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“I cannot believe you are indulging in this farce, Commander.”
Ariadne was shaken out of her glorious daydream of mead and cake by Regill’s disapproving voice. She glanced down to where he stood beside her, those piercing yellow eyes of his fixed on the mansion ahead of them.
She shrugged. “We’ve been marching for three weeks straight. Aside from the little detour to rescue you and your merry little band, we’ve hardly had a moment’s rest.”
Regill scoffed, making her bite her lip to keep her smile hidden. She wondered what did it - the ridiculous nickname for the Hellknights, or the suggestion that this outing qualified as rest. She expected many things from this soirée, but it being restful wasn’t among them.
Especially not given the whole reason she’d broached this topic with Daeran to begin with.
“You humor the Count and his whims too often,” Regill said, turning his hawk-like gaze to her, “One might begin to suspect preferential treatment on your part.”
“Aw, Paralictor, I promise if you asked to throw a party I’d say yes. Though I have to insist on helping with the planning.”
If this quip amused him, it didn’t show. Instead he turned his stoic gaze back towards Heaven’s Edge. “Joke all you like. But rest assured, the ease with which you give into such frivolities has been noted.” And with that he started forward, leaving her to make the trek to the house alone.
“I’m never going to make him laugh, am I?” she mumbled to herself before following.
As she did, she finally gave the Arendae ancestral home a good look over herself. It must have been quite the sight once. But now the sides of the house and the statues lining the courtyard were covered in crawling vines, the tendrils already colored the red-gold of autumn. As she ascended the winding staircase, fallen leaves crunched under her boots. When she reached the top, a quick inspection of the bushes showed they’d been given a rather slapdash trimming. She filed her criticism away for the time being - it was unlikely a groundskeeper was willing to stay and maintain this place, given both its reputation and its proximity to the Worldwound. Some things couldn't be bought for any amount of money, and so Heaven’s Edge had been left for nature to reclaim. Until quite recently, that is.
The air hung heavy around the courtyard, the prickling sensation of being watched almost suffocating. Perhaps there was some truth to the manor’s reputation of being haunted. Despite the decrepit beauty of this place, she had a fleeting notion that perhaps nature should be allowed to have it.
An excited shout shook her out of her reverie. Someone had wheeled an entire cart full of various types of alcohol out, and minimal though the guests were, they had descended on it like vultures. She had to admit she was curious and so she decided to file that misgiving away for another time as well. For now, she had a party to attend.
Woljif had always wanted to attend some fancy noble’s party, but now, well…it wasn’t bad, but he also wasn’t sure what he had expected.
First, there was a slight problem in that Daeran apparently didn’t think anyone wanted a drink that wasn’t alcoholic. When he had asked if there was anything to drink that wasn’t going to make any light-fingered antics harder to pull off (not in those exact words, mind), he'd received a loud groan. Daeran then proceeded to roll his eyes, told him not to be teetotaler, and shoved a goblet in his hand before he was whisked off by another guest.
Normally, being left to entertain himself wouldn’t be a problem. This was also the most food he’d ever seen in one place in his entire life. Multiple tables had been set out, and each laden with roasted meats, platters of cheese, roasted vegetables he didn’t know the names of, beautifully decorated little cakes, and countless more delicacies he couldn't even name. It was more than people assembled here could eat in a week, and he intended to make the most of it.
But it turns out even he had his limits with how much he could eat in one sitting. That was how he found himself here, nursing said goblet and bored out of his mind. He let his eyes wander around, hoping an amusing pastime would present itself. Nothing did - the nobles kept swilling back their drinks and stuffing their faces, the courtesans kept dancing on the raised dais. Most of his companions looked various shades of bored or scandalized. The only exceptions were Nenio, who had taken a vantage point near the dancers and was scribbling furiously in her notebook, and Regill, who looked as unreadable as ever. If he had to guess though, he was weighing the optics of burning this party to the ground and hauling Daeran into a torture chamber.
Neither Ariadne nor Daeran were nowhere to be seen. He had a good idea where the latter was, but the absence of the former was…weird. Just weird. It wasn’t like he was bummed she wasn't right here next to him, remarking on each and every outlandish thing Daeran had put together for this shindig.
