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Chapter Text

“You said it every time we go to Maranor,” Royce pointed out.

They were on their way from following a lead to find the elusive DeWitt and, of course, Hadrian couldn’t restrain himself from talking.

“Because it is true, it’s a beautiful place,” Hadrian retorted. “Mehan may not be big, but the country is wonderful. Tell me another nice place to open a winery.”

“Medford.”

“Medford isn’t so nice. We’re just used to it. And we don’t want to steal Gwen’s job, do we? Besides, Melengar already has a monopoly on the wineries and a very strict import law. Instead, Maranor is nearer Delgos.”

This time, Royce didn’t answer, so Hadrian huffed at his partner’s lack of participation, until he realized it wasn’t it that had made Royce pose, the hands tight on the reins and the head tilted on the right side.

“What?”

“Horses.”

A second later, an armed group of riders arrived behind them. Hadrian couldn’t spot their insignia, but Royce supplied it for him. “Swanwick crest.”

“I don’t think they’re here for us,” Hadrian commented, as both he and Royce moved their horses to the edge of the road. “We haven’t worked in Swanwick. At least, not in a while.”

Royce’s face was dark. “Do you remember who the Earl is?”

A frown pressed Hadrian’s eyebrows together until the name came up in his mind. He eyed Royce, to realize he was sharing his same concern.

“Better go.”

“Yeah.”

With a jerk at the reins, the two of them galloped in the opposite direction inside the free land, Hadrian followed Royce in the hope of losing the pursuit not following a clear direction. The soldiers seemed to expect such an act from them, something that confirmed Hadrian they were their objective.

Despite Royce’s ability to find unused paths, it was hard to throw off the soldiers behind when their eyes were on them and their horses were pure Maranor breed trained for running and in better shape.

“Do you think you can fight them?” Royce asked, as he realized they would be reached.

“Not likely,” Hadrian replied, eyeing the soldiers behind them, just before a couple of arrows flew in their direction, forcing Hadrian to pull his reins and turn Dancer’s gallop abruptly. “Not if they have bows and I don’t have any armor.”

Royce cursed under his breath, but there was little that they could do other than make the following longer.

“Stop! By order of the Earl of Swanwick!”

They didn’t obey, unsaddling the first two riders that flacked them, but the commotion let three soldiers surpass them and block their path. The horses weren’t fast at changing direction, so the armed group managed to surround them. The one in charge lifted a hand in a peaceful gesture.

“Drop your weapon and dismounted.”

Hadrian observed their situation, while Dancer, below him, stomped its hoof nervously. There was a slim possibility of winning, even if not without harm. The three with the crossbow were on the right side, covered by their comrades, but if Hadrian was fast, he could surpass them. The hard part would be to hit them right, just under the helm… Maybe he could open a path enough for Royce to escape, then hope they wouldn’t kill him immediately…

“Don’t,” Royce said, before dismounting.

At the gesture, Hadrian nodded. He trusted his partner’s intuition on it and if he said not to try, it was better to follow his suggestion. So he unbuckled his belt and let it fall to the ground. The soldiers around them didn’t move until he was on the ground, the spadone safely placed far from him.

No explanation was given to them: soldiers grabbed them, tying their hands in front of them and to the saddle of a horse, before placing a smelly sack over their head. Hadrian caught a glimpse of Royce’s dark face before his sight was stolen from him.

Without Royce’s ability at directions, Hadrian had no way to understand where they were heading. The riders didn’t trot fast, so Hadrian and Royce could walk behind them without falling, but it was a tedious and long journey, to the point that Hadrian’s legs started to throb painfully from the lack of resting and, once they stopped, he almost fell from exhaustion.

He was moved to what seemed like a wagon, arms and legs bound tightly, before the journey resumed.

“Where are they bringing us?” Hadrian asked, unsure Royce was still with him.

“The dungeons are in Swanwick,” Royce replied, his tone monotone.

“Are we going to be executed?”

“I’m sure they haven’t trussed us up to invite us to a ball.”

“Well, who knows. I saw bachelor parties starting like this.”

Hadrian tried to joke, but inside was worried. In the twelve years of their partnership, they had come near to life imprisonment or a death sentence many times, the last one only a few months ago in Medford. Even if they had managed to survive free for long, he felt it was only a matter of time before they could end badly, one of the reasons he tried to push into a safer line of work.

