Gareth was out for only a moment, opening his eyes again to find Tag standing over him with the knife. He came to quickly after that, scrambling back and holding out a plaintive hand. “Don’t!” he slurred. “Don’t kill me. Please let me live.”

“Why should we?” the man with Gareth's cigarette case asked.

Gareth stared at the muddy ground, blinking back tears. “My sister has money. She works for Unity. Spare me and she’ll reward you, but if I die, there'll be trouble.”

“How do we know you’re even tellin’ the tru—”

He cut off with a gasp, the glimmer of a blade protruding from his chest. As it retracted, a spreading stain took its place and the man's gasp turned into a gurgle. His knees buckled, but before he could drop, a hand wrapped around his head from behind and slammed him sideways into the wall; skull hit brick, and Gareth winced at the sound it made. The man fell, leaving a stranger with a bloodied sword standing over his body.

“Knife,” Gareth mumbled from the ground. Somehow, the stranger understood his warning: when Tag charged him, he dropped his sword and easily sidestepped the other man's smaller blade. He then caught Tag’s forearm and twisted, graceful as a dancer, until Tag cried out and dropped the knife. He moved confidently, swiftly, only as needed to get the necessary leverage.

The stranger grabbed Tag by the hair, yanked his head down, and brought his knee up until it met Tag’s face. And just like that, Gareth’s second assailant fell to the ground, motionless. Gareth squinted in the dark. “Did you kill him?”

“No, I don’t think so,” the stranger said in a gentler voice than Gareth expected. He glanced at the other's body, where spindles of blood spread over cold cement. “I only allow myself one murder a day.”

Gareth stared at him.

“Just a joke,” he said when the silence stretched on. “A poor one, maybe. Sorry. Are you alright?”

His accent was soft, the vowels round. Northern, Gareth thought, though thinking was hard with the way the world tipped around him. “I feel sick,” he said.

Gareth shrank back when the stranger moved to approach, so the stranger stopped and held his hands up innocently. “Come on, it's alright. I only want to check your injuries.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Sorry, but you don't really have a choice,” the stranger said, far too cheerfully.

He was right, though. When the man kneeled beside him, Gareth allowed it, though he flinched at his gentle touch. “I'm looking for Kramer Street,” he mumbled.

The stranger tutted. “Poor thing. You're a long ways off, you know. It's too dark to see here — let's get out of this alley before your friend wakes,” the man said. He retrieved his sword, wiping it off before slipping it into a sheath at his hip, then helped Gareth to his feet. Gareth shrugged him off and took several stumbling steps on his own, but when he fell, the man was there to catch him.

“Woozy,” Gareth said.

“I bet.” The man bent to retrieve Gareth's cigarette case and pocketbook.

“Are you going to rob me, too?” Gareth asked, watching.

The man snorted and rifled through the pocketbook, slipping Gareth's displaced ID back inside in the process. He then opened Gareth's suit-coat and tucked it into the inner pocket, giving Gaeth's chest a friendly pat when he'd finished. “Nah. There's not enough in there to make it worth my time.”

“Uh,” Gareth said, awkwardly. “Thank…you?”

“Anytime.”

Gareth squinted at the stranger. With one of his eyes beginning to swell shut, he couldn't make out any features in the darkness. “Should we, erm...alert the authorities? Surely we can't just leave them here.”

He could feel the stranger's stare, even if he couldn't see it. He fidgeted, uncomfortable, when the stranger let out a disbelieving laugh. “The authorities? Really?”

“Is that so strange?”

“In this neighborhood, yes,” the stranger said. “They're not even guaranteed to come. Mind if I ask your name?”

“Gareth Ranulf.”

After a pause, “Not Ranulf as in the Magistrate of Unity Ranulf, I hope.” There was something strange in the man's voice, but Gareth couldn't place it.

“My sister,” Gareth said.

“Of all the rotten twists of fate,” the stranger sighed. “Hold on.”

And with that, the man turned on his heel and left Gareth alone in the dark. Immediately, he began to panic. He was alone and injured, what else was he to do? He held onto the wall, grimacing at the grime under his fingers. In this state, he wouldn’t even make it to the end of the alley on his own, let alone home. What was he supposed to do now? Was he going to die in this reeking alley? While he was still deciding what to do, his stranger returned: he heard boots on gravel first, and then that soft voice again. “I left a message with the shopkeep next door. They'll call the cops, or they won't. Now, come on.”

