Midnight dreamt of stars.

She woke abruptly beneath a blank sky.

Cold. Stony. Lightless.

There was nothing above her but black. Still, her eyes did not meet the silken canvas she once knew. Midnight no longer danced in distant fields of light. She was here, here, here, trapped in the mountain’s heart.

Loud, rhythmical marching mumbled through the rocky walls surrounding her. Whatever soundless memories her dreams had wrought faded with the footsteps. She rose quickly, rubbed off sleep and ache as well as she could, and hurried across the cold, dark expanse of her chamber to join the throng outside.

Hops did not meet her this day. Nor could Midnight see him in the low light of the tunnels among the dozens of workers trudging on. A Heartless ensured the crowd kept steady pace. It was the same sight each day. An uncaring guard watching over a rolling mass of men and women whose empty, haggard faces flashed by in the torchlight.

This was her. Another featureless drop in a pond. Her step fell in line with theirs. She walked on for time uncounted.

‘Midnight! Midnight!’ burst a sudden voice. Then came the warmth of touch. Midnight felt a dirty hand grip hers. She looked down. A shadow shorter than the rest walked beside her. Thìr. There was a momentary smile in dimming fire before the dark of the tunnel swallowed it again. No one else even flinched.

‘It’s the Machines today,’ the boy said, squeezing Midnight’s hand.

There were not many around Thìr’s age in the caves. Midnight was relieved at that, for the sight of even this one boy broke her heart. She did not know how he ended up in the mountain. Midnight could not ask and Thìr had never spoken much of his home. But on other subjects, the boy could speak plenty for the both of them.

‘Do you want to hear a story?’ he asked quietly.

The boy had picked up old man Hops’ habit of telling tales. It was the one way to reach and remember the outside. Hopeful words spoken in a hopeless world. Midnight nodded but the boy did not wait for her approval to begin.

‘It goes like this. A long time ago in a faraway kingdom that no one can remember—no one but me, of course—lived an archer. His name was Thrindìr and he was the lord of his land. His was a land of green hills, blue rivers, golden fields, and silver cities. He was the greatest archer in his kingdom—he could shoot any target. Fair Thrindìr loved his country and his people, and everyone loved him. Dark of hair and light of eyes, he had a hard face but an easy smile.’

Midnight closed her eyes for a moment to conjure up the boy’s images. She allowed herself to think of things beyond the caves. Patchy pictures of her homeland appeared. To her, it truly was a faraway kingdom on the brink of being forgotten.

‘Thrindìr wouldn’t go anywhere without his trusty bow. With it he could hunt any game’—the boy’s enthusiastic motions accompanied the story—‘He could defend his friends and defeat his foes. It is said that he never needed more than three arrows, for he would launch them with all the force of the wind and the song of storms behind them.’

Midnight felt a jolt. She remembered. She was taken back to words coolly spoken beside a lake mingling with moonlight. Midnight remembered a father’s steady hand guiding her shaky aim. She was reminded of arrows flying free beneath a harsh summer sun. And she recalled a cast-off weapon tucked in the secret safety of her chamber. A pulse shook the numbness of sleep, and she knew what she had in her possession. The seeds of a plan sprouted, throwing out uncertain shoots. Should she even dare to dream?

‘But not everyone was happy with Thrindìr,’ said Thìr, his voice taking on a sombre tone. ‘There were evil men who grew jealous of his skill and service. The Harathi. From over the black mountains they came and back to the mountains they crawled. But they couldn’t touch him. So they bribed cowards hungry for coin, men from Thrindìr’s own land who spied for this rival nation.

‘While fair Thrindìr was out hunting, these spies secretly broke his bow under the pretence of assisting him. When the beast came, they fled and Thrindìr could not protect himself. And so it was that the Harathi found him wounded and bleeding in the forest. They captured him and dragged him into the darkness of their dungeons.’

Midnight shuddered. It had happened to her so long ago. Those memories were fuzzy now. Muffled shouts. Shadowed hands which dragged her away, away, away. They took her far from names and faces which will never again see the light of sun or moon.