When they reached their destination and Hadrian found himself chained to a rock wall in the dark, the sack still over his head, and with Royce not near him, no matter how he tried to call and ask for an explanation, he thought that would be the moment.

Sure, they had suffered from another jail sentence once, under King Armand’s orders, and they were lucky to survive. But luck had an end, sooner or later. Even Hadrian’s more optimistic side realized that, the more one fought, the more likely it was to be stabbed in the back.

He wanted to conserve some hope of survival, but the fact that he felt completely abandoned wasn’t raising his mood. Not only couldn’t speak with Royce, as he was in an isolated cell but there was no trace of guards or other inmates too.

Only the dark and the silence, made Hadrian feel he was left there to die of starvation.

He had no idea how much time had passed, when he heard rumors around him again. At that time, his stomach lurched painfully as if he had been stabbed, his muscled drenched from the forced stillness, and he was unable to move or talk. The sack was lifted to uncover his mouth: as soon as Hadrian realized a cup was lifted next to him, he parted his lips so the water could pour into his dry throat. It had a strange, bitter taste, but at that point, Hadrian would have drunk mud.

The chain loosened, but Hadrian couldn’t stand by himself. Arms helped him, dragging forwards the same steps he’d climbed down when he had been locked up, and then more, or at least that seemed to Hadrian, which was completely unsure of his situation, until he stopped abruptly.

“You may go,” a deep voice said.

“But, Your Lordship…”

“Go,” the voice repeated, harsher, and it was followed by rumors of steps disappearing in the distance as a door closed behind them.

Only then, with effort, Hadrian dared to move his now free hands to take off the sack. With his relief, Royce was at his side, even if he didn’t look in any better shape than him, paler and with dark circles around his eyes. Hadrian, who knew him well enough, realized he was forcing himself not to tremble by exhaustion.

The room they were brought to was lavish, with a tall ceiling and depiction in every free spot of the wall. It was without a doubt the living room of a noble residence. Considering the presence of a likely dungeon, it wasn’t far-fetched to think they were in Swanwick Castle. At the center of the room, a table was arranged with early lunch: places of fruit, bread, eggs, and cut meat that released a wonderful smell.

“I guess an apology is in order,” the deep voice said. “When I asked my men to take you, they misunderstood my reasons.”

Only then Hadrian turned: an old, tall man stood still near a window, his head a little curved to look outside, arms dangling at his next. His hair was completely white, longer than his shoulders, while he only had a short, white beard. Wrinkles covered the upper side of his face, but his dark eyes were active.

Even from that distance and by profile, the similarity was unmistakable, even if the man was too thin to have been a swordsman in his youth.

“Do you know who I am?” The man ducked his head at them.

“Marquis Woodrow Braga, the Earl of Swanwick,” Hadrian replied, struggling to find his voice after so many days without water and without talking.

Braga nodded. “And I know who you are, so no presentation is needed. Please, be my guests.” His right hand gestured at the meal. “A compensation for your mistreatment.”

Both Hadrian and Royce looked at the dishes, but none of them made any movements towards them, not even to sit down in what looked like comfortable armchairs. Ignoring their discomfort, Braga took his seat at the table and poured a glass of wine for himself, settling better his red and golden vest around his body.

“It wasn’t accidental,” Royce stated. “So cut the formality and tell us what you want from us.”

“Very well.” Braga nodded. “I want to hire you.”

“For what?”

“To kill Count Leopold Pickering of Galilin.” Dramatically, Braga let some time pass as he sipped his wine, before continuing, “Since I’m aware is a difficult task, you can name your price. I won’t have problems paying for it.”

Hadrian and Royce shared a look, without moving any other part of their body. Then Royce said, “We won’t take this job.”

Braga didn’t appear surprised. “So it is true you are now the King of Melengar’s lackeys.”

“I’m no one’s,” Royce gritted back. “I’m free to accept or reject any job I don’t feel suitable for Riyria. This one isn’t.”

“Too difficult?” Braga taunted him.

“Too personal,” Royce corrected. “This is your revenge, using us. But your son was the one involving us in the first place, so he got what he deserved. We’re done with this story. If you want the Count dead, ask the Black Diamonds.”

Braga seemed to consider it for a second. Then, he rummaged inside his vest, the loose sleeve fluttering around. Slowly, he placed upon the table two small vials, filled with a dense white liquid streaked with blue, before returning to his wine.