Gareth gratefully leaned on the man for support as they hobbled to the end of the alley, where they emerged onto a sparsely crowded street, lit by rows of street lamps. The man pushed Gareth onto the closest bench. “Sit. Let me look at you.” He knelt in front of Gareth, studied his face. Gareth shut his eyes, fighting another wave of nausea. “Atiuh and the Three, you’re lucky I was following you.”

“Pardon?” Gareth asked.

“I said you’re lucky I found you,” the man said with an easy smile. “I’m Roman, by the way! Roman Hallisey. I’d say it’s a pleasure, Mr. Ranulf, but I’m not sure the circumstances warrant it.”

“Have we met before? You seem terribly familiar.”

“I don’t think so,” Roman said. “How could I forget such a pretty face?”

“Is that some sort of jest?” Gareth reached up to touch his nose, but Roman batted his hand away.

“Don’t touch. You're swollen and battered. Looks like your nose has stopped bleeding, at least.”

“Is it broken?”

“I can’t tell. I don’t think so.”

“And my eye? Is it bad that it’s swollen like this?”

“You have a strange idea of good if you even have to ask. But you’ll live, if that’s what you mean,” Roman said. “It’ll stay swollen a few days, then you'll have a nasty bruise for a while.”

“You seem to know a lot about how this works.”

“I've seen a black eye or two in my time,” Roman said brightly.

“Right,” Gaeth said, unsure how to respond to that. “Thank you for the help.”

Roman patted Gareth’s knee. “Of course. Anywhere else hurt? They didn’t stab you or anything, did they? I assume you would’ve mentioned it already.”

“No, they just…hit me a few times.”

“Are you still dizzy?”

“No. Yes. Maybe a little,” Gareth admitted.

“You might have a concussion. Or be in shock.” Roman tilted his head to one side, his dark eyes wide. “I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. How about we get you home so you can call one?”

“Please,” Gareth said. He hadn’t been on his feet even ten seconds before he turned to the side and hurled.

Roman wrinkled his nose. “Strike that, we’re going to a hospital now. There’s one on the way.”

Gareth nodded, the taste of bile too fresh on his tongue to argue, and let Roman lead him down the street. Walking helped clear the nausea some, letting him think again. He eyed the young man's back. “Roman’s an interesting name. Where’s it from?” he asked, to distract himself.

“Interesting,” Roman repeated. Gareth could hear the grin in his voice. “Thanks, I think. Technically, it's my middle name. My mother was a bit fanciful, with particular ideas about who she wanted me to be. Romanos is a spirit in Troasian mythology, Ro- meaning 'above' and -manos meaning all personkind, or the like,” Roman said, waving his hand grandly. He seemed to do a lot of that. “She thought 'Roman' was a name for someone who'd do great things.”

“And have you done great things?”

Roman's smile fell. “That depends on how you define great, I suppose.”

“I'd say saving a man's life qualifies.”

“Those men wouldn't have killed you,” Roman said. Despite his flippant tone, he looked away from Gareth, embarrassed. “Probably.”

They walked in silence a moment, until Gareth asked, “Then why did you do it?”

“What, save you?”

“Yes. I doubt anyone else would have.”

Roman shrugged. “I was there; I heard you shout. I had time to investigate.” He looked over at Gareth, then laughed at the man's affronted expression. “Were you expecting something more storybook?”

“No,” Gaeth lied, feeling his cheeks flush. “It's just strange to know I'm only alive because a young man was bored.”

Roman steered Gareth away from a hole in the pavement. “Sorry, sorry! Let me try again.” Clearing his throat and deepening his voice, he said, “And when the fearless hero Roman heard the man's calls for succor, he could not help but render aid, slaying the wrongdoers and single-handedly snatching Gareth Ranulf from death's icy grip! Such is a hero's duty! There, how's that? Better?”

Gareth hid his face behind a hand. “I'm sorry I asked,” he said, answered again by Roman's bright, boyish laughter. “But I'm glad you did it, anyhow.”

“Anytime, Gareth. Really,” Roman said. He stopped walking, and Gareth followed his gaze to a squat, prison-like building. “Well, that's it.”

“That's the hospital?” Gareth asked. It looked dirty. “Are you sure it's safe?”

“In this part of Gallontea, Gareth, it's the best you're going to find.”

Gareth wished he could see better. He reached up to touch his swollen eye, but Roman batted his hand away again. Gareth scowled at him.

