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The fire had burned low, little more than a cradle of embers glowing in the hearth. The faint hiss of sap cracked inside the wood, tiny sparks leaping and dying before they reached the blackened stone. Smoke drifted lazily into the chimney, carrying with it the sharp, rich scent of the rum they’d been drinking for the first time in years. It hung in the air, familiar but foreign, pulling at memories he couldn’t quite catch.
Will was warm, too warm, in a way that wasn’t entirely from the fire. Heat pressed at his face, pooled in his stomach, and blurred the lines of the cabin around him. The rum had loosened his body and his mind both, melting the steel plates he’d held over himself for so long. He hated it. The night had started light enough, old stories traded like gifts, half-smiles slipping through when neither was watching, the easy rhythm they always fell into when it was just them.
But now, something else had crept in. Something heavy, coiled in his throat, demanding to be spoken. A weight he’d been swallowing for years, pressing tighter and tighter until it threatened to choke him.
And Halt was just sitting there. Waiting.
Not prodding, not demanding. Just waiting, in that way of his that always left silence hanging sharp enough to cut.
Will stared into his cup, watching the firelight bend across the dark liquid. His voice felt like it belonged to someone else when it came out. “There’s something I’ve never said. To anyone.”
Halt’s eyes flicked up, steady, unreadable, patient. “Then perhaps tonight’s the night.”
Will gave a laugh, short, thin, hollow. “You’d hate me if you knew.”
“I doubt it.”
“You shouldn’t doubt it.” His fingers clenched around the cup, knuckles whitening. He couldn’t look at Halt. He couldn’t look at anything. “It’s… wrong. I’ve been told it’s wrong my whole life. That people like that are dangerous. That they deserve what they get… And I’ve believed them.”
The fire popped. Halt didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sat there, still as stone, giving him all the rope in the world to hang himself with.
Will’s chest ached. “I’ve buried it under work. Under missions. Under training. Pushed it so far down it felt like maybe I’d drowned it. Told myself it was nothing. That I’d grow out of it.” He let out a jagged breath that scraped his throat raw. “I didn’t.”
For a moment, the world held its breath with him.
And then, the words slipped out, unguarded, unplanned, a crack in his armour he hadn’t seen until it was too late. “Every time I see him–”
He froze.
God he froze.
The sound of the word echoed in his head like a bell tolling in a dead-silent cathedral. Not vague. Not safe. Not hidden behind smoke and shadow. A slip sharp as a blade, slicing his secret wide open. Him.
His heart stuttered, then lurched into a frantic pounding so violent it hurt. His hands went cold. His stomach turned to ice. He didn’t dare look at Halt. He didn’t dare breathe too loudly, as if any sound might confirm what he’d just let fall into the air.
Gods. No. No, no, no.
The word hung there, thick and suffocating, impossible to claw back into his throat. Not ‘them.’ Not ‘someone.’ Not the careful veil of vagueness he’d wrapped around himself for years. No. He’d said ‘him.’ He might as well have shouted the name, carved it into the cabin walls for Halt to read every day until he grew so sick of it he burned the building down.
And with that one slip, something inside him shattered.
He’s going to hate me. The thought tore through him, sharp, certain, absolute. He’s going to get up. He’s going to tell me to get out. He’ll tell Crowley, he’ll tell Gilan. Gods, Horace. Horace will know. They’ll all know. The whole Corps. Every word I’ve said, every look I’ve given, every moment I thought I was subtle, they’ll laugh, or sneer, or pity me. I’ll lose my commission. They’ll strip the cloak off my shoulders and send me away like a criminal. Maybe they won’t even let me walk away. Maybe they’ll–
The spiral spun faster, darker. His chest tightened until he could barely breathe. I’ve ruined it. Everything Halt’s given me, everything I’ve built. One word. One slip. He’ll never look at me the same again. He’ll see the filth he called a son.
His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he rose. “Forget it,” he said quickly, voice tight. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Sit down, Will.”
It wasn’t loud. But Halt’s voice carried that iron thread that brooked no refusal. Will hesitated, pulse roaring in his ears, then lowered himself back onto the stool like a man sitting for his own execution.
“I’m not angry,” Halt said.
Will laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “You should be.”
“I’m not.”
“Why not?!” The words were shouted, built up by years of listening to the town call people like him disgusting, built up by each day he had to listen to his friends make offhand comments, built up by each podium he watched get set up in the town square, knowing he was committing the very crime those people were being killed for. “You’re supposed to be furious. You’re supposed to think I’m disgusting.” His voice cracked. “You’re supposed to tell me I’ve ruined everything.”
Halt’s gaze softened in a way only Will would notice. “I’m not supposed to be anything except the man who knows you. And I do. All of you. And I don’t hate you for it.”
Will stared at him, his mind fighting every instinct to believe it. The shame in his chest didn’t know how to process mercy.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said at last, voice low and bitter.
“I know more than you think.”
The words landed differently than anything else Halt had said all night. They carried a strange weight, but no explanation followed.
Will let that sit between them, gnawing at the edges in his mind. “So… you’re saying–”
“I’m saying,” Halt interrupted, “that I know what it’s like to keep something locked away because the world won’t understand it.”
Will’s eyes narrowed.
Halt looked at Will, really looked at him.
“Will. I know.”
Will sat back, chewing the inside of his cheek. He wanted to ask outright, but they were dancing around the subject, turning and swirling in every single direction that didn’t lead to the point. So instead, he prodded sideways.
“You ever… think about telling anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“Not for a long time.”
“And when you did?”
Halt’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “It didn’t destroy me.”
Will frowned at that. “That’s… not nothing.”
“No,” Halt agreed.
They let it drop there, drifting into safer ground. Will asked about the fief’s patrol schedule, the winter hunting conditions. Halt muttered something about Baron Arald’s increasingly impractical hunting trips. The talk was lighter now, but the air still danced, still swayed and turned to the rhythm, still avoided that one part of the stage.
Somewhere between refilling their cups and arguing about whether Seacliff’s weather was truly worse than Redmont’s, Will found himself glancing sidelong at Halt. That unfinished thread still tugged at him.
The fire had nearly died when he spoke again, voice soft, uncertain. “Crowley?”
Halt didn’t look at him. He only gave the smallest nod.
“Horace?”
Now it was Will’s turn to nod.