‘But even in prison Thrindìr did not give up hope. Even when the Harathi hung up his broken bow as a symbol of his broken spirit and broken land. Even when the days and nights passed by without mercy. For it was here he met Princess Medina.

‘You see, the Harathi had captured the princess of a nearby kingdom and it so happened that Thrindìr discovered her in the dark. Her eyes were full and grey like the moon. Her hair was long and black as shadows. She shone as a fragile, lone star in the night.

‘And yet her beauty could not disguise her sadness. For her voice had once been lovely as a songbird, but now she did not speak. Thrindìr grieved to see one so beautiful in such a terrible place. Though she could not respond to his questions and he did not know her name, Thrindìr came to love her over time.’

Midnight wanted to laugh. She wanted to express her joy at inspiring a tale in so young a mind. The boy was so excited, hopeful, playful. But there was no audible response from her as Thir’s words echoed carefully down the length of the cave. Only the walls eavesdropped on his story.

‘Together, they determined to escape their horrid prison. The princess was skilled in all manner of arts and could walk unseen. So, with Thrindìr’s strength and Medina’s cunning, the two managed to retrieve the hero’s bow. She repaired the weapon and all Thrindìr needed were three arrows to escape. Where did he get them, you wonder? Don’t ask me, only he knows! But get them he did. He used one on the jailor, one on the commander of the Harathi, and one on the dungeon door. One by one, each obstacle fell until the way stood open. Then, hand in hand, Thrindìr and Medina left those mountains and tasted the light of day once more.

‘They came out to a bright, dazzling day and a lake glinting with gold. It is said that the touch of the sun healed the princess and she could speak again. Medina embraced Thrindìr and used her first words to answer his most important question. I don’t know what happened to Thrindìr and Medina in later years, but I’ve heard their kingdom grew strong and the wind still sings their names.’

The last word came too soon and everything retreated back into the cramped walls of the caves. Its dreadful silence returned, broken only by the light patter of unwilling feet. Each step took her further from the freedom of the story. Its lingering light began to fade. But Midnight clung to it. She clung to that hope with all her might.

‘Do you like it?’ Thir asked.

Midnight smiled—a useless gesture in the dark—and ran a hand through the boy’s hair.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, ‘but this is a story not even old man Hops knows, because I made it!’ Midnight wished she could have seen the boy’s proud grin. How she wished.

‘Shut it, scum!’ growled one of the nearby Heartless. The sound of an unsheathed blade cut the silence. Midnight stiffened.

Thìr squirmed as if to pounce on the guard, but Midnight drew him closer and held him until they passed by. The boy must have realised his folly, for he soon stopped struggling.

‘Keep walking, squirt,’ the guard called after them. ‘Don’t waste your strength. Got a long day ahead of you yet.’

The guard’s insult was lost and forgotten as the workers emerged into the immensity of the cavern. Yawning above them, the mountain’s heart beat black. Lights in the distance marked out working areas.

But they were not stars.

Mere torches against a false sky, they were cruel imitations, reminding her of one more thing she could not have. There was no freedom here. No openness. No air.

The workers were herded toward a ramp leading deeper into the cave. Midnight gripped Thìr’s hand as they faced the cavern’s unfathomable dimensions. They descended toward the Machines.

Into the mountain’s hungry mouth.

Cold crept in as they reached the lower level of the cave. Silhouettes moved about, around, and above them. Midnight felt shaded eyes turn to her. As this place often did, it made her feel small. Watched. Kept in line.

Then the oppression got worse. A voice boomed through the cavern. A gruelling, scraping thing which made her want to cower.

‘You stand on the eve of glory,’ it said. Thìr put his arms around Midnight and held tight. ‘What you build here will pave the way for a new world. A world which you, too, can be a part of if you but obey.’

Midnight could not locate the voice—it was somewhere above and yet it resonated inside her head—but she recognised it. It was the terror in the caves, the lord of this place. She tried to put his face out of her mind.

‘We are close,’ he went on. ‘Do not disappoint and you shall be rewarded. Your eyes will behold something truly grand.’

