Khalid lays himself back in the dirt before he can get thrown there by the devastating earthquake that follows only seconds later.

All around them, the fissures stream outward, turning first from broken stretches of earth into shallow ditches and then to gullies, gulches, and canyons, carving snakelike seams through the fractured landscape. A wide chasm opens across the path just in front of the mercenaries, revealing unknowable black depths; they must all be skilled horsemen, as they manage to pull their steeds to a stop before any of them topple over the edge. Khalid hears them yelling and cursing as the gap grows wider and wider. There’s no getting over it now—they’re trapped.

They whirl, looking for another exit, but more fissures are opening across the land, ripping through the wheat fields and pastures, decimating the granaries, collapsing the tack barns and storage houses beyond. What looks like a sinkhole has opened up in the wheat field to the east of the mill, the golden sea succumbing to a sudden black abyss. Somehow, the mill itself stands strong, although a fissure has nearly split it in two. The guards are retreating toward the mesa, falling back as Khalid ordered—except for Sufian, who is whole and unharmed and riding toward him once again.

“Fall back!” Khalid yells, waving him away, but Sufian remains relentless, extending his hand to grab Khalid’s shirt and heft him aboard his horse without slowing his pace. Khalid’s too stunned by the transition to restrain his undignified yelp. He scrambles to settle himself in the saddle—Sufian, good man that he is, holds fast until he’s stable, even as he’s turning his horse to gallop back toward the mill. “You should have left me,” Khalid pants, rubbing at his chest, his heart beating much too fast for his liking. “I gave you an order.”

“Apologies for disobeying you, King Father,” Sufian says, more formally than is warranted by their circumstances. “But my duty is to assure your safety. If your order conflicts with that duty, I will do my duty.”

“Guess I ought to know that by now,” Khalid grunts, tightening his grip on the saddle, every bump in their path rattling his old bones and making his teeth clack together. Twisting around to face the mercenaries, he waves Failnaught in the air to catch Marjana’s attention. “Fall back!” he calls to her. “To the mill!”

Sufian’s head turns. “Is that wise?”

“Probably not,” Khalid admits, still waving his bow. “We can’t beat this thing ourselves, though. We’ll need their help.”

Sufian fully turns his head at that. “‘Beat it’?”

“Of course.” Sufian’s silent disbelief makes Khalid chuckle. “What happened to ‘dying an honorable death’ and ‘going into the arms of the gods’? Suppose it’s easier to say before the gods actually show up, eh?”

“Suppose so,” the guard captain says through gritted teeth, urging his horse onward.

They tear across the land, bounding over worsening fissures in the earth, drawing closer to where the others are gathered by the mill. One of the great turbines has collapsed, tumbling to the ground in a mass of dust and wood and stone; the guards have based themselves behind the crumbled remnants of its wooden skeleton, using it as cover. When Khalid looks back over his shoulder, the mercenaries are heading their way, weaving across the broken land through the haze of dust. Their foe, meanwhile, appears preoccupied with itself: it’s stumbling and snarling, tossing its head and thrashing the long brush of its tail back and forth, stirring a wind that ripples through the golden stalks of wheat. It reminds Khalid of a rabid animal, fighting with itself for control, lunging and stumbling and shaking, the froth at its mouth growing thicker. It looks—

“Has it grown larger since—before?” Sufian asks with more than a hint of trepidation, voicing Khalid’s thoughts aloud.

“I’m not sure,” Khalid responds, squinting into the sun toward the monstrous creature. “It looks longer, but it might have just stretched out.” It’s stooped now, its forelegs bent and powerful rear legs stick-straight, its lengthy torso curved and snake-like as it erratically weaves, snapping its horrible teeth at nothing. It looses another howling sound—a softer one this time, more akin to a whimper, one that sounds like a discordant version of that awful noise of rage and grief Teach had made when she’d seen that boy’s body lying on the ground.

Teach... He looks at the creature again—at her—and his heart aches. She must be in there somewhere. She must be in so much pain.

But he doesn’t have time to spare her much thought, because they’re at the mill now, ducking behind whatever protection the collapsed tower might offer from the unknowable whims of a feral god.

“Captain!” a lanky, ashen-faced guard calls, swinging his way off the upper levels of the mill’s structure. “King Father!”

“Report, Haydar,” Sufian calls back, pulling to a stop. Before dismounting himself, he helps Khalid ease his way down from his horse, aided by Saaya and that scruffy lad Khalid remembers being called Nabil.

Haydar salutes. “The earthquakes—they’ve carved up the ground on all sides of us. We’re cut off from the farmhouse. There are sinkholes in the wheat fields—big ones, almost as big as the lake. I saw three in the west and two north, and the biggest one is out east. It goes almost all the way to the farmhouse.”

Khalid’s eyes widen. “Is there any damage to the house?”

“No, King Father,” Haydar tells him, making Khalid’s heart settle somewhat. “At least, not from what I could see up there. It’s like—like everything stops at the fenceline. There’s a big canyon now where the copse was by the butchery, but nothing on the other side of it is damaged. Not even the fence.”

“Could you see a safe path for retreat?” Sufian asks.

Haydar swallows. He’s a pockmarked and awkward lad, doing his best to keep up a brave face and almost succeeding. He’s so young—they all are. “I didn’t see one,” he tells the guard captain. “The ground’s broken everywhere. We might be able to get out to the west, but we’d have to—well—”

“We’d have to go past her,” Khalid finishes. “I’m sure that will be easier said than done.”

Haydar nods, his soft features drawn and grim. “The ravine that split the mill is smaller than the others, but it’s deep, and too wide to jump. We could try to use some of the broken panes and lumber from the mill towers to bridge the gap.”

“There’s an idea,” Khalid says, tugging at his beard. “We’d need to buy time. Speaking of distractions—hello, Marjana, glad you could join us.”

The mercenary leader is the first of her party to arrive, yanking hard on her horse’s reins to make it skid to a stop beside Sufian and Khalid. “What the fuck is that?” she demands, stabbing a finger in the direction of the beast across the field. “What the fuck is going on?!”

“Question one: it’s a dragon,” Khalid says plainly. “Question two: we’re also trying to figure that out. Care to help?”

“Fuck you!” Marjana rages at him; she spits, too, to Khalid’s distaste, although given the circumstances, he supposes he can’t begrudge the act. “You know what’s happening, old man, I know you do. Tell me now, or I’ll kill you all.”

Khalid snorts. “Is that the most effective use of your time? At least wait until your friends arrive. I’d hate to have to repeat myself.”

Marjana almost snarls out another retort, but she closes her mouth when Sufian and the other guards raise their weapons. “Hurry up!” she yells at her subordinates, redirecting her ire at them. “Move!”

The rest of Marjana’s mercenaries arrive in varying states of wellness. Arjun easily looks the worst, his golden eyes red and bleary, tear tracks cutting through the dust on his face. The archer in the red coif is consoling him—or attempting to, anyway, giving his forearm occasional pats and murmuring platitudes that don’t seem to register in the boy’s ears. One of the lancers has shucked her helm, revealing a round face and shock of short, blue-gray hair spiking out the top of a sweaty headband. She reminds him of someone, although it takes him a minute to place the name—she looks like Marianne, but with a lot more muscle and a much, much worse attitude. She must be the one from Leicester.

“Hello, everybody,” Khalid says, waving to the mercenaries. “Welcome to my mill. Let’s keep this parley going, hmm? Nobody stabs anybody until we sort a few things out. Are we agreed?”

Marjana glares at him, eyeing Sufian with similar scrutiny. “For now,” she growls. “Talk fast, old man.”

“All right, all right,” he says, lifting a hand in peace. “Yeesh. You whippersnappers are always in a hurry. First things first, everyone: please raise your hand if you have ever fought a Demonic Beast.”

He thrusts his hand higher into the air. It hangs aloft and alone in the ensuing silence until the blue-haired lancer’s Leicester twang breaks it, asking, “What the hell is a Demonic Beast?”

Khalid blinks at her. “It’s—never mind,” he says, sighing. “What about a Giant Wolf?”

His hand remains raised. No others join it. He blinks again, racking through seventy-year-old, half-suppressed memories for anything labeled ‘scary monster’.

“Giant Crawler?” he tries. “King of Birds? Big lizard? A Golem, maybe? Huge, ugly creature the size of a barn, with teeth to match?” He glances at Not-Marianne and arches a brow. “You—you’re from Fódlan. Haven’t you seen one? Used to be you couldn’t march half a day without tripping over some sort of mutated animal.”

She shrugs, her armor clanking with the motion. “My da told me stories about great big wolves and worms and such, but he said they all got killed off when he was a lad. Always thought he was full of shit, to be honest.”

“Wow,” Khalid whistles. Teach had been busy. “Well, okay. Just me, then.” He scratches his head, slicking back his thin hair. “It’s, um, it’s been a long time, but I’ve fought things like this before. Just, uh... give me a second to remember.”

“What?” Marjana blurts, looking from Khalid to Sufian and back again, her scar-induced smirk pulling further upward into a rueful laugh. “We’re not fighting that! We’re getting the fuck out of here—”

“How?” Khalid bluntly retorts; he’s starting to get annoyed with all the hysterics. “You want to take up spelunking in those ravines, or try your luck walking past that dragon to see if there’s another path out west? Be my guest—I’d love to see how well you do, so we know what not to do.”

