Chapter Text
Nothing about this autumn afternoon is any different than any other.
The wind blows with a slight chill, the darkening sky is mottled like the shades of a bruise, the streetlights throughout town glow with gentle, enchanted light. Everyone else is making their way to the Sleeping Dragon Inn, just as normal. In front of Balor, Nora and Holt are pushing through the double doors with Olric on their heels. To the left, emerging from the bend of the road, Terethia is ambling up with hands in her pocket, whistling a tune that catches in the breeze. The river is gurgling under the bridge, the woods surrounding the city are stirring. Everything is exactly as it should be on this perfect, Mistrian evening.
But something is wrong. Balor stands at the mouth of the bridge entering town with the wind tugging on his cloak, his hair, his earrings. He frowns. Nothing is out of place, not a single leaf or shingle or cloud.
But something is wrong. He can feel it. It’s a bad, cold sensation in his gut and a tingling in his hands. Usually Balor trusts his instincts over everything else — they were honed in the worst parts of the Capital and have gotten him this far. But no one else seems to have noticed anything and from what he can tell, not a pebble seems to be out of place.
And this is Mistria. A new life. He is fine. He is safe.
Balor squares his shoulders and tosses his hair a bit. He shoves the bad feeling down as deep as it will go and starts walking, nonchalantly as ever, towards the Inn and through the worn, red doors of the Sleeping Dragon.
It’s a busy afternoon and Balor is late. Most everyone is here already. The air smells of onions, chickens, and curry, and the people of Mistria press here and there, laughing and eating.
“There is his!” A voice calls out right before an arm drops across Balor’s shoulders. He stumbles to the side as Landen pulls him in for a half-hug. “The man of the hour. I can’t believe it, but that salve you brought me is like magic, I swear. My shoulder hasn’t felt better in years.”
“Of course.” Balor flashes his signature Merchant Smile, half in mockery of himself and half out of habit. “Refined Crispwood Oil, straight from the Occid Coast.”
“Next time, get a whole batch if you’re able to, that vial is about the size of a mouse. I’ll pay you back with a hundred birdhouses. No, a thousand birdhouses.”
“Make that a quadruple order,” Josephine calls as she sweeps by with an armful of small baskets, all full of steaming warm buns. She flashes Balor a smile over her shoulder. “I want to see if Landen’s just talking it up.”
“That might depend,” Balor calls after her into the clamor of the Inn. “On how soon you make that cinnamon pudding again.”
Josephine laughs, twisting around to call back, “Get me the oil and I’ll make you that pudding for a week.”
Balor formally salutes. Behind him, Terethia has stepped in with a gush of the cool evening air and is guffawing with Landen. Maple and Luc are running up and down the stairs, Errol is scooting by holding a bowl of something up high to keep from bumping into anyone, and Balor is relaxing into the comfort that is dinner in Mistria, when he notices that several people are congregated around the back table.
“Something going on?” Terethia asks as she steps up beside him, nodding towards the crowd, her hair and shirt perfectly wind-tousled.
“Haven’t heard yet?” Hemlock says, leaning on his elbows from the other side of the bar. “Adeline’s got her first Mistrian tourist.”
Balor’s smile slips a little, but he pulls it back on. The bad feeling from earlier bobs up.
“Another merchant?” Terethia is asking.
“Don’t know. Holt told me it was some Capital fellow stopping by.”
A flush spreads up Balor’s neck. A stupid anxiety grips him that makes him want to both sprint towards the doors and slam his head against the wall for being a child. There are a million people this traveler could be, a billion reasons for them to come. Balor’s an idiot. This traveler has nothing to do with him. Probably. Most likely.
“Maybe they’re a fancy noble,” Landen says, perching on a stool at the bar. “A friend of the Baron’s or something.”
Hemlock shakes his head. “I don’t know about fancy. I only got a glimpse of him but he looked half-starved to me.”