“Are you touching just to touch, or do you need something?” Roman asked.

“I just...can't read the signs. I can't even tell what you look like.”

“Yeah, hence the hospital. If it makes you feel any better, Gareth, I can't tell what you look like either. You look like you spilled a bucket of red paint on your head then ran into a beehive.”

“That really doesn't make me feel better.”

“Then how about this: I'll read the signs for you. Realistically, they’ll probably just clean you up and give you something for the pain, and at the very least, we can have them call a cab to get you home,” Roman said, dragging Gareth slowly toward the doors.

“You won’t—,” Gareth began, only to bite his tongue.

“Won’t what?”

“You won’t leave me, will you?” Gareth said. Roman paused just long enough to make him self-conscious, so he continued, “Though, if I’m keeping you from anything, I understand if—”

“I’ll stay,” Roman promised. Then, tone turning teasing, he asked, “Do you need me to hold your hand, too?”

“Oh, stop. Just make sure they sterilize everything,” Gareth grumbled, pushing past Roman into the building.

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“Sure, but if you need stitches, I’m waiting in the hallway,” Roman called, trailing behind as Gareth led the way into the surprisingly cheerful foyer. He squinted against the lights, wrinkled his nose at the sterile smell. While unpleasant, it seemed perfectly normal, as far as hospitals went. Gareth had expected worse. Seeing him relax, Roman said, “And that's why you don't judge a dragon by the shine of their scales. Sit, I'll talk to the nurse for you.”

Gareth slid into the seat closest to the nurses' desk, grimacing at the pain that raced up his side. He could see well enough in this new light that he watched Roman greet the nurses cheerfully, leaning against the desk like it belonged to him. Gareth couldn’t make out what was being said, but he could hear the songlike cadence of Roman’s accent. Roman Hallisey seemed one of those individuals whose age was hard to place. While he was old enough to be frighteningly competent, fighting like no one had Gareth had ever seen, he radiated an almost childlike exuberance. He was easily younger than Gareth's forty-two, at least, and he was sapien with no signs of any longer-lived heritage. If Gareth was pressed, he’d guess somewhere around thirty.

Roman wore his waistcoat open, with tight-fitting trousers tucked into tall boots. His hair fell between the two currently popular styles— too long to fit the close-cropped style of working men but not long enough to tuck behind his ears, a look currently sported by the upper classd. It was too messy to be fashionable, at any rate. His curls seemed permanently ruffled, and Gareth understood why when he watched Roman tangle a hand through them, pushing them out of his face. Nothing about Roman was fashionable or proper, but he had the charm and natural attraction to excuse it. The nurse nodded at something he said, then looked over to where Gareth sat. Roman beckoned him over.

“Mr. Ranulf?” the nurse asked as Gareth approached, pushing several forms and a pen across the desk toward him. “Sign these for me, please. We can take you back right away, but your friend will have to wait here.”

Gareth’s hand hovered above the signature line. He glanced nervously at Roman. Seeming to guess at his anxieties, Roman said, “I told you I’d wait, Gareth.”

“Thank you. Of course, I'll compensate you for your time.”

Roman raised an eyebrow. “If you’re offering.”

“I’m insisting.”

“Even better. Now quit making the poor nurse wait on you; I’ll be here when you get back. You can thank me more then, if you still feel the need.”

Gareth followed the nurse through winding halls to a barren room. While she went to the old sink in the corner, its pipes banging and clanging as it ran, Gareth sat on the cold metal examining table. Swiftly, efficiently, she cleaned his wounds, brought him a pillow, and passed him a small canvas bag. “Ice,” she explained, “For the swelling. The doctor will be in soon; please lay back in the meantime. It'll help the dizziness.”

Gareth waited until she was gone to settle back and drape the ice over his swollen eye. Here, the lights were blessedly dim. The room, though, was too quiet — with the ice easing his pain, he had too much room to think. Funnily enough, his thoughts didn't go to the attack, or to his rescue: they went to his conversation with Moira, to Orean, to this mission. He'd just watched a man die, but all he could do was worry about his own future.

Someone knocked on the door. “Mr. Ranulf?” a woman's voice asked. Gareth started to push himself up as the doctor entered, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Please, relax. My name is Dr. Carthian. Can you tell me in your own words what happened tonight?”

