It's near midday by the time Kavas looms into view. Its wood-panel spires pierce the frosty haze hovering in the air, bladeless knives that sink deep into Sarielle's chest. Her stomach is tight with anticipation. Digging her heel into her horse's flank, she charges down the hill, pressing herself lower in the saddle to endure the rush of wind. Her hair flies into her face.

"Sarie!" Dalton shouts from behind. She blocks him out. There's only the thunder of hooves beneath her and the desperate fear whirring in her ears, too wild to let her thoughts stray anywhere else.

She's forced to slow as the streets close in around her, the path hardening. Scanning the rooftops, she catches sight of the taller, pointed shape of the tavern, and veers towards it, watching each alley slide by with careful glances. They all yield nothing. A chill washes up her spine. The entire town is eerily still, almost as if frozen in time, stiff and empty of life. The shadows cast by the sun seem broader here.

The doors to the tavern are shut, the posts outside devoid of any other travellers' mounts. She hops to the ground, then leads her own horse to the wall, tying it with care and yanking the knot tight. Her hand trails up to deliver an absent pat to its muzzle as she twists to glance over her shoulder. Still no-one.

Could they all be dead?

She shakes her head to dispel the thought before it's even complete. That's darkened thinking, touched with the memory of black flames. It's not even possible. A town reduced to hiding is far more likely.

She can't help but wonder what they must have seen to cause such a widespread retreat. The very air feels tense, soaked through with weighted fear.

At least the silence allows her to hear the twang of an arrow being let loose.

Electric panic jolting through her veins, she whirls just in time to see the arrow soar right for her. Her dive aside isn't quite quick enough. The arrow impales her cloak and buries in the wall behind, yanking her sideways as the clasp rides up and digs into her throat. A cry is forced out before she can bite it in two. Dizzying adrenaline coursing through her veins, she grabs a handful of the material and pulls, trying not to wince at the rough tearing sound that follows. At least she isn't trapped. Hand flying to her sword, she whirls.

A blow connects with her stomach, and the air floods out of her lungs. The metallic clunk of her blade dropping back into its sheath drags serrated teeth through her awareness as her fingers slip numbly from her hilt. Her mind is suddenly wrapped in fog. She blinks in an attempt to clear it, yet her legs are already being swept from under her, and the world spins.

She crashes hard into the path. A boot comes down on her chest, restricting her wheezing gasps. Her vision blurs for a moment before settling enough for her to make out the steely grey eyes boring into her, and the silver flash of a knife landing at her throat.

Fayre. Sarielle fights not to swallow, her fingers shrinking into her side as they crawl nervously towards her hilt.

The Neyaibet girl doesn't smile, but there's a certain amount of pride in her voice as she speaks. "Diraldi." The flat of her knife presses against Sarielle's chin. "There's no pretending this time."

Her eyes flick down, no doubt landing on the golden bird crest revealed by Sarielle's splayed-out cloak. Sarielle keeps her focus on breathing, on the brush of her fingertips against the smooth, cool curve of her hilt. A dagger would be easier to draw with subtlety, but the sword is all she has. Fear thrums steadily beneath her ribs, difficult to keep caged.

Fayre flicks her blonde plait onto her back with a twist of her head, sinking lower in her crouch. Her lips flatten out. "Unfortunately, my general deems you precious enough to keep alive."

The knife nicks Sarielle's chin, and she inhales sharply. She allows her gaze to trail just beyond Fayre's shoulder, clocking the figure perched upon the flat part of a nearby rooftop, an arrow nocked upon the string of a longbow. Her hand closes around her hilt, though hesitation freezes her grip there. Fayre might have stated her orders, but there's an edged glint in her eyes that suggests she's more than likely to test the boundaries of alive if pressed. And even if Sarielle can escape from under her, that arrow is primed. It might not miss a second time.

"His mistake," she says, hoping her growing desperation doesn't show. "I won't tell him anything."

A frown crosses Fayre's stoic expression. "I'm not sure that's what he wants you for."

Realisation shudders through Sarielle, hitching her breath. Bait. Of course. Harlow wants to use her as a prize. Fury lunges forth in the thought's wake, and she growls. "If you think--"

"Hey! Asswipe!"

Fayre stiffens, head whipping around in search of the voice. Sarielle can barely peer past her. There's a woman standing several paces down the street, dark-skinned with long black hair. Hardly surprising in Akurin, if not for the long, narrow sword clutched in her hands, and the challenge that lifts her eyebrow.