Balor shifts just enough that he can feel the knife he has strapped to his forearm, hidden under his bilious sleeve. He has it strapped on high, almost to his elbow, just to make sure none of the other Mistrians get a glimpse of it, but knowing it’s there is a comfort. He’s no longer a shaking child from the Pits, he reminds himself, jumping at his own shadow, his face and knuckles perpetually bruised. He’s an adult. A respected merchant. Someone who regularly travels out of Mistria and invites people to Mistria and is himself only the second newest resident of Mistria, if he could even be classified as a resident. He’s the worldly outsider. That’s his whole schtick here. A single new traveler shouldn’t leave him quaking in his boots, bad feeling or no. So Balor shoves every bit of foreboding away and forces his muscles to relax.
“Maybe he’s come for some fresh air,” he says, gratified when his voice comes out lazy and assured, with no trace of nerves.
“Aye, a lungful or two of sea air would do wonders for those city folk, with all the factories and all,” Terethia says, voice twisting scornfully to underscore where she stood on the concept of factories. “Think he’s come to help with the renovations?”
Landen tears off a chunk of the bun he had somehow nabbed from one of Josephine’s baskets. “Doubt it. Ryis told me that Olric told him that this fellow came into town looking for something.”
“Looking for something? What?”
“Dunno."
“And is our visitor over there?” Balor asks, nodding towards the thick knot of people in front of the fireplace.
“He’s being swamped over there, yeah,” Landen says. “They should let the poor man breathe. I’m surprised he hasn’t run off screaming yet.”
Balor cranes his head, but Errol and Holt are blocking the view. Pounding down every bit of nerves one last time for good measure, Balor flips his hair off his shoulder and saunters towards the crowd.
People are milling around, shifting, grabbing food, chatting together. Balor formally half-bows to Mable who pauses mid-run to curtsy, and waves at Valen and Juniper, who are sitting near the wall, already sipping two crystal chalices of deep red wine. Balor has to walk almost all the way to the last table to get a good look at the newcomer, who is pale with buzzed red hair, dressed in worn, dark linens and leathers and is sitting in the chair right in front of the fire with a plate full of food before him.
It’s Royden.
Balor stops. Time stops. The noise and lights of the Inn freeze and Balor stares, helpless as one of the dead, pinned beetles in the museum, as Royden lifts his eyes and looks straight at him.
The last time Balor had seen him had been over ten years ago. Royden had been shorter, scrawnier and had been screaming as he was handcuffed and thrown over a guard’s shoulder during the raid on that putrid basement that had been the Red Eye’s hideout. Balor had been a sick, terrified child — memory of that raid is choppy and swirled, a fever dream of faces, movement, and shadows, but he remembers with clarity seeing Royden carried up the wooden stairs and into the blinding, white light of day.
Balor had never seen him again, never known what had happened to him. But he knows that this is Royden. He has the same face with the same sharp edges, and the same gray eyes, so light they’re near transparent, as though if you leaned in close you could peer right inside of him and see nothing there.
Royden smiles. A friendly smile, amused, as though he had expected Balor to be standing here.
“Whoa, whoa, let’s not crowd the man.” Nora’s voice filters through the high-pitch ringing in Balor’s ears.
“Don’t mind them all,” Josephine calls from the kitchen towards Royden. “We don’t get a lot of visitors from out of town.”
“Though that’s all about to change. You’ve picked a wonderful time to visit Mistria,” Adeline says with her best sales-pitch voice. She’s standing just to Royden’s right, with Eiland leaning against the fireplace behind her. Holt, Hayden, Elsie, Reina, Nora, and Olric are all gathered around close, with the others milling nearby. Dell is right beside Royden’s left arm, within arms reach, watching him with large, wide eyes. “We’ve made great progress excavating the mines just north of here,” Adeline continues, “And have had success revamping our Saturday market — Oh, Balor!”
Several sets of eyes turn towards Balor. Balor realizes he’s not sure what his face is doing and tries to pull it back under control.
“This is — Royden, was it? He just came into town today from the Capital. He says you two know each other.” Adeline smiles politely with curiosity peeking through her voice.