“In a couple of days, the tremors will start. Not troublesome, only annoying. Then, the bleeding, for every hole of your body. It’ll be slow at first, nothing more than something you can clean with a handkerchief. Until the bleeding won’t stop, the tremors became uncontrollable. But, worse of everything, the pain, at the point that even screaming would be impossible. But it won’t last long: when the first pain starts, you’ll only have a couple of days more.”

“What are you talking about?” Hadrian asked.

“You poisoned us,” Royce understood. “That’s why you left us without food or drink. You wanted us to drink whatever would come for us, because we would be desperate.”

The answer was just a satisfied smile from Braga. Then, he tapped the vials. “The antidote.”

“We aren’t in our best shape,” Hadrian conceded, “but I think it won’t take much for us to grab it and run.”

“Or even kill you,” Royce added, throwing a look at Hadrian. “I know there are guards outside… five, if I counted correctly their steps. But they won’t make it in time.”

“No,” Hadrian confirmed. “We aren’t armed, and you were clever enough to not put cutlery on the table, but I still have the means to incapacitate a man, even if I prefer to not use them on an old man.”

“I’m aware your reputation is well-earned,” Braga said, not worried about the slightest. “But you won’t kill me.”

“Why not?” Royce asked, suspicious.

“This one,” and he patted the vials again, “is just a temporary antidote, sufficient for you to complete the job for me. If you want the real one, bring me Count Pickering’s head. Oh, but that would be hard to bring all down here… what about his magic rapier, dirty with his blood?”

Royce’s face was darker than usual, it was something Hadrian hadn’t seen from him in ages, proof that his killer instincts were still there, if Royce would need them. A glare from Royce would have most men pissing in their pants, but not Braga, who still wore a satisfied smile.

“You’re thinking about the best way to gain the antidote and I’m telling you this: don’t,” he said. “I have foreseen everything.”

“How so?” Royce huffed.

“The only way to gain it is for me to provide you. You may think of torturing me, but you haven’t the time. As you said, guards are outside. The only thing you can do before they storm inside is to kill me, but it will do you any good.”

“You aren’t afraid of dying?” Hadrian commented, baffled.

“Not particularly,” Braga answered. “I’m old, and I’ve lived comfortably and successfully. I don’t have much time left, which is the reason I’m using it to avenge my son.”

“But you have other children,” Royce pointed out. “Your heir, at least.”

“I had four sons,” Braga answered, his eyes looking distant. “One died a few years ago, in battle, so now I have two. And both of them are out of your reach.”

The comment made Royce posed, as he didn’t expect that.

“Oh, yeah, of course I won’t let you torture them for blackmailing me.” Braga’s grin was ferine. “One lived in Alburn, married to a local noble. The other, my heir, is in Delgos for a diplomatic mission. You’ll be dead before finding any of them.”

Hadrian shifted uncomfortably on his feet: he was tired, hungry, and afraid to faint from exhaustion, but didn’t want to give any sign of weakness in front of his man. They had faced many difficult situations before, deadly ones too, Hadrian had even been poisoned a couple of times, but Braga calm attitude was unnerving, in a way that made Hadrian’s skin itch.

“I saw now where Percy Braga took his ability at conspiracy,” Royce commented, with an amused smile, as his hand reached to grab the vials.

“We can’t kill Count Pickering.”

It was a wonder Hadrian had waited for so long before objecting. Royce deduced it was probably the starvation that made him silent until that moment. Now, safe in that not very crowded tavern in the suburb of Swanwick, his three swords back, with his stomach full and after drinking a couple of ale, Hadrian was his old self again.

“We can’t, or we shouldn’t?” Royce replied.

“If you’re asking me if I can beat him in a swordfight, the answer is yes,” Hadrian replied. “And I think you’ll be perfectly able to climb Drondil Fields’ walls, jump in his room and slit his throat as he sleeps.”

“But you don’t want to,” Royce stated. “You like him.”

Hadrian grimaced. “That’s not it.”

“You even said you like the princeling.”

“I became fond of him, yes.” Hadrian rolled his eyes. “It happens to normal people when they spend time with others and realize that maybe they aren’t so bad. But that’s not it.”

“What is it then?”

“Well, first of all, I don’t like Braga a little bit and I’m not inclined of doing him any favors,” Hadrian commented. “But, most of it, it’s too risky. If there will be even a little suspicious about us being the culprit…”

“And it is likely because too many people know about your sword ability,” Royce added.

“Yeah, I doubt Alric will pass over us killing his most loyal noble, despite everything we did for him.”