"You," Fayre snarls.

The woman smiles, striding forward. "Me." Something dangerous tugs at her lips. "Now let my friend there go, won't you?"

The heel of Fayre's boot presses harder into Sarielle's ribs, somewhat spitefully. It doesn't matter. The distraction is enough. She pulls her sword from its sheath and swipes.

The strike is awkward; the blade only leaves a thin scratch on Fayre's ankle, leaving a slit in her tight trouser leg, but it generates a flinch. Summoning all her strength, Sarielle rolls to the side, the sole of Fayre's boot scraping painfully over her side but eventually dropping away.

Adjusting her grip on her hilt, she scrambles to her feet. Before she's even gotten herself balanced, the Akurin woman is upon Fayre, sword only just blocked by a shaky knife as Fayre comes up on one knee. Teeth bared, she draws a second knife and leaps into the fight. She wields the blades like claws. Though long since healed, the echo of a cut on Sarielle's leg stings. It's ferocious.

Yanking her attention away, she scans the rooftops, spots the archer, and sprints to the opposite side of the path. An arrow embeds in the dirt path behind her. Pressing her shoulders into the house's wall, she ducks beneath the lip of the roof, taking a moment to catch her breath.

The sound of approaching hooves vibrates the ground at her feet.

Her gaze jolts to the fork in the path, the place where the main street bends off into the tavern's track, just as Dalton and her father round the corner. Dalton's sword is already drawn. He veers into the side of the path, grabs the edge of the house and leaps from his horse onto the roof above, scarf trailing behind him. Sarielle shrinks further into the wall to dodge his horse as it slows to a trot. It stops just beyond her, snorting.

Her father yanks his mount to a halt a safe distance away. He dismounts in a hurry, fumbling for his sword, his focus landing on her rather than the blade. He runs over to her. "Are you alright, Sarielle?"

She shifts in front of him, holding out an arm to stop him from advancing any further. "I'm fine." Her gaze roams the end of the street, then flicks to the rooftops, the clashing of Fayre and the stranger's battle filling the otherwise hollow shell the town seems to be. No-one else appears, despite the undoubted echo of the noise.

Only two soldiers? Her stomach twists, itchy unease crawling upwards. It doesn't sit right. There should be more.

One of Fayre's knives scrapes the length of the Akurin woman's sword, disentangling from the blades' fight. Her cold gaze pierces Sarielle, her jaw clenching, before she spins on her heels and breaks into a sprint. The ends of her navy cloak fan out behind her as she bends left, heading for an alley behind the tavern. The woman lowers her sword, watching her go.

Tensing, Sarielle throws herself into a pursuit, though she barely makes it five steps before a hand locks around her arm and jerks her back. One glance confirms it to be Dalton's firm grip, but she struggles anyway, boots skidding over the cobblestone mixed in with the dirt. "Let me go. She's getting away."

"You need to calm down, Sarie." His voice is low, measured. It clashes with the hammer of her heart and the clamorous whine of urgency scraping over her bones.

She whirls on him. "She could lead us to Nathan!" The panic in her voice is potent enough to leave a taste. She curls her fists, pressing her teeth together in an attempt to reel it back in.

"We don't know that." He fixes her with a hard, commanding stare, storm clouds blanketing the faded blue of his eyes. "Let's stick together for now."

Sarielle's gaze trails to the side, tracking the dust Fayre kicked up as she fled. The soldier has vanished by now. Sighing, she forces herself to nod. Satisfied, Dalton releases her arm, though he lingers beside her with the antsy wariness of a rider watching over an easily-spooked horse. Shame flushes her cheeks.

She does need to calm down. Yet she still can't seem to catch a full breath, her lungs caught in the same anxious squeeze as everything else.

She bounces on the soles of her feet simply to exercise the jittery burst of energy. "The archer?"

"He's gone. He ran before I could get to him."

Another controlled nod. She realises her sword is still in her hand, a dent practically carved into her palm by the hilt, and loosens her grip enough to let the curved blade drop to her side. She can't bring herself to sheathe it just yet, however; the Akurin woman is strolling their way.

"You needn't worry," she says, her stride light with casual ease. If the fight took any toll on her, she's hiding it well. "All being well, Neyaibet's soldiers know less than you about where Nathaniel has gone."

Sarielle stiffens. Lifting her chin, she steps away from Dalton, a fluttering nervousness dusting the stony, protective anger primed to strike the moment this stranger conveys any ill intent. "What do you mean by that?" she asks carefully.

