It took Harald a long time to walk home.

Not that he didn’t know the way; it was a simple matter to follow the curvature of the Eternal Circuit all the way round to the Angelic Quarter.

But he moved as if through a dream. There was a constant sense of latent urgency, but it wasn’t to get home; rather it was to pierce the fog through which he moved. A mental fog that, on some level, he’d always existed in.

Leather armor banging against his knee, other hand resting on the pommel of his blade, he drifted deeper into the city, avoiding faster paced traffic, allowing those with greater urgency to swirl around and past him. He ignored solicitations, the cheery cries from hawkers and shop keeps, the curious stares, the appraisal from the occasional guard patrol.

He’d blink and realize he’d been standing still for he knew not how long, gazing up at a statue of Preceptor Ulrich, say, or fetched up against a black metal railing that lined a public garden.

He couldn’t quite recall what he’d been thinking about whenever he came back to himself. It felt as if he wandered not through Flutic, but through banks of mist, a miasma composed of all his old emotions and desires, his hang-ups and fears, his ambitions and hopes, his regrets and bitterness.

“What’s wrong with me?” he whispered as he stared at his reflection in a confectionary shop window. Within, a lady in a prim white apron was watching him warily, as if he were a strange dog that might bite. He blinked, saw the endless rows of cupcakes and delicacies, and realized he was probably keeping her clientele away.

Returning to the sidewalk, he tried for greater speed, stretching out his stride, but soon this exertion exhausted him. Sweat matted his filthy long hair, caused runnels of pink to flow down his face.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Harald turned to see two guards marching up, their black and gold uniforms impeccable in the late afternoon sun. “Yes, officers?”

They hadn’t expected him to sound so polite; they drew up before him, frowning. “We don’t know from what part of town you’ve come, but you can’t enter the Angelic Quarter looking like that.”

“Hmm?” Harald glanced down at himself. “Oh. Of course. My apologies. I’m coming from the dungeon. I live just up ahead, on Baldric Avenue. Harald Darrowdelve.”

“You do, do you?” Their skepticism was obvious. “Then perhaps we can escort you home to ensure you arrive safely.”

“Of course.” He knew what that meant. If it turned out he didn’t live on Baldric Avenue, they’d arrest him for wasting their time. And if he did, their presence at his side would assure the finer citizens of Flutic that all was in hand.

But their presence was what he needed to remain focused. Soon they turned onto his familiar avenue, and marched up to the wrought iron gate. Carriages rolled by, elegant servants and couriers rushed along the sidewalk, and a dozen pastel colored kites flew in the near distance, no doubt from Season Park just a few blocks over.

“Thank you, officers,” said Harald. “I’ll see myself in.”

“Of course, sir.” Their skepticism was obvious. “We’ll watch from here and make sure everything is all right.”

Harald nodded and pushed open the gate. Its rusted hinges screeched, and the sound reminded him of the dire rats, causing him to flinch. He strode up the graveled driveway, noting as if for the first time the many weeds growing up through the white pebbles. He’d seen them every time before, but never really noticed them. Nor the ragged state of the hedges, the unpruned wildness of the bushes, the way the flowerbeds had gone to seed.

Music came from within, a wild sawing of a fiddle, and the front door stood ajar. Vic and the others had no doubt returned from the Oak and Acorn to enjoy his hospitality.

Harald waved to the guards and let himself in. They’d not leave just yet. The front door being open was suspicious, and no doubt they’d come sniffing around soon to ensure nothing was amiss.

Their prerogative.

Stepping into his entrance hall, Harald dropped the bloodied armor by the fitting bench but some instinct bade him keep his sword buckled.

He listened, head cocked to one side; the fiddling was wild, yes, but beautifully executed. Evernessa. She’d been accepted to the Flutic Conservatory on a full scholarship before being having her invitation revoked for ‘conduct unbecoming of a lady.’

A crash sounded, something large and made of glass, followed by raucous laughter. It came from the ballroom at the back of the manor.

Harald advanced.

Down the entrance hall, through the connecting corridor, and then a left into the ballroom.

Once this room had been a splendor. His father had been fascinated with hosting ostentatious events for only a couple of seasons, but even now Harald could remember the great dresses, the symphonies and waltzes played by the musicians, the catering staff, the orderly ranks of dancers swinging about.

Those days were long gone.

Vic and a half-dozen others were lurching about as Evernessa played her fiddle, all of them wearing elaborate costumes that it took Harald a moment to realize they must have taken from the wardrobes upstairs. His father and mother’s finery. They’d donned old wigs, plastered their faces with powder, and were weaving about in a mockery of an old dance as they half doubled over with laughter.

Sam stood to one side, her blank expression failing to mask the fury in her eyes, her hands linked behind her back as she glared at the cavorting group.

Harald just stood there in the great entranceway, watching.

His friends.

He’d known Vic the longest, some five years now. But he’d gotten into escapades with each and every one of them. Late night debaucheries, visits to various brothels, even been arrested a handful of times by exasperated watchmen before bribing everyone’s way out.