The town members look at him. Royden looks at him. Balor feels as though the world is spinning like a top around him, as though gravity has increased and the air has grown thick.
“Ah,” Balor manages.
“It’s been a long time,” Royden says. His voice has deepened, but is still languid and soft. He’s gripping his fork in his left hand right next to Dell, the other twisted so that the palm is facing up. A position that Balor knows means he could be moments away from slipping out a knife which is surely hidden up his dark, linen sleeve.
The leather of the knife holder strapped to Balor’s own arm presses just below the crux of his elbow. For a moment he thinks of slipping it out and throwing it before Royden can catch on, but there’s a knot of people around him. And is Balor being ridiculous? Could Royden be here by coincidence?
“Right,” Balor says, his thoughts a moment behind his mouth. He keeps his face smooth, his voice pitched high with casual interest. “Yes.”
“I never expected to find you in a place like this,” Royden says and something in his tone makes Balor itch. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
Balor’s heart reaches a near gallop. Of course it’s not a coincidence. The Royden that Balor knew, despite being a scrawny teen, was vengeful and cruel. There were rumors through the streets of Royden pulling apart live rats, pulling teeth or nails as punishment on the younger children. Any time Pietr wasn’t around to keep him in line, Royden was as dangerous as a viper. Balor remembers, one time he had slipped up and crossed the older boy, how Royden had loomed over him, pressing the edge of his knife under Balor’s jaw and slowly carving a thin line across his neck that took weeks to heal. Balor hadn’t yet been ten years old —
“Have you?” Balor says, as pleasantly as he can. Too many sets of curious eyes are focused on the two of them and Balor knows he’s handling this all wrong, that his facade is dropping, but his body is buzzing and his thoughts are flying off before he can catch them.
One part of Balor, the part that was cut and molded in the Pits of the Capital, notes that Royden has his back to the fire, that he’s sitting down and half trapped by the table, that if Balor hits now he could use the commotion to his advantage. The knife inside of Balor’s sleeve seems to burn, his fingers trembling to whip it out.
But the other part of Balor, the part that grew up and grew tired and has fallen in love with Mistria, is screaming that there’s a wolf crouched right here in the Inn and too many people are in too much danger. If he pulls out his knife, Royden has plenty of time to get to several of the others before Balor could even reach him, hell, Dell is right there and Royden is gripping his fork tightly. If he wanted to any moment he could —
“You knew Balor in the Capital?” Dell asks, looking up at Royden with wide, awestruck eyes.
Royden turns his head down, focusing his whole attention on her. He smiles again. “I did. We were boys together. We played all up and down the Capital, until one day, Balor decided he was done with all of that.” Royden cocks his head to the side and makes a tutting noise. “That’s why it was so important that I find him.”
To Royden’s side, Elsie’s eyes flick towards Balor and back. Errol’s eyebrows dip a bit and Adeline’s head tilts. They’re picking up the tension. Royden is a snake in human skin, but the last thing Balor needs is the townsfolk interfering.
“How about let’s step outside and talk,” Balor says, his voice back to normal. His pulse is pounding, sweat sliding down his back. “I’d love to catch up.”
Royden swivels his head back up, transparent grey eyes locking onto Balor. “Are you sure? We could talk here. Everyone’s so nice.”
“I’d rather it just be between us.”
“Well, that’s not a lot of fun.” When Balor doesn’t respond, Royden's shoulders rise up and down in a theatrical sigh. “If you insist.”
He stands. He’s taller than Balor thought he would be, near skeletal thin. He sets down the fork, fingers sliding over it as he steps around Dell and the corner of the table. Without looking at the townspeople still gathered around, Royden slowly, lazily, walks towards Balor. His strides are long and light, like a tiger on the prowl.
Balor keeps his own pleasant look plastered on his face. He’ll lead Royden outside. He’ll turn towards the left. Maybe he can get as far as the bridge before Royden attacks, maybe Balor can use that to his advantage —
Royden approaches. Balor falls back a few steps, turning halfway to the door, anxious to keep his exposed back turned away. Royden is only a step away from Balor when Adeline’s voice calls out, “Wait.”