The hall itself was eventually what grabbed his attention. It was bigger than Gran’s shack, the thiefling hideout, and every other place he’d ever reluctantly called home. Combined, probably. And it was only one room!
Eventually, he began to wonder what the rest of the mansion looked like. What started out as an idle curiosity soon had him on his feet. Ember, who had been sitting next to him in Ariadne’s stead, smiled up at him as he rose. Thankfully she didn’t move to follow, settling back in her chair to watch her crow hop around the ground instead.
He made for the side door he’d seen Daeran go through a little while back, drenched to the bone. Two summoned water elementals had soaked the Count, some of his guests, and half the courtyard in response to the cart of booze outside mysteriously exploding.
Snickering as he realized who the likely culprit was, he eased the door open and slipped inside. As he regained his bearings, he was struck by the stark contrast of this corridor with the hall he’d just left. Down one end was a window, the twilight sky barely visible through the hastily cleaned glass. Down the other was an arched doorway. Once it had led to the courtyard, but was now blocked by rotting pile of wood and stone. Two doors sat along the wall - one shut, one ajar. The warm light pouring out of the latter caught his attention, so he made his way over quickly and quietly to peer in.
The bedroom beyond was opulently furnished, clashing with the dust covered hallway just outside. He made out a large, plush bed in one corner, adorned with elaborately stitched sheets of red and gold. An abundance of privacy screens were scattered about, concealing everything but the person they were meant to, because he was standing in the middle of the room.
Woljif froze, grateful Daeran’s gaze was fixed on the wall in front of him. It would only take a slight shift of his head and he’d be caught. He knew he should move away, but the way he looked, damp hair plastered to his neck and green eyes riveted on whatever it was he was looking at, transfixed him.
His face in particular gave him pause. It took a moment, but then it hit him - Daeran wasn’t smirking. The smarmy grin that seemed to be a permanent fixture of his lips was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he seemed almost sad, a small frown settled over his features.
He'd be lying if he claimed the sight didn't captivate him. It was like seeing a fish walk on water, or a dretch making cherry rolls. Daeran Arendae was always the picture of insufferable, insouciant vanity, and something about seeing him as anything but was as fascinating as it was wrong.
That’s also why it took him a moment to realize he was also naked. At least, that’s what he'd tell himself later. Biting back his yelp, Woljif retreated silently from the doorway, hurriedly making his way to the other room. Blessedly it wasn’t locked, and uttering a quick prayer of thanks to Calistria under his breath, he slipped inside, hoping his companion was none the wiser.
It was a surprisingly warm night for late Rova. That had nothing to do with the chill Ariadne was trying to stave off, arms wrapped tightly around herself as she stood alone in the middle of the grand bedroom.
Inquisitor Liotr had just cast a ritual that showed them the final moments of Countess Silaena Arendae's life. When she had spoken to Daeran just shortly before, he had implied this was some random room his servants had picked out. But it wasn’t - it was the room his mother had died in. He’d stood at her bedside and pleaded with her to send for help while she drew her last breath. It didn’t surprise her that he lied about the room’s significance, but it didn’t lessen the sting the truth had given her.
If she were a good crusader, she’d commend Silaena for her resolve. She had the chance to save herself or protect her country, and she chose the latter. To many, it was a noble sacrifice. But Ariadne was not a good crusader, or even much of one at all. All she saw was the Countess’ son, face drawn, gripping her bedsheets as the last of the light left her. All she felt was sorrow.
So much about Daeran suddenly made sense to her. Why he held himself apart from everyone, saying and doing such terrible, wild things and claiming he thought them the dirt beneath him all the while. It was a flawless way to keep people at an arm’s length. Who would want to keep company with someone like that? Even she’d found her good humor tested by him more than once, his acid tongue making her good sense war with other, baser instincts. What better way to make sure you never lost another loved one, than to make sure there were none at all?
What had she been expecting? Despite what he claimed, it was unlikely he went to such lengths purely to maintain some wretched reputation. The tragedy that befell Heaven’s Edge had come up in her research prior to coming here, but nothing that they had seen refuted what was already known. She couldn’t explain why, but something, no matter how horrible what she’d just seen was, didn’t feel quite right.