The woman's cloak flows around her long legs like frothy white waves. "You're Sarielle Diraldi, I gather?"

The weight her name holds weighs a little too heavily on Sarielle's shoulders. She remains straight and tense beneath the burden, a knot tightening in her stomach. "That depends on who's asking."

She can feel Dalton hovering at her shoulder, alert with the same caution, but the woman isn't the least bit fazed. She stretches out a hand. White gloves leave only the dark tips of her fingers visible. "Rovena Aytone," she says. "It's very nice to meet you, Sarielle. I've heard a lot."

Sarielle's father steps past her, clasping Rovena's hand with his. His shake is firm, decisive. "Reuben Diraldi," he says, equipped with a familiar polite, greeting smile. "It's my pleasure. You have my gratitude."

Rovena's brow shoots up. "Lord Diraldi." Her lips quirk. "Aren't I privileged?" Sliding gracefully free of his grip, she throws a wide gesture to the side. "Well, now we're all introduced, would you mind following me?"

"Why?" Sarielle asks. Her father shoots her a sharp glance, his disapproving frown weaving threads of discomfort through her chest, but she holds her ground. They have to be careful. Even if her heart thumps with the desperation to pounce on any mention of Nathan.

The glance Rovena casts her way is something between amusement and exasperation. "I'd rather we didn't stay out in the open." She shrugs, turning away. "Besides, if you want me to tell you about Nathaniel, then you'll follow."

- ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ -

Once the horses are all safely tied up, Rovena leads them to a two-floored cabin buried in Kavas's centre, right in the middle of the most concentrated sprawl of wood panels. It's surprisingly secure. Once Sarielle steps through the door and tugs it shut behind her, the noise of the wind vanishes, the four walls around suddenly shields bent in to shelter secrets. It reminds her of Messenger's cave-dwelling hut in Gefyr Bridge. Simple and safe.

It's warmer inside, too. She hadn't realised how much the chill clung into her skin until it now melts away.

Her trust for Rovena is a set of scales, evenly balanced, tipping to and fro with every stray thought, yet the soldier's confidence she holds seems to draw Sarielle in regardless. There's a pile of weapons and armour dumped unceremoniously beside the front door. Rovena tosses her sword atop it and makes her way over to a wooden chair. It creaks as she sits down, her cloak splaying over it in lieu of a covering.

She spreads her arms. "Feel free to make yourselves at home. You can stay as long as you need. I like visitors."

Sarielle's father is first to obey, thanking her vehemently for her hospitality before staking out one end of a worn couch. He beckons to Sarielle. Though the tension refuses to drain from her muscles, she nods, allowing herself to slide in beside him. Dalton takes up a hesitant perch at the couch's opposite end, his sword sheath sticking out beside his legs.

She adjusts her own so that it lays flat beside her, resisting the urge to touch her hilt again, and turns her attention to Rovena. "You said you knew where Nathan was."

"I didn't, actually." Rovena sweeps back her hair, her expression tight. "I helped him escape town around mid-morning, but he didn't say where he was headed. I don't know where he is now."

Sarielle sits forward, surprise unravelling her thoughts. "He's travelling alone? Why would he do that?"

"Not alone." Rovena props her elbows against her knees, resting her chin in her hands. "He was with a..." The pause wanders. "A girl. She seemed to be leading him somewhere."

That ill-sitting surge of unease crawls beneath Sarielle's skin, a scrabbling mass of insects, scratching away at the shaky calm she's been trying to cling to. She shifts, already regretting the decision to sit. Her leg bounces. Her father rests a hand on her shoulder, but she barely registers it, all her focus on Rovena. "Who was--"

"I don't know who." There's a stern air to Rovena's gaze, enough to silence the rest of the scramble of questions clogging her throat. "Nathaniel left a message with me."

Meaning winds in serpentine strings through the words, dragging out a dark kind of seriousness despite the faint smile that rides to Rovena's lips. Clasping her hands in her lap to keep them still, Sarielle nods, urging her to carry on. Every piece of her feels pulled taut.

"He says he's okay," Rovena starts, the smile twitching a touch higher. "He promised he wasn't going to die, and that it was for you, and that he would find you again. He said he'd be stronger then."

For you. Sarielle's fingers twist together, her head ducking as a sigh spills from her lips. "That's Nathan." His name is barely a sound, more a whispered breath cracked through with a sad kind of amusement, a weight on her tongue.

"He said he was sorry, too."