An incorrigible shout went up as the voice ended. People whom Midnight could not see raised their voices in unison, in agreement. A small part of her mind found it hard to resist. Then the sensation was gone and when the voices around her died, there was nothing but the crackling of flame and creaking of machinery.

‘You heard our lord, you rats,’ a nearby Heartless boomed as he started prodding the crowd onwards. ‘Get to work!’

The monster may have been gone but the monstrous task still lay before her. Ahead they waited silently. War machines and siege weapons, wheeled and wooden creatures slumbering in the dark.

Slaves crept and toiled at the feet of these imposing constructions. Others moved about carrying boxes full of parts and pieces. Though these machines seemed almost like guardians of the mountain, Midnight knew the truth. They were weapons of dark design used to unleash horrid things upon the world. They flung stones, spat fire, and demolished cities.

And she, along with the others, was giving them life. The new world which the monster spoke of would be built on the smouldering ruins of the one she once knew and loved.

‘Hurry up,’ said a guard behind her as he prodded her with the end of his spear. He struck a bruise and Midnight winced, but trudged onward. She realised then that she had been separated from Thìr. The boy was nowhere in sight, and her hand longed for touch again.

She approached one of the huge, immobile machines—wild but restrained by scaffoldings and railings like chains—and began work, following the mindless droning of the other slaves. They did not even need instruction any longer, so long had they been at their harrowing task. Their movements fell into place.

But all the while, Midnight’s mind was elsewhere. It was trained on the hidden corner of her chamber where a precious tool awaited. It was only the parched promise—barely hints of one—of a life beyond this place. Mere dream, mirage, and wishful thinking, perhaps. Yet Midnight watered the plan inside her head.

She pushed through more workers who moved like senseless cogs, unaware of what was on her mind. But the mind of one determined can achieve great things. Midnight began watching. In between her routines—in the precious moments not spent pulling levers, working pulleys, or lifting materials—she took notice. The guards and their patrols, the workers and their routes, the machinery and its placement. She took it all in. The mountain’s heart kept beating, and Midnight wanted to learn its every thrum.

It was not long before Midnight realised the central cavern of the Machines acted as a hub for other activity also. Workers from other departments flowed through the thoroughfare. They carried components that would surely be assembled into weapons elsewhere.

Midnight saw her chance.

A couple of workers dropped off a crate, momentarily distracted by orders from a Heartless. Light as a shadow, she made her way toward it. Like a creeping moon, always moving yet still to the gaze of others. Under the gaze of mute machines, there was no one to notice, no one to raise a cry.

As she approached the supply create, Midnight wavered. Her confidence was ripped and she set her thoughts on Thìr and Hops. Even if her foolish plan came through, what would happen to those she cared about? Midnight cursed her weakness. Cursed the mountain for the thousandth thousandth time. Cursed all her pain, all her sorrow. She wanted to turn them into strength and weaponry.

And this was the only away.

Midnight took the final steps toward the crate and looked inside the open top. Hemp fashioned into strings lay in neat, wrapped bundles. She reached in and took a hold of the fabric. It was as if she touched hope itself. This was it. This was a voice for her bow. With this it could sing.

Midnight hastily drew out a bundle. For one terse moment, she looked around. But no one seemed to have noticed. She pulled on the bundle until the knot came undone and then tied the string around her waist. Wrapped closely to her like this, it blended with the dirty fabrics of her ragged clothes.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

She took a step away. Then another. And another. None were the wiser that hope had budded in the darkness of the mountain.

‘Hey, you!’ shouted one of the guards. For an instant, everything Midnight held on to shattered. She froze. He came nearer.

‘Make yourself useful,’ he said, apparently unaware of what had transpired. ‘Carry that crate’—the Heartless pointed vaguely behind him to another supply box—‘over to maintenance. Everyone around here is worthless.’

Midnight nodded and complied. She passed the muttering guard and lifted the wooden box. She peeked inside and found one more thing to help her plan bloom. Iron arrowheads, ready and forged into shape, lay there encased.

‘Get a move on,’ the guard said before she could admire them.