Marjana’s grimace deepens, her nose scrunching and mouth contorting into a near snarl. She goes to speak, but the eerie mage calls her name, and while they trade angry quips in terse Dagdan, Khalid seizes the brief silence to do some much-needed thinking. It’s hard to focus with all the frightened talk happening around him. “Did you see it jump?” one of the guards murmurs from somewhere behind Khalid; “There’s no outrunning that,” another one mutters in response, stewing further panicked grumbling from across the guards’ ranks.

“Peace,” Sufian says sharply, thumping his lance on his pauldron to draw his soldiers’ focus. “Keep your heads.” He looks to Khalid, and the hard set of his jaw is betrayed by the flicker of anxiety in his russet eyes. “Do you know how we can fight it, King Father?”

“Yes,” he responds, deciding to shoot for total confidence by not saying, ‘in theory.’ It’s nobody’s business whether he actually fought the Immaculate One himself way back when—presumably, the principles are the same as with any monster, and while he’s not happy to bet his life on long-outdated information and a hunch, he’ll have to. “We’ll need to work together, though—all of us,” he says, looking pointedly at Marjana. “I’m not saying we have to beat it, but we’ll need to coordinate so that we can buy enough time and space to get out of here. I’d like it if we all managed to do so alive.”

He hears a bitter laugh, and he turns to see Arjun’s golden-eyed gaze briefly flick up to his. “Your platitudes come too late,” the archer says hollowly. His voice is rough, but at least he’s not crying anymore. In spite of everything, Khalid’s heart hurts to look at the poor young man.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Khalid tells him with all his sincerity. “But since I’m apparently the only one who’s ever fought a monster of any kind, you’ll need my help if you want to live, and I’ll need yours. Once we’re out of this, you can be as mad as you want—kill me, if you’re so inclined. Just help me get us through this first.”

The boy is silent, shrugging away when his fellow archer attempts to whisper something to him. He stands there with his head hanging low, lifting it just enough to cast a glance at Marjana. Having finished whatever verbal joust she was having with the mage some moments before, the mercenary leader has been listening to Khalid; she tosses one last glare at the mage, followed by a more sympathetic one in the boy’s direction, then shifts her hazel stare to Khalid.

“Tell us your big idea, then,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “How can we fight that thing?”

Khalid grins. “Carefully.” Getting up on tiptoe, he peers over the crumbled wooden turbine frame—for all his newfound spryness, he hasn’t regained an inch of his lost height—and points out at the wheat field where the immense beast stands, writhing and fighting with itself in its incoherent rage. “You see that... shimmer? That odd texture in the air? These kinds of monsters have a sort of shield around them—a barrier that protects it from damage. It surrounds it on all sides, even overtop of it, like an invisible layer of armor.”

“Is it magical?” the mage asks, and Khalid shrugs.

“Probably, but it’s not like other magical shields. I’m not sure where it comes from; I just know that you have to break that barrier, or you won’t stand a chance against it.”

“Well, how can we break it?” Not-Not-Marianne pipes up. Her Riverland rasp is too obvious to his ears now—but when did he hear it before? He can’t recall if he’s heard her speak; then again, he can’t afford to be distracted right now, so he refocuses on the topic at hand.
[“It’s an eclipse, you idiot,” the other lancer says in Almyran, punching her counterpart in the shoulder, and Khalid’s so taken aback that he almost misses how her insult uses the Riverland slang term.
]

“The barrier is strong,” he answers, “but it can be worn down piece by piece. We’ll have to hit it from every angle to make sure we break the whole thing.”

Marjana snorts. “So the answer is, ‘hit it until it dies.’”

“Yes,” Khalid sniffs back at her, “but strategically. You can’t just hit it in the same place over and over—it’ll damage the monster, sure, but if you don’t hit it from all sides, the barrier will stay up and it’ll keep all of its defenses. It will regenerate any holes we put in the barrier, and it might even heal itself completely.” He hears one of the guards behind him whisper a curse under their breath. The mage, meanwhile, could afford to pay less attention, looking far too interested in everything Khalid is saying. He really doesn’t like that fellow. Electing to ignore the man’s presence, Khalid continues, “When the barrier breaks, there will be a few seconds where the monster is confused and won’t be able to fight back or defend itself. That’ll be our opportunity to do as much damage as we can—or to look for a way out.”

“We should split our forces, then,” Sufian says. “Some wearing it down, some finding an escape path.”

Khalid nods. “Your team can be on escape route duty,” he magnanimously tells Marjana before she can insist upon it. Then he shifts his gaze to Sufian. “We have to protect everyone back at the farmhouse. If that thing gets any closer to them, they’re sitting ducks.”

The guard captain nods back at him, looking every bit the stoic commander with his hard-set jaw and determined eyes. “We’ll defend them to the last.”

Marjana laughs. It’s a surprisingly pleasant sound, considering how generally unpleasant she is. “Good luck with that,” she says. “First chance we get, we’re out of here. No contract in the world is worth this bullshit.”

Sufian bristles, and Saaya looks like she’s about to say something particularly nasty, but Khalid speaks before either of them can respond. “We don’t have time to argue about this,” he tells the group, injecting as much authority into his tone as he can. “We don’t know what it can do yet, or when it’ll remember we’re over here and come calling. I need to know, now: are you all with me?”

“Yes, King Father,” Sufian says, his guards echoing his words. Khalid smiles at them. They’re a better bunch than he deserves, and he’s lucky to have them. He turns his attention to Marjana, who’s not as quick to respond; she stares back, her gaze hard, and after a too-long silence, she opens her mouth—

From across the field, there’s another burst of bright light and an accompanying ear-splitting howl. The earth shakes, and Khalid grabs hold of Sufian’s saddle to steady himself as the horses whinny and rear. Khalid’s head throbs again—he’s suddenly overwhelmed by a sinking gut feeling, a strange mix of foreboding and realization that fills him with a sense of urgency and dread.

“This is our rally point!” he yells above the din. “Whatever happens, we’ll meet back right here. Understood?”

He scans the faces of those assembled, but before he can assess their responses, a great boom rattles the heavens and dizzies his senses, nearly knocking him off-balance. He blinks, and when he opens his eyes, the entire world is darker. The cloudless skies are once again obscured by thick, swirling masses of storm clouds that block out the sun, except in one odd, precise circle directly above the beast. Rain starts pouring down in torrents, coming on so heavily and suddenly that it steals his breath and turns his blood to ice in his veins. From where he’s positioned behind the broken beams of the collapsed turbine, he can’t see where the monster—creature—Teach is, or what she’s doing, but he can certainly hear the distant rumble of collapsing stone and the unmistakable roar of rushing water.

“The—the bathhouse!” someone yells; alarmed, Khalid looks up at Sufian, finding the guard captain’s stoic face has turned ashen, his russet eyes flaring wide with shock and fear.

“Everyone, hold onto something!” Sufian shouts, then grabs Khalid by the back of his shirt and tosses him high.

Khalid sails through the air and lands atop the broken turbine with all the grace of an ancient sack of potatoes, his breath bursting from his lungs with an ugly ‘woof’ when his back hits the unforgiving surface of the wooden beam. Fighting for air and grimacing in pain, he has just enough wherewithal to turn his head to the right, just in time to register the approaching danger and cling fast to the beam before it’s slammed by the unstoppable force of an awesome wave that roars across the landscape, washing away everything in its path.

His fingers are wrenched from the beam by the impact alone. He opens his mouth to yell or scream or breathe, flailing to hold onto anything—

Chapter Text

Then there’s a strange tugging feeling behind his navel, and everything is right back where it was mere minutes ago: the guards and mercenaries are in their lines, Khalid stands alone off to the side, and the beast looms in their midst. It’s as if they’ve gone back in time, before the beast moved, before everyone retreated to the mill, before the floodwaters came pouring down and washed them from the surface of the earth. The transition is so jarring that Khalid sways on his feet and sprawls right back down into the dirt again.

“Okay,” he says, releasing a long, shaky breath. “Oooookay. We’re back here. This is happening. This... is happening.”

He lets himself lie there for a moment, remembering his age, groaning at all the new kinds of hurt he’s feeling and mourning the normal aches and pains he’d long grown used to. His kids would all have heart attacks if they knew how many times he’s fallen today. His head is full, occupied by a throbbing pain and a new slew of images he doesn’t recognize or know how to begin to sift through. It’s overwhelming. For as many precious seconds as he can spare, he lies there and lets himself be overwhelmed.

He doesn’t have long, though. Just like before, the beast howls; Khalid covers his ears, for what good it does. Then he hears a too-familiar series of sounds: the scrabble of claws compacting the dirt, the rustle of tensing scales, and the rush of air as the beast leaps skyward, faster and nimbler than it has any right to be, followed by a thunderous boom as it lands in the wheat field north of the bathhouse with a force that splinters the earth beneath its feet.

Khalid stays right where he is, feeling the ground shake and shake, listening to the cracks deepening, bracing himself in preparation for the devastating earthquake that follows only seconds later. When it finally stops, he pushes himself up onto one elbow, rubbing his chest over his rapidly beating heart and doing his best to take in his surroundings. The guards are once again retreating toward the mill, with Sufian once again riding toward Khalid. But the mercenaries have taken a different tack: they’re making another break for the main road. They must have reacted faster this time around, as they’re much farther along than they were before, likely having begun their retreat as soon as they returned to their senses. Khalid watches with bated breath as they spur their horses, yelling and urging each other on, a torrent of mud and dust swirling in the thunderous wake of their horses’ hooves.