Royce rolled one of the vials on his finger. “Unfortunately, I agree with you. I don’t want to be forced to flee from Medford, not now that finally we are safe there.”

“So why do you accept it?”

“I want Braga out of our tails until we find a solution.” With a swift movement, Royce put away the vial. “Which expert medical can we ask for help?”

“Mallard from Vernes?”

“Too far.”

“There is that one in Aquesta… what was his name?”

“He was an expert in wounds, not illness.” Royce shook his head. “No. We have no choice. I have to ask Doctor Cox in Colnora.”

“I thought you were banned from that city,” Hadrian commented, surprised.

“I am.” Royce grinned his teeth. “So try to be a little bit less… visible, so we won’t attract any attention.”

“I’m not the one they fear there,” Hadrian pointed out, but then nodded.

And, Royce had to admit, he did his best to keep quiet and be as invisible as one could expect from a two-meter tall and buff man with three swords. He didn’t even complain much, not even when the symptoms Braga had described started to appear. There were in the bleeding phase when they met with Cox, so they didn’t have much time left before they needed the palliative antidote to survive.

“So?” Royce demanded.

Cox made an intelligible sound that made Royce lift an eyebrow in a gesture that could have been of surprise, but Cox took it as an annoyance, so he lifted his hands in a defensive position.

“I’ll be brutally honest,” he said. “Whoever made this poison is pretty good.”

“Better than you?”

Cox scoffed at the blatant way to bruise his ego. “Slow-released poisons aren’t useful for the Black Diamonds, you should know that. You once complain that killing with poison is so slow that it may kill you first out of boredom.”

“Whatever,” Royce scoffed. He was pleased Hadrian had waited outside, instead of meeting someone that knew too much about a past it was fast behind. “Can you do something about it?”

“If I have time, the original poison or a body to dissect, I may be able to create an antidote,” Cox said. “But only from this?” He agitated the vial in his hand. “This is useless.”

“You’re useless.” Royce’s eyes darkened, so Cox took a step backward.

“Do you think I won’t help you if I can?” Cox replied, even if his cocky attitude had faded a little. “Seriously, Duster. I don’t want to end up dead as Hoite. But what will happen if Price finds out you’re here in Colnora? You know the rules.”

Royce looked at Cox; he wasn’t as scared as he should be, but he was telling the truth. He was doing something illegal, because his loyalty should go to the Black Diamond. The fact Cox didn’t even try to warn any of the officers was a testament to it. Royce was sure most of his former colleagues would be more than happy to learn he was about to face a horrible death, and definitely wouldn’t let Cox help him.

Cox returned the vial intact. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No.” Royce opened back the window he used to access the doctor’s study.

“For what is worth, Hoite was an ass.”

Royce didn’t answer, he jumped down without turning back. Hadrian was in the same position he’d left him two hours before, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. He wasn’t surprised by Royce’s arrival, because he hadn’t darted his eyes from the palace before, ready to intervene. On his face, there were still streams of red streaks coming out of his nose and mouth.

They hadn’t much time left before they needed to take the antidote.

“So?”

“So we have only one choice. Kill Count Pickering.”

Chapter Text

“We need more time.”

Royce appreciated the way Braga flinched, surprised by the sudden voice in his personal office. Despite still having the upper hand, he had to know that Riyria was a force not to be underestimated. Unfortunately, he was fast to recover.

“You wouldn’t, if you hadn’t lost your time trying to escape my poison,” Braga replied. He hadn’t moved from his position at the desk, and he had now returned his head to the parchment in front of him. “I guess that didn’t go too well.”

With a swift movement, Royce left the windowsill and reached for the available chair in the room. As he moved it, he didn’t ask how Braga knew about their escapade in Colnora. Royce had noticed Braga’s spies the moment they’d left Swanwick, because they weren’t exactly subtle. It was better knowing to be following, using it to their own advantage.

“Do you want Count Pickering dead or not?” he demanded.

“Of course.” This time, Braga lifted his head to eye Royce. “Are you telling me the infamous Riyria isn’t able to?”

“Not in the little amount left by the antidote,” Royce replied. “You should know, haven’t your spies informed you about the time we spend in Drondil Fields?”

It hadn’t been easy, given the structure of the fortress, making scouts of the situation without being spotted by any inhabitants, even less by any member of the Pickering family, that unfortunately knew Riyria too much.

Braga left the pen, crossed his arms, and leaned better on his armchair. His eyes scrutinized Royce, with the clear idea of understanding if Royce was somehow taking more time to find a solution, but Royce was good at not letting any feeling surface.

