Abel’s room was far too luxurious.

He concluded as much upon sitting in it that first night. The bed was plush and abundant with silken-wrapped pillows. The windows were finely made, and let in plenty of light, as they overlooked the waters of the river road buttressing the wall of the inn. There were fine lamps upon low tables, which cast dim glow during the night hours. Owl effigies in clay and acrylic scattered across the tops of dressers and the walls, real feathers interwoven into their design. It reminded Abel of Dmitri’s mask, so he wanted it out of sight. He didn’t want to miss him when he was gone.

Attached to his room was a quaint bathroom sealed by a barn door. Abel had access to a tub his size and a full display of toiletries, including scrubs, lotions, and oils made to soothe any type of skin.

He could recall his time in the Citadel, when he was presented a gilded bath with heated water steaming and fresh, and an attendant would prepare a basket of assorted bottles, how the liquid would sting over his wounds.

“You need to be at your best, to better protect the Citadel at all costs. Do not forget the value you hold.” He could hear his attendant’s voice rumbling into his ear as she rubbed the oils into his shoulders. “Those Empire pests are simply monsters who refuse to take no for an answer. Their greed will only bring them ruin. Is that pain I see on your face? See? Those monsters did this to you. Because they exist, your pain exists. It’s all their fault.”

Abel observed the bottles, read each label.

No, this won’t do.

Abel quickly scooped up the bottles, leaving two basic soaps behind. He tossed a towel to the ground for good measure, and fled the room.

The bottles ended up in an owl vase sitting in front of Neymar’s door the following morning, tied together by a ribbon torn off of a silken pillow.

It was better this way. Abel surmised it was a suitable starting point as his token of friendship. After all, Neymar’s skin shifting into that scaled, rock-like texture likely would create some irritation. Abel wrote as much on a little card tucked into the vase.

He was unable to see Neymar’s reaction, however, for he was soon summoned by Madam Fenharrow to address the issue that he had not a single change of clothes in his wardrobe.

“You’ll get as much as you need at the market. And don’t you worry about footing the bill. I’ve already taken responsibility for it, and Dmitri will make sure of that in my stead.” She insisted, roughly slapping Dmitri on the back, which jolted him into the conversation.

“She’s right. You can worry about making ends meet when you’ve settled into the city.”

Abel knew better than to shirk kindness when it was immediately offered, but he couldn’t help but feel off. This was no grace. This was a bribe. He could hear his interrogation officer’s words curl through his ears.

You will see what our sanctuary provides. Perhaps then you’ll have reason to cherish it.

The more indebted he was to the Fenharrows, the more compromised he may become. He would just have to play along and select only the bare minimum.

He followed Dmitri out into the streets, taking in the bustle of the morning. People walked quickly here.

Setia’s marketplace was cramped. Formal storefronts were crowded with pop-up tents, to avoid the constant stream of traffic that populated the main roadways on either side of the commercial district. Merchants and hawkers called from their stools at the front of their shops, beckoning in customers, telling them stories, proving the worth of their goods. “My Friend” was everyone’s first name in a place like this, and a constant stream of conversation also meant strict deliberation over the price. Haggling was not only commonplace, but a necessary skill to exist within that space. Abel could pick up a few choice words thrown around in the midst of passing conversation. “These are war resources, so the cost is higher. What can I do?” and “You know, many routes to Zhuraita are still closed. You’ll be lucky to find this pattern anywhere else.” Bit by bit, the reminders chipped away at Abel.

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He shouldn’t expect to escape the war that easily.

So his eyes scanned for a distraction.

And choosing between patterns and styles was a very good distraction. It was liberating, to be able to divorce himself from combat uniform, to indulge in plain clothes rather than ornate patterns for ceremony. He discovered the existence of suspenders and got one in every color they had.

And Dmitri was an excellent enabler.

Dmitri spoke to vendors on Abel’s behalf, largely to avoid any pressing questions about Abel’s accent, and to flex his own powers of negotiating through extreme complimenting.

“You will end up paying more if you sound Caldon. It’s the way things have played out, recently.” Dmitri explained as they left with a new bag of clothes and shoes in tow. The bundle was larger than Abel anticipated. When did that happen?

Damn it.

