The first face Ezril saw was Darvi’s. With it came a sense of relief. He had believed Alanna when she’d spoken of his brother’s recovery, but seeing it made it real, not something he was simply told. It was fact, not Credo. This was a line of thinking he knew Salem would be proud of.

Darvi stood in a conversation with a man Ezril couldn’t recognize. His uniform placed him as a man of import, and not one of the King’s guard. Perhaps a new commander. Ezril was under no illusion that all those who had been at the table that night had survived. The man was perhaps in the late years of his third decade and possessed a surprising air of authority to him.

With them was commander Vardil and a woman clad in a muddy brown leather vest and leather trouser with boots of leather held firmly with ropes protecting her feet, as against the straps almost everyone else wore. She seemed to be being reprimanded by the three men.

No, not a lady, Ezril corrected himself a moment after. Ellenel was the only other person he had seen wearing such an outfit. A priestess.

“Sister Snow.”

He turned to find Alanna beside him, eyes focused on the priestess. Although slim and small, she stood with a form that spoke of a discipline. The two swords strapped to her back spoke of a weight unlike the ones even the soldiers carried.

“She’s the only priestess that carries two,” Alanna said as they drew nearer, as if reading his thoughts.

The priestess’ hair was a blonde so light it was near white. It was a color so unseen in the Kingdom that Ezril was certain it had come from hair coloring; a recent trend amongst the ladies.

The short distance between them seemed to go on forever, still, they went on. Ezril forced his feet in their slow shuffle towards them, one after the other.

It was a while before Darvi noticed him.

“Father Antari,” Darvi said loud enough to be heard, but not so loud to be a regarded as an announcement.

Ezril could hear the concealed joy in his brother’s raised voice despite his formal address, which told him more about the man they spoke with than anything else. The others turned to observe him. They did nothing to cease their conversation. But Ezril paused, frozen as the ice peaks of the northern mountains.

The priestess had a beautiful face. Her skin was a beautiful brown, testimony of how often she stood in the sun. Though, he knew the sun was not solely responsible for its beauty. A stray strand of hair cascaded down her face and she did nothing to tuck it aside as she stared at him with slightly parted lips and green eyes.

Ezril shook himself from the trance he’d only just noticed he had fallen into at the sight of Darvi’s furious expression. The priestess was walking towards him now, an unsurprisingly easy sway in her hips, yet a hesitant determination in her steps.

She stopped when she stood before him.

She was slightly shorter than the average woman and Ezril stood considerably taller than her by more than a head. He was more than certain the color of her hair was a result of hair coloring, there was no way this was the real color; not the one he knew it to be. He found himself smiling at the concept.

“Do you find something funny, Father Antari?” she asked.

Her voice, a simple soprano, concealed a smile. He found it a waste that it was a singer’s voice, for the woman before him was not bred to sing, and he knew it. He noted as Alanna stiffened beside him. In anticipation of what? He couldn’t understand.

“Yes, I find a few things funny, Sister Snow.” He smirked. “Like the color of your eyes… And your hair. It has a strange color now. Tell me, is this what counts for class these days.”

She barked a short laugh. “Says the priest who lost to a maid and a bowl of soup.”

Ezril croaked out a mild laugh. The force took more strength than it should have. “I wasn’t the only one.”

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“That’s true,” she agreed. “But I expected more from you, Ezril.”

Alanna grew panicked, tensed more than he thought even possible. “Sister S—”

The priestess closed the remaining distance between them in a short step and hugged Ezril. “I’ve missed you, Ezril,” she whispered against his chest, hands gripping his cassock in desperation, as if he would disappear if she didn’t hold tight enough.

Ezril’s smirk slid into a fond smile and he hugged her back. “Me too, Aria,” he said. “Me too.”

They drew eyes from everyone around them. Even the soldiers ceased their duties to stare in complete shock. Their reactions, he cared naught for.

Lenaria chuckled against his chest. “I still can’t believe you lost to a maid and a bowl of soup, though.”

“I didn’t lose,” he objected. “I’m still standing, am I not?”

Lenaria nodded against his chest. He took it as an agreement with his logic. Shade howled again and Olufemi step out of a corner of the tower. Ezril remembered the furious expression Darvi had borne. With all these, he created a gap large enough to reduce the little heat of her body but small enough to look at her face. Her green eyes and white hair had been the only things that had been out of place growing up. Like his odd blue eyes, people had stared at the features in suspicion. Now, it seemed to blend in with every part of her. It still stood out as odd, but somehow she carried it well. You finally grew into it.