“Are you telling me you aren’t able to find a way in the time you have left?”

“Not a safe one,” Royce replied. “It’s useless for us surviving poison for being executed in Melengar, don’t you think?”

“Not my problem,” Braga commented.

“But yours is the problem you want us to resolve.”

Again, Braga considered the situation before answering. “And what do you propose?”

“Count Pickering has been summoned to Medford in ten days for the royal council,” Royce explained, using his sleeve to clean up the blood running from his nose. They had taken the antidote at the last minute, but the return to Maranor had taken time, so the symptoms were returning. “We’ll attack him on the road, pretending to be bandits.”

“Won’t he have an escort?”

“He doesn’t think he needs one.” Royce snorted. “From the information we collected, only his two elder sons and Sir Ecton, Melengar’s High Marshall, will travel with him.”

“Three Pickerings and a Knight.” Braga released a guttural sound that could have been a laugh, but turned into a cough. “And you can think of beating them all?”

“Yes,” Royce said simply. The confidence took Braga by surprise for a second, therefore Royce didn’t resist smirking: whoever had seen Hadrian fight should know that. “For good measurement, we’ll choose a place where we can attack by distance. We won’t engage with the Count and his sword if we can avoid it. Hadrian is a good archer too.”

“You already have a chosen place?”

“Yes. I can describe it to you so your spies can confirm it if you’d like.”

There was a sort of challenge in it, because the very knowledge of Royce being aware of Braga’s spies put it a little at a disadvantage. However, Braga just nodded.

“But then? There will still be three possible witnesses.”

Royce’s tone lowered dangerously. “We won’t let any witnesses.”

“Are you going to kill all of them?”

“You have reservation about it?”

There was a little surprise in Braga, which Royce understood. People, especially after Alric’s silly play about the Crown Conspiracy, believed there was a sense of loyalty between Riyria and Melengar. They were wrong. Well, maybe not entirely wrong about Hadrian, but most of their actions were for Riyria’s benefit more than anyone else.

“We work for whoever pays us,” Royce added. “That’s all.”

“I see.” Braga narrowed his eyes in concentration. “So you need time until the Count’s departure.”

“Yes, and enough to come back here for our retribution.”

Royce knew he had won the match of will. He could read it in Braga’s eyes. He might not trust Riyria, but the thought of killing not only the Count but his sons as well was too appealing for him. Braga wished revenge for his son’s death, and what was better than having the entire Pickering line almost destroyed?

“One condition,” Braga said. “I want you to kill the boys first.”

“Deal.” Royce shrugged.

“I need you to give me a day.” Braga’s shoulders relaxed as he regained his composure. “I will have another antidote prepared for you. I’ll know where to find you.”

“Of course you will,” Royce replied, but he didn’t protest.

After all, he got what he wanted. Soundlessly as he’d arrived, he left.

Hadrian was waiting for Royce under the arches of the bridge that connected the east part of the city to the west. The water was low, but the ground was soft and muddy and the smell was not good. It was with relief that welcomed his partner back.

“How did it go?”

“As expected, he accepted and he didn’t have the antidote ready.” Royce took off his dark mantel. “I need to go back immediately.”

“Are you sure this is not illegal?” Illua asked, as Hadrian lent him the cloak.

They had chosen him because he was a drunkard, he needed the money, and was as tall as Royce. Not as slim, but the cloak would disguise his features well enough. Royce nodded approvingly as Illua wore it.

“You want this, don’t you?” Hadrian commented, pressing two gold tenents in Illua’s palm. “That’s all you need to know. And now, we’re going to have a nice drink together.”

Then, he turned again to Royce.

“See you here tomorrow evening,” Royce stated. “You know what to do.”

Hadrian did know. His role was just to distract Braga’s spies so Royce could find the doctor that had synthesized the poison. He couldn’t say he was extremely happy about that, but Royce was the only one good enough to trace back whomever Braga sent to collect the antidote.

Anyway, he gestured to Illua to follow. They emerged from the hidden bridge spot and headed toward the tavern. Hadrian knew the spies – there were three of them – had followed him until the arch and he made pretty sure to be spotted as he ambled in the dark and not crowded street of Swanwick. All three took place in different spots, where they could keep an eye on Hadrian’s room’s window or the entrance door, so Hadrian couldn’t leave without them knowing.