His friends.

Harald studied them. Their faces, the way they staggered about, already drunk.

A great sadness settled upon him. They’d known he’d gone off to the dungeon, had been gone for who knew how long, yet here they were, acting as fools.

“Harald!” Vic threw up his arms, grin wide. “Our darling war hero returns! Nessa, quit your squalling! Everyone! Look who’s here!”

The music cut out and everyone turned to smile at him.

“Harald dear,” said Nessa, tossing her mass of dark curls behind her shoulder. “You look frightful. Whatever have you been up to?”

“Yes!” cried Proviss, reeling. “And why, by the Fallen Angel’s tits, weren’t we invited?”

Vic roped his arm around Proviss’ shoulders. “Because Harry-boy went into the dungeon. The dungeon! Him. Can you believe it! I can’t. Confess, darling. You were at the Kitty Kat Club, weren’t you?”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Sam was staring at Harald, her eyes wide. She strode over abruptly as if freed from some spell. “Sir?” Her voice was hushed. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you, Sam.” Harald couldn’t tear his eyes away from his glittering crew of friends. Their rambunctious smiles, their heightened anticipation. He knew what they wanted. For him to say something filthy and bless their presence here. For him to affirm that he was Harry-boy, their good and deep-pocketed friend. That this was alright, that they were still in his good graces.

Actually, they fully believed they were.

Why wouldn’t they think as much?

They always had been.

“Vic, everyone.” His voice trembled. “I’ve had a long day. I’d like you all to leave.”

“What?” Vic’s fatuous grin didn’t falter. He released Proviss and staggered forward a few steps. “What was that you said, Harry?”

A deep breath. “All of you. Out. Now.”

Blinks. Astonished gapes. They turned to stare at each other, as if checking to see who’d figure out the joke first.

“Well, well, well. I guess your credit finally ran out at Kitty’s?” Vic’s smile returned, but his gaze had sharpened. “Doesn’t mean you should take it out on your poor friends. We were waiting for you! To celebrate your—your whatever happened in the dungeon. You did go, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

Nessa bounced her bow upon one shoulder. “And you won’t tell us about it?”

Vic raised a finger as if a capital idea had just occurred to him. “Why don’t you tell Sam here to run you a bath. We’ll prepare a modest little feast in the kitchen, and when you come down we’ll be as docile as lambs as you tell us all about it. What do you say?”

“No, thank you.” This was surprisingly hard. The bonds that held their little group together were endlessly forgiving as long as he was the one accommodating their desires.

Vic’s smile grew quizzical. “No? But what is an adventure if it’s not shared? I think I saw some bottles of 762 Verillion in the corner of your cellar. Sam, be a dear and fetch them for us? Take your time, Harry. We’ll wait, quiet as dormice, till you’re ready to share whatever’s happened with your friends.”

Everybody stared at him, waiting, expectant.

How easy it would be to relent. To agree. To be… agreeable. So earn their smiles, to keep their friendship, to share his outrages with them, to endure their teasing, to be part of their raillery.

To belong.

But to his surprise he realized he simply didn’t want to. Didn’t want to share what Yeoric and the others had done. What Ustim had revealed. His wait in the Humble Petitioner’s line.

His encounter with Vorakhar.

In fact, he couldn’t think of anything less appealing.

“I’m sorry, Vic.” His voice was soft, and caused more than one of his friends to lean forward. “The party’s over. All of you, please leave. Now.”

Vic’s eyes glittered. The others glanced at him, apprehensive, wary.

Would Vic simply refuse? What then?

The air grew turgid with tension.

“Hello?” A stern voice from the entrance hall. “City watch. Anybody home?”

“The Fallen Angel wept,” said Vic, his smile vicious. “You brought the city watch with you? I say, Harry, that’s remarkably direct of you.”

The urge to explain, to share how they’d escorted him home out of suspicion of his own appearance surged to the fore. Harald stifled it.

There was no need to say anything.

It made him acutely uncomfortable, but he simply held Vic’s stare.

“Incredible,” said Nessa, tucking her fiddle under her arm. “Are we being treated like common criminals?”

“Sam, please see to the watch,” said Harald.

Sam nodded and hurried out of the ballroom.

Vic approached, his smile predatory. “You’re clearly not yourself, Harald. Whatever happened must have been more extreme than we realized. I apologize. For not taking this more seriously. We’ll of course see ourselves out.”

Vic stopped before him and dusted off Harald’s shoulders. “Take your time, rest up. I’ll drop you a note soon. All right?”

“Sure, Vic.” Harald didn’t move. For the first time he was able to meet the other man’s gaze without flinching. How many times had he swallowed his doubts, bitten back his protests, accepted unsavory outcomes because he simply couldn’t stand up to his friend?

But after facing down Vorakhar, Vic felt far more manageable.

“Very well! Come, my merry crew! Let’s deposit these faded fineries in the vestibule, and see ourselves out. Our gracious host is in need of rest. Who can blame him?”