She let her attention wander around the room, desperate for a distraction. The vision had only affected the bed, so she wondered how much of it had changed. The bathtub, the piles of books, the comfy chair tucked away in the corner. Were they new additions, meant to ensure the master of the house’s comfort during his brief stay? Or were they the last remnants of a woman who hadn’t walked this earth in a decade?
The fireplace drew her attention next. It was gorgeous, more ornate than a fireplace had any right to be. Yet, there was something odd about it as well. She was just on her way to investigate when she glanced at the nearby wall and froze.
The painting was familiar - she was fairly sure she had seen it hanging in the ruins of the Tower of Estrod. She hadn’t been able to give it much thought then, but now, with the fate of a city no longer hanging in the balance, she could stop and really take it in. A woman played on a seesaw with her young son, a bowing branch of cherry blossoms framing them gently. The apple-cheeked little boy, with his bronze skin and golden hair, could only be one person. The only thing absent were the set of uncannily green eyes that she had come to admire. It was a soft, touching scene, and so out of odds with everything she now knew.
A ghost of a smile flitted across her face the longer she stared. Seeing Daeran happy, even if it was so long ago, warmed the icy malaise that had settled in her soul. Silaena looked just as lovely as she had in the first vision she and Liotr had seen, though color suited her better than the bluish-gray the magic had cast her in. Her skin was several shades fairer than her son’s, and her head was turned in such a way that it was hard to tell what color her eyes were. But besides that, it was so easy to see he was his mother’s son, and the love they had shared echoed in these walls even now.
Questions were formulating in her mind; strange, mundane ones that she had no right to know the answers to. What had he been like as a child? Was this what a typical day had been like for them, or had they posed for this? And even stranger ones that were impossible to answer. How would Silaena feel about her son if she could see him today? What would she think of the state of her homeland? Of her?
That last thought sent a jolt through her unlike anything she had ever felt. Even though no one was privy to her thoughts, as she was quite alone in this room, she still felt a flush creeping its way up her body. It was utterly ridiculous to wonder at such a thing - why should she care about the opinion of a dead woman?
The answer was obvious but Ariadne wasn’t going to give it the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Her feelings - even admitting they were that much felt dangerous - for Daeran were not something she should be dwelling on, not here, in this room with all its horrible memories. She needed to get out of this room, out of this house, hells, maybe out of this country.
She decided to focus on the most manageable one first. She still had another task to complete, after all, and she had just the idea for how she would accomplish it.
In retrospect, he probably wasn’t as stealthy as he thought he was. The room he’d slipped into was clearly not meant for guests, thick dust clinging to the broken furniture, the air stagnant and stale. He'd rifled through worse in his life for less promising rewards after all, so he wasn't deterred. Instead, he conjured a ball of light and got to work. Try as he was to be quiet, the dim glow of the orb was probably what alerted her to his presence.
“I really can’t leave you alone for more than a few minutes, can’t I?” The sound of Ariadne's voice got him to whip around from where he’d been wiping dust off a picture frame on the wall.
“I ain’t doin’ nothing!” he protested, then glanced back to the picture, “’Sides, you know, admirin’ the art.”
She raised a brow. “Oh? Tell me then, what is the subject of the art you were admiring?”
He hadn’t actually stopped to check out the damn thing, just the dirty metal frame it sat in. He was fairly certain it was gold. Or at least he could pass it for such, with a little spit and shine. So she had him there, but he wasn't about to let her know that.
“It’s a portrait,” he said, latching onto the few details he'd managed to parse. He was sure he'd seen a few human-ish shapes at least.
“Of?” There was now a sing-song tone to her voice - she enjoyed teasing him far too much.
“The Queen?” It sounded weak to his ears, but her laugh - bright and crisp in the otherwise bleak room - drove off the usual wave of embarrassment he’d feel at a moment like this. She walked over towards him, peering up at it. The amusement in her features faded slightly, prompting him to take a glance himself.
The subject was the Arendaes themselves. They didn't seem too different from any other noble family to his mind. Boring old guy in the left hand corner, pretty woman of obvious celestial heritage at his side on the right and in her arms, a chubby-faced little tyke with eyes an unnerving shade of green.
“So, Daeran’s mom was an aasimar too?” The bitter chuckle escaped his lips before he thought better of it. “Some people get all the luck, while others just get a kick in the teeth and a boot in the ass.”
