The taller of the two took a step closer, gaunt fingers extended as though to grasp my chin.
That was when Daen arrived.
The door creaked open behind the haggard creatures, and Daenstepped in with the calm certainty of someone long past asking permission. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“Leave,” he said.
The Acolytes hesitated. One hissed – a wet, rasping sound, like breath dragged through a damp cloth.
Daen didn’t blink. “Now.”
Something in his tone – not force, but finality – reached them in a way my threats had not. They withdrew, muttering in their hoarse voices, robes whispering like a draught as they slithered out, leaving the bowl behind on the low table beside the brazier.
The door shut with a dull thud.
“Charming as ever,” I said.
Daen stepped further into the room, arms crossed, his gaze falling briefly on the untouched broth.
“You should drink it,” he said at last.
“I won’t.”
A pause.
“She’ll notice if you don’t.”
“I don’t care if she does.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head: “Liar.”
That made me smile, tired and dry. “You’re talking more than usual.”
“I’m drinking more than usual.”
I glanced at the wine flagon still on the desk. “There’s still some left.”
He moved toward it and poured into the second cup without comment, as the space between us filled with the low crackle of the brazier and the faint scent of blackroot broth going cold.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said, softly.
“I know.”
But he didn’t move.
The silence between us had begun to settle, warm and companionable, when the door banged open without warning.
“I hope everyone is decent,” Astrid declared, stepping into the room with two bottles tucked under one arm and a lopsided grin that was equal parts mischief and pride. “Because I’ve brought contraband and intend not to be.”
She dropped her loot onto the desk with a heavy thunk, sending a few loose papers fluttering to the floor. “From the Queen’s own cellar, no less. The good stuff. Or so the label says, but she also labels her Acolytes as ‘trusted companions’, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Daen didn’t move, didn’t even blink. He simply raised his cup in a vague acknowledgement.
“See?” she said, pointing at him. “Appreciative silence. That’s why he’s my favourite.”
“I thought I was your favourite,” I laughed, pretending to be hurt.
“You’re both my favourites,” she said, already uncorking one of the bottles. “But only one of you has the gall to look this miserable after surviving a war and making it home.”
