Most years, Mirk's autumnal illness was a minor inconvenience. That year, it was bound to be nothing short of torturous.

On the inside, he was a panicked mess. Mirk’s instincts were clamoring at him to bolt, to secret himself away in one of the places in the City of Glass that Genesis hated visiting, the long-term ward or the Seventh's favorite tavern, until he understood what had happened. He needed a distraction. Some idle task to occupy his hands while his mind churned through all of that evening's shock and confusion. He needed to pray over it. He needed a drink.

Instead, Mirk was trapped in his motionless body, unable to do so much as blink. His motionless body that was, at present, being carried off to the healers dormitory by Genesis with an uncharacteristic degree of delicacy and care. Which was doing nothing to help stem the flow of bewildering, alien thoughts coursing through Mirk's head.

Though he was stuck staring straight up into the clouded-over night sky, Mirk knew they'd reached the dormitory by the way Genesis shifted his hold on his limp body, transferring his weight over to one arm as he smoothly ascended the front stairs. Mirk heard the snick of the front door's latch, the creak of its hinges. He wondered if Genesis had even noticed that autumn had overtaken him yet, or if he just assumed Mirk had fallen asleep. He hoped for the latter. If the commander remained oblivious, then the odds were good that he'd tuck Mirk in and leave him be for at least half a day.

But if Genesis noticed he'd fallen ill, he might get it into his head that he had a responsibility to look after him. And Mirk didn't think he could bear day after day spent silently witnessing Genesis's jumbled attempts at kindness. It had always made Mirk feel warm inside to be cared for, made him feel like he was valued, special. He'd never suspected that there was such a sinister second motive hidden in his delight.

He was carried inside. Though the wind stopped, the chill that consumed Mirk didn't lessen. If anything, it grew worse as Genesis walked through the vestibule and began his silent ascent of the stairs. How did Genesis always manage to move so quietly, even in sodden boots and while carting around his boneless body? How did he never show any signs of exertion, how did he always keep everything so even and smooth? And why was some small part of his mind, the dark, amorous twin of the part that kept offering Mirk the most underhanded solutions to his problems at the worst moments, so transfixed by it? Mirk forced himself to ignore all the questions, instead focusing on his surroundings as best he could without turning his head.

Up one flight of stairs. Then a second, a third, a fourth. Down the hall, and from the hall into his room. Mirk was certain he'd locked his door before he'd left — he'd even done it twice, too nervous about the ball and the trunk full of bloodied armor he'd shoved against the end of his bed to leave anything to chance. The lock didn't keep Genesis from entering without breaking stride. It was an unsettling reminder of how far Mirk had opened his life to him. True, he'd never seen a locked door stop Genesis before, but the commander wasn't in the habit of using his uncanny ability to move through the shadows to barge into other people's rooms. Not unless he'd already been scolded dozens of times before about being welcome at all hours. And reminded, again and again, that Mirk could usually feel him coming.

How could I have missed it? Mirk thought to himself, miserably, as he felt Genesis pause. Waiting up like a lovesick girl watching the road for lanterns...

"Ah. I see it is...that time," he heard Genesis say. A moment later, the commander leaned over far enough for his face to come within range of Mirk's limited vision, looking down at him with an academic sort of interest that would have made Mirk shiver, had he been capable of it. "I was informed that this...seasonal illness would recur. I’ve made the necessary…preparations."

Though Mirk knew he couldn't move, it felt like his stomach flipped. Ordinarily, he would have been cheered to learn that Genesis had been thinking of him. Now that everything had become clear, Mirk found the attentiveness alarming. Genesis never kept such small, personal details in mind. And yet, there he was, being set down gingerly on his bed, like Genesis was taking into careful consideration how very fragile the change in seasons left his body, how being jarred too hard or dropped too suddenly could break bones or rip open skin that refused to heal until the illness had passed.

Genesis seemed oddly proud of this action, judging by the few glimpses Mirk caught of his face. After setting him down on the bed, Genesis peeled off the coat he'd bundled Mirk up in, then undid his cloak, moving away for a time as he undoubtedly brushed both down and put them properly away. Then Mirk felt him take off his shoes. Though Mirk couldn't see it happening, and his limbs were so cold and distant he could barely feel it, something inside him squirmed at the mental image of it.