Following a path marked by torchlight, Midnight scampered off with the crate. The Heartless followed closely. Still, she could not believe her fortune.

However, as soon as thoughts of freedom arose from some rusty corner of her mind, they were constricted by the scene in front of her. Midnight spied a peculiar tunnel leading out of the Machines. She could not remember ever seeing slaves make use of it. But it was patrolled by a dozen armed Heartless in gleaming armour. Despite this, she mapped its location. She would not forget this. She could not.

‘Not that way.’ The Heartless commandeered and redirected her toward an equally guarded area. Time was running out. Midnight did not want to waste what had fallen in her possession.

So she did the only thing she could in her panic.

Midnight stumbled. She landed roughly among the stones with a crash. The contents of the crate spilled as she rolled. A rain of iron sounded. Bruises screamed at her. Then the blows came.

‘Useless wench,’ the guard barked as he hit her again and again. Her legs, her arms, her side all ached. Midnight clenched her teeth and shut her tear-blurred eyes. She took it because it was done. She had become a thief. But she was only stealing from those who had stolen her life.

When the guard’s rage was finally spent, she dared to move. Her limbs complained and her eyes resisted adjusting to the light.

‘I’ll take it from here,’ a voice said. A voice she hated. ‘This one’s mine.’

‘Lord Shurun’el,’ the guard said, his tone laced with fear. ‘I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

‘No need for that. On your way.’

‘But, sir, what about the—’

‘Don’t worry about that. But listen, if you touch her again, I will kill you.’

The coolness with which Shurun’el said those words made Midnight shiver.

Not this. Not him.

Midnight opened her eyes to see Shurun’el stride imperiously toward where she had fallen. He looked as he always did, the arrogance written on his face, forged into his blade, and etched into his attire. He lifted her roughly as the other guard slipped away.

‘You!’ he spat now that they were alone. ‘I should’ve known.’

Midnight grunted and tried not to face him.

‘Look at me,’ he said, gripping her chin.

Midnight appeased his wishes, noting again the scar over Shurun’el face, wishing she could thank the one who had done it.

‘Now listen. You will do your duty, you—’

Shurun’el never finished his threat. For a moment, light engulfed the mountain’s blackened reaches. Then a sound, louder than anything she had heard, boomed through the cavern. What was at first beautiful quickly darkened into dread. There came the weight. The burning. The shaking.

The roar of flame.

Midnight was thrown to the ground once more. Shurun’el was dizzy, but he attempted to look around and maintain a grip of the situation. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he shrieked.

There was fire and smoke in the direction of the Machines. Midnight had never seen so much red and orange. So much light. Screams and frantic footsteps were all she could hear through the ringing in her ears.

While she lay dazed, someone—a guard perhaps—approached.

‘It’s the fireflinger, sir,’ the man said, out of breath. ‘It’s malfunctioned. There’s been an explosion.’

Shurun’el screamed unintelligibly. ‘I’ll have someone’s head for this,’ he said as he rushed off, seemingly having forgotten about Midnight.

But in all this chaos, she could only think of one thing.

Her daring plan, the stolen items around her waist and in her tunic, all forgotten for the moment.

Only one thing mattered.

Midnight pushed herself to rise.

Please.

She walked toward the fire.

Please.

Shadows ran the other way. Some stumbled. Some screamed.

Please.

The heat rose as Midnight approached the wreckage of a machine. Timber and stone lay scattered everywhere. The foundations had been blown to bits. Debris peppered the landscape. And mangled bodies littered the worksite.

But in all this, Midnight was only looking for one.

There she saw him, a shadow shorter than the rest, splayed on the ground.

Thìr.

Everyone ignored the fallen boy. They stepped around him, heedless.

Long-buried instincts sprang in the panic. Midnight rushed over, head and heart numb. She knelt and checked his body. Burns. Bleeding. At least a couple broken limbs. It was as if a part of her knew what needed to be done but the blockage in her mind and her unresponsive body stopped her. She was helpless.

Midnight took his hand in hers. Thìr was muttering something.

Then his life ebbed. A final breath. Whereas everything around her burned, she could feel the warmth escaping the boy’s body.