He braced himself for the admonishing look, but her attention was riveted on the painting. Her gaze kept flickering back and forth between baby Daeran and each of his parents in turn. “So that’s his father…” she murmured, falling into a stance not unlike the one she’d done when trying to solve those weird tile puzzles in those ruins a whole ago.
“Sure doesn’t look anything like his pops, huh?,” he asked, unsure as to why he felt the urge to speak at all. Maybe he was hoping she wouldn't forget he was there if he did.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, a slight smirk working its way onto her features. “I think we should be getting back to the party. No doubt our absence has been noted by this point.”
He snorted, letting the change of subject slide. “Yours, maybe.”
Something not unlike sadness flickered in her eyes, but she didn’t reprimand this self-depreciation either. Instead, she heaved an exaggerated sigh and added, “Besides, I’ll likely need to soothe some tempers. I put a brilliant idea in Daeran’s head, but I doubt Sosiel wants to paint him in the nude.”
He’d started to nod along, following her as she made for the door. After a moment, he stopped. “Wait, what?”
The world was wobbly, and not just because of the copious amount of alcohol she’d ingested barely an hour previously. While the memory of drinking Daeran under the table did bring a wistful smile to her lips, it quickly died when she remembered why she’d challenged him to begin with. A sick feeling replaced the brief joy she'd felt, as the vision of him, young and scared and cornered by demons, replayed in her mind.
Her feet fumbled beneath her as the world swam again, sending her careening into the nearby wall. She made no move to compose herself, instead leaning against the cool wood. “I wanted to understand him better,” she murmured, closing her eyes, “But not like this.”
Still, it was good she understood his plight now, right? Now she could try to find a way to help him. Though as she remembered Inquisitor Liotr’s pale face as he explained the situation to her, she got the sinking feeling it wasn’t going to be an easy task. Liotr knew nothing of the entity they were dealing with, and asking Daeran about it was impossible. Not without risking his life.
She sighed, opening her eyes and straightening. Why had she come this way? Oh yes, she was drunk. And in search of... something. What had it been? The name of her target eluded her, not returning within a few shaky steps. But then the sound of voices nearby caught her attention, and she decided that was a worthier goal.
Following the sound, she found herself peering in on what seemed to be a broom closet. Or perhaps a pantry? It didn’t matter, as right now it was serving as the changing room for the two courtesans hired for the occasion.
“Can you believe he’s sending us back tonight?” The female courtesan flipped her glossy black curls over one shoulder as she adjusted her bodice, glancing over at her companion as she did. “When, in all the years our brothel has served the Count, has he ever sent one of us back early?”
“Never. They say war changes a man, but I never thought he’d be counted among their number,” the male courtesan said as he hopped into a pair of trousers, “Though I will say I don’t mind, as long as we’re getting paid.”
“True enough.” Her wry smile was short lived, giving way to a pensive expression, “But it does make one wonder, doesn’t it? This whole soirée was an uncharacteristically muted affair, not typical of Master Arendae at all. One could suggest he’s lost his edge, so to speak. Perhaps that’s why he dismissed us so early." She clucked her tongue. “So young to be having such problems too.”
Her companion laughed as he buttoned up his shirt. “I doubt it. I spent quite a vigorous night with him not even three months ago, and he did not disappoint. Well, not so long as that venomous tongue of his was kept occupied. No, I suspect it’s another matter entirely.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper she had to strain to hear. “I daresay I think the Count’s fallen in love.”
“In love? That wretch?” All her pretense dropped, genuine incredulity in its place. “You’ve gone barmy, my friend. How much did you drink?”
“No more than I was bid to. You know I detest the stuff.” The grin hadn’t faded from the man’s face. In fact, it grew as he continued, making him look like a child who’d been chosen to pass around the Zonzon doll at Crystalhue. “How many of his parties have we attended? As you said, this one was boring, and he seemed painfully aware of it too. At least, until…”
“Until the drinking contest with the Knight-Commander.” With one hand on her hip and the other stroking her chin, the woman contemplated his words. “I must say, I thought the rumors of her…eccentricities must be exaggerated. Then she recited that ridiculous prayer to the Accidental God, and all my doubt dissipated.”
Ariadne huffed from her vantage point. There was nothing ridiculous about that prayer! She’d won, hadn’t she?