Once those were set aside, Genesis paused, doubtlessly evaluating his "royalist finery", as the commander so often put it, considering what was to be done about it. Thankfully, rather than going for the buttons of his justacorps, Mirk heard Genesis begin to rifle through the stack of quilts at the end of his bed. "I believe it would be better to leave the outside clothes on. As your...nightclothes are inadequate for the weather," the commander offered in explanation, as he shook out one quilt and tucked it in carefully around him.

Mirk was glad that his body couldn't betray how all the fuss made him feel, wobbly and scrambled, simultaneously pleased and guilty. Once Mirk was wrapped up in every quilt from the pile, Genesis leaned over him again, a blank look on his face. The one that always came over Genesis when he was thinking hard, his eyes twitching back and forth as he scanned the imaginary rulebook that ordered his life in search of guidance. Though the fondness that welled up in Mirk's chest at the sight of it was the same as always, it had a sick, cutting edge to it, now that Mirk could put the feelings into their proper context.

Though Mirk knew it was pointless, even if it hadn't been autumn, he tried to project his will. He'd never been able to do it even with a cooperative, empathic partner. Even the strongest mind mage in all the realms probably couldn’t coax Genesis into an empathic suggestion. ...go away...go away...please, just go away....

The commander made a pensive noise, frowning.

...please, for once just go away...you always want to go away...every single other time...

"What was it that...accursed woman said..."

Desperate, Mirk resorted to prayer. Holy Mary, Mother of God, please, I know I don't deserve your help, but please, please make him leave...

Genesis's voice took on an odd, flat tone, as he began to recite from memory, still staring down at Mirk lying motionless on the bed. "He's entirely awake, even if he doesn't look it...now, I know that...you...wouldn't mind being left on your own for a week...but..." The commander's frown deepened.

It was odd enough hearing him repeat word for word advice Genesis had been given by his mother. But it was worse hearing Genesis give a resigned sigh as he backed out of Mirk's line of sight. A moment later, Mirk heard the scrape of wood against stone as Genesis pulled out the chair at the desk across from Mirk's bed. The commander didn't move back into view. Instead, Mirk heard the chair crack in protest when Genesis sat down in it. Mirk was almost grateful to have something mundane to feel guilty over, if only for a moment — getting a spare chair for his room, one more suited to the tall frames of most of his friends, had been something he'd been putting off for months.

Mirk's stomach lurched. Tall. Tall. That was part of it, wasn't it? Part of what made those horrible feelings surge up in him? Mirk had always chuckled to himself and paid no mind to Yule and Danu's constant bickering over the merits of having a taller man over a shorter one for a lover. He'd never anticipated picking a side himself. But there was something so inherently appealing about it, at least when it came to Genesis.

It was one of those things, a part that completed the whole, a part that the whole wouldn't make any sense without, just like Genesis's long limbs and delicate fingers. Before Mirk could banish the thoughts, Genesis leaned over into his line of sight again. The look of annoyance on his face only made the prickling along Mirk's spine worse. There was truly no sensible reason for anyone to find Genesis's scowls appealing — more often than not, they only ever preceded the commander making some unintentionally cutting remark or sulking off in a huff — yet, there he was, his thoughts reduced to nothing but incoherent gibbering from just a glimpse of one.

"If I must stay...then I will stay. To an extent. One must attend to their duties. Though I will...endeavor to put aside any potentially...hazardous work. For the time being. That aside..." Genesis's face drew back, but Mirk could still hear him muttering to himself. "What did she do...aside from making those...horrid lace tablecloths..."

The mental image of Genesis tatting lace by his bedside, gossiping all the while about who the men from the Seventh had decided to court, would have been enough to make Mirk laugh, had he been able to. Instead, there was nothing but a lengthy pause, followed by Genesis reaching out a hand and carefully turning Mirk's head to the side, so that he was no longer left flat on his back staring up at the ceiling. It was another thing Genesis remembered from what Mirk's mother had said the last time he'd endured the autumn sickness: Mirk hated being left with nothing concrete to look at but a wall, preferring to either look out the window, or at least at the rest of the room, even if it was empty.