And with that Vic strode past Harald.

The others followed suit, far less assured and composed as their leader. Evernessa studied him, her expression somewhere between quizzical and curious, and then they were gone, leaving only a shattered carafe, a sideboard of glasses and liquor, torn articles of clothing, and a number of couches and divans that they’d dragged into the ballroom from the second parlor.

Harald exhaled.

That had felt almost as intense as facing down the dire rats.

He returned to the entrance hall, where Sam was speaking with both guards.

“Master Darrowdelve,” she said brightly. “These kind members of the city watch were worried that something might be amiss. I’ve assured them that all is well, and thanked them for their service.”

“Surely we can offer them a refreshment for their bother?” asked Harald, linking his hands behind his back. “Gentlemen?”

The lead guard glanced suspiciously back and forth between the two of them, and then reached a decision; his expression smoothed over and became studiously neutral. “You are too kind, sir. But my companion and I shall return to our patrol. Thank you for indulging our curiosity.”

“Of course.”

The guards bowed stiffly, then stepped out the front door.

Sam’s smile immediately disappeared as she raised an eyebrow at Harald. Her curiosity and concern were obvious, but he raised a hand, forestalling her questions. “Let’s wait till we’re alone.”

She nodded. “Leave this to me, sir. I’ll send for you when they’re gone?”

Harald couldn’t restrain a pained smile. She knew him too well, his aversion to conflict, his hatred for ‘scenes’. Normally he’d have accepted gratefully and fled upstairs to hide in his room till whatever unpleasantness was taken care of.

“Thanks, but I’ll take care of this myself.”

Sam’s incredulity broke through for a second before she mastered herself. She was clearly dying to ask him a hundred questions, but her training asserted itself. “Of course, sir. I’ll see to cleaning the ballroom.”

He nodded and watched as she left.

Slender, his age, her golden hair braided and coiled as always into a tight bun upon the crown of her head. She’d always been there. A part of the household, the daughter of his father’s old butler, a maid at first, and then playing an ever more important role as each servant was released from their oath or simply transferred to another household, till one day it was just Harald and Sam, playing at master and servant in this great echoing manor.

Not playing, no; he’d never seen her as anything but a servant before. She’d always been Sam, the worker of miracles, miracles that were entirely her responsibility to manifest. To keep the rooms tidy, to clean up after his messes, to prepare his baths, clean his clothing, cook his meals, to keep the estate as respectable as possible, to prod him to answer his mail, to remind him of appointments.

To be there when he picked himself up from his latest failure with an encouraging word.

To tell him it was all right, and that there was always tomorrow.

Harald frowned.

How had he taken her for granted all this time? Sure, she was oathbound, which ensured her unquestioning service, but even so compelled, she’d never shirked, never complained, never… doubted him.

Harald stared after where she’d gone. It was as if she was the only one who’d ever seen him as he wished to be seen.

And yet he’d always taken her for granted.

“Here we are,” called Vic, vivacious and smiling once more as he emerged from a side door. “Ready to be tossed out on our ears like the terrible friends we are.” His smile invited Harald to join him, to become complicit in the humor. “How can we ever repay you for your kindness, dear Master Darrowdelve?”

The others were filing out, tugging on their jackets and coats.

“No need for repayment, Vic.” Harald stepped aside so there was nothing between Vic and the front door.

“Your generosity knows no bounds. We’ll be at the Oak later tonight. Will you come? The first round’s on me.”

“I don’t think so, no.” Oh, the urge to explain, to defuse the situation with a joke, to say something silly or arch or wry.

But he didn’t want to.

Vic paused, waiting for more, then nodded his head. “Get some rest, old fellow. If I don’t see you tonight, I’ll come round in a day or two to check on you.”

Harald wanted to tell him not to bother, but that felt like going too far. He’d known the man for five years. Vic had been there during his darkest moments after his father’s death. Had consoled him with his gallows humor, had lifted him from the depths of despair by dragging him from one tavern to another brothel.

And even if Harald had footed the bill, it had kept him going. Kept his head above the perilous waters that sought to drown him.

So all he did was incline his head.

Everyone filed out after Vic, some muttering their goodbyes, others giving small waves. Evernessa slowed as she passed him, her head canted to one side. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Harry.” Her smile was all pleasant confusion till she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek and her voice dropped to a whisper. “But I like it.”

And then they were gone.

Harald closed his front door and pressed his brow to the cold wood.

Once a whisper like that from Nessa would have sent his heart racing and his imagination aflame.

But now he barely felt moved.

For a long while he stood thus, not thinking, heart pounding, fighting off a sudden wave of exhaustion.

And then he sighed, turned around, and gazed up at the portrait of his father.

The man smiled down at him, vulpine and predatory, amused and disdainful.

Harald met the man’s stare, and for the first time it didn’t feel like he was being condemned.

Instead, it felt like a challenge.

“I’m not done yet, Father.” Harald frowned up at the painting. “Just you wait. I’m just getting started.”