It was what he wanted, so they would be convinced that Royce was with him instead of looking for the doctor. The harder part of the plan was to keep sure Illua didn’t reveal his face or his body, so they could find out the trick.

During the day, it was easy. Hadrian made him drink alcohol for most of the night, paying for expensive bottles, so Illua spent most of the morning and some hours in the afternoon asleep, snoring loudly in their room. When he woke up, Hadrian brought him some food and another bottle of alcohol to keep him quiet.

The fact that they remained in the room wasn’t suspicious, considering they had heavy poisoning symptoms. Illua wasn’t so bad as a person to spend time with and his hangover was cheerful; it was a good distraction listening to his imitation of the tavern’s clients.

“This is… hic… the easiest job… hic… of my life,” he commented, after finishing the last bottle of alcohol. “If you need help again…”

“We’ll take this into consideration,” Hadrian said. He surely hoped Illua didn’t end in trouble because of him, but for good measurement, he gave him another two gold tenents. “If I’m not back for tomorrow morning, leave the cloak inside and disappear.”

“But you’re coming back, right?” Illua pleaded, sounding like a child.

“I hope so,” Hadrian replied, but it was unlikely. Not after what he was about to do. It was part of the plan after all.

One of the spies sat down at the tavern’s counter. He reserved no look to Hadrian, but Hadrian was sure he saw him and the fact he was alone. So he probably wouldn’t follow Hadrian, remaining there to check for Royce’s whereabouts.

Two were outside, but only one started following Hadrian. After many years with Royce, anyone else was loud in his steps, and the spy was no exception. Hadrian wandered around, looking for a good place, until he found a small opening between two buildings.

He dashed inside to give the impression of running, but it stopped soon enough, taking off one of his swords. The spy was behind him in a second, fearing he would lose track of Hadrian. With eyes widened, he realized Hadrian was just waiting for him. Hadrian didn’t give him the time to open his mouth, trusting the sword into the man’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Hadrian said. “You had the misfortune of working for the wrong person.”

After hiding the body, Hadrian resumed his way to the bridge. Royce wasn’t there yet, which wasn’t surprising but it still worried Hadrian. They considered the doctor’s place was in the city, or at least in the land around a few hours away, so Royce should have all the time to find it, but they didn’t consider the time for synthesizing the antidote.

The more it passed, the more it was possible Braga found out they were trying to fraud him. But if Royce said one day, it could be enough. Hadrian’s faith in his partner’s opinion didn’t prevent him to pace under the arch until Royce appeared.

He looked frantic, sweaty, and definitely in a hurry. His face was covered in dry blood, especially around his mouth and eyes, and his clothes smelled of smoke.

“What happened?” Hadrian asked, worried. “Are you okay?”

“The place was out of the city.” Royce spoke and panted together. “Braga sent a rider, so I couldn’t follow straight away. It hadn’t been easy to find it.”

“But?” Hadrian said hopefully.

Royce pulled out a small bottle filled with dark blue liquid. “The antidote. Take it.”

“And you?” Hadrian took the bottle and agitated it.

“I’ve already got my dose,” Royce replied. “But it won’t take long before Braga finds out what happened to his laboratory. We need to move.”

Hadrian tore the wooden lid and ingurgitated the antidote in a single, long sip. It tasted similar to the palliative, but bitter. “We’re heading back to Melengar?”

“No, Braga would expect us to do. We’ll reach Mehan and then will decide on the best course. I don’t want another shot at Swanwick’s dungeon.” He snorted. “Braga will have to pay for me losing a good mantel too.”

But, despite the vicinity of the two towns and them having stolen two available horses in a stable just outside Swanwick, they never reached Mehan.

Just after taking the antidote, Hadrian realized his bleeding slowed until he stopped entirely. It wasn’t different from the palliative effect, but the hope was that it would last. His strengh returned so he could endure riding a horse at full speed.

Instead, Royce was having problems following Hadrian’s pace. “My horse isn’t as fast as yours,” he commented, but Hadrian could tell it was a lie. They both mounted pure maranor breed, so there shouldn’t be any difference between them.

However, Hadrian didn’t inquire further, not until he heard a noise and realized Royce had dropped from his horse. It had been a bad one, unusual for Royce who had such a perfect balance that managed, not differently from a cat, to settle his body better during falls.

“Novron’s beard!” Hadrian halted his horse, dismounted, and rushed to his partner’s side.

Royce tried to push Hadrian away, but he was too weak to do so. Hadrian caught him by the arm, trying to help him stand again.