It wasn't empty. Despite having to fold himself in half to do so, Genesis was still sitting in the chair at his bedside, a thick black book in hand. The last detail of the scene wasn't at all surprising, at least, even if Genesis's continued presence was. "If you are to be...abed for some time, I believe you would be...best served by putting the hours to a constructive purpose. I recall that you have been having...difficulty calling to objects. This is easily corrected, once a...proper understanding of the magical theory behind the process is achieved. Dreher has been considered the expert on the topic for two centuries. Although I...disagree with him on several points, I believe his explanations will be...satisfactory, for a novice."

Leaning back as far as he could in the chair, Genesis opened the book and began to read.

"If one seeks to call objects to themselves with the greatest precision, one must begin by understanding the composition of the smallest structures of the smallest things, no matter which element and orientation one wishes to call with. Invisible to the human eye, there exist small particles that are unbalanced in the following distribution: three percent chaotic air, five percent chaotic water..."

Internally, Mirk sighed.

He could only hope that the dull subject matter would be enough to put him to sleep soon. Unconsciousness would spare him the sight of Genesis deep in thought, his eyes fixed on the pages of his grimoire, his fingers already twitching at the corner of the next page. More importantly, it would spare Mirk from getting caught up in thoughts of exactly what kind of better uses those slender, delicate fingers could be put towards. Though he couldn't close his eyes, Mirk tried to let his vision blur, focusing on the sound of the commander's voice.

His reading voice was different than his speaking voice. Different, but no less appealing. When Genesis read aloud, his speech became even and clear, unbroken by his characteristic pauses. The best qualities of it came through instead: the low, precise tones, the cadence that was somehow both commanding and comforting, the faint hissing at the ends of all his words that Genesis could never quite control.

Mirk could listen to Genesis read forever, even if all he ever chose to read to him were grimoires.

- - -

He wasn't certain how much time had passed. The light in the room was unchanging, always nothing more than the yellowy glow of the magelight underneath his desk. Everything was silent, still, cold. If Genesis hadn't left the spell paper wrapped around his wrist from when he'd first brought him to bed, Mirk was certain the dullness combined with his churning thoughts would have reignited the kindling sickness.

It all reminded him too much of when he'd first come to the City, even if he wasn't mired in nightmares and constantly trembling and stiff in turns from the pain whenever he woke up. Mirk was still trapped in his room again, alone with the knowledge of what he'd done wrong. He tried to make the best of it, as far that was possible without being able to do so much as blink.

Mirk tried to be sensible. He tried to think everything through, piece by piece and step by step, just like Father Jean had instructed him to do whenever Mirk was upset from having made the Abbess cross, or from receiving bad news from home. It was impossible to fight your feelings, Father Jean always had said, just like it was impossible to avoid whatever path Providence had sent him down. But what he did in response to both was completely within his control. The thing that counted, at the end of everything, was making the best of what you’d been given.

There was nothing good in either of the subjects plaguing Mirk. The memory of Serge Montigny screaming and writhing against the spell the avenging angel with the great, unadorned sword had put on him was less unsettling to Mirk than the fact that he felt no pity for the man, no remorse. Something dark inside him found Serge's fate fitting. An echo of Exodus, a head for a head rather than an eye for an eye. The image of Serge holding aloft his father's severed head before his pillars of flame had haunted Mirk nearly as often as the memories of what had come after. That Serge had lost his head before a flight of angels was only right.

But was it truly? Mirk still didn't fully understand the explanation that Genesis had offered him when he'd asked the commander why such a thing would happen. Genesis had been vague, as always, and Mirk had been too preoccupied by Laurent to think to question further. All Genesis had said was that angels valued their own above all else and would inevitably seek revenge on anyone who took the life of an angel outside of battle, even if the angel in question was something of an outcast, like his father had been.

The rule held especially true in the case of the older robed angel with the knife, Imanael. The name had sounded familiar to Mirk then, and it still did now, though Mirk couldn't remember where he'd heard it. The expression that hissing out Imanael's name had left on Genesis's face — something cold, something close to hatred and disgust — convinced Mirk that Genesis had to know the angel, somehow.

Mirk hadn't had the sense or the time to press Genesis on the matter then. And he didn't have the ability to do so now, stuck motionless in bed. Which left him with nothing but the vain hope that there was reason behind what had happened to Serge Montigny, some justification that could quiet the disgust Mirk felt toward himself at how satisfied he was knowing that Serge would never hurt anyone else ever again.