Soon, she was holding on to ice.

No.

Midnight screamed.

No.

A single agonised note.

No.

A single sound erupted and shrilled through the mountain. And as if in awful harmony, Midnight wept. Her tears fell where her words could not reach. They spoke things she could never say.

And before the blackness took her, Midnight snapped. Every thread frayed and came close to being undone. The dark was cold, silent comfort.

Later, Midnight sat numbly in her chamber. She could not tell how long it had been. The flow of time was meaningless here. It was just a series of painful moments in succession. One heartbreak after another.

Midnight scraped absently with the stock of her bow. It was quieter now. A silence to sink in. It was broken only by the scratching of the weapon and the occasional cough. She still reeled from the smoke which had taken everything.

Midnight sat and pondered everything and nothing. Too lost in thought to have heard an approaching noise before it was too late, she was startled by a figure.

‘Pardon, Midnight,’ Hops said. ‘It’s just me.’

The old man limped over to her. She did not move.

‘They tell me that when you woke you refused to go anywhere. The guards had to drag you away. And you thrashed all the while.’

Thìr smiled. He was the only person here who remembered how.

‘I’m sorry about Thìr,’ Hops offered. ‘He was a good boy.’

My heart to yours.

‘Devoured stories like a soldier’s lunch, too.’

We’ll stay together and fly free.

‘But now he’s gone and…’ Hops stopped. ‘Midnight, you don’t deserve this. I’m sorry.’

She continued to scratch idly.

Hops moved closer. ‘But… I’ve seen what you’re planning, girl. It is foolish.’

Midnight stopped.

‘It is foolish, but I understand the longing of your broken heart. So know this, you’re not the only one to have held on to hope, girl.’

Midnight turned to the old man. He was holding out a wrapped bundle. She took it gently.

‘Some of us haven’t given up yet.’

With wonder, Midnight opened it and took out a half dozen arrow shafts. They were already fitted with nocks.

The old man sighed. ‘I know I won’t change your mind. So at least let me help you. My hands aren’t what they used to be, but I can show you a few things.’ He noticed her rummaging through the shafts. ‘That’s all I’ve collected that could be of use to you. Have you got arrowheads? I can show you how to set them.’

Midnight reached into the fold of her tunic and drew out what she had stashed there earlier. Three metal arrowheads.

She faced Hops, tools in hand and eagerness in her eyes.

No, she would no longer remain here, cradled by the dark.

Midnight decided.

She would leave this place. She would run out, out, out. Flee from Shurun’el. Flee from the pain and sorrow. Leave in search of sun and stars. What would follow her? What would she run into?

Midnight did not care.

* * *

It was a grey morning. The pale light made everything sluggish and heavy. Outside, the rain fell. It tapped softly on the windows and roof, like a guest seeking their way in.

And in this faded light, the assassin rested among sheets.

The Moonbreaker had not made port in days. So for now, Umariel was caught up in this little corner of the world. But on this morning he would not have had it any other way.

The crew would probably be looking for him. After several nights of boisterous parties, someone ought to step up and discipline them. But not him. Not today. Today he cared not for their troubles. Today there was only her. The woman he ashamedly loved. The woman he had spent the night with.

Part of Umariel railed at himself. What had he done? How had he come to this? But another part felt liberated, freer than he’d felt in years. Doubt and chaos rolled within him even as he lay calmly in bed. As he looked around he saw the discarded evidence strewn around the room. His leather overalls. Her black and scarlet cape.

He had woken with the dawn and now he watched her sleep. That’s all he could do. All he wanted rested beside him. Her bright face leant against his shoulder and her arm was draped around his neck.

Umariel shivered. He remembered the cool touch of her skin on his. The feather-light caress of her lips. The scent of her hair and its mesmerising dance as she moved. Her voice, filled with desire.

She stirred.

Umariel took a breath. His fingers traced the curves of her body under the sheets as she woke.

‘Umar,’ she moaned softly. Her hand groped for him and found his face.

‘I’m here,’ he replied.

‘I didn’t know you could be so gentle,’ she said.