Once Gareth explained, Dr. Carthian asked a series of questions about how Gareth was feeling, where he had been hit, and how much he could remember. His face, his stomach, the back of his head. He felt fine, aside from some aches and pains. He could remember his name, the date, his address. He still felt very dizzy.

“I don't think you're in shock. May I?” the doctor asked, holding her hand near Gareth’s face but not touching. When Gareth nodded, Dr. Carthian pressed her hand to Gareth's forehead and stood for a long time with her eyes closed. “You have a cracked rib, a mild concussion, and swelling around your eye and nose. Fortunately, nothing worse.”

“You can tell all that from just a few questions?”

The doctor smiled pleasantly. “I’m rosanin.”

Gareth raised an eyebrow. Rosanin were rare — a class of individuals born with small, inexplicable abilities. Little was known about them. If you asked the religious, they'd say rosanin were blessed by the Guardians, and even with all the advancements of the last century scientists had yet to come up with a better explanation. Species, race, sex, family history — none of it made a difference. It wasn't hereditary, and it wasn't testable. It seemed entirely random. Rosanins' gifts varied from person to person. Some had knacks for gambling, others could always point north or see auras. As a child, Gareth had known a young man with an exceptional green thumb. He could plant anything and make it grow.

“Through touch, I can tell when a person's body is not as it should be,” the doctor explained. “Many hospitals in big cities have someone like me on staff. It speeds up the process, saves time and effort. Fortunately, Mr. Ranulf, you can treat your injuries at home. Get lots of rest, then reintroduce your normal activities slowly. If you have access to ice, ice your nose and eye at least four times a day. I'd also suggest — once you've healed — introducing more exercise into your routine. I'm sensing some buildup in your arteries.”

Gareth blinked. “Yes, Doctor.”

“For now, I'll give you medication for the pain; just know it might impair your motor functions for a few hours. It'll feel like being drunk,” the doctor explained, seeing Gareth's wary expression. “You should take it, Mr. Ranulf. I imagine you must be in a lot of pain right now. I'll warn you, it smells awful,” she said as she retrieved a bottle from the locked cabinet and poured out a dose. “If you experience pain at home, laudanum should do the trick.”

Gareth almost hurled again at the smell, having to steel himself before draining the cup. Watching him cough, the Doctor winced sympathetically.

“I'll have the nurse bring you fresh ice. Would you prefer to wait here or in the foyer?”

“The foyer,” Gareth answered easily. The sooner he could get home, the better. Isobel must be worried. He returned to the waiting room on his own, relieved to find that Roman had indeed waited. The young man sat near the door, picking at his nails, and didn’t notice Gareth until he dropped into the seat next to him.

“Your face is clean!” was the first thing he said.

“Yes, apparently the doctor needs to see the injury in order to assess it,” Gareth said dryly.

“Ah, clean him up and suddenly he’s a comedian. Good one, Mr. Ranulf. Why are you sitting?” he asked.

“A nurse is bringing me fresh ice,” Gareth said, pulling the current bag away from his eye and shaking it so Roman could hear the slosh of water.

“Ah. How’d it go?”

“Better than I would’ve expected. I’ve been prescribed bedrest — and given medicine, thankfully.”

“Laudanum?”

Gareth shook his head.

“No?” Roman asked, studying Gareth. His face fell. “Tell me it wasn’t Carujan Oil.”

“I don’t—”

“Clear liquid. Thick and sticky. Smells and tastes like piss.”

“That sounds right,” Gareth said. His nose wrinkled at the memory. “Is that bad? She’s the doctor, Mr. Hallisey. I believe she knows best.”

“Sure, but she didn’t give much thought to the poor bastard stuck walking you home. Carrying you home, rather. They don't have a phone here, so we'll have to find a cab on Main Street. Are you concussed?”

“Mildly.”

“Well, we'll have to walk a few blocks — hopefully before that oil takes effect.”

Silence fell between them while they waited for the nurse. Gareth looked around and fidgeted with his clothes and eventually asked, “Where are you from? Your accent is northern, right?”

“Good ear. I grew up in Troas.”

That fit into what little Gareth knew about Roman, with his mother’s Troasian mythology and his darker features. They neared the end of a bright summer, and while Gareth’s skin had tanned beyond its usual pasty white, Roman’s was still several shades darker. The only reason Gareth hadn’t guessed Troas sooner was because of the way Roman’s accent had diluted, like he’d been away from home for a long time. “I had a tutor from Troas,” he said, without quite meaning to.