The ground is still shaking, the cracks deepening, the fissures streaming outward, and the wide chasm begins to open across the road just in front of the mercenaries. Khalid’s heart freezes in his chest, his breath heavy in his lungs. The ravine is widening, opening, like a deep wound splitting the muscle of the earth, but the mercenaries aren’t stopping, pressing on straight toward the abyss, their horses frothed with sweat. Right at the lip of the land, they jump—

... and Khalid finally breathes again when all six mercenaries land on the far side of the chasm, one or two horse-hooves scrabbling for traction at the lip before regaining it and pressing forward to safety. The mercenaries cheer, and despite his personal feelings toward the unscrupulous lot, Khalid finds himself similarly awash with relief.

But the gash in the ground continues to expand, ripping wider and wider, remaining right on the mercenaries’ heels. Marjana seems to register the danger just as Khalid does—he catches her glancing back, then yelling to her subordinates, commanding them to keep going, keep going—

They run on, their animals’ terror translating into even greater speed. Even the armored lancers hold themselves like racers in the saddle, tossing aside their helms and equipment as they go, anything to help their flagging steeds move faster.

It works. But they still aren’t fast enough. The lancers go first, the void opening beneath their horses’ feet, followed by the red-coifed archer, then Marjana, then the mage. Arjun holds out the longest, and his scream rings out through the plains when the void finally swallows him, too.

Khalid lies there, his mouth agape, his breath once again frozen in his chest. He stares at where they’d just been, at the cloud of dust that hangs in the air along their path, at the furrow in the land that grows larger and larger yet—

Chapter Text

Then there’s a strange tugging feeling behind his navel, and everything is right where it was mere minutes ago: the guards and mercenaries are in their lines, Khalid stands alone off to the side, and the beast looms in their midst. It’s as if they’ve gone back in time, before the beast moved, before the ground opened up and swallowed the mercenaries whole. This time, thankfully, Khalid thinks to lean on Failnaught before his legs turn to jelly and send him tumbling to the earth. He lowers himself down into a seated position, his head pounding; when he manages to open one eye, he catches sight of Marjana and laughs.

“Want to try that again?” he calls, and even from this distance through the driving rain, he can see her scowl clear as day. “Maybe you’ll make it this time!”

She hollers back something that looks suspiciously like “Fuck you,” but Khalid’s already covered his ears in anticipation of the beast’s howl, which rings out only half a second later. Then he hears a too-familiar series of sounds: the crunch of claws compacting the dirt, the rustle of tensing scales, and the rush of air as the beast leaps skyward, faster and nimbler than it has any right to be, followed by a thunderous boom as it lands in the wheat field north of the bathhouse with a force that shakes and splinters the ground beneath its feet. Khalid stays right where he is, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling the ground shake and shake, listening to the cracks deepen, bracing himself in preparation for the devastating earthquake that follows only seconds later. When it finally stops, he rubs his chest over his rapidly beating heart and does his best to take in his surroundings.

The rain is pouring down again, the skies obscured by dark clouds everywhere except in that solitary circle in the distance. The fissures have streamed outward, turning from broken stretches of earth into shallow ditches and then to gullies, gulches, and canyons that carve snakelike seams through the fractured landscape. A wide chasm has opened across the path just in front of the mercenaries, revealing unknowable black depths; they haven’t bothered trying to get across it this time, remaining in their line, settling their horses, letting the scene play out precisely as it already has. It’s all exactly the same: the fissures opening in the same places, ripping through the wheat fields and pastures, decimating the granaries, collapsing the tack barns and storage houses beyond. They watch the sinkhole open up in the wheat field to the east of the mill, the golden sea succumbing to a sudden black abyss, and they stare in collective awe as another fissure splits the mill nearly in two. If Khalid squints, he can just make out where Haydar is perched atop one of the turbines, clinging to it for dear life and then shakily starting to make his way down to the relative safety of the platform.

It’s all the same. Every second, every moment plays out exactly as it did before.

Khalid curses under his breath. He’s too old for this kind of excitement.

Taking another deep breath, he begins the arduous process of hauling himself back to his feet. Pushing Failnaught into the dirt to lever himself upright and urging his unsteady legs into motion, he waves to Sufian; the guard captain looks as disoriented as he is, but the man recovers quickly, nudging his horse’s sides to ride toward Khalid. Now that things have settled somewhat, the guards have begun retreating toward the mill, and to his relief, the mercenaries follow. Khalid watches them move, rubbing his aching limbs and mentally preparing himself for his drive-by collection once Sufian grows near. The guard captain grabs Khalid’s extended hand—it’s much less humiliating than being hauled up by his shirt, although Khalid’s shoulder is less enthusiastic than his ego—and hefts him back aboard his great gray war horse without slowing his pace. Thankfully, Khalid doesn’t yelp this time, and he’s able to settle into the saddle faster than he did before, too. It’s nice to retain something of an illusion of grace. He sits there, panting, rubbing at his chest, his heart beating much too fast for his liking.

“This is... huh.”

“Agreed,” Sufian says, turning his horse to head toward the mill.

They don’t talk much on the ride over. Khalid tightens his grip on the saddle, every bump in their path rattling his old bones and making his teeth clack together. They tear across the land, Sufian’s horse bounding over worsening fissures in the earth, drawing closer to where the others have taken cover behind by the crumbled wooden skeleton of the broken turbine. Again, their foe is occupied with its solitary battle for control of its own body, stumbling and snarling, thrashing its tail, lunging and shaking and foaming at the mouth.

“It’s definitely bigger,” Khalid says, swallowing hard. “And look at the—whatever that is, fur? It was all over it before.”

“What’s happened to it?” Sufian asks him, sparing only occasional glances toward the creature, keeping his head focused on the path in front of him. He’s afraid, Khalid realizes with a start. In all the years he’s known the man, he’s never seen the stoic guard captain show more than exhaustion or agitation when facing down a crisis, but now he’s rigid and singularly focused, his words clipped and his voice tinged with anxiety.

“It’s falling out. It’s darker, too.” Khalid’s brow furrows as he squints into the sun toward the monstrous creature, appraising the deep blue patches of fur and scales that have suddenly appeared throughout the beast’s ethereal green form. It’s stooped now, its forelegs bent and powerful rear legs stick-straight, its torso longer and more serpentine than it had been; it weaves erratically, snapping those horrible teeth at nothing. Just like before, it emits that soft howl, the one more akin to a whimper of discordant rage and grief. Just like before, Khalid’s heart aches.

But he doesn’t have time to spare Teach much thought, because they’re at the mill now, ducking behind the collapsed tower to join the guards and mercenaries in seeking shelter from the unknowable whims of a feral god.

“Captain!” the lanky, ashen-faced guard named Haydar calls, swinging his way down from the upper levels of the mill’s structure. “King Father!”

Shooting Marjana and her mercenaries a wary glare, Sufian pulls to a stop, then helps Saaya and Nabil to ease Khalid down from his horse. “Report, Haydar,” he barks at the lad.

The young guard starts and stops, blinking rapidly, glancing from Sufian to the beast in the distance and back again. “It’s—it’s—”

“Just like it was before?” Khalid suggests, dry and humorless.

“Yes, King Father,” the lad nods. “Everything is the same—the sinkholes, the fissures... it’s all the same. The farmhouse is still intact. I didn’t see any new ways out.”

Marjana grunts. “We didn’t, either.” Having dismounted, she’s now leaning against her horse and scuffing her boots in the dirt, her scarred face further puckered by her staunch frown. She turns her ire on Khalid, levering her axe at him again. “You better start talking, old man. What the fuck is going on here?”

“Easy, Sufian, easy,” Khalid says, pushing the guard captain’s lance aside before the man can get too excited. “As much as I’d like to tell you, I don’t have any idea.”

“It’s obviously some kind of magic,” the mage retorts, which makes Khalid roll his eyes.

“Sure, it’s magic, you got me. But I don’t know what kind of magic, or how it works. I suspect it’s white magic, but I’m not sure.”

Marjana lowers her axe, although her frown remains just as dramatically downturned. Khalid considers informing her that her face might stick like that, but thinks better of it. “How can you not know?! You said you’ve fought these things before!”

“I’ve fought normal giant wolves,” he responds airily. “I’ve never fought one that can reverse the flow of time, so forgive me for not being an expert.”

He hears Saaya take in a sharp breath. “Is that what’s happening?” she asks, her voice quavering. “It’s... reversing time?”

Khalid shrugs. “That’s what it seems like to me. I don’t know how, but what else could it be? Everything is happening exactly the same way. The only difference is—”

He stops, the words on the edge of his tongue. He stares at the beast—at Teach. He blinks, swallowing hard, unable to keep his face from contorting into an incredulous and horrified almost-smile, an approximation of a laugh unconsciously bursting from his throat.

“What?” Marjana presses, just as Sufian murmurs, “King Father.”

“The only difference is that we’re all alive,” Khalid finishes. “Think about it—the first time, Sufian, you—you died.” The guard captain makes a noise, but Khalid doesn’t turn to look at him, remaining focused on the creature in the distance. “And the second—the second time, when that wave hit, we—we all must have died.”

“We died?” someone says; Khalid doesn’t register who, too lost in his revelation to notice.

“Then you all fell in that hole,” he says, pointing at the mercenaries. “Stupid move, by the way; you should have seen that coming. And before any of that, there was the boy... And before that—” He whips around to face Saaya, spotting the guard named Dalil and catching his eye. “You must have been right, Lieutenant. The mercenaries were slain—at least, they had been. You two were the ones who came to my house to tell me, while everyone else stayed here. You both remember it, but no one else does.”