“Are you hurt?” Hadrian asked, concerned. Then, the piece of fabric Royce had stolen and was using like a hood slid down, revealing Royce’s bloodied face, new rivers of blood climbing down his eyes and nose and mouth. “What in Maribor’s name…”

“It’s nothing.” Royce wriggled away from Hadrian’s grip.

“If you consider nothing bleeding to death at the point you can’t mount a horse, I wonder what something will be for you,” Hadrian replied.

Without noticing, his hands went to his face, but no, he wasn’t bleeding anymore. And no tremors either. But if the symptoms returned to Royce in full force, it was entirely possible that… or it was because Royce was a mir? No: the palliative had worked perfectly on both of them before.

“We need to go back,” Hadrian said.

“Are you crazy?” Royce replied, spitting a mouthful of blood. “At this point, Braga mobilized the entire army to hunt us down.”

“Well, it’s either death by poison or death by sword. I’ll take the risk.”

“You won’t die.”

There was something in the tone, or in the way Royce wasn’t looking at him that unsettled Hadrian. “What do you mean, Iwon’t?”

Royce slumped back on the ground, unable to remain standing. “I didn’t take the antidote.”

“Why?”

“Because there was only one.” Royce’s tone was low, he was clearly angry. Hadrian didn’t understand the reason: of course, bleeding by every hole wasn’t pleasant, but an explanation was in order. “The doctor had only one.”

“Well, why you… You threatened him to synthesize another, right?”

“I tried….” Royce coughed. “But he opposed me… I stopped him… It was a mistake but… the entire laboratory caught flame. I just… took what I could and rushed outside. Everything else, including the doctor, is gone.”

That justified his smelly clothes, but Hadrian was still baffled. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Royce snorted. “You wouldn’t have drunk the antidote otherwise. You would have played hero, like you always do, and forced me to drink it, or to split it or whatever.”

“Well, of course, I would have!” Hadrian threw his arms in the air in exasperation. “Anything else would have been better than being in the middle of nowhere with you in those conditions.”

Again, Royce tried to stand but slipped to the ground. “It’s funny.”

“Hilarious,” Hadrian replied, and lent him a hand. This time, Royce took it.

“No, I… was thinking about… I didn’t really care where or how I died, you know? I was a lot more focused on staying alive. But now… I’m quite displeased with not being in Medford. Gwen is there… so…. She is the closest thing we can call home, isn’t she?”

Hadrian took Royce’s loquacity as a sign that he was really sick and probably losing his mind. He helped him back on the horse’s back, but Royce dismounted again heavily.

“I have a lot hoarded. Almost three hundred golden tenents,” Royce continued, unaware. “Give half to Gwen… something to Albert too, I think he’ll die without our help… the rest should be enough for that Uberlin damned winery of yours…”

“You’re delirious,” Hadrian stated.

“Never been more lucid in my life,” Royce replied, but he spat a cough of blood. “You won’t survive without me, so better retire now.” He trembled, and he would fall again if Hadrian wouldn’t catch him in his arms. “Will you dig a grave for me? It’ll be nice…” He snickered, and it was a strange, humorless sound. “I would have chosen the Crimson Hands’ cemetery on other occasions. It would have been… fit.”

“You’re not going to die,” Hadrian replied. “We’re going back to Swarwick to look for a cure right now. Braga probably-”

“There’s nothing to return! You’ll only put yourself in danger!” Royce tried to push him, but he was too weak to free himself from Hadrian’s grasp. “I saved your life! I’m not letting you waste it!”

“I didn’t ask you to do it,” Hadrian replied and, this time, he was angry. “You should have left me a choice. And now we’re going back. I’ll tie you up if I have to.”

“You damn sacrificial idiot-” Royce would have spoken again, if Hadrian wouldn’t have punched him in the face.

“I’m going to kill him,” was the first thing Royce said as he woke up.

He didn’t remember much of his last travel, the poison was weakening him to the point he spent more time unconscious and understood very little when he was conscious. But he did remember Hadrian punching him.

A light chuckle lured Royce’s attention. Turning, he saw a man comfortably sitting in an armchair next to a bed – no, the bed Royce was laying on. Reality came back to him at once: he was still alive and, apparently, back healthy. No more tremors, bleeding, or general tiredness.

“How…”

“He brought you to me just in time,” Christopher Fawkes – or NisaDulgath, or whatever was her real name – said, with a smile. “I managed to extract all the poison from you. You’re fine.”