The nurse arrived, then, replacing Gareth’s melted bag, and when Gareth finally stood to go, the world spun around him. He grabbed Roman’s shoulder for support, but funnily enough, the young man didn’t seem affected by the ground's shifting. He just gave Gareth an amused look and gestured grandly toward the doors, saying, “After you.”

The gesture tickled at something in the back of Gareth's mind. Roman felt strangely familiar. He mused over it as they left the hospital, but it wasn’t until the next block over that it finally clicked. “Wait!” he cried.

Faster than Gareth had ever seen anyone move, Roman twirled to face him, his sword appearing in his hand between one moment and the next. He looked around, alert, then frowned at Gareth. “Gareth, what?”

“It's you! I know who you are!”

Roman's expression darkened, and he took a step toward Gareth. Suddenly, he was like a different person, a predator instead of a savior. Gareth nearly staggered under the weight of his gaze, of those black eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. Had he been in his right mind, it would have felled him. It would have terrified him. A chill raced up his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, but under the medicine's influence, he only let out a nervous giggle.

The sound seemed to snap Roman out of whatever he'd fallen into. The young man blinked, then rolled his eyes, his sword disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. He grabbed Gareth's arm and dragged him the rest of the way across the street.

“Atiuh’s name, Gareth, I thought there was trouble.”

“Sorry,” Gareth said, too dazed to really feel it.

“Don't apologize. Well?”

“Well what?”

“You said you know me. Who exactly do you think I am?”

“Oh! We’ve met, sort of,” Gareth said, following Roman’s lead when Roman turned down a dark side street. He didn’t even question it, which worried a distant, sober part of his mind, but he was mostly focused on walking on ground that wouldn’t stay still. “This morning, actually. You convinced me to stop for a play. Do you remember?”

Roman thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers and laughed, throwing his head back in delight. “You’re the Egil scholar!”

“That’s me,” Gareth said proudly. “I didn't recognize you without your hat.”

Roman laughed again. Even through his mind’s haze, Gareth envied the joy in it. “You have an excuse; I don't. I should’ve recognized you sooner.”

“It's because I was painted red.”

Roman bit his lip to keep from smiling. “Maybe. Please walk faster, Gareth. Call it a hunch, but I think the medicine's kicking in.”

Gareth blinked up at the purple sky as he walked, putting one foot in front of the other. They turned onto Main Street as a carriage rattled past, its side lanterns making Gareth squint and avert his eyes. Beside him, Roman raised a hand to flag it down, but it sped past. Maybe the blood on Gareth's clothing stopped it. “Remarkably fast, this stuff. And strong. I hardly feel a thing,” he said. Suddenly remembering the thread of their earlier conversation, he asked, “Are you one of the Webhon Players?”

Roman looked back at Gareth, trying and failing to hide his amusement. “I’m an honorary player, I suppose. I help with the opening in exchange for a place in their camp.”

“I thought your opening was beautiful.”

“Maybe you should stop talking for a while, Gareth,” Roman suggested.

“Okay.” As they walked, Gareth had to rely on Roman more and more for balance. They hadn’t made it another block before he started complaining. “How far away are we? My boots are getting dirty.”

Roman glanced at Gareth’s shoes. “Gareth, those boots were doomed the minute you set foot in Greysdale.”

“Set foot.” Gareth laughed. “I get it. So? How long to Kramer Street?”

“It’s ten minutes from here, but at the rate we’re going, forty.”

Gareth kicked a loose stone. To his credit, Roman managed to keep a straight face, even after looking over and seeing Gareth’s rather undignified pout. He asked, “What brought you to Greysdale, anyway? It’s not the sort of place I’d expect to find an upstanding gentleman.”

“Wasn’t intentional. I just don’t know the city, even after all my visits.”

“Visits? You’re not from around here?”

“No, I live in Adriat. Just outside of it.”

“You came to visit your sister,” Roman guessed. “For the conferences?”

Gareth nodded, then paused to look in the window of a ladies’ hat shop. He balked at how big some of them were. How did the ladies not fall over with those on their heads? When Roman stifled a laugh, Gareth realized he’d said it out loud. He covered his mouth with a hand.

“Atiuh help me,” Roman muttered, though he was still smiling. “How’d you get so lost?”

“I was on my way back from a meeting and tried to walk.”

“A meeting?” Roman asked, watching Gareth out of the corner of his eye. Under different circumstances, Gareth might have noticed the sharp interest in the young man’s voice. “What kind of meeting?”