At his words, Saaya’s face pales, and Dalil’s eyes look like they might pop out of his head.

“You... you believe us?” he says, his voice too brittle. “You think—you think it really happened?”

Khalid meets his gaze and gives him a nod. “I think both things happened. Again, I don’t know how, but I think it’s true.”

The mercenaries have been too quiet. He turns to them and is surprised by what he sees: they all look pale, shooting each other furtive glances between listless, distant stares.

“This is fucking crazy,” the helmed lancer mutters, jerking back in surprise when Khalid suddenly spins to face her.

“And you!” he says, wagging an accusatory finger at her. “You’re from here. I knew it from something you said—what was it? Ah!” He snaps his fingers, then points at her again. “Idiot!”

“What the fuck?!” the lancer sputters, recoiling.

“You called your friend ‘idiot’—that’s the Riverland slang word. It’s strange; I remember you saying it, but I don’t. It must have happened and then... un-happened. I think—” He pauses, turning to look at Teach again. “I think this has been going on for a while. At least the past few hours. We’re just aware of it now.”

“I believe you are right.” The mage is the last person Khalid suspected would support his crazy idea, but there’s no mistaking the man’s comically creepy voice. His awful red eyes squint at Khalid, then shift to Marjana. “I said, didn’t I? We spoke of it—the premonition.”

“Vikar knew.” Arjun’s voice is small; he huffs out a soft and joyless laugh, his gaze fixed on where his brother’s body yet lies, broken and alone out in the no-man’s land. “I think—I knew.”

The red-coifed archer puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and he doesn’t shrug it off this time. Marjana looks at him, then at Khalid, then at her feet as she kicks up a big clod of mud and dirt. “Fuck,” she growls, rifling a hand through her tawny hair. “So what do we do? Keep reliving the same couple of hours forever?!”

Khalid chuckles, all too aware of the manic edge to the grin splitting his face. “Isn’t it obvious? We live. We all need to live, or we’ll have to sit through this again and again. And I don’t know about you, but I’m bored of this already.” Making himself sincere again, he gives Marjana a pointed look. “I asked this before, but we were rudely interrupted by that wave, and I didn’t get your answer. Are you and your forces with me?”

She deliberates before finally saying, “Yes,” fixing her hard hazel eyes on his green ones. “For now, anyway. But if a way out opens up, we’re taking it.”

Khalid grunts. “As you should.”

“King Father,” Sufian interjects, “if everything is happening the same way it did before, we need to move.”

“Shit,” says Not-Marianne, “that’s right—the wave...”

“We should get up on the mill,” Haydar says, gesturing to the massive, mesa-like structure of wood and stone and clay. “It’s the highest point between here and the mountains, and we can get on top of the turbines, if we need to.”

“What about the horses?” one of the guards asks, and Sufian’s jaw twitches.

“We won’t be able to get them up there,” he says, gruffly but gently. “Even if we could, we wouldn’t be able to fit them all.”

“You don’t mean to leave them?” another asks, their horror all too apparent, but Sufian remains firm.

“We don’t have much choice, nor time. Once everyone is safely up there, we’ll see what we can do for them, but I won’t put their lives over ours.”

Khalid nods grimly. “Considering how things have been going, I think Teach will be the one making that call for us. We’ll be in a heap of trouble if we don’t have any horses when we finally get around to fighting her, though.” He shoots Sufian a glance from the corner of his eye. “Why are all of you on horses, anyway? Doesn’t anyone fly anymore?”

Saaya straightens, looking personally offended by the question. “The storms grounded our wyverns, King Father. I’m the lieutenant of our aerial division; I’d be on mine right now if the winds were any calmer.”

“Kids these days,” Khalid grumbles, shaking his head. “A little storm couldn’t have kept me out of the sky. Back in my day, we flew through hurricanes!”

Fortunately, Sufian has the good sense to know when a ramble is coming on. He thumps his lance against his steel pauldron to command attention, then gestures to the mill. “Get moving, everyone. Dismount and grab your weapons, then get up on the mill and climb as high up on the platform as you can. Quickly—we don’t know how much time we have.”

With a low chorus of uncertain grumbles and fearful whispers, the guards and mercenaries begin to dismount and follow the guard captain’s instructions. Sufian gives Saaya a boost up onto the lower level of the mill’s platform, then looks to Khalid.

“Don’t throw me this time,” Khalid says sternly, and it’s such a relief to see the guard captain’s russet eyes sparkle when he laughs.

“I hope I won’t need to.” Getting Khalid up onto the platform without throwing him is an ugly process, requiring Sufian and Dalil to lift him from below while Saaya and Haydar gently pull him from above. It’s embarrassing, getting manhandled like this, but Khalid’s pride will have plenty of time to heal once they’re out of this mess.

“Captain,” one of the guards calls from over Khalid’s shoulder—it’s Dalil, who stands out as the only person who’s looked happier since the strangeness of their situation came to light. He’s got some color back in his cheeks, washing the years from his youthful face, and there’s a new glint of determination in his dark eyes. “The granary door has broken off, and one of the turbines lost its sails. We could use them as ramps to get some of the horses up here.”

“Do what you can,” Sufian says, helping to push another one of his guards up and onto the platform. “But hurry, and be ready to get back up at a moment’s notice. I don’t want anyone on the ground, if we can avoid it.”

Like the captain, Marjana has remained below, ensuring all of her mercenaries have made it onto the platform. “Lug ‘em over here,” she says to Dalil, gesturing to the large wooden frame of the crumpled windmill tower. “We can lean ‘em on this pile of junk and walk the horses up.”

“It’s going to be a tight fit,” Khalid frowns, scanning the space. He’s never actually been up here before—it’s been many years since he’s even gone to the mill, and in the twenty-odd years he’s lived at the farm, he’s never been spry enough to climb the ladders or the slender steps hewn into the platform’s rock face. Now that he’s up close, he can properly admire the scale of the structure: the natural stone bluff they stand on has been carved out and augmented with wood, clay, and yet more stone, and the flat mesa is adorned with a long line of windmills spinning on vertical axes, their slatted frames standing tall like jewels in a crown. He tilts his head and stares up at one of them, its clay structure stretching high into the sky, the rotors creaking and the floor buzzing beneath his feet as the strong winds turn the sails, rotating the massive grindstones within the structure below. He’s getting tired of feeling so very small, but at least the place will offer plenty of protection from whatever Teach and the elements might throw their way.

Now that they have a concrete task to accomplish, the guards are looking a lot less sorry for themselves. They’ve sprung into action, hauling gear and supplies onto the platform, banding together to lift a broken sail and drag it over to where Marjana stands by the collapsed tower. She works to position it from above while Saaya drops down to assist Sufian in doing so from below, forming a makeshift ramp. It looks unsteady, but it’s better than nothing. Khalid is just starting to think how funny it would be if they did all this only for the wave to never come, when there’s another burst of bright light from across the field and an accompanying ear-splitting howl. He ought to know better than to invite these things.

His ears ringing, Khalid lowers himself to his knees and scrambles to the edge of the platform just as the earth begins to shake. “Saaya! Sufian!” he yells down. “You three, get up here!” His head throbs again—he’s suddenly overwhelmed by a sinking gut feeling, a strange mix of foreboding and realization that fills him with a sense of urgency and dread.

Sufian pushes his lieutenant forward, snapping her out of her daze; she scampers up the tower’s broken frame, then turns to lend a hand to Marjana and Sufian. But Marjana’s not there: she’s down on the far end of the broken tower, paused in the act of lashing the makeshift ramp to the frame, staring off into the distance. The storm clouds are swirling, blocking out the sun except for in that odd circle right over where Teach stands in the field, and the rain is now pouring down even faster, so cold and hard and sudden that it steals Khalid’s breath and turns his blood to ice in his veins. Marjana looks frozen in place, transfixed, her gaze fixed upon the beast.

Khalid curses. “Snap her out of it!” he yells at Sufian, screaming to be heard over the winds that howl through the turbines and the distant sound of collapsing stone. Sufian, thankfully, still has his wits about him, and he sprints around the tower to grab the mercenary’s shoulder, shaking her back to her senses. Whatever spell she’s under breaks, but it takes all the strength from her body with it; she sways where she stands, and if Sufian hadn’t managed to awkwardly catch her at the last second, she would have dropped like a stone.

“The—the bathhouse!” someone yells, and this time, Khalid sees it: where the bathhouse once stood, a torrent of water has erupted into the air like a geyser, so incomprehensibly large that it seems to reach the heavens. For a moment, the pillar of water hangs in the air, just long enough and high enough for the little trace of sunlight shining through the hole in the clouds to catch it, a glimmer of serene green light amidst the blue darkness. Then the pillar folds in on itself, slamming back into the ground and spewing out into a great wave that roars across the landscape and washes away everything in its path.

“Sufian!” Khalid screams, unable to hear his own voice in the din; he feels someone grabbing him and dragging him backward, away from the edge of the platform, but he catches one last glimpse of the guard captain’s face, his russet eyes wide—

Chapter Text

Then there’s a strange tugging feeling behind his navel, and everything is right where it was mere minutes ago: the guards and mercenaries are in their lines, Khalid stands alone off to the side, and the beast looms in their midst.

“Gods be damned!” Khalid curses as his legs give way and he tumbles to the ground again.