And yet, the disgust he felt at himself over Serge felt like a trifle in comparison to Mirk’s horror at his other problem. With Serge, Mirk could at least imagine that he was no better or worse than an average man for not feeling any regret over his passing. Men were executed for far lesser crimes every day by mortal kings and guild Grand Masters. But when it came to his feelings about Genesis...

He wished that Father Jean was still there to offer him guidance. There were hundreds of priests who were experts on Scripture in the world, but Mirk wouldn't dare breathe a word to them about any of the dark thoughts that'd possessed him. It would have been hard admitting them to Father Jean, but Mirk thought he could have managed it. Father Jean never seemed to be surprised by anything, never even batted an eye at the most sinister news, rumors of the bishops embezzling tithes or keeping women or ordering the murder of their rivals. In comparison, Mirk's problem was hardly even worth thinking about.

But Serge had taken Father Jean from him too, along with the rest of his family, Henri and his cousins aside. Mirk had to make sense of them on his own.

Was it simply that he'd never been close to a man before like had been with Genesis? That explanation fell apart in an instant. Mirk had always been close to others, the first to make friends and never stingy with an embrace or a kiss when someone was hurting. He'd never had those strange, twisted feelings toward any of them like he had toward Genesis, a desire to press even closer to them.

But he'd never felt them toward the ladies his mother discussed with him either, no matter how beseeching and imploring his mother's grin became when she passed along the news that she'd heard one of them speaking highly of him. Thankfully, she'd never pressed Mirk too hard on the matter of marriage. Nor had she bothered his sister with it. They were both half-angels, his father always reminded her. And angelic children matured five times as slowly as humans did.

Mirk had always taken comfort in that knowledge. Though he lacked grace and lordly poise in the present, he still had time to grow, centuries more than the other mages. He’d always hoped that on some distant spring morning, five or ten or twenty years in the future, he might look in the mirror only to find himself fully unfurled just like the trees outside his window, strong and sturdy and brimming with confidence and potential that would show in his easy smile rather than with leaves green and tender.

Instead, he had...this.

It might only be a passing madness. After all, it was impossible to tell from just a bud what shape a flower would open into. There also weren't many eligible ladies around him in the infirmary who could have awakened those feelings in Genesis's stead. Danu was hopelessly in love with Mordecai, and Eva was much older than him, thirty years at least, and felt something for Slava besides. And as for Sheila, she was older than his grandfather had been when he'd passed, if Yule's gossip was anything to go by. Mirk was inclined to believe it. Though her face was unblemished and her long, stick-straight black hair was thick and lustrous, there was a certain tired edge to her voice at times that Mirk recognized from the older members of his father's guard.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

On the other hand, Madame Beaumont's ball had been brimming with eligible young ladies on the rise. And Mirk had danced with nearly a third of them, eager to drop choice hints of what he'd been through into their conversations, enough to rouse their concern and sympathy but not so much that he made himself look pitiful. If his family's fate hadn't ended up on everyone's lips, surely his lack of discernment would have: a man who offered a hand to every last lady who glanced his way, without favoring any one type, was judged to either be desperate or a rake.

The more Mirk’s mind lingered on the ball, the more he realized how different dancing with them had been in comparison to dancing with Genesis. He hadn't felt compelled to keep sneaking glances at any of their figures, though he had made careful note of each of their dresses to gauge how well their fathers were doing and what sort of impression they were looking to make with the others. The touch of their magic against his own when they'd strayed onto the spelled center of the dance floor had sparked Mirk’s curiosity too. He was surprised by how much better he'd unintentionally become at mage dancing due to having to mix his magic with that of so many other mages of different elements and orientations every day at the infirmary.

Dancing with Genesis had been completely different. Even though he'd been distracted, both by Genesis's poor dancing and Yvette's grinning at him, part of Mirk had been committing every moment of it to memory. The way Genesis's long fingers had curled delicately around his hands, chilly and smooth and twice as long as his own. How elegant and fluid Genesis’s movements had been, even if they weren't done to the right beat. His long limbs, his broad shoulders. And how Genesis's magic moved with equal grace alongside his own, the staticky, cold touch of the shadows all around them making something hot and impatient race up Mirk's spine.

Even then, part of Mirk had wanted to see what more those ever-shifting, ever-present shadows could do. Things more appealing than just fetching grimoires and putting out magelights.