"Of course he did." She sweeps a hand through her hair, brushing back the unruly mess of curls that have tumbled beyond her ear. Her heart squeezes.

"Sorry for everything, if I'm recounting correctly." Rovena's eyes dart to properly meet Sarielle's, a tinge of joy sketched out with clarity despite the careful, heavy way she walks through the words. "To be more specific, he was talking about the kiss."

Sarielle's blood runs cold. The world is suddenly swaying, a hollow digging open in her chest. She grips the fabric of the seat either side of her to keep her anchored. It feels silly. Too small a thing to produce such reeling panic. They were going to find out at some point.

Even so, Dalton's voice sounds distant as he speaks, a rolling peel of thunder murmuring of an approaching storm. "The kiss?"

A numb silence sits in its wake. The question is innocent, a lost kind of bafflement wandering through it, and it tangles thickly in her heartstrings. She opens her mouth, but can't find the words.

Rovena wears the frown of someone steadily connecting puzzle pieces. Sarielle sees the exact moment it clicks into place; Rovena's eyes shoot wide as she mouths a soundless oh. Her gaze pounces on Sarielle. There's now something of a spotlight forming, three pairs of curious eyes trying to dig out the truth amongst the awkward, smothering quiet.

She sucks in a sharp breath and drags up an answer. "Nathan kissed me." It's barely a mumble. Her face heats. "Before he ran away."

Her father's touch on her shoulder has gotten lighter, his fingers tense and hovering. He says nothing, but she can feel the brunt of his surprise, acutely aware of his presence. The flush spreads down the back of her neck. She bites down on her tongue, looking at her toes rather than him or Dalton.

"He kissed you?" Dalton whispers, somewhat disbelieving.

She nods, not sure what else to say.

"And you..." He trails off, and even without looking, she can feel his gaze harden. Her nails dig into the couch. It creaks, lifting up a little beneath her as he stands. "Sorry, but could you excuse us for a moment?"

Sarielle dares to peek up at him. His expression is oddly flat, his usual softness drained away, deepening the grey tinge to his eyes. He doesn't meet her searching gaze; he's looking at Rovena.

She jerks a finger upwards. "You can go upstairs. Don't mind the mess."

Fingers drumming on her leg, Sarielle glances between them, her gut twisting. "Shouldn't we--"

"We won't be long," Dalton cuts her off sharply, guessing the urgency behind her question and severing it. He looks like a captain now. Forcibly in command, a mask shuttering down to hide his feelings. They flutter to the surface anyway as he stretches out a hand towards her. The slightest bite of his lip. The tiny breath he lets out.

He's hurt.

Pressing her lips together to seal in any form of protest -- he doesn't deserve any of them -- she takes his hand and lets him lead her up the stairs. The space between them has never felt so cold. It's only when they reach the upstairs hallway does he turn on her again.

"Why did you run off without us?" he asks.

She freezes. The question takes her off guard, entirely unexpected. "We were within sight of the town," she says, a slight frown pulling at her brow. "I wanted to find Nathan."

"Yet by going off alone, you got yourself into trouble." He holds her gaze. "You could've been killed. Do you not see that?"

"But I wasn't," she tries, knowing how weak the argument must sound.

"But you could've been, quite easily." A stern flare lights in his eyes. "You're getting reckless, Sarielle. Dangerously so. I've noticed it more and more since Nathan joined us, and that's..." He trails off, the commander's mask falling away, that hurt breaking out in full. "Why didn't you tell me about the kiss?"

Now comes what she anticipated, and yet she's equally as unprepared to respond. "I was going to." The sourness of a lie taints her tongue. He'll see through it with ease.

He sighs, leaning back against the wall. His gaze drops to the floor. Silence sinks. A hard lump forms inside Sarielle, dropping into her gut like a sharp-edged rock.

Taking a tentative step forward, she tries to find the right words. "I... I didn't ask for it, Dalton."

"I know." The end of his scarf sags limply over his chest. He toys with it, twisting a fraying thread around his finger rather than looking up at her. "It just... It makes me feel like I can't trust you."

"You can trust me." It comes out all too hastily, a rush of emotion as she grabs at his arm as if she can yank back whatever solemn note dragged at those words. She straightens. "Nathan is different to anyone else, alright? He's not thinking straight at the moment. All of this" -- she gestures vaguely, hoping that conveys what she's aiming for -- "proves that."