Staring up at the sky, he notes that it’s clear this time, the sun shining brightly overhead as though it’s always been so. While it’s nice to be rid of the rain, Khalid finds himself no more cheerful for it. He covers his ears, waiting out the things he’s come to know as inevitable: the beast’s howl, the scrabble of claws compacting the dirt, the rush of air as the beast leaps skyward, and the thunderous boom as it lands in the wheat field north of the bathhouse. He waits a little longer, squeezing his eyes shut, bracing himself throughout the devastating earthquake that follows only seconds later; when it finally stops, he grunts and rolls over to lean up on one elbow, rubbing his chest over his rapidly beating heart and working to get his bearings.

“The hell happened to you?!” he yells at Marjana, but the mercenary leader barely seems to register his words. She looks dazed, clinging fast to her saddlehorn with one hand, staring hard into the palm of the other. Her mercenaries are still lined up beside her, having calmed their horses through the worst of the howling and quaking. The mage is saying something to her that Khalid can’t make out; whatever it is, it works, and she shakes her head, blinking rapidly as she returns to her senses.

“What are you waiting for?” she snaps at her subordinates. “Get a move on!”

However reluctantly, the mercenaries fall into motion, following Sufian’s guards back to the rally point at the mill. Sufian himself has reached Khalid, kindly waiting while he uses Failnaught to pry himself to his feet. To his surprise, Marjana waits, too, and when Khalid glances up at her, there’s a strange glaze to her hazel eyes.

“You looked at it,” he realizes, his headache flaring with a sharp throb of pain.

“Yeah,” she says flatly.

Khalid clicks his tongue. “Well, that will teach you,” he says; she grumbles back something that sounds suspiciously like “Fuck you,” but Khalid’s too preoccupied with clambering aboard Sufian’s horse and getting settled in the saddle to be certain. “Suppose we should make a general announcement.”

“A warning would’ve been nice,” the mercenary leader scoffs, and Khalid takes that as a win. If she’s angry, she’s starting to feel like herself again.

“It’s a learning experience for me, too. The last time I was around a god, it was on my side.” Having finally gotten himself comfortable, he taps Sufian’s shoulder. “Ready, Sufian?”

The guard captain glances back at Khalid and nods, then nods to Marjana. They goad their horses into motion, making their way to join the others at the mill.

“Do you think it is a god, King Father?” Sufian asks, breaking the brief silence.

“I don’t know,” Khalid admits. “And I guess I don’t know that it isn’t on our side. Considering how it keeps trying to kill us, it seems to want us dead, but it also won’t let us die.” He turns to look at the creature—at Teach—and his heart gives a hard pang again. “I do know one thing: it’s getting uglier.”

Marjana turns her head as well, keeping her gaze low. “Damn,” she says, sucking her teeth, “it is uglier. What’s happening to it? All its fur is falling off.”

Khalid frowns. Something about it is familiar, an image itching at the back of his brain, but the memory is so old that he has a hard time getting a clear picture. “I think it’s related to her Crest,” he winds up saying, hoping to talk out the mystery, only for Marjana’s scoff to interrupt his train of thought.

“The fuck is a ‘Crest’?”

“It’s, uh... Huh.” Only then does Khalid realize he’s not sure how to answer that question. “It’s a... blood... thing?”

Sufian looses an incredulous-sounding noise. “They actually do blood magic in Fódlan?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at Khalid again. “I thought that was a myth.”

“It’s not blood magic,” Khalid says quickly. “You don’t ‘do’ Crests; you either have one, or you don’t. Well—there are exceptions. It’s more like... the blood itself is magical. And there are different types of magic blood that have various abilities—making a person stronger, or healing them, that sort of thing.”

The mercenary leader’s sigh is loud and long, tinged with all her exhausted annoyance, and Khalid can’t blame her for it. “If things were any less weird right now,” she says, her eyes focused on the mill, “I would kill you for making up so much stupid crap, and kill you again for forcing me to listen to it.”

“Thank you for your prudence, I guess.”

They tear across the land, Sufian’s horse bounding over worsening fissures in the earth, every bump in their path rattling Khalid’s old bones and making his teeth clack together. Saaya, good lieutenant that she is, appears to already be directing the guards in assembling the ramp; the mercenaries are lending their aid, hauling over broken wooden slats and one of the broad granary doors.

“Save as many of those slats as you can,” Saaya yells to some of the guards. “We’ll need them to get back down once the wave washes everything out.”

“What about for building a bridge?” Haydar pipes. “If we could get to the other side of the mill, we could get back to the farmhouse.”

The lieutenant frowns, glancing between the ravine splitting the mill in two and the hazy outline of the farmhouse in the gray distance. “I don’t know,” she says. “It’ll take time and manpower just to figure out how to get over there. That monster could attack while we’re working on it, or it could follow us across and put the farmhouse in danger.”

“Agreed,” Sufian nods as he helps Khalid down from his horse. “Let’s keep it in mind as an escape route. Would you two help me with this slat?”

Haydar and Saaya jump to it, and the three of them join the other guards in toting the materials across the sodden ground.

They lash the slats to the broken structure of the collapsed tower, and within a remarkably short amount of time, the makeshift ramp is assembled. One by one, the guards and mercenaries start guiding their horses up the ramp and onto the mill’s high platform. Unable to do much else, Khalid positions himself off to the side and watches, slowly becoming consumed by a fit of giggling that increases in volume until it catches Sufian’s attention.

“What is it?” the guard captain asks from where he stands by the ramp, helping to hold it steady as a particularly uncertain steed makes its way up.

“Nothing, nothing,” Khalid says. “It’s just that this is ridiculous.”

It’s such a relief to hear Sufian fully laugh—one of his great guffaws that always brings a smile to Khalid’s face. “It is,” the captain says, shaking his head. “Gods above. Thirty years on the job, and here I am, trying to fight a monster by making a ramp for horses. King Father, when this is over, I think I will retire.”

“You’ll have my full blessing and a fat pension besides, my friend.”

Once the soldiers and mercenaries are safely atop the mill, Sufian and Saaya help guide Khalid up the ramp, then lead their own horses up while Khalid finds a safe place to stand on a higher part of the platform, out of the way of all the hooves and long-handled weapons. It’s a tight fit, as Khalid had predicted it would be, but they fit, even after two of the soldiers and the red-coiffed archer haul up their makeshift wooden ramps. The party spaces out, wrapping around the back of the mill’s structure or clambering up onto higher parts of the platform where they can.

“It’s going to be ugly when the wave hits,” he comments to Marjana, who’s positioned just below where he’s standing with his back sandwiched against one of the walled turbines. “We just need to make sure nobody falls in.”

The mercenary leader grunts. “Think that’ll be easier said than done.”

“The front of the mill will act as a breakwater and protect us from the worst of it,” Saaya says, glancing up at Khalid. “At least, I hope so,” she adds, which makes Khalid laugh.

“I believed you, until you walked it back. Confidence is the key to command, Lieutenant; you’d do well to remember that.”

Her freckled cheeks flush with a trace of pink. “I’ll try to once we get through this, King Father.”

“That’s better,” he smiles, delighting in how her face grows pinker yet.

Before he can embarrass the woman further, Sufian comes over, scrabbling along the top of the platform to make his way through the packed crowd. “Everything’s in order,” he tells Khalid as he comes to kneel at his side. “Everyone’s up, and we threw some more boards up along the front side to try to block water from coming through the turbines.”

Marjana grunts out a tone that could be described as approving. “Now we wait.” Khalid’s got to hand it to her—she’s impressively stoic in a crisis.

“Since we have a moment, then,” he says, clearing his throat, “let’s talk strategy. When I used to fight these things, we’d usually have a lot more troops than we do now, and ones that were trained and equipped to fight them. No offense,” he says to both Sufian and Marjana, and while he can only make out half of the latter’s face at this angle, it’s too obvious when she rolls her eyes. He neglects to mention that said troops usually liked each other, too. “We’d have a group of officers go out with battalions and execute gambits to maximize our damage radius, breaking as much of the barrier as we could at once. This is why we have to work together: we’ll stand a better chance of breaking the barrier if we use gambits over individual attacks. With it being so big, I’m not sure we could even break the whole thing without using them. Are your forces familiar with using gambits?”

“Yes, King Father,” Sufian says, as Marjana says, “Of course”; Sufian is much better at not seeming offended by the question, if not wholly unoffended.

“Okay, good,” Khalid says quickly, “just checking. Just checking. You two should decide how best to divvy up your forces so that we have a few teams to work with.”

Marjana squints down the line at her mercenaries, appraising them. “I’ll get my lancers to ride with me. Iason can heal, and he has a few ranged spells. Arjun and Dana would normally provide cover for Vikar; I guess they can do that for the rest of us.”

Khalid’s face softens. “I’m sorry about the boy,” he says sincerely.

The mercenary leader whips her head around. “Don’t start that shit with me,” the mercenary leader snarls, her hazel eyes narrowed and her scarred features serpentine. “Keep the thought of him out of your head, and I might not kill you.” She glances off into the distance, keeping her eyes low and pointedly averted. “Her, though,” she says, gesturing with her axe, “that thing, whatever it is—it’s good as dead.”

A hot coil twists in the pit of Khalid’s stomach. He swallows down his temper, distracting himself by turning to Sufian. “What about your guards? What will you do?”