She’s stepped forward out of the crowd and is standing straight, her shoulders squared. There’s a steely glint in her eyes. “I think you should stay here. Talk here. We don’t mind.”
Oh, seven hells. Balor’s hand itches for his knife, but he’s knees his fighting skills are rusty. He hasn’t fought in ages, while Royden looks as sharp as a blade himself.
Royden turns halfway back, so that he can look at Adeline without showing his back to Balor. He smiles again. “If that’s what you want,” he says lightly. “I don’t mind.” That smile never fully leaves his lips, Balor realizes. He’s enjoying this.
“No.” The word comes out of Balor’s mouth too harsh. He can feel his mask slipping, panic building. Most people in the Inn have realized that something weird is going on. Conversations are dying and Balor can feel every single set of eyes on him like weights. “I really need to talk to him alone.”
"Stay.” Adeline takes a step forward. Her eyes are locked onto Balor’s now, intense as though trying to beam him a message. “I’m serious. I’d love to hear what Mr. Royden has to say.”
Balor’s eyes are fixed on Adeline, but in his periphery, he sees Nora calling Dell over with a blank face. Ryis’s eyebrows are drawn as he looks from Balor to Royden and back. To Balor’s right, Valen has risen to her feet while Juniper is frowning over her cup.
Royden is still smiling, eyebrows raised as though enjoying a good show. He looks back at Balor, as though to say, Your turn.
Balor has to get them out of here. “It’s not any of your business,” he says harshly to Adeline.
Adeline doesn’t blink. “Actually,” she says. “I think it is. Please. Stay here.”
Balor shakes his head. He takes another step back, as though to lead Royden. “Let’s go,” he says to Royden. Please.
But instead of moving, Royden shakes his head. “Balor, Balor,” he says, tugging out the vowels in Balor’s name and tutting. His smile has grown wider. Cold fear grips Balor. “Looks like your friends want to get to know me.”
Royden’s left hand flicks and the knife that Balor knew was there darts out into his hand, long, thin, and glinting. Like a thunder clap, the tension bursts and a million things happen. Someone shouts, someone gasps, Adeline barks an order, Errol barrels forward, knocking chairs out of his way. In the crowd, in the sudden action, Balor sees Olric shoving March back, Terethia grabbing a chair as though to ram them with, and Juniper launching to her feet. But it's all slow motion details, faded and out of focus, as Balor watches Royden in stark and excruciating detail. Royden’s stubbly hair glints in the firelight, his teeth are bared in a wild grin, and the muscles in his neck bunch as he’s turning away from Balor and towards the crowd of others, raising his knife and Balor knows he made a fatal mistake in letting Royden know he cared for these people.
Balor shoots forward. Of the crowd of Mistrians by the fireplace, Holt is closest to Royden. He has his arms out as though to shield the group behind him, but his eyes are wide in shock and he stands frozen. Even as Royden lunges forward, Holt doesn’t move and Balor doesn’t think at all as his own body surges, grabs a ceramic plate from the table beside him, and crashes it against the side of Royden’s head.
The plate was heavier than Balor thought and instead of striking with the edge, he hits Royden in the jaw with the flat side, food smashing against the side of his face and cushioning the blow. But all Balor needed to do was get Royden’s attention. And he gets it.
Royden stumbles and roars — all pretense gone, his motion all animalistic wildness. He whirs towards Balor and swings his knife out drunkenly. Balor blocks it, falling back as Royden leaps towards him. Balor’s own knife is too high up his arm — it’s too late to reach it. Instead, Balor grabs Royden’s wrist as he lunges and throws his other arm against Royden’s neck before twisting and shoving Royden forward, trying to wrench the knife out of his hand.
