Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Azariah let it lie, turning his attention to Dren, who had been watching them with sharp, expectant eyes. The kid had barely touched his food, but his second drink was already lower than it should have been.“We’re looking for someone,” Azariah said easily, as if it were small talk over wine and a slow meal. “A job.”

Dren lifted a stolen drink, licking the excess from his lips. “What kind of job?”“The kind that gets people hurt,” Azariah said, watching him over the rim of his glass.

Arlo cut his eye at him. A sharp flicker of warning. Subtle enough to avoid attention, but Azariah felt it. He smiled as if unaffected.“We’re looking for a man,” he continued. “Likely already marked. You wouldn’t have heard about anything like that, would you?”

Dren exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “And if I had?”“Then you’d tell us, little brother.” Azariah set his glass down and leaned forward, just enough to turn the distance between them into something small, something closed. “Wouldn’t you?”Dren met his stare. Held it. “Depends on the man.”

Azariah let the silence do the work for him, studying Dren’s face like a deck of cards. Few tells, few giveaways, yet a calculation weighted his pause.So Azariah pressed his thumb to the scale.“Word is the Syndicos are looking for someone,” he said smoothly. “Someone who set a place on fire.”

Dren perked up immediately, his chance to prove he knew something.“That guy? Pfft. You mean the dumbass who nearly burned a whole block down?"He waved a dismissive hand, louder than he should be. “That bum’s probably dead.”

Arlo cut his eye at Azariah again, almost annoyed.Azariah smirked, cocking his head just slightly."Little Dren, the stick-sword champion, now an information broker? Look at you."

Dren grinned, emboldened by the attention. He leaned in like he had something valuable, something worth hearing.“People talk,” he said, dragging his fingers across the table absently. “You just gotta know how to listen.”

Something shifted. A pressure slid along the spine. A glass froze halfway to a mouth. The dull scrape of a chair stopped short. Somewhere near the back, a coin rolled off a counter and halted before the floor.A drink raised and left unsipped. A page turned, too slow to be reading.

But Dren missed it.He missed the shift in the air, the way the room, once a low murmur of private conversations and clinking glasses, stalled for just a breath.He missed how the wrong words, said with the wrong kind of confidence, could bend the space around them.

Somewhere, maybe just a table away, maybe across the room, the scrape of a chair against stone cut too sharply into the hush, unnatural in its weight.Arlo noticed.Subtly, without drama or shock, his shoulders tensed half a degree too sharp, his fingers curled against the base of his glass before stilling.Hard-won experience justified it.It was an instinct. A feeling.The kind that came with enough years on the wrong side of a knife’s edge.

Somewhere, maybe just a table away, maybe across the room, someone had begun to listen.A shift in posture that clashed with the conversation. A blink held a second too long.A drink raised to lips and left unsipped.Someone was paying attention.

But Dren kept going, kept talking when he should have shut his mouth.“No one even knows how the fire started. Could have been an accident, but the way I hear it,”

Sharp movement.Arlo’s hand clamped onto Dren’s arm. Gentle but firm enough to sober him up."Enough."

Dren flinched, caught between confusion and irritation. Then his posture shifted, shoulders squared, chin up, as if to reclaim the ground he’d just lost.“What?”Arlo’s grip on Dren’s forearm tightened, firm. A warning.Dren blinked, startled. Then offended.“What? I didn’t…”

Nobody spoke.Silence sufficed.

The man at the bar, relaxed, unbothered, until tension settled. A tilt of the head. A change in posture, subtle rather than stiff or obvious, focused now. He finished his drink, set it down, and stood. He kept his eyes off them. He finished his drink, set it down, and walked toward the door, unhurried, casual.

Dren saw it too.Smugness drained, replaced by the sharp, electric realization that he had just made a mistake.Maybe he was just leaving. Maybe he was on his way to report what he’d heard. Arlo rarely put faith in “maybe.”

And then, the shift. Dren saw it first. He had been trying to prove himself this whole conversation, and he caught the way Arlo and Azariah’s focus hardened.Arlo was already cataloging the moment, the insignia beneath the man’s coat, the way he kept his eyes off them yet conveyed intent.

A Syndicos.Or worse, someone with a reason to pay them attention.

Maybe he was just leaving. Maybe he was on his way to report what he’d heard.It was irrelevant.