“I’ll have Haydar and the cavalry lancers with me, then have Saaya and Aran each take a team. Aran’s a sergeant, and he’s trained as a war monk. Dalil will help Saaya out—he’s one of her corporals. Her platoon specializes in aerial support, but they all ride well and can execute infantry maneuvers, if need be.”

Khalid nods, thinking it over, mapping out the roster in his head.

“It’s not much,” Sufian admits, and Khalid gives a wry chuckle.

“Let’s see: eight fighting units, comprised of a bunch of flyers reclassed to cavalry, two ranged fighters missing their striker, two cavalry teams, an infantry team, and a mage. Oh, and me, of course, seventy years past my prime. Apart from me, no one has any Crests, Relics, or experience fighting monsters, and up until however-many minutes ago, we were all planning on killing each other. Us... against a god.” The insanity of it all makes him grin, and when he chuckles again, it gradually turns into a full-bellied laugh. “Piece of cake. Nothing we can’t handle.”

To his delight, Marjana laughs, too. “It’ll make a hell of a song, won’t it?”

“That it will,” Sufian agrees, and Khalid’s pleased to see that sparkle in his hard russet eyes.

Khalid shakes his head, wiping the edges of his eyes with a wistful sigh before making himself grow serious again. “Whatever we do once we get back down there,” he says to the leaders, “we have to move fast. If we don’t break the entire barrier quickly, it will regenerate. We only have a window of a few seconds to destroy it completely—maybe a minute, if we’re lucky. And then once we break it, it will regenerate after a minute or so. We hit hard, hit fast, and get out of the way in-between. Then we keep doing that until it’s down, or until we can find a way to escape safely.”

“Easy enough,” Marjana nods. “Like you said, piece of cake.”

“What will you do, King Father?” Sufian asks him.

“Me?” Khalid snickers. “I’ll be hanging back and staying out of your way. I still don’t know if I can shoot, but I’ll do what I can to direct and support so you can focus on the hard parts. That work for you?”

“It does,” Sufian says, looking relieved. He adjusts his grip on his lance and sets his jaw. “It’s a plan.”

Khalid smiles and opens his mouth to say something more, but just as he does, a great boom rattles the heavens and dizzies his senses, and only the firm grip of Sufian’s hand on his shoulder keeps him from stumbling off-balance. The rain starts pouring down in torrents, coming on so heavily and suddenly that it steals Khalid’s breath and turns his blood to ice in his veins. From where he’s positioned at the back of the mill, he can’t see where the monster—creature—Teach is, or what she’s doing, but he can certainly hear the distant rumble of collapsing stone and the unmistakable roar of rushing water.

“The—the bathhouse!” someone yells from atop the highest part of the mill’s platform.

“Everyone, hold fast,” Sufian shouts out above the din. “Here it comes!”

Khalid flattens himself against the clay-and-stone wall of the mill, and the burst of light shining forth from the heavens breaks through his squeezed-shut eyes. The roar grows louder, interspersed with the fearful cries of the guards watching it approach, and the entire world seems to shake when the great wave reaches them and slams into the structure.

It’s chaos. Water blasts through, splintering apart wood, clay and stone and washing through the spaces between the turbines, the cacophony drowning out the frightened screams of people and animals struggling to hold their ground in the face of such raw natural power. The rush of water is significantly smaller up here than it had been down on the lowest part of the platform the first time the wave washed him away, but it’s still strong enough to nearly knock Khalid down again; he clings hard to Sufian’s arm much like his grandchildren so often did to his own, Sufian’s fist tight in the collar of his shirt. Then the torrent slows, and Khalid opens his eyes.

Everyone’s still here—at least, as far as Khalid can tell—and while they’re all wet and miserable-looking, they’re alive.

Khalid can’t help it. He cheers.

“Sound off!” Sufian hollers at his soldiers above the sound of Khalid’s whooping. One by one, the captain calls his guards’ names and they echo them back to him; Marjana does the same with her forces, at which point the surf-soaked mercenary leader looks up at Khalid and grins that great, pinched grin of hers.

“Now you can holler all you want,” she says, and Khalid roars with exhilarated laughter.

“Great work, everybody!” he calls out. Sufian scrambles away, barking orders to direct his guards in reforming the ramp to get them back down to the ground. In the meantime, Khalid uses his momentary solitude to wriggle his way along the slick surface of the platform, maneuvering to a point where he can get the lay of the land and catch another glimpse of their foe. She’s standing out in the wheat field, just as she was, with water pooling in the cracked earth around her feet; the last of the cascade is still washing across the landscape, dumping over the edges of the ravines into the abyss below. The muddy ground will be more difficult to traverse, but it’ll be passable.

He stops himself before he starts thinking that they might actually stand a chance. It’s too early to get that excited: they’re at the end of what’s known, and now the real battle can begin.

Despite the mud and the damp, the process of getting everyone down from the mill is faster than the process of going up. Once the crowd thins out, Saaya and Dalil help Sufian to escort Khalid down, then break away to consult with their troops. As the guard captain and mercenary leader rally their forces and organize them into their teams, Khalid stands and watches, fidgeting with the strap of the quiver slung over his shoulder. He’s all too aware of his age, but something about all of this has made him feel young again, his pulse thrumming hot in his veins and his muscles yearning for action even as his bones voice their complaints and the aches in his chest and head work to keep him humble. He grips his legendary bow, his old faithful friend, his long-abandoned companion, and the hum that courses through his blood is a comfort amidst the horrors of the day.

It feels familiar. It feels natural. It feels like another chance—a last chance. He plans to make the most of it.

They regroup in front of the mill at the edge of the road. The ground is a muddy waste, strewn with debris washed about in the wake of the wave.

“Vikar is gone,” Khalid hears Arjun say; he turns to look at the young man, whose rain- and surf-soaked hair hangs over his red-rimmed golden eyes.

“We’ll find him,” the other archer—Dana, supposedly—murmurs to him, but Arjun shrugs off the platitude, setting his jaw.

“We will not. And it does not matter. He is dead, and he died a warrior’s death. There is nothing more to do for him.”

The flat way he speaks does something to Khalid’s chest. He tightens his mouth, swallowing down his own feelings, remembering having told himself similar things a lifetime ago. He won’t let another Gronder happen on his watch—and somehow, he doesn’t think Teach will, either.

“All right!” Sufian calls, rallying everyone to his raised lance, breaking Khalid from his reverie. “Everyone, to your places! Prepare to advance!”

“Follow at their right flank,” Marjana orders her forces, and the mercenaries move to obey. While the guards arrange themselves, Sufian mounts his war horse and rides over to Khalid.

“You’re with me, King Father,” he says, offering a hand to help him up into the saddle once more. “Although I’ll take you no further than the edge of the bathhouse.”

“Works for me,” Khalid says, grunting his way into something resembling a dignified sitting position behind the guard captain. “I should be able to get some shots off from there, so long as she doesn’t move around too much.”

Sufian’s mustache twitches, his russet eyes casting a brief glance in the direction of the ruined bathhouse. “We don’t know what to expect now. If another wave comes, we won’t be able to retreat in time.”

Khalid chuckles without any humor. “With how things have been going, I get the impression that we’ll get ample chances to find out and prepare ourselves. I’d just prefer not to plan on doing so.”

“Me, neither. Let’s try and get it right the first time.” Confirming that Khalid is settled, Sufian nudges his horse with his heels and trots to the front of the joined lines. “Ready, Marjana?” he calls to the mercenary leader.

Marjana huffs, but nods her assent. “Ready as we’re gonna be.”

Nodding back at her, the guard captain adjusts his grip on his lance, releasing a low, shaky breath that only Khalid is close enough to hear. “Let’s do this,” he says. “Onward!”

With a rallying cry, the guards and mercenaries spur their horses forward, riding across the sodden no-man’s land in the direction of the unknown. Clinging tightly to Sufian’s shoulder, Khalid stares up at their foe, careful to avoid meeting the ice-blue slits of her eyes. She’s been carrying on as she was, fighting with herself: snarling and snapping, rearing and stamping those massive limbs, with yet more foam leaking from that terrible maw.

On top of it all, she looks so much worse than when she’d first transformed. She’s longer and larger, moving in fits and spurts of slithering, snake-like motion. She’d been so delicate-looking at the outset, glowing ethereal green with lithe, lupine grace, but she’s become a shadow of the animal she’d so recently been—one that, if there’d been enough time for him to consider, Khalid might have found beautiful. Now, great hunks of fur have fallen from the ruff around her neck, revealing mangy patchworks of blue-streaked scales. It’s worst in the center of her chest, where the area is completely bare and emitting a dull red glow; around it, her skin is blackened and singed, as if something within her is burning hot enough to blaze a hole through flesh and fur alike. The rest of her doesn’t appear to be in much better shape: her remaining fur is dull, and veiny dark blue streaks mottle the revealed areas of scaled skin. Her form, once muscular and strong, is slender and atrophied, and the ridges of her spine are so sharp that they look like they might break through.

Khalid adjusts his grip on his bow, letting the hum in his blood soothe the pain in his heart. Despite everything, he hopes she’s still in there. He hopes there will be something left of her to salvage when all is said and done.

Marjana pulls up alongside Sufian as they ride. “How are we doing this?” she says, blunt and straightforward. She’d been so willing to offer pleasantries earlier; Khalid kind of misses that.

“We’re going to have to experiment a bit,” Khalid replies. “We should send the archers in first to fire some shots off and make sure we can do damage to her barrier. Your mage should try some ranged spells, too, so we can see if those are more effective.”