But Balor is out of practice and does the move wrong somehow because Royden’s arm bends instead of twists, and then Royden is twisting too, turning around so that his rigor mortis smile flashes less than an inch in front of Balor’s face. In one swift motion, Royden grips Balor’s shoulder with one hand and with the other, punches his knife deep into Balor’s gut.
Balor feels the puncture of the knife like a blast of lightning, pain shattering through his body so hot and encompassing that the world blurs into a silent kaleidoscope around him. Royden’s eyes are so wide and clear, Balor feels himself pitching forward into them —
Then, through the colors and rocking of the world, something heavy crashes in Royden and his grip on Balor breaks. Royden goes down. Balor stumbles back. There’s screaming and scrambling and Balor feels the floor crashing against his knees and palms before he’s realized that he’s fallen. He’s on his hands and knees, lungs burning but he can’t breathe, can’t move, not with the pain wrapped around him like iron bands. He can feel heavy thuds of running feet through the floorboard and through the curtain of his hair, a crack of sapphire blue light with the noxious smell of burning metal. Balor gasps, sinking further towards the ground, his shoulders convulsing. For a moment, he looks up to see Royden on the ground, glowing blue bands of light encasing his hands and neck, his body frozen in an unnatural contortion. A shattered wooden chair is in pieces around him. Terethia stands over him with blood streaming down her nose, Errol is picking himself up from the ground, and Juniper is breathing hard, hands still outstretched and sparking.
“Mr. Balor.” A soft, small hand lands on his shoulder and Balor’s head twists to the side. Maple is kneeling beside him, her eyes wide and terrified and staring at something beneath Balor. “Mr. Balor, you —“
Balor follows her gaze down. There’s a hilt of a knife sticking out of his abdomen, a bloom of blood on his dark blue tunic, drops already dotting the wooden floor beneath him.
“Ah,” Balor says. There’s something warm and thick over his tongue. His arms shake and before he can collapse, Balor sits back, his back bumping against one of the bar stools. He can feel the edge of the knife slicing into him with each move and with each breath. Half of him shutters and screams, but the other half, the half still in charge of his body, is detached, spinning free. This is bad. He should do something. He raises one hand up, shaking fingers curling around the leather-wrapped hilt. He can’t think, can’t breathe, he needs it out —
A strong, vice-like grip yanks his hand away, and he hears Valen’s voice hissing right against his ear, “Don’t you dare.” Suddenly he’s being rotated and shoved down onto his back on the ground. He thinks he does scream then — he’s not sure. His body is out of step with the rest of him, half a second behind, blinking off and on. He does know that the world whites out and when he can see and breathe again, the beamed ceiling of the Inn above him. Valen kneels right over him, close enough that Balor can see the lines of her face as her lips press together tight.
“Oh fuck,” someone says above him.
“I need help,” Valen calls, half over her shoulder. More shouts, more movement above him, more faces pressing close, panicked footsteps reverberating through the wooden planks.
Balor lifts his head and looks down. There’s a blur of bodies above him but what catches his eyes is the hilt of a knife that sticks right out of him, like the mast of a ship, he thinks wildly. He lifts another hand feebly for it, only for it to get knocked away.
“Will someone hold him down?” Valen shouts, sharp enough that Balor feels bad, like a kid being caught with the candy jar.
More voices. Hands are on his arms and legs. Balor catches Nora’s voice saying “Kids!” And then Errol’s voice, soft and right above him saying, “What if I carried him?”
The bloom of blood keeps spreading through Balor’s shirt, warm and wet. And the knife pulses like a burning ball of molten metal, smouldering like a hot coal. Was that normal? Balor’s been stabbed before, maybe not this stabbed, but he doesn’t remember it being bad as this. Weird.
Suddenly arms are sliding underneath Balor’s neck and knees. Balor opens his eyes - he hadn’t realized they had closed - and blinks through the blur to see Errol above him, his great bushy eyebrows drawn together.
“Easy there, boy,” Errol says. “Hang in there.”
Balor feels Errol’s arms tense before the floor falls away beneath him and darkness crashes down on top of him like granite stone.