‘Riri, I—’

She slapped him playfully and laughed. ‘I told you not to call me that.’ The sleepiness which clung to her voice was maddening. He wanted all of her.

‘Are there other things I do not know about you?’

‘In my homeland, I was known as Ymar.’

Frìriël rolled over and stared expectantly. The way she looked at him—it did not matter that the world outside was grey.

‘It’s true,’ he said.

‘That’s so silly. I like Umar much better.’

He smiled. ‘Well, that’s what I was born as back in Varadran. I had a brother, too.’

‘What was his name, Zezon?’

Umariel laughed but did not answer.

‘This was before you left Senhìa?’

‘Yes, but’—Umariel shook his head—‘no, I don’t want to talk about it now. Look, I’m sorry about last night. I let things get out of hand. I shouldn’t have—’

‘Don’t be,’ she said, and planted a kiss on his chest. ‘I feel like I know you a bit better now.’

‘And you? I want to know you, Riri. Otherwise, this—’

‘You know now that I’m not always scary,’ she said with a giggle. ‘Umar, don’t worry.’ She huddled in closer and started to run her fingers through his hair. ‘You know me. You found me.’

Umariel was taken back. To the fire. The carnage. The village and its people. What was left of them. And to the young girl who had caused it all. She sat there in the ashes sobbing, her skin red and black with blood and soot. A broken thing under a broken sky.

‘I know Lord Despreaux only wants me for my strength,’ she said, ‘and that’s fine, for we have a task to do. But you, you show me that there is something more in me. When I’m with you, I feel as if I don’t only have to destroy.’

Umariel could not find the words to express how much that resonated with him. Raised and trained to kill, he felt he was not much good at anything else. But in her, Umariel saw that perhaps he had more to offer. He lay there dumbfounded.

‘Have I left you speechless again?’ Frìriël winked.

Umariel stammered. ‘Uh, Riri, you ah, do that a lot. You’re beautiful. But thank you. I want you to know I feel the same. I’m just not very good at this.’

‘You are. You’re wonderful.’

Umariel leant his head back. He wished he could agree. He pulled the sheets closer and listened to the rain.

‘I don’t want to be alone again,’ Frìriël said suddenly, setting her head on his chest. ‘Not ever.’

‘You won’t.’

Frìriël raised her head. ‘Promise?’

Umariel closed his eyes and kissed her again.

* * *

The moonlight had been kind this night. It masked Sanah’ël’s approach. Under the cover of dark she descended like a rock from the stars. Under the cover of stars she stepped through the foreign world beneath the clouds. And under the cover of clouds she now walked through meadows, nearing the city of stone and sapphire.

Sanah’ël was startled by the difference in the air. It felt warmer and older here. Everything was dim and dull. But at least she was glad to be on solid land again. Anywhere was better than being suspended between two realms. Even here. She veiled herself deeper with her cloak. This had been her world once. Long ago. But no longer. Now she wished to see it end, so she stepped through like a stranger.

For the past few nights, Sanah’ël’s only companion had been the silence, her only conversation the repeated clashes with Rubiël in her head. And her only dreams the constant reminders of being cast aside. She always saw two figures in her dreams—indistinct yet familiar—who struggled and starved. They grew smaller while those around them grew larger and the walls grew higher.

Then a hand piercing through the wall, pushing aside the hoarders to reach the two small, deprived figures. A hand which offered everything. A hand which she accepted.

Sanah’ël reached for her sword. Riala. Fortune. The one thing she’d never known. She was grateful for her new name and calling.

But it was not the night to dwell on those things any longer. Passing over a ridge and through a thicket, Sanah’ël heard the river and glimpsed the city ahead. It stood like a jewel emerging out of rock. Blue buildings stuck out of grey stone, seemingly fused to the cliff side. The cloudy sky did not sully its radiance. It lived up to its title, but it was not the city she was interested in.

For just a little further in, outside the city’s perimeter yet within the shadow of its rocky walls, signs of a small camp appeared. And there, her dear Thari waited. Even in the low light of night’s dead hours, Sanah’ël could recognise him. Even outside his regular attire, she knew it was him. The fatigue and loneliness of the journey faded.