He had to stop dwelling on it. Every time Mirk passed back into consciousness, he always ended up musing on what different kinds of closeness he could coax Genesis into. The present instance was no different. To stem the tide, Mirk resorted to the same tactic he used in the infirmary when trying to ignore the press of the patients' pain and weariness: counting stones. Mirk knew full well by then that the wall facing his bed was fifty-five stones long by twenty-five high. But he started counting them again all the same.

Mirk hadn't even made it to thirty-seven when a knock at his door broke his concentration. At first, it was hesitant, little more than a tap that could have been mistaken for a tipsy passer-by bumping into his doorframe. But when no one responded, it grew more insistent. Then the visitor tried the handle. It couldn't be Genesis — he'd been coming and going without any regard to the door, and Mirk doubted such a creature of habit would bother to change tack. That aside, he knew full well that Mirk was incapable of getting out of bed to answer. It did bother Mirk that the commander had left the door locked, though. If the building had caught flame, he'd have roasted along with everything in it.

The lock, however, was no match for the determination of whoever was on the other side. Mirk heard muffled cursing and saw a few dim flickers of green-gray magic spark off the handle before the door popped open. It was Yule.

The instant the older healer spotted him on the bed, Yule cursed again and bolted for his side, shoving aside the chair and dropping to his knees beside him. Yule’s panic smashed into Mirk, as painful and insistent as the way that Yule pinched at his cheeks to try to wake him. When Mirk didn't so much as blink in response, Yule pressed his head against Mirk's chest to listen to his breathing, his hands fumbling at his neck for his pulse. He must have heard or felt something; his panic subsided, shifting to the determined, focused sort of calmness that Mirk was accustomed to feeling when Yule was setting in on a critical patient.

Yule got back to his feet. His pinching and prodding had left Mirk staring at the ceiling, but he felt the rush of coldness as Yule ripped off his protective quilts and slid his arms under his shoulder blades and thighs in preparation to lift him. Dismay washed over him along with the chill. It'd taken days for Mirk to get even a little warm, and Yule yanking away the bedclothes had dispelled all of his paltry heat.

"...what...are you doing?"

Instantly, Yule's calmness switched to anger that hit Mirk like a punch to the stomach. Genesis must have arrived. No one else spoke the way the commander did, deliberate and sibilant. Yule's arms withdrew and, though Mirk couldn't see either of them, he was willing to guess that the older healer had to glaring at Genesis from his bedside, refusing to let Genesis get between them.

"What the hell do you mean, what am I doing? He's dying! Put the damn water flasks down and help me get him to the infirmary."

"...no."

The rage in Yule’s voice would have made Mirk wince, had he been able to. "I didn't ask for your fucking opinion!"

"He is...ill, yes. But this is not an emergency."

"Since when did you become a healer?"

"If you would...calm yourself, I will explain. I believe your...temper is causing him more harm than anything else."

Genesis's words only made Yule's anger spike. Mirk caught a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision, a glimpse of Yule's auburn curls as he turned to look at Mirk. "I can't feel anything from him. He feels like nothing. Like you. What the hell did you do to him?"

Yule must have made some kind of threatening gesture. But Genesis wasn't deterred. Mirk heard something clack against the wood of his dresser. "Fighting would not be productive. You will lose."

That didn't soothe Yule's frustration either. But the older healer did huff and shuffle aside. Though Mirk didn't hear Genesis approach, he felt a sudden surge of warmth underneath his feet, then two more beneath each of his hands.

Yule tisked. "That's not how you use those. You have to warm his chest, not his fingers and toes."

"It is not similar to a person who is frozen. It is closer to a...plant." Genesis began to cover him back up. Four quilts arranged across his lifeless body in a criss-cross pattern, then all of them bundled together and tucked in with a fifth, always the same.

"All right, doctor. What's wrong with him?"

"He is very...closely connected to the Earth. When the seasons shift, he goes...dormant along with it. For a time. Like a plant, as I said."

"That doesn't make any sense. We all get a bit fat and slow when it's winter, but it's never like this," Yule said. "This is insane."

"Agreed. However, it is what happens. Annually. I am...endeavoring to better understand the phenomena."