“I’m…not supposed to say.”

“Oh. Sure, I understand. I was just trying to keep some conversation going. It’s not like I have anyone to tell, though,” Roman said, watching Gareth out of the corner of his eye, earnestness dripping from every word, “If you did want to talk about it. No offense, but you seem like you've got something on your mind.” Gareth worried at his lower lip. Sensing weakness, Roman continued. “It’s something to do with Unity, right? And the visiting prince?”

“Yes,” Gareth admitted. Roman’s dark eyes made him itch, just beneath the skin. “I…overheard something I shouldn't have, this morning. Unity’s sending a diplomatic team to Orean to negotiate the return of a hostage. I’ve been to Orean a few times, so Moira wants me on the team. That’s what the meeting was about.”

Roman’s eyes widened. “Diplomatic?” he said, tasting the word like he’d never heard it before. “Unity? You’re sure they said 'diplomatic'? It's just not Unity's style.”

“And how would you know?” Gareth asked on reflex, sounding very much like his father. He could hear the condescension and hated himself for it, just a little.

Roman blinked, expression shuttering. Whatever sharpness Gareth had seen behind his eyes disappeared, like a sheathed knife — hidden, but no less dangerous. “I guess I wouldn’t.”

“Sorry,” Gareth said.

“No need to apologize, Mr. Ranulf,” Roman said stiffly. Changing the subject, he asked, “Was that your wife and daughter with you today?”

“Yes. Isobel and Ofelia. Isobel’s the most beautiful woman in the world, Roman. You should see her! You should come up and see her! Then you’ll know.”

“I already saw her,” Roman pointed out. “This morning, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” Gareth sighed. “She’s pregnant right now. I really don’t want to leave her.”

Roman tugged Gareth on again. “I’m sure it’s no great comfort, but it sounds like Unity has things well in hand. Hopefully it’ll be a short trip. And Orean is beautiful in the fall.”

“Have you been?” Gareth asked.

“Several times.”

“You should be on the team, then, instead of me. You’re much charminger than I, and you can fight, and you’ve been to Orean.”

“You think I’m charming, Gareth? I’m flattered.”

“Would you go, if we could swap? Would you join the team? Hypo-hyperothetically.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

Roman half-laughed. He looked up at the sky, weighing his answer. “Because I don’t work with Unity, and I’m sure they wouldn’t want to work with me.”

“Why not?”

Roman turned his considering look on Gareth. “I don’t trust them. Sorry if that’s too blunt for you. I don’t trust them to treat Orean fairly, and I don't trust their motives, so keep an eye on them for me.” Roman sighed. “I would've leapt at this sort of opportunity, once, when I was young. I did, in fact. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let me put it this way: you always lose something of yourself on these kinds of journeys, and who I am is all I have anymore. I really wish you the best, Gareth; you seem like a nice guy. Hold onto that and don't let anyone take it from you.”

“You talk older than you look,” Gareth observed, the most cogent thought he could form at the moment.

“I’m fairly sure that doesn’t make sense.”

“It does.”

Roman smiled and shook his head. “If you insist. Do you recognize where we are?”

Gareth looked around. Past the slight blur, he recognized the lights and sights of Kramer Street. “Oh!”

“Should I help you to your room, or can you handle it from here?”

“I can handle it. Thank you, Mr. Hallisey. I said I’d pay you—”

“Don’t worry about it, just promise you’ll be more careful next time you wander around at night. Good luck with your trip, Mr. Ranulf.”

With that, Roman was gone, strolling down the street and out of Gareth’s life. Gareth lingered outside his flat, letting the crisp air slowly peel back the medicine’s haze. He didn’t want to be so out of it when he explained what happened to Isobel, so he stood and watched the— few, given the late hour— people pass by on the street.

He noticed the trio of orinians that were staying across the hall from him as they returned to the hotel. One of them, a girl with curly blonde hair, met Gareth's eye from across the street. Her smile fell — Gareth could only imagine how he must look — and hurried after her friends.

“Kieran! Íde!” she called, catching up to them just as the hotel doors swung shut, blocking them from view. Gareth worried at his bottom lip, watching the doors long after the orinians disappeared. Unbidden, Roman’s earlier words came to mind. I don’t trust Unity to treat the orinians fairly. It echoed the prince's threats, the hints of ulterior motives. Gareth hoped they were both wrong. They must be wrong.