He rushed to her and met her with a tight embrace.

‘Sanah!’ he exclaimed. His voice rang like a lute’s melody in the night. She sank into his hug, reacquainting herself with the familiar comfort of his shoulders, arms, and chest. She’d always forget how tall Thari was.

Then he pulled back, lifted her head, and kissed her. Sanah’ël savoured it long after his lips left hers.

‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ he said. ‘Guard duty was becoming boring.’

‘The outfit, it suits you,’ she said, impressed. Her fingers followed the buttons of the blue silk shirt up to his collar and then rested on his chin. ‘It’s good to see you.’

Thari smiled, and it was as if his whole face beamed. Sanah’ël took in his indigo eyes—dark as the deep sky—and his russet hair.

‘It’s nice to see you in the lowlands, Sanah. When you sent for me, I had trouble believing you would actually come.’

Sanah’ël groaned. ‘Yeah, I was looking for an excuse to get out.’

‘So I’m your excuse?’ he said, grinning.

‘Yes,’ said Sanah’ël, raising an eyebrow. ‘Now, listen. There have been some developments,’ she began gravely.

‘Sanah, please,’ Thari implored. ‘We haven’t seen each other in several turns of the moon. Business can wait. Let’s enjoy this.’

She sighed, exhausted but content. ‘Won’t they be expecting you?’

‘No, I’m not on duty again until third watch.’

‘You’re right. I need to slow down,’ Sanah’ël said as she wrapped herself around him again.

They stood there in an embrace while the river rolled pleasantly and the clouds passed unaware. He held her, stroking her hair. Sanah’ël almost wished she could stay like this forever, buried in her secret. For none knew the extent to which Thari and her were involved.

‘Is everything alright?’ he asked.

Sanah’ël mumbled indistinctly.

‘Rubi still giving you hell?’

She sighed into his chest, then broke into a tired laugh. Sanah’ël was glad to have put distance between herself and that woman.

‘Don’t you worry,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t have what you have.’

Sanah’ël looked up, intrigued. ‘And what’s that?’

‘Me,’ he said with a smirk.

She struck him and scoffed. ‘And how is it that I came to have you?’

‘I’ll let you find out for yourself.’

She groaned again. ‘You’re insufferable.’

‘You like that about me.’

‘Fine, then,’ she said, narrowing her eyes at him. Then she broke off from him and walked near the fire. ‘Now, how about you tell me something? How is the situation here?’

‘Slow,’ he said. ‘The man I’m after is a recluse. Or at least, sometimes. Other times he goes out. But either he’s in disguise or a ghost, because I never glimpse him.’

‘Well, you just might get your chance soon. Something has happened that will compel him to come out of hiding.’

‘Do tell.’

‘Our targets are on their way. All of them.’

‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘How did this come about?’

‘Well, Shurun’el failed his capture in Gohenur.’

‘Huh. Foolish little brother,’ Thari said. ‘Borboros must be fuming. Shurun’el is not in with the most… understanding of crowds over there.’

Sanah’ël crouched and stoked the fire. She thought of her little brother. ‘No, but he can handle himself. He’s not my concern. But the targets reached Fara’ethar and now they are being herded here.’

‘When will this happen?’

‘Within the tide.’

Thari began pacing around the small alcove. ‘Excellent, if this goes well…’

‘You can achieve both our goals right here.’

‘Maybe then Umariel will stop boasting.’

Sanah’ël chuckled, then stood up. ‘I must leave,’ she said. ‘I’m scampering about trying to inform the others of this. And also Lady Isila is unwell. She fears for the next step.’

‘Stay with me,’ Thari said, stepping closer. ‘Just for tonight. We can say our pained goodbye in the morning.’

‘What about your watch?’

‘There’s plenty of time until then. Please.’

Sanah’ël stepped closer to Thari. She dropped her possessions by the fire. ‘Do I need to tell you again that you’re insufferable,’ she whispered. She let her passion take over and embraced him once more as the coals burned and the sky cleared.