Rather than being reassured by Genesis's concern, it made Yule more suspicious. The emotion felt like prickles all along Mirk’s arms, like someone was pinching at the bridge of his nose. Being bombarded by Yule's emotions when he didn't have the strength to shield his mind wasn't as painful as emotions had been when he'd been in the throes of the kindling sickness, but it was still unpleasant. "Whatever. We still should take him to the infirmary. How are you going to sort anything out? You're not a healer. You have no idea what you're doing."

"I...disagree. The...emotional climate in the building will be...detrimental to him. He can still feel everything. I believe...like the last time...this leaves me most suited to his care. As I feel like...nothing. Or so I've been told."

Again, Yule huffed. "Right. Freak of nature and everything."

Mirk felt an unexpected brush of cold fingers against his cheek, then an odd warmth on one of his ears. Genesis leaned into his field of vision, his expression blank, still composed despite all of Yule's insults. "I have been...considering the problem of the ears. This may provide a solution. A man in the engineers was...induced to make these." Genesis held up a strange device that looked like an oversized earthenware earring in front of Mirk's eyes for a moment, then attached it to his ear somehow, bringing with it a soft warmth. "Clay discs. With...a warming spell."

"Can he even hear you?" Yule asked, his skeptical tone matching the timbre of his emotions, though he was halfheartedly trying to shield now that Genesis had warned him that Mirk's empathy was still intact.

"Yes. He is...entirely aware of his surroundings." Before withdrawing, Genesis nudged Mirk’s head back to one side so that he was no longer stuck staring at the ceiling. Yule was staring down at him, something between a snarl of frustration and a scowl of distaste on his face. He was sallow and fidgety, the dark rings around his eyes that he usually hid under a layer of powder laid bare. Yule must have come to look for him either right before or after going to bed.

"Why the hell didn't you say anything about this?" Yule asked Genesis.

"I was not aware it was...protocol."

That didn't surprise Mirk. Just as it never occurred to Genesis that people might miss and worry about him when he vanished, Genesis must have thought Mirk's absence at the infirmary would be equally unremarkable. Yule made an attempt at smacking Genesis in the arm, though the commander managed to back out of range just before Yule's blow could connect. "It is. We thought the nobles had kidnapped him. Or that he'd just finally decided to go back with them where he belongs."

"He has given me no indication that he plans to rejoin his...countrymen."

"You're both mad," Yule grumbled, his attention drifting back to Mirk. "Maybe you are the one best suited to taking care of him. What else have you been doing to help, other than scaring the engineers into making trinkets for you?"

"I have been...seeing to him," Genesis said. It was odd having both of them stare down at him and debate his condition in such a fashion, like he was a cut of meat two rival cooks were arguing over at the market. But it shouldn’t have surprised him that it would come to that. Neither of them were very polite, even when they were in a good mood.

"What, you just stand here and stare at him? You’ll give him nightmares doing that."

A frown crossed Genesis's face as he unfolded his arms and reached inside the breast pocket of his overcoat. He pulled out the same thick black book he'd been reading to Mirk every time he came to visit, rambling on endlessly until the sound of his voice put Mirk back to sleep. How Genesis knew he'd passed into unconsciousness when he couldn't close his eyes, Mirk didn't know. It was probably some shift in his heartbeat or his breath that only a person with Genesis's finely attuned senses would notice.

Yule craned his neck to the side to read the title on the grimoire's front. "The Physics and Theory of Summoning Magicks? Christ, I'd play dead too if the alternative was having to listen to you drone on about that."

"He was having difficulties calling objects. Knowledge of theory is an...important co—"

"That's not important," Yule said, cutting Genesis off with a wave of his hand. "Would you like him coming in and reading you poems when you're sick?"

"...no."

"Exactly. You should be reading him something he'd like listening to, even if you don't like it. Common sense. Though, clearly you've never had any of that." Yule thought for a moment, then reached up the sleeve of his robes for the pocket hidden in its folds, producing a thin volume bound in blue paper. "If you’re going to insist on sitting here reading to him instead of talking with him like a normal person, you should use something like this."

A sinking feeling of dread washed over Mirk. He was well acquainted with the kind of things Yule favored reading when he wasn't mocking the latest grimoires on healing magic that he stole from the Tenth's library up on the fifth floor of the infirmary. The prose in Yule's little blue books was thicker and more elevated than that of the broadsides the infantrymen would cluster around at the tavern, the few among them who could read fumbling through the inscriptions while the rest gawked at the prints of ladies in various compromising positions and forms of undress, but the content was essentially the same. Although the ones Yule favored didn't have any ladies. There was a hot trade in them among men of a certain predilection, of which there was a high concentration within the ranks of the K'maneda's educated mages, according to Yule.