Royce let the meaning of those words sink in. Hadrian did save him somehow. Sure, he could have thought about this solution before, so they wouldn’t spend more time than needed on the subject, but nevertheless, it wasn’t something Royce would have thought of.

“Where is he?”

“Your significant other?” she inquired, amused. “Outside, with Scarlet.”

“Scarlet Dodge?”

“Lady Scarlet Fawkes, Duchess of Dulgath now,” sheamended. “And the mother of the future Earl of Dulgath.”

Royce frowned. “Can you still… work in that body?”

“What a rude question!” But she was more amused than scandalized. “Sorry, you lost the chance to check years ago.” She stood up. “But, to be honest, I doubt you have second thoughts. Hard have any chances when Hadrian pleaded for your safety like that.”

Perhaps she expected Royce to ask for more, but he didn’t. He just knew enough of Hadrian to imagine it.

“I’ll tell him you’re awake.”

“Thank you,” Royce whispered. It wasn’t something he gave easily, but he felt she deserved it. In some way, Hadrian’s good deeds had saved them many times, but with her, it had been Royce’s good deeds, strange as it was. “For everything.”

She acknowledged it with a nod and a little smile, before leaving him alone in the room. Royce had just the time to asset better the location and the state of his body, with the silk robe he was wearing instead of his usually dark leather, when Hadrian appeared on the doorstep.

“What’s up, buddy? How are you feeling?” he asked, with a big grin.

“You’re an idiot.”

Hadrian just shrugged. “Been there, done that. Weren’t we past that?”

“Fine. I admit, this was pretty smart.” Royce pointed out generically at the room. “How do you think about it?”

“I didn’t really think.” Hadrian sat on the edge of the bed. “You were dying on me, I was panicking and then I saw the road to Dulgath… and here we are.”

“I’m not sure I would have taken that path.”

“Why not? You saw what she can do.”

Royce scoffed. “Not very good at asking favors.” He glared at Hadrian. “But it is a testament I made the right decision giving the antidote to you.”

At that, sadness fell over Hadrian’s eyes. “What you did was stupid, completely careless, and selfish.”

“Selfish?” Royce couldn’t believe his ears. That was what you got for being good, then. “I gave up my chance at living for you and I’m selfish?”

“Yes.” Hadrian didn’t falter. “Because you decided, by yourself, that you can’t live without me, but didn’t think at all about me living without you.”

“I can live without you,” Royce stated.

“Then why didn’t you drink the antidote?” Hadrian retorted. “You’re the smart one, the planning one. And, as you like to point out, in danger people always do what’s better for them, not for others.”

At that moment, Royce didn’t feel extremely smart. And he hated how Hadrian could read him now, always arguing with him in a way that forced Royce to look at himself and his belief in a way he hadn’t anticipated before. Hadrian couldn’t change everything about him, but enough.

“You would have lived without me,” he said. “Opening that winery of you, finally finding a girl to settle down…” He scoffed. “I’m pretty sure you regret leaving now that you saw Scarlett again. I was told she became the Duchess.”

Hadrian didn’t seem to take the bait. Instead, he moved closer to caress Royce’s face. Hadrian’s hands were rough, big, and callouses; and they had more blood than it was imaginable, yet they were so delicate.

“It wasn’t yours to decide,” he said, before kissing him, just a slight brush of their lips.

“I’m still recovering,” Royce pointed out, while he dragged down Hadrian onto the mattress, his hands gripping Hadrian’s shirt.

“Should I leave?”

“No.”

There was a way for Hadrian to have sex that made Royce feel safe. It was probably the slow pace he moved, as he always feared that Royce might reject him suddenly, and he didn’t want to take anything for granted, not taking from Royce more than he was ready to give. For Royce, it was the comfort of Hadrian’s presence: not everyone had ever seen Royce at his worst, but Hadrian had, so Royce felt safe to share a little more each time, knowing that Hadrian wouldn’t judge him.

From that point of view, Hadrian had become a kind of poison for him. Not a deadly one, though; much like a drug, something Royce had become addicted to.

And he would take the same decision about giving him the antidote again and again.

“Do you think Lord Fawkes will be upset by us using her fancy room like a motel?” Hadrian asked. He was eyeing the crumbled clothes on the floor, as he lay down comfortably, hands behind his head. He never cuddled Royce after sex, as if he knew it would be too close for Royce to bear.

“What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.”