“You’re not going to use my men as dragon fodder,” the mercenary leader says flatly. “They’re not riding up there alone.”

“I’ll go with them,” Sufian volunteers. “I’m the best shot among our troops.”

“No,” Khalid says, shaking his head. “We’ll need your team to try out a gambit after we see how the archers do.”

The guard captain glances back over his shoulder, appraising his team. “Let’s take two birds with one stone. Aran’s infantry team has practiced a fusillade maneuver—they can try that.”

“There’s an idea. Do you object, Marjana?”

“It’s better,” she agrees.

“Good,” Khalid says. “Just make sure everyone knows to retreat once they get their shots off. We already know she can apparently summon tidal waves, and I’m not exactly in a hurry to find out what else she can do. The monsters I fought before hit hard—hard enough to stagger, and at range, too. We can’t afford to get caught up close.”

Sufian makes a grim noise. “Good to know. Let’s keep our distance.”

They grow closer to the bathhouse and closer still to the beast. Water continues to seep from the ruins of the building, trickling from beneath the collapsed stones and gushing in geyser-like spurts from the channel outlet, around which bricks and broken wooden beams lay in a blast radius. Khalid’s already chilled to the bone from the wind and the rain and the great wave, which he chooses to blame for his chattering teeth rather than his apprehension as they near their enormous, unreal foe. Being this close, she seems so much larger. A not-insignificant part of him wonders how they could possibly stand a chance against something so immense; it seems foolish to think that sticks and sparks and stones could have any hope of taming unbridled divine power.

But everyone is looking to him now. Not for strength—no one’s done that in decades—but for assurance. They believe in his plan, in his cause, in his aims. They believe he can lead them, that he can show them a path forward in their darkest hour. As bitter and skeptical as he may be, he knows he has to reward their faith. He owes them that much.

If they can believe in him, he’ll have to believe in himself, too.

When Sufian pulls up alongside the bathhouse’s collapsed wall, Khalid slips out of the saddle, landing on the damp ground below with something resembling grace. Somehow, he feels stronger—stronger than he has in a long, long time. It must be her doing. He doesn’t want to push it, but the thrum of adrenaline in his blood and the easy, natural response of his muscles when he stretches his sore limbs gives him some much-needed confidence. He wipes the rain from his face, then moves to clamber up the pile of broken refuse around the collapsed wall. He’ll need a better vantage point if he’s going to be of any use in the battle ahead.

The fighters gather, their horses’ hooves kicking up mud and splashing through the puddles of muck. Sufian and Marjana begin barking orders, directing their teams to spread out, giving them no time to consider their terrifying foe.

“Aran, take your team and go with the mercenary archers,” Sufian tells his men. “Wait for them to fire, then execute a fusillade. Look for the barrier and aim for a different part than the one they’re attacking, spreading out the shots. Everyone else, prepare yourselves—we’ll follow after them. We strike, and we retreat immediately. Strike and retreat; strike and retreat. And for the gods’ sakes, don’t look that thing in the eye. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the guards reply in unison, making Khalid’s heart swell with pride. They’re a far cry from proper soldiers, but they’re brave. The infantry team dismounts their horses, readying their weapons; Marjana’s mercenaries draw their bows, giving each other a curt nod. Then they dig their heels into their horses’ sides, charging forth into the unknown.

“Be ready for anything,” Khalid cautions those who remain. “Try to circle around to hit from all sides. Our first priority is to break through that barrier. Attack as a team whenever possible. And communicate, people! We need as much information as we can get—if you learn something, say so, and say it loud!”

“Yes, King Father,” the rest of the guards say. Saaya’s corralling her team, Dalil at her side, and Khalid chuckles when he catches the lieutenant scowling up at the sky.

“Bet you wish you had a wyvern now, eh?”

“Always,” she says. She grins back at him, and while her wide eyes are edged with nervousness, she exudes confidence and determination. “From today on, I’ll be flying rain or shine.”

The fighters grow close. The dragon is still preoccupied with itself, and all its thrashing makes Khalid’s palms sweat. It could easily stomp on one of them without notice or intention, just as it did to Sufian earlier, and he’s in no hurry to see what those long, terrible claws can do. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his chest grows uncomfortably tight; he draws a deep breath in, letting it fill his lungs, repeating mantras and verses in his mind until he feels whole and clear and centered again, watching with a detached calm as the archers fire off their first volley of arrows.

The mercenary archers are good. Their shots strike true, and the barrier shimmers where they impact it, the light fizzling and crackling outward like little bolts of lightning. That catches the beast’s attention, and she reels, loosing a low and haunting growl that reverberates deep in Khalid’s bones. Her stumbling feet skid in the mud, scrambling for purchase, and the distraction buys enough time for Aran’s infantry team to set up their own shot. Khalid’s pleased to see the guards have been practicing: they fire off a volley of arrows in perfect unison, the strikes impacting with precision, causing another section of the barrier to crack and fizzle out into nothingness.

“Yes!” Khalid cheers, and his celebration raises an echo from those around him. “It worked! We can break it! Mr. Mage—”

“Iason,” says Iason.

“Iason, whoever—you go next. Use ranged spells, and see if any particular ones seem to do more damage. It’s got to be weak to something.”

The mage glances to Marjana, who nods her approval. “If it has a weakness, I shall exploit it,” the eerie man says, spitting the words like he’s swearing an oath. Then he flicks the reins and rides off alone across the plain.

Gods, he’s scary.

“He is,” Marjana laughs, making Khalid realize he’d accidentally said that out loud. “Fucking freak.”

“Are you ready, Sufian?” Khalid asks his guard captain, and the man nods.

“You’ll stay here?”

“I will,” Khalid promises, and Sufian nods again, seeming more than a little relieved.

“We’ll go to the left and cover Aran’s team. Saaya and Dalil, follow after us, covering the center.”

“We’ll take the right side,” Marjana says. She gives Khalid a glance, looking like she might say something more, but then she waves to her lancers and spurs her own horse forward.

From his perch atop the crumbled bathhouse walls, Khalid watches them ride away, overwhelmed with a mix of sorrow and pride that he struggles to keep at bay. There’ll be time enough for such feelings later.

The fighters swarm the beast, a line of ants against a giant. As the infantry team falls back, the mage fires off a burst of lightning spells that make the beast growl and stumble again, yet more of the barrier fizzling away; it snaps and lunges in his direction, tripping over itself and skidding in the mud. It’s a good thing that the mercenaries are such skilled horsemen—lesser riders would be hard-pressed to dodge those wayward steps as well as they do. Sufian and Saaya’s cavalry forces seize the opening, hauling back their javelins and lances in a synchronized assault, and they look so good that Khalid can’t help beaming at the sight. It’s working—it’s actually working. The shimmer of the barrier is fading, with only a few patches remaining. They’re so close.

Khalid should know better than to get excited, though. Having temporarily resolved enough of its internal battle to respond to the external one, the dragon roars, the sound so loud that it leaves Khalid reeling and almost makes him tumble from his perch atop Mount Refuse. Then the beast opens its terrible, pointed maw, revealing line after line of razor-tipped fangs like the jaws of a shark. Something in the back of its throat begins to glow in a swirling haze of red and blue, the light accompanied by a high-pitched whine that rings in Khalid’s remaining molars; the swirl grows brighter, then bursts from the beast’s mouth with a noise like thunder, spiraling out in a jet of intertwined water and flame that blasts into the surface of the earth hard and fast enough to carve charred canyons into the muddy ground.

Khalid stands there, paralyzed, unable to do anything but watch while the twisting coil spews destruction and devastation across the land. The archers and infantry fighters are out of range, but it sweeps through the cavalry before they can make any attempt to flee, leaving behind only a few scorched patches of uprooted wheat and twisted armor where they’d stood mere moments before. The sight transports him back in time, years and years ago, to the day when he’d watched the Immaculate One’s breath attack cleave through entire battalions of Church and Imperial soldiers alike, felling trees and collapsing buildings and destroying everything it touched; now, he stands just as uselessly by, watching the same events play out before his eyes all over again, seeing his old friends and devoted guards and his new-found allies of circumstance fall to its power. He stands there, trembling, and then the smell hits, the scent of seared flesh and scorched metal and burning leather and wet rot ferried to his nose by the relentless winds; he grits his teeth, clenching Failnaught tight in both fists, feeling his eyes burn and his chest grow tight as an awful noise forces its way out of his throat from the very pit of his stomach—

Chapter Text

Then there’s a strange tugging feeling behind Khalid’s navel, and everything is as it was: they’re back at the foot of the mill, assembled in their lines, dropping back into themselves with a more jarring thud than they’ve yet felt.

“Fuck,” Marjana grunts from somewhere to Khalid’s right; Khalid’s too busy trying to stay in Sufian’s saddle to figure out where. The rain is pouring down again, the skies dark except for in that strange circle over where Teach stands out in the field, and all around Khalid, the guards and mercenaries are reeling, their groans of pain and gasps of shock and cries of confusion and fear echoing in the no-man’s land like thunder. “Who was that?” someone asks; a guard shouts for their mother, glancing around as if expecting her to appear; from somewhere behind him, Khalid hears Aran yell for Saaya, then cry thanks to the gods when she manages to warble out, “I’m here—I’m okay.” Just to Khalid’s left, one of Aran’s gruff-looking infantry warriors shudders out a breath through tight-pressed lips, his knuckles white as he clings to the handle of his axe like a lifeline. He peels one trembling hand free from its death grip and turns it back and forth, brushing his fingers over leather armor and bare skin, reaching out to stroke his horse’s dark mane and marveling at every touch. He leans over to check his steed for injuries it no longer has, and when he finds nothing, he sits up and lifts his head to the sky, murmuring a prayer under his breath. It’s all so much. Between the noise and the suffering and the haze of rain, Khalid is overwhelmed and disoriented, his throat tight and his chest burning; he grits his teeth and digs his gnarled fingers into the leather of Sufian’s saddle, fighting to gather his wits through the fog of might-be-memories. He breathes deep, settling each breath low in his stomach until the panic releases its hold on his chest and the gray edges of his tunneled vision expand back to clarity. Then it hits him—

“We’re by the mill,” he realizes, his thoughts escaping through his mouth in his disbelief. “We’re not where we were before.”