His smile deepened. “I believe there are people furious that you walked out on them,” he said at last.

Lenaria executed an unenthusiastic shrug. “They’re less important.”

Ezril sighed. “Why were they scolding you?” he asked.

Her expression dulled and her voice softened to a whisper as she spoke her next word. “Battle.”

Ezril cocked a brow. “Battle?”

“They don’t like how I handle myself on the battlefield.”

He let go of her, missing the warmth of her body immediately and she pouted.

“I see,” he said. “You will go and answer to them, and I will wait for you right here.”

Lenaria observed him through narrow eyes. “You will?” she asked, skeptical.

“I will.”

“You promise?”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, fixed his gaze on hers, and touched her face gently. She leaned into his palm. The action made him smile. “I promise.”

Turning her around, he gave her a gentle push, setting her on her way towards Darvi and his companions. Ezril cocked his head to both sides, taking satisfaction from the furious snapping sounds that escaped.

“I didn’t know you knew Sister Lenaria.”

Ezril turned his head to Alanna. For a moment he’d forgotten she was there. “I’ve known her a while now,” he answered.

She observed him with a frown but said nothing. Surprisingly, he could feel her growing dislike for Lenaria.

“How long have you known her?” she asked, her voice baleful. “She called you Ezril.”

He attempted to straighten to his full height. Again, he failed. “Since we were children.”

“Oh.” Surprise marred Alanna’s tone. “And the brother from the test?”

Alric slithered into Ezril’s memory, and he frowned. “I do not know.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.” Ezril, bringing the topic to an end, turned his attention to Olufemi who was within hearing distance. “It’s good to see you again, brother.”

“And you, brother,” Olufemi replied in vrail.

“How has Shade been?” Ezril continued, discarding the realm tongue and indulging him the use of the language.

“Highly unbecoming…” someone else answered.

Ezril turned to find Salem behind them.

“…Even brother Olufemi seems unable to calm him,” Salem continued in the realm tongue. “It almost took off his head a few days ago.”

Ezril returned his attention to Olufemi, alarmed. “Is this true?”

Olufemi bowed his head, like a child who had just disappointed an adult. “It is,” he admitted, maintaining his use of vrail. “It was my fault.”

Olufemi was not one to take blame for actions he was not responsible for, and Ezril found himself compelled to believe his brother.

Salem stepped up to them, converting to vrail. “So, brother,” he said, his attention on Ezril. “How do you know the priestess?”

Ezril chuckled. “We grew up in the same place.”

“Oh.”

Apparently, that was enough to silence his brother.

Ezril smiled. “Yes. Oh.”

“And I assume you both were quite close,” Salem pressed, seeming to regain his luster.

“That, too, is true,” Ezril agreed. “You remember my tale at the test of speech.”

Salem’s eyes widened. “I doubt anyone has forgotten it.”

“She was the girl in the story.” Ezril turned, swiveling his attention to Olufemi and killing that line of conversation. “Does he eat well?”

“No,” Olufemi answered solemnly, without missing a beat. “I can’t get him to do that. I suggest you see him as soon as you can. I don’t see him eating until you feed him.” He sighed. “Atle wolves can be loyal to a fault.”

Ezril paused. “Where did you hear that, brother?”

Olufemi shrugged. “The same place I learned about Atle wolves.”

“And where is that?”

Olufemi mused then stopped, seeming confused. “I’m not certain.”

Ezril spared Alanna a glance, having forgotten her presence, again, and found a frown on her face. His brows drew together in contemplation. Something told him it was his duty to ask what was wrong, yet something told him he wouldn’t like to thread that path.

“She does not like us,” Salem offered. “And she likes Olufemi even less.”

“Why is that?” Ezril asked, puzzled.

Salem observed him with a mix of surprise and amazement. “Perhaps because she never understands what we say in her presence or…” he turned Ezril’s attention to Olufemi, “that our brother refuses to say a word to her.”

Ezril nodded. He saw the logic in Salem’s reasons. “Good point.” His attention turned to Olufemi. “I will see to Shade soonest.”