Arlo let go of Dren’s arm, but his gaze lingered on the man’s retreating form, steady, unreadable. Others watched too.Dren shrunk slightly under the weight of it, rubbing his wrist. The moment had already passed, but the damage was done.His eyes flicked to the bar, then back to Azariah, then Arlo, waiting for someone to tell him it was fine.Nobody did.

Azariah sighed, rubbed a hand down his face, then let his gaze settle on Dren, slow, measured."Nice work."He let the sarcasm dry out in the air, his eyes narrowing just slightly before delivering the final word with clinical precision:"Kid."

Dren’s expression flickered—something between irritation and shame.Arlo exhaled through his nose, picked up his glass, and lifted it slightly toward Azariah. Almost a toast, close enough."Well. Here’s to making bad choices."

Azariah clinked his glass against Arlo’s, but his usual smirk had faded. The grin that followed lacked charm.He took a slow sip. Too slow.Then, almost cheerful: "Exactly how I like it."

Dren looked away.Azariah finished his drink, setting the glass down with a quiet click. He stretched his fingers, slow and deliberate, like a man flexing his hands before getting to work.Then, just as casually:"So. Do we let him leave?"

Arlo answered at once. He kept his gaze steady."No."

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

Azariah’s grin widened, slow and sharp."Then we should probably follow him."

A movement at the edge of his vision. Liora.She moved first, a hand on Azariah’s wrist. Soft, but firm."You're leaving already?" Her voice was low, careful. She knew exactly what was happening. She knew exactly where this would go. "Don’t."

Her fingers pressed lightly against his wrist, a stark contrast to the rough skin beneath, to the scars and ink that told stories she left unexplored. She gave a brief glance to Arlo, whose unreadable expression held just as much warning as the grip he’d used on Dren earlier.

Azariah stilled. Not long, just long enough to acknowledge what she left unsaid.His gaze flicked to her hand on his wrist. He hovered, neither pulling away nor staying.

Dren was less careful. More eager. He leaned forward, too quick, too reckless."Wait, where are you going?" Then, realizing: "Take me with you."

Neither of them got an answer.Azariah flicked his gaze between them, his smirk returning, but there was an edge to it now."This was a lovely reunion. We should do it again in, oh, four years?"Then, a light but firm clap on Dren’s shoulder."Try not to drink yourself blind before then, yeah?"

And just like that, they were gone.Dren opened his mouth, then closed it.By the time he thought of something to say, they were already gone.

Liora held still at first.She just watched the space Azariah had occupied, as if staring hard enough could bring him back. But the door had already swung shut behind him, the warmth of the lounge swallowing his absence as if he had vanished without a trace.

Dren shifted beside her, restless, his fingers twitching against the empty rim of his stolen drink. He exhaled sharply through his nose, then shoved the glass away."That’s it, then?" His voice was low, but there was something hot underneath it, something Liora recognized.She sighed, tilting her head toward him but keeping her gaze on the door. "That’s it." She leaned back, half-watching the door like she expected it to swing open again. It stayed shut.

Dren shook his head, pushing back from the table. His chair scraped against the floor, loud enough to earn a few glances. He ignored them."Unbelievable."Liora finally looked at him. "What is?"He swiped a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose, like he was trying to shake something loose. It failed."Him." His jaw tightened, frustration curling in the set of his shoulders. His fingers flexed once against the tabletop, then curled into a fist. “He does this. Every damn time. And we let him.”He exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face before letting it drop back to the table. The empty glass trembled slightly from the impact."Waltzing in like nothing’s changed." His eyes flicked toward the door, like he expected Azariah to walk back through it. No one appeared."Acting like this is some kind of, " He gestured vaguely, the motion abrupt, restless, before his hand dropped back to his lap, fingers clenching into the fabric of his coat. "game. Like he gets to come and go whenever he pleases."

Dren’s gaze finally lifted to Liora. His eyes were dark, burning with something sharper than just anger, betrayal, maybe. Or something unnamed.Liora kept her counsel. She let the history speak for itself.Instead, she reached across the table, plucked Dren’s discarded glass, and poured herself a drink."It’s how he’s always been. Doesn’t mean it should be."Dren huffed a humorless laugh. "That supposed to make me feel better?"Liora took a sip, ignoring the way it burned down her throat."No."She set the glass down, fingers tracing its rim."But you should get used to it."