A high concentration that Mirk himself was included in. He immediately shoved the thought to the back of his mind, instead focusing on Genesis's face. The commander's expression soured as he read the title written by hand on the booklet’s front cover. "An Honest Man's Conceit? Is this a...political tract?"

Yule snorted. "No. It's got a duke in it, though. That's sort of political."

When Genesis shook his head and edged further away from Yule and his spurious booklet, the knot that'd suddenly formed in the pit of Mirk's stomach dissolved. "I have...something else." Genesis returned his black-bound grimoire to his pocket, instead taking out a blue book of his own. A slim, small hardbound volume. It took Mirk a moment to place it, but when he did, the knot instantly returned. His grandfather's journal.

The blue cover of the book mase Yule's eyebrows shoot up. "They make ones with hard covers? Didn't think you'd enjoy that kind of thing...though I'd always wondered..."

"No. This is not...some...story. This is his grandfather's journal."

The feeling of mounting amusement in Yule winked out like a pinched candle's flame. "Oh. What are you doing with it?"

"It is written in an...obscure language. I have only now found time to investigate it. I...needed to travel to find someone who speaks it. Though they were illiterate. And it required some...assistance from K'aekniv to communicate with them."

"So that's where that giant oaf has been all week," Yule grumbled. "Should have known that you had something to do with it."

"Nevertheless. This should provide...adequate interest. I did not intend to share it with him until I had...translated the work entirely, but it is...slow. His grandfather was...only slightly more literate than the rest of his people. At least in his native tongue." Genesis considered the journal for a time, rifling through its first pages. "Though, perhaps it would be...helpful to dedicate more of my time to the project. I suspect that his grandfather knew more about his...circumstances than he shared with anyone else. He may have an explanation for this illness. Among other things."

Yule sighed. "Well, anything has to be better than physics. I have work to get to. Let me know if you do find anything useful in there before he's well again and can tell us in the infirmary about it himself. Unlike some people, he doesn't go hiding away every secret he gets his hands on like a squirrel with a nut," Yule added, looking directly down into Mirk's face.

Internally, Mirk cringed at the comment. A week ago, he wouldn't have ever thought of hiding anything important from Yule and the other healers. But now everything had gone wrong. Though, Mirk supposed that if he wanted to discuss his current predicament with anyone, Yule would be the best person to go to. Yule wouldn't recoil in horror, wouldn't laugh or scowl or gape, at least not once he'd recovered from his initial surprise. Mirk knew he'd be sympathetic. Encouraging.

Which was the exact downside of taking his troubles to Yule. Mirk had a feeling that Yule's counsel would focus less on how to ignore the strange feelings that'd possessed him and more on the best way to indulge him. Not that Mirk thought less of Yule for indulging — as far as he could tell, everyone around him did, though some were more loud about it than others, and it didn't carry the same consequences among the low-born men as it did the high-born women he'd been best acquainted with.

Everyone wanted companionship, closeness, someone to cling to. Other than Genesis. Mirk couldn't decide whether that made his predicament better or worse.

The sound of Yule pulling the door shut behind himself, hard, brought Mirk back to the present before he could start brooding on the subject again. Genesis folded himself back down onto the chair beside Mirk's bed, stretching his legs out underneath it in an attempt to make the low seat less stressful on his outsized body, his finicky knees and ankles that were always getting bruised and torn. The commander opened the book, holding it in one hand and carefully turning the pages with the thin fingers of the other. There were slips of paper tucked in amongst the pages now, Mirk noticed. Not at all surprising. Genesis never wrote in his own grimoires directly, always copying his thoughts onto separate sheets of parchment and sliding them in between the relevant pages.

"The translation is not perfect," Genesis said to him without looking up, his fingers tracing over his notes, as if he could read them just as easily by feel as by sight. "Your grandfather's native language is not...difficult. However, it is very...regional. There are many dialects. And he appears to have made up a certain number of words to express concepts...unique to Western magecraft. Although inventive, I fail to see...what utility there is in writing things down in such a fashion. If there is no one who can read..."