Abel eyed Dmitri on the walk back to the inn, searching for a moment where he’d slip and his toothy smile would molt into a feral grimace. But no. The glow of the morning light cast flecks of sunlight through his round glasses and sparkle gold into his brown eyes.

At that moment, Abel wondered what Dmitri would have to do to be called a monster, and hated him for planning to leave him all over again.

“I’m paying Madam Fenharrow back eventually.” Abel grumbled.

“What was that?” Dmitri feigned ignorance of the whole conflict. “Mother hates when someone goes against her word, but she can tolerate a surprise from time to time.” He mumbled absently, adjusting his glasses in a knowing way. “Gifts are wonderful surprises.”

Speaking of surprise gifts…

When Abel returned to the inn, his gift had disappeared from the hall, owl vase and all.

Good.

Dinner that night was a hopeful event. Abel thanked Madam Fenharrow for her generosity, then proceeded to serve Neymar his portion of stew and water and tea in her place. Neymar remained silent, his gaze constantly trained on Abel with a look of absolute bewilderment.

And that’s when things got a little silly.

Abel continued to serve spoonful after spoonful of stew into Neymar’s bowl after he clearly refused to indicate when he should stop, resulting in stew overfilling to the point of spilling out of the bowl and Reyna cutting them off and scolding them for making a mess.

Then, as they returned to their rooms for the night, Abel walked a few paces behind Neymar to give him more space in the narrow hall, only for Neymar to deliberately stutter his walking speed, pausing every few moments to “forget something” and then “remember it wasn’t important.” Abel was ready to slam him into the wall. A flickering breeze wafted through the hall in anticipation.

Neymar was testing his patience on purpose.

But soon they reached their suite doors, and Abel sighed out a gentle “good night” instead of initiating combat.

Neymar’s eyes narrowed just slightly before he mumbled his own nonchalant “good night” in response.

With that, Abel attempted to sleep for the second night in the Capital. He was just about to slip under the weight of unconsciousness when suddenly, a thick metallic “CLANK!” knock against his far wall roused him.

He startled upright. The wind around him swirled in sudden apprehension, causing the paintings on the wall to shudder in their place. The room remained dark and unremarkable, faint street lights pouring in from the window at an angle. Did he dream of that noise?

But then, as the air stilled, he heard a persistent drip drip drip…

He pressed his ear against the wall. He was certain now, there was a leak somewhere on the other side. In his groggy delirium, he gathered towels and waddled out of his room, towards the source of the noise, only to find himself standing in front of Neymar’s door. For a brief moment, he considered turning back and ignoring the situation entirely.

“Ah, this must be annoying him.” Abel mused and knocked on the door.

Neymar was quick to fling the door open, revealing a surprising disheveled mess of a boy. His hands and face were soaked. His eyes were rimmed red and puffy, as if rubbed raw. The wrought expression on his face proved that he fully expected someone else to be on the other side of the door instead of Abel and dreaded it.

And he knew as much when Neymar visibly unclenched every muscle in his body as soon as he recognized Abel. However one thing remained conspicuously rigid: Neymar’s hands were the shape of claws as crystal-like growths encapsulated his fingers and knuckles to sharp points.

“What do you want?” He growled.

“I heard your pipe break. Thought you would need this.” Abel let Neymar’s hostility roll off him and held out the towel in truce. “Are you… alright?”

“Nothin’ you have to worry about. Just a broken sink.” Neymar begrudgingly eyed the towels and took them, lightly scraping Abel’s hands with his claws in the process.

Did he accidentally rip his sink apart with his hands?

Did he have trouble controlling his magic?

Abel wondered what kind of turmoil he had to be in to lose control of his spirit like that.

“You don’t think Madam Fenharrow heard, right?”

Abel could only shrug in his half-awake delirium. It dawned on Abel that perhaps Neymar feared disappointing the Fenharrows more than he let on. Perhaps more than anything.

“They won’t be upset with you over this.” Abel attempted to reassure him. Neymar scoffed, physically recoiling from him.

“Don’t presume that you know the Fenharrows.”

Neymar shut the door in his face at that.

“I was just trying to be friendly! I just—“ Abel sighed and ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. People are so difficult. No wonder the Caldon Army resorted to mind control.