“Yes, I’d say they’re quite a match, all things considered.” He donned his hat with a flourish, grin triumphant.
“The Count and the Commander? You’ve…” The protest died on the woman’s lips, her expression becoming pensive, “You might be onto something, actually. They did look awfully chummy, all things considered.”
“You say chummy, I say they’ll be wed within six months of the Crusade’s completion.” The man donned his jacket, looking perfectly smug.
“Now you really have gone barmy. You honestly think this sham will be any more successful than the last four?”
“Call me an optimist. And a romantic. In fact, I’m willing to put a little gold on the line. Both for our country’s inevitable victory, and the Count’s impending marriage.”
As much as she wanted to stay and hear the details of the wager, she slipped away as the two of them enthusiastically negotiated the terms. While there was a small, logical part of her brain that knew she should be concerned, most of her was sure she needed some tea before handling such a serious matter as idle gossip.
Through some strange stroke of luck, no one else was in the kitchens. Given the hour, most of the guests were passed out either in the great hall or in the courtyard, and the staff were likely taking full advantage of that. If they were getting some rest or just plundering the house same as him, Woljif didn’t know and really didn’t care much. He'd decided to take Daeran's permission to raid his home back in Kenabres as universal, and what better place to start than the area where all the fancy cutlery was kept.
He’d only managed to get one piece in his pocket when the sound of someone else clumsily entering the kitchen made him freeze. Keeping his hands in his pockets, he slowly glanced over his shoulder.
Daeran leaned against the door frame, watching him with a catlike grin. His eyes gleamed in the low candlelight, almost maliciously gleeful. “I thought you might be in here, sticking your fingers where they don't belong.” Despite the ungraceful entrance, nothing in his countenance suggested he was particularly intoxicated. His words weren’t slurring, his posture no different. Maybe he’d misjudged how sloshed he’d gotten. Given the sheer amount of booze he and Ariadne had downed, that didn't seem likely however.
The excuse Woljif normally pulled out in this situation definitely wouldn't hold up, but he’d be damned if he outright admitted to thieving. “I was looking for a drink that wasn't hooch. Someone's gotta keep their wits about them in a haunted house, you know.”
“Do they now?” Daeran's lips twitched as he finally pushed away from the wall and took a step towards him. Woljif had to hand it to him, he was staying on his feet better than a normal drunkard. “And I suppose you, my recreant friend, believe that you’re the bastion of sense in this regard?”
Something in the way he asked that question made Woljif feel like he was balancing on the edge of a knife, made all the more intense when Daeran drew closer. They weren’t quite touching - yet - but he was close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off of him. How had he not noticed how chilly it was in the kitchen until just now? It made the urge to lean closer, to absorb some of that warmth for himself all the more difficult to resist.
Before he could say or do anything to embarrass himself, for a second time that evening, a fumbling noise came from the door. They both turned to see Ariadne stumbling in. Unlike Daeran, she was making no effort to hide her inebriated state, her disheveled hair and clothes telling the story of at least one tumble she’d taken on her way here. Her skin was paler than usual, and she tensed slightly when she saw the two of them. But then a grin that was too smug for his liking graced her face instead.
“What are you two doing?” She leaned against the counter in front of her and gleefully glanced between them again. Heat rose along his face, and he had to fight the urge to hide it. His mind went somewhere it probably shouldn't, though judging from the suggestive look on her face it was exactly what she had been thinking as well.
"I just caught our sticky fingered compatriot helping himself to my family’s heirloom silver," Daeran said, gracefully averting the misunderstanding they'd all been hurtling towards, "I was planning on pointing him in the direction some trinkets that are both more and less valuable.”
“How charitable of you,” she said, “I didn’t realize you had a soft spot for thieves.”
“Oh, I'm afraid a misunderstanding has occurred. It’s not that I particularly care if our dear friend acquires some items that will make him wildly rich beyond his imagination. It’s that the scandal of my great-uncle’s burial urn being stolen from under my nose would be a much needed reprieve from the doldrums of the crusade.”
“Doldrums? Are your responsibilities not keeping you suitably occupied, Count Arendae? Should I give you more assignments? Have you write a report, perhaps?” Her eyes were bright, wide smile perfectly illustrating how much in her element she was.