The commander trailed off, frowning. With a curt shake of his head, he reached out to adjust Mirk's head slightly, using just the barest tips of his fingers. Even such a slight, clinical touch was enough to make Mirk's stomach clench. He really was hopeless. "In any case. I will...inform you of the portions I am not entirely sure of. The entries are not dated. But it begins...thus.

"My name is Aritz. My house is the one with vines beside the river. Its body was destroyed, but its spirit lives in me. This book is for you, the next stone in its foundation. Listen to my story and rebuild our house strong."

Genesis paused, frowning down at the book and drumming his fingers along its spine in a quick staccato pattern. "This does not make any sense to me. But I was assured by K'aekniv that this is what the man said. I assume it is in relation to some manner of…cultural practice I am unfamiliar with. There are very few books on the topic of your grandfather's people. And they have all been written by...outsiders. It is always unwise to trust the words...of conquerors."

Mirk was just as lost as Genesis. Jean-Luc had never spoken much of where he came from, of his family. It was as if he had sprung fully-formed from the Earth one day, with no past and an endless future ahead of him. Until it had come to an abrupt end. Though he was confused, part of Mirk felt reassured by the fact that his grandfather had a family just like everyone else.

"I was nearly a man when the sickness came," Genesis continued, turning the page. "I was working the fields with my uncles and cousins. The next day, they were all sick. My mother was the village medicine woman. I do not know if she had true magic or not, but her medicine could bring most back to life. It did not work on this sickness. In two weeks, everyone was dead. I almost died as well. Lightning struck our house. A bad omen, though I never did and never will believe in gods. I was able to leave before it burned.

"I tried to walk to the next village, though I was weak and with fever. It made me confused. I do not know where I found the tree. An oak, but not an oak, an oak with branches that were too wide and roots that went too deep. I fell down among them. And then I passed into the dream world. In it, a woman came to me. But not a woman. Too strong, and too beautiful. She frightened me. She asked me what had brought me there. What I wanted. I said I wanted my house to stand again. Then the dream took me again, and when I woke up next, I was by the bank of the river that ran behind where my house once stood. There were only a few stones left. The staff had been left across my chest. And so, everything began again."

Genesis fell silent for a time, pondering over the next passage, his fingers again tapping down the length of the journal's spine. The commander closed the book, first making sure that the page with his translation was tucked neatly in among its pages. "A...curious story. I was inclined to think of it as a story your grandfather invented to explain how he came to be. When human mages grow as old as he was, their...understanding shifts, I have noticed. K'aekniv told me otherwise. He...told me that I don't understand the ways of people like your grandfather. The staff is very real," Genesis said, glancing at where he'd placed it across his father's trunk at the end of the bed, stacked atop the one Mirk had taken from his mother's ruined carriage. "The...work of a spirit, K'aekniv claimed. A common occurrence, according to him. His swords were left to his oldest relation by one. Although the things he calls spirits are...quite varied. I told him to make his own inquiries among the people your grandfather was raised with. He understands their...thinking better than I do. And they appear to be less frightened of him."

Sighing, Genesis slid the book back into the front pocket of his coat, rising to his feet, the joints of his knees and ankles snapping as he stood. Although Genesis frowned, he didn't comment on either them or the chair. He was distracted now, Mirk could tell. Preoccupied by some thought that had come to him as he'd read the translation, maybe. He was thinking hard, his eyes flicking back and forth as he tugged at the sleeves of his coat, picking at them, as if they were too tight, or as if its wool was too scratchy. "K'aekniv has the people. I...have the book. We will...come to an understanding together. I must see if he's returned again."

Without saying anything more, Genesis sunk back into the shadows and vanished. The impulse to sigh rose in Mirk's chest, but his body still refused to move. For a moment, however, his eyes listened to his mind’s commands, allowing him to look toward the staff atop the trunk. Then he was stuck again, alone and left with nothing to think of or look at but his inheritance. A trunk full of blood-stained armor, a sword he couldn't touch, and a staff he didn't know the purpose of. His grandfather had never told anyone how he'd gotten it, not his mother, not him. Now that Mirk knew, he didn't feel any less lost than he had before.

But he'd have another few days to think about it. And hopefully when Genesis returned, it'd be with more of the journal instead of another one of his endless, headache-inducing grimoires.