At Khalid’s words, Sufian stirs. He straightens up from where he’d slumped forward over the saddlehorn, but he still doesn’t look like he has his bearings, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes and scratching at his beard. “But—the wave—”

“Look,” Khalid says, gesturing at the muddy ground below them. “It’s come through already. We made it.”

“Couldn’t it come again?” Saaya pipes from off to Khalid’s right, looking remarkably well for a woman who was burnt to a crisp mere moments ago. Khalid blinks in a pathetic attempt to clear his mind of the disturbing memories, doing his best to continue sounding controlled and confident.

“It probably could,” he acknowledges, “but I don’t think we should stick around to find out. Let’s head back over.”

Sufian glances back at him. “Are you certain, King Father? Shouldn’t we reassess first?”

“No. We know our strategy works and that the barrier can be broken; we just need to figure out how we need to position ourselves to survive her attacks. And we can’t afford to stop—if we stop, people will start thinking, and then they’ll start panicking. We’ve still got some bloodrush. We should get right back to it.”

“Easy to say when you’re not the one getting incinerated,” Marjana grumbles. She pauses for a moment, then sighs, pushing her rain-soaked hair from her face. “Fuck, though. You’re right.” Cupping a hand to her mouth, she levers her axe in the direction of the bathhouse. “Let’s go, everyone!” she yells out. “Across the road!”

With a rallying cry—one that’s earnest, if less spirited than before—the guards and mercenaries spur their horses forward, riding across the sodden no-man’s land in the direction of the bathhouse. Clinging tightly to Sufian’s shoulder, Khalid stares up at their foe, careful to avoid meeting the ice-blue slits of her eyes. She’s looking worse again, having lost more of her fur, and veiny, dark blue streaks carve through her patches of scales. The glow in her chest is brighter, hotter, and it makes Khalid wonder if it will burst straight through her too-present ribcage and thinning skin.

“Let’s do it just like before,” he says to Sufian and Marjana, tearing his gaze from Teach. “Stop at the bathhouse just long enough to drop me off and regroup, then head out.”

Somehow, the thunderous noises of the horses’ hooves and the driving rain aren’t loud enough to drown out the sound of Marjana’s derisive snort. “And what do you propose we do about that fucking... fire, water, magic geyser... thing? Stand there and get hit by it again?”

“No,” Khalid says, giving himself permission to sound pedantic and annoying, “you dodge. You saw where it went last time. Don’t go there. Spread yourselves out and stagger where you’re standing so it’s harder to hit you all at once. Frankly, it would be good to know if that thing is survivable. I don’t know that there’s a way to get out of this completely unscathed.”

“Once again: rich talk from a guy who’s going to be sitting on a wall.”

Magnanimous man that he is, Khalid lets her get the last word.

They grow closer to the bathhouse and closer still to the beast. Water continues to seep from the ruins of the building, trickling from beneath the collapsed stones and gushing in spurts from the channel outlet, around which bricks and broken wooden beams lay in a blast radius. Khalid’s already chilled to the bone from the wind and the rain and the lingering effects of the great wave, which he chooses to blame for his chattering teeth rather than his apprehension as they near their enormous, unreal foe.

“Why couldn’t it get smaller?” he grouses aloud, which earns him a bitter chuckle from Sufian.

“Or less gruesome,” the captain comments. “It was easier to look at before.”

Khalid hums his agreement. “Maybe if we ask nicely, she’ll change back.”

“I would rather it ceased fighting altogether, but I’ll settle for any graces it gives us.”

Marjana’s quiet on the rest of the ride over. Khalid would be grateful for the chance to think, if not for how she keeps shooting careful low glances at the beast—at Teach—and then looking back at Khalid, lips parted like she wants to say something. “Can I help you?” he asks the fourth time she does it, but she just scoffs and spurs her horse on to pull past Sufian, leaving a trail of mud and dust for the rest to follow in the wake of her relentless pace.

When Sufian pulls up to the remnants of the bathhouse shortly after, Khalid slips out of the saddle, landing on the damp ground below with something resembling grace. Wiping the rain from his face, he moves to clamber up the pile of broken refuse around the collapsed wall, watching as the fighters gather. Just like before, the leaders give their troops no time to consider their foe, jumping straight to barking orders.

“Prepare yourselves!” Sufian shouts. “Infantry first, left side! My team, second, center!”

“Nope,” Marjana suddenly interjects. “Uh-uh. Send your infantry right. Me and my lancers will go left.”

Sufian bristles, casting a glance at her. “Does it make a difference?”

“It does,” the mercenary leader replies, firm and uncompromising. “I agreed to help you, but only until we can find a way out. The best option is to the left of that thing, and you keep sending us right.”

“It’s not intentional,” the guard captain says, patiently apologetic. “It’s for the infantry team’s sake. It takes them longer to get into range on foot, and the left flank is closer.”

Marjana tilts her head to appraise Aran and his team from the corner of her eye. “They look like a hardy bunch. I’m sure they’ll survive a slightly longer walk. Don’t worry, I’ll hold up my end. We’ll strike as planned, but then we’re going to make a break for it.”

For a moment, Khalid thinks Sufian might get nasty with her: his jaw clenches and his russet eyes flare, his mustache twitching and his fist closing tight around his lance. But then he nods. “So be it,” he says, spinning to face his troops. “Change of plans! Saaya, your team goes in first at the center! Infantry, take the right flank! My team will cover your advance!”

The mercenary leader’s scarred face pulls into a satisfied smirk. Tugging on her horse’s reins, she moves to regroup with her subordinates. “Shrikes, we go left! Arjun, Dana, go in first like before, then start looking for an escape route. Iason, follow after me, Heddy, and Amalia. Cover our exit.”

The mercenaries and guards sound their understanding, then surge into motion. Sufian casts a glance back at Khalid, who waves him on, giving the man a smile that he hopes is reassuring. As much as the mercenaries’ unwillingness annoys Khalid, he can’t blame them for maintaining their priorities; besides, it bodes well for everyone if they find a way out, and he’d much rather see them try than his guards.

The fighters grow close. The dragon is still preoccupied with itself, and all its thrashing makes Khalid uneasy. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his chest grows uncomfortably tight; he draws a lungful of air in deep and lets it out slowly, watching from his perch atop the crumbled bathhouse wall as the fighters swarm the beast, a line of ants against a giant, moving into position and beginning their assault.

The archers fire off a volley of arrows, one after the next, buying time for each other to reload while the mercenaries prepare their attack. Aran and his infantry team are still on the move, Sufian and Saaya’s cavalry leading the way. The dragon roars when the archers’ arrows impact the barrier, breaking through the shimmering shield; her great head turns and she lunges at them, snapping her terrible jaws, leaving an opening for Saaya’s team to attack. They charge, swords and lances slashing, cleaving at its limbs and tossing javelins that shatter whole sections of the barrier at once. As soon as they begin to retreat, Marjana’s lancers move in at the left, charging at the beast with their lances raised, the infantry fighters arriving at the same time on the right flank and unleashing their fusillade. Hit after hit lands home, leaving the dragon stumbling and shrieking, unable to focus on one group of assailants over another, and as Sufian’s lancers move in to cover the infantry team’s retreat, the mercenaries make a break for it.

They bear as far left as they can, maintaining a delicate balance between keeping distance from the beast and from the edge of the massive sinkhole just southwest of the creature, aimed toward the singular stretch of unbroken land that might see them to freedom. The dragon is sufficiently distracted, snapping at Sufian’s lancers with its terrible teeth and swiping at them with its long, curved claws, its jaws clacking shut with such force that the accompanying rush of air rustles the horses’ manes. But as the mercenaries near the edge of the sinkhole, so close to freedom, the dragon unleashes another deafening roar and rears onto its hind legs, smashing into the ground with a force like another earthquake.

The edges of the sinkhole crumble inward, widening out and out and out, the ground continuing to fracture and break, the noise nearly drowning out the mercenaries’ surprised shouts. They fight for control, riding hard, bearing down and rushing toward the narrowing scrap of solid ground like they’re threading a needle, pushing forward, pushing, pushing—

Then the dragon turns, and it thrashes its long, brush-like tail, and the gust of wind it generates blows the mercenaries’ steeds off-balance, sending them all tumbling into the sinkhole.

Khalid doesn’t realize his jaw has dropped until that great gust has rippled its way through the wheat and all the way to where he stands by the ruins of the bathhouse, the wind blowing dust and dirt into his face and pelting his body with gravel and splinters. He flings his hands up to shield himself, closing his eyes, bracing against its overwhelming force. It’s too great—he’s blown back, and when he tries to catch himself, his foot loses traction on the slick stones and he hears a crack