Despite Ariadne’s teasing tone, panic flashed in Daeran’s eyes. Woljif had to admit he was impressed by how neatly he kept his cool as he countered, “Ah, yes, the mundanity of having to write a report is certainly a novel experience for me! I’m afraid I must warn you - only one topic holds my interest, and it’s only tangentially related to the Crusade.”
Daeran’s smile became all sharp edges as he said this. It made him want to run for the hills, personally. But Ariadne just wrinkled her nose, face still alight with mischief. “No, that’s all right. I’d rather not read any reports anyways. They’re dreadfully boring.”
“Yeah, suspect they’re not dirty enough to keep your interest,” Woljif muttered, remembering the book he’d accidentally uncovered when he’d been refiling through Ariadne’s tent recently. The stupidity of admitting this hit him a moment too late.
Both of their heads whipped back around to look at him. A slight flush rose on her cheeks. “W-wait, how do you know-”
“Dirty? Why, is our dear Commander hiding some smutty little secrets in her tent?” At this, Daeran moved to stand beside him, so that they both faced her. “Well...there's a chance my idea for a report would work for you after all…” Something in his closeness that made Woljif feel far too hot, the cold of the room forgotten now. That conspiratorial glance he was shooting him through lowered lashes didn’t help him feel any cooler. “Tell me, what exactly did you find? A book? A magazine? A series of filthy drawings stuffed in her pillowcase?”
This was worse than he’d ever imagined. He didn’t want to admit to what he’d read! At the time he’d snickered to himself when he found the book tucked neatly under her mattress, especially when he opened to a random page and started reading. The problem was he’d probably read more than strictly necessary. And that didn’t even get into the fact he’d done so because he had started picturing Ariadne as the main character. And as for her love interest…
“That’s not relevant,” she said, voice airy. He could’ve wept from relief. A flush still stained her cheeks, but as she pushed away from the counter to stand in front of them, he realized it wasn’t from embarrassment. Instead, she looked curious, head cocked as her eyes darted between the two of them.
“Is it not? I, for one, am shocked - nay, scandalized! - at the mere suggestion of the Knight-Commander indulging in the pleasures of filthy literature rather than the stodgy reports her advisors painstakingly compose for her!” Daeran's grin easily betrayed his words.
She laughed again before falling silent. For the first time, he noticed her pupils were completely blown. With her head at the angle it was and her tail swishing behind her, she resembled nothing more than like a cat debating which toy she wanted to pounce on first. Perhaps it was an odd comparison to make, but even odder was the realization that he hoped it was him.
Anticipation filled the air as Daeran finally took note of Ariadne's change in demeanor. Woljif felt him tense beside him, their arms brushing slightly. No one breathed a word, both men waiting for her to give voice to the desire in her eyes.
Ariadne opened her mouth, but whatever she had been about to say was destined to remain a mystery.
A crusader in full-plate ran into the room. “Commander, there you are!” The young woman beamed with pride. If she realized she had just ruined…what had she just ruined? He wasn’t sure, but disappointment was settling in his stomach like stone, bitter bile coating the back of his throat. The charged atmosphere quickly dissipated as the soldier continued, “Everyone’s set up and ready to return to camp on your command!”
“Return?” Daeran asked. Woljif could’ve sworn he looked bewildered, even hurt. But it passed so quickly, the contemptuous smirk back in place and making him doubt what he could’ve sworn he had just seen. “Ah, you’re sending the bores back to camp so they don’t ruin the fun for the rest of us, yes?”
It was said in that haughty drawl of his, but Woljif detected the faintest hint of desperate hopefulness in the undercurrent of it. He knew that’s what it was, because it was the same kind of starry-eyed naivety that normally set his hackles on edge. He never expected that Daeran, of all people, would be the one to elicit that reaction from him.
Ariadne’s expression, full of remorse as it was, effectively killed that hope. “We’re all returning to camp. I know you had rooms cleared out, and you and anyone who wants to is welcome to stay the night, but unfortunately my duties resume bright and early for me.”
This time a mere tick in his jaw was the only sign of Daeran’s displeasure. Otherwise, he oozed his usual casual contempt. “Of course! I’m glad I was able to provide you one evening’s worth of paltry entertainment. Now, if you excuse me, like any good host, I’m going to go find guests that actually appreciate my efforts.”