Dren held his tongue. Just stood there, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides.Then, quieter, almost to himself:“Next time…” His jaw flexed. “Next time, I’m going with him.”

Liora kept her eyes down. Instead, she reached for Dren’s discarded glass, turning it in her fingers as if considering something heavier than the drink itself. The wine sloshed slightly as she poured, deep crimson staining the rim like something freshly split.She took a slow sip, letting the burn settle before exhaling, measured, resigned.Then, softly, like stating a fact:"Next time, you won’t have a choice."

The streets were alive with the hum of the capital, but outside the winehouse, the cold sank in deeper. The weight of the city pressed heavier here, where the glow of lanterns barely reached past the guttered edges of cobblestone.Arlo stepped into it without hesitation, as if the night had been waiting for him.Azariah followed, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, his grin still lingering at the edges of his mouth.A silence stretched between them.Then:"You didn’t have to say that."Azariah tilted his head, amusement flickering in his expression."Say what?"Arlo’s steps slowed. "Four years."Azariah huffed a laugh. "What? You think it was cruel? Would it have mattered if I left it unsaid?"Arlo stayed silent and kept walking. Kept his eyes ahead.Azariah studied him for a moment, then smirked."He took it personally; that’s on him."

The muscles in his jaw ticked, just once, before he forced out a breath through his nose. The way a soldier does when keeping something ugly contained.Arlo turned slightly, just enough to meet Azariah’s gaze. "And Liora?"Azariah shrugged. "She always wants me to stay.""Maybe because she knows what happens when you don’t."

The rain slicked the cobblestones, turning gold into a rippling mirage. The enchanted lanterns burned steady, impervious to the storm, casting halos of false warmth over the streets.The long barrel of his rifle shifted slightly as he moved, engraved sigils catching the lamplight, an old enchantment, faint but still humming at the edge of his senses, warning him of something unseen.

Arlo slowed his steps. Just slightly. Just enough.His hand hovered near his longsword’s hilt, not tense, not anxious, just ready. A habit that had saved his life more times than he could count."Az."

The flickering light caught in a puddle at his feet, his reflection stretching, warped, like skin pulled too tight over the wrong bones. Like it belonged to someone else. Someone wrong. The rippling water swallowed his outline, twisting it further.His fingers twitched at his side.

They neared the Hollows. The streets were quieter here, tucked away from the grand avenues where wealth walked unafraid. The lamps burned lower, shadows pooling between shuttered storefronts, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked stone and old smoke.Azariah walked ahead, a half-step too quick. Not eager. He moved with a certain weight.Arlo saw through it.

"You know the city better than any of us," he said, voice measured.Azariah kept moving, eyes forward. But he saw it: his reflection in the water, stretching. Warping. Wrong.His fingers twitched at his side. Barely noticeable.Arlo’s tone was steady, but something about it had shifted.

Azariah kept his gaze ahead, but Arlo studied him anyway, the way his shoulders squared just a little too much, the way his hands stayed loose at his sides as if they were an afterthought. A practiced ease. A performance."You’ve always known where to look."The words landed heavier than they should have. Almost an accusation.

Azariah held still.Arlo rolled his shoulders back, exhaling slow, controlled, like weighing something before speaking again."So go do what you do best."Not a command. Not quite a request. But it was understood.

Azariah should have just nodded, should have kept walking, should have left it at that.Instead, he stopped.Because of the way Arlo had said them.Because they weren’t alone in that sentence.Not you find out where he is.You know the city better than any of us.Like this place belonged to him. Like it was in his blood.Like he was still part of it.

Azariah turned slightly, grin intact, but his eyes sharper now. The flickering streetlight caught in his gaze, something cold gleaming beneath the humor."You worried about me, Magnusson?"

Arlo stopped, too.He kept his face flat and his gaze steady."I don’t worry about dead men."

Azariah studied him, face still. Just let the words settle in the quiet between them, like an echo that didn’t need repeating.Then, his grin returned, lighter now but sharper."Well, that’s a relief. Hate to be a burden."

The moment passed. The job still needed doing.Azariah rolled his shoulders, the movement loose, unbothered, like he belonged anywhere and nowhere at once. He nodded toward the street ahead.The city loomed around them, full of things watching from the dark. Their job had just begun.

He stilled his fingers. Just once.Then he turned, his steps light against the wet stone.The descent had already begun.