Dalton's head jerks up, and he slips free of her grip. "That isn't fair on him at all, Sarielle. He's every right to his own thoughts and actions, and if he were here, I'd want to talk to him too. But it's just you, and..." Another short sigh. "I think we've been due this conversation for a little while."

Dread is a slow, steadily creeping shadow, a whisper that crawls through the back of her mind. Twitchy fear shines a light bright enough to chase it away. "Can it not wait until we find him, then?" she asks, aware too late of how brisk her tone sounds, the end of the question clipped. "We can't stand around here and talk. We need to make a plan and leave as soon as possible, or we're going to lose--"

"Sarielle," he snaps.

She stiffens, her voice dropping away. His gaze slips to the side, the brief, momentary glimpse of anger visibly cracking into pieces. She still can't move. She's never seen him snap at anyone before.

"Let me say what I need to," he adds, quieter.

An ache culminates behind her eyes. She swallows hard, forcing a nod.

He pushes off the wall. His expression settles, soft and gentle, even as his lips fail to lift high enough to form a smile. "Sometimes I'm so busy admiring you that I forget you're younger than I am." He offers his hands, and she takes them carefully, praying her own don't tremble. "You're so determined and passionate, and it's to your credit, but I think somewhere along the way I let that passion slip through my fingers. I get it. It's hard to find time for love when you bear the weight of saving the world."

She squeezes his hands, forcing back the urge to cry. "I do love you, Dalton."

"Maybe." He glances down. "I think you're a little lost at the moment. And I'd rather you took some time to find out where you are rather than pushing it all back so you can pretend for me."

"I'm not lost." Her chest feels tight. "Nathan isn't like that. I promise."

"I believe you." Pale blue folds with the grey in his eyes, shimmering in reflection with the winter sky outside. There's the slightest dull edge to it that doesn't match the earnestness of his words. "But I still want to take a break."

The tears sting her eyes before she can stop them. Within the instant, his strong arms are wrapped around her, her face pressed into his shoulder. It all feels somewhat ridiculous, when faced with all the death and ruin and anxiety that has ruled the last month or so, to let this be the moment that breaks her. And yet she can't help but shiver into his warmth, a bitter kind of ache washing over the places where their bodies meet.

Perhaps it's the eternal, almost thoughtless hope she's held since that moment on the pirate ship in the depths of spring. She'd felt certain that she and him would last. It seemed such a faraway concept that this fairytale she'd crafted, one that endured all the horrors of war, might not be forever.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

His embrace tightens a little, his hand pressing to her head. "I know." His fingers give the slightest tug as they lace with her curls. "You understand why I'm doing this, though?"

Drawing in a long breath, she draws back a little, allowing her gaze to tilt up to look his way. "I understand." It's honest. If she forces herself to think calmly, he's right. They can't afford any of this if it's going to distract from the fight they have ahead of him. Her thoughts are already messy as it is.

Even so, the tingle that races up her spine as he withdraws his hand whispers the urge to protest. She bites down on her tongue. "We'll... try again, right? When this is all over?"

He lets out a short, breathless laugh. "I'm not sure it ever will be over." His smile turns a little less grim as he meets her eyes. "But we'll see."

She nods, stepping back as he releases her. She drags the sleeve of her tunic over her eyes. That scrap of hope is at least a candle in her heart. This is barely a goodbye. It's just a small shift, an indefinite hiatus. She can cope with that. They're hardly going to stop being friends after all this.

There's a small, far more comfortable silence. Then he jerks his head towards the staircase, that faint smile lingering. "Come on. Can we put this behind us for now and go find out what rash, impulsive quest Nathan has decided to embark on this time?"

She gives him a look, still wiping her face clean. "I thought I was the rash one."

"Then perhaps I should blame you." There's a joking twinkle to his eye, and it's easy to relax once she sees it. "You're a bad influence."

She can't help but laugh. "Maybe I am." Straightening, she pulls down her tunic, then adjusts her cloak. The wet sleeve is rolled up a couple of times to hide the tear stains. Put this behind us. It's going to be fine. It was foolish to let all this build it up so much in her head in the first place.

The emotion clears away, and a far more focused sensation washes over her, sharp with clarity. "Let's go."

It better not have been anything rash, Nathan.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

I feel like that last scene was one I really wanted to write but just?? Struggled??? I hope it doesn't come across as cringey as I fear. I just wanted to create some romantic drama that no-one really needs but we're getting anyway :D

Also I like to imagine Rovena and Reuben just sitting downstairs drinking tea or something and trying not to eavesdrop because that image is way too funny. It's so awkward.

- Pup