With that, he turned and exited the room much more gracefully than he had entered it. The sour feeling in Woljif’s stomach didn’t settle, and he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like Daeran actually cared if they stayed or anything; this had been his party, for his own amusement. If they weren’t willing to play along anymore, why should he bother?
Ariadne was staring after Daeran with an expression that wasn’t quite upset, but involved far more furrowed brows than was strictly necessary. At least he wasn’t the only put off by the careless dismissal, as if the moment before it hadn’t happened.
The urge to comfort - or maybe just distract - her was strong, much to his chagrin. “He’s incorrigible, Chief. Only ever seeking out things that hold his fancy.”
“Yeah,” she agreed quietly. His words didn’t seem to have an affect on her at all. She glanced at him, holding his gaze for a moment before she shook her head and her smirk was back on her face. “Well, anyways, are you coming back or staying the night here?”
“Never thought I’d say this, but going back. The party was fun and all, but this place gives me the creeps. ‘Fraid of what I might wake up to if I stay here, and that’s sayin’ something.” With that, he followed her out of the kitchen.
He forgot to put the fork back.
Despite what she had said, Ariadne found that work resumed not in the morning, but the very second she stepped back in camp. Wilcer had found another cause for concern amongst the scouts’ gear, and with their approach to Drezen rapidly approaching, it wasn’t prudent to let such an important matter sit for too long.
That was how she came to be working on the logistics of getting what they needed before dawn had even crested over the horizon. She had been debating whether the sky was any lighter than it had been a few minutes prior when a familiar figure with faintly glowing blond hair walked by her open tent.
“Daeran?” she asked, louder and much more incredulously than she meant to. It did the trick though. He stopped, turning his head languidly and shooting her a perfectly curated, lazy grin, as if taking a stroll around the camp at this hour were a perfectly normal activity for him.
“Good evening, Commander! Or is it morning? I must confess I haven't the faintest idea what the hour is.”
“What are you doing here? I thought it’d be at least noon before you stepped foot back in camp. In fact, I thought for sure I’d have to send Regill to fetch you and drag you back.”
He snorted, stepping through the flaps of the tent and up to the small table that acted as her desk. He eyed the papers spread across the map critically as he asked, “Oh, and how do you propose to do that? I’m quite good at slipping out of things I don’t want to do, you know. And having a Hellknight at my door is not ever a situation I hope to find myself in. In fact, I have several brilliant ideas for home security to avoid that very circumstance.”
Jest as he might, there was an intensity in his gaze. it occurred to her, right there in the dim light of her tent, that this was a confession. ‘I’m quite good at slipping out of things I don’t want to do.’ Everything she knew about him didn’t refute that, and he had to know by now that she wasn’t the type to force someone to do something they didn’t want to. Joke as she might, if he hadn’t come back, if he had decided to stay at Heaven’s Edge, or even head back to Mendev…she would have let him.
A smile - a genuine one - pulled on the corners of her lips. “Dare I ask why you decided to come back so early?”
He shrugged. “It was just dreadfully dull after you left. I don’t know if my opinion matters to you at all, but you are by far the best party guest I’ve ever had. No one else has ever beaten me so thoroughly before. And I was even cheating! I suppose I should thank you for saving the whole event.” Leaning forward, he whispered, “Unless you were cheating too?”
“Sir, you should know that merely suggesting a Caydenite cheat at a drinking contest is borderline blasphemy.” Tossing her head slightly so her hair was out of her face, she matched his stance. “It looked to me like everyone enjoyed themselves without my help. I think it’s possible the night wasn’t as much of a disaster as you seem to think it was.”
“Hm, yes, I suppose I am a rather good host, aren’t I?” He held her gaze as he spoke, and just for a moment it felt like they were the only two people in the world. She had no doubt he felt it too - the way his lips parted slightly, smirk never faltering, gaze so intense as it bore into hers told her as much. But then it passed, and he was taking a step back. “And as a reward for my service to the crusade, I think I shall just sleep in until noon anyways. The fact it will be in a cot and not a proper bed is regrettable, but I’m sure I can make it work.”
With that, he turned to leave. As she watched him go, it occurred to her that she should tease him and tell him that he would get no such peace. But, curiously, all she could think of were unknown monsters and secret bets, and she decided to let it slide. Just this once.