Toby started awake, expecting flames and tentacles or to be face to face with a Demon set to devour him. His mind flashed with slick, writhing tentacles and the yawning mouth of some Demon beast.

But instead—sunlight.

A white stucco ceiling hovered above him. Blue and white striped curtains hung from polished metal rods enclosing a small bed. He blinked, then looked down, frantically cataloguing his limbs.

All here. Sore, yes—his chest and arm ached like he'd taken another beating—but intact.

And the bed…

Soft. Warm. Clean.

He stared at it in disbelief. He’d never felt anything like it—not in the hovels of Olitaft, and certainly not on the Dutchess’ Teat. Before, he’d shared a moldy canvas sack stuffed with straw, elbowing for space between two younger sisters. Now: a real mattress. A pillow. Sheets smoother than any fabric he’d touched. It felt like a mistake, a dream, a mix-up in the gods’ records.

He shifted slightly. Even the robe he wore felt like wealth—a light, silky thing, probably worth more than anything he'd ever owned.

And he was clean. For the first time since the storm weeks ago.

He raised his hands to his face, sniffed. No salt. No rot. Just sharp soap and something floral.

Was this heaven? Or had he finally been devoured and sent to some strange afterlife?

He remembered the chaos—the way the ship pitched, the shouting, the screams, the crackling sound of magic as it tore through the air. Thunder above. Sizzling below. And then the tentacles.

Gods, the smell. Like rotting meat boiled in sewage. Like the inside of something dead.

They'd slithered out of the pit, slick and shuddering, wrapped in smoke and fire. He remembered looking down into that pit—into hell—and knowing, with absolute certainty, he wasn’t coming back.

The tentacles grabbed him. Crushed him.

He’d tried to scream, but the pain in his ribs stole his breath. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Just pain. And the smell. And the pull.

Then—nothing. Blackness.

The click of a door handle pulled Toby’s attention to the foot of the bed.

It opened. Three figures stepped inside—two men and a woman.

Toby froze.

He pulled the sheet tight around him, curling his knees to his chest like armor. Maybe this was it. They’d realized their mistake. They were here to drag him back—to the Charge Priest, to the First Mate, to the chains.

The scent of meadow flowers drifted in with them—soft and clean, like sunshine in a field. It came from the woman.

Toby stared.

She wasn’t like anyone he’d ever seen up close. A beastman, but not like the ones he'd glimpsed from far off, working the docks or marching in parades. She was… beautiful. Golden hair cropped short around a face that was smooth and feline, her rounded ears perched high on her head and twitching slightly.

He should’ve been afraid. The Church said her kind were dangerous. Cursed. But he only felt wonder.

She crossed the room with unhurried grace and placed a hand gently on his forehead. Toby flinched at first—but her touch was cool, soft, calming.

“No fever,” she said, mostly to the men. “Still sore, I’d wager. And hungry.” Her golden eyes settled on Toby. “Are you hungry?”

Toby gave a small nod, eyes flicking nervously to the two men—soldiers, by the look of them. Broad-shouldered, well-armed, sharp-eyed. Men who expected answers.

He was sure they'd want something before they'd let him eat or drink.

“Can you speak?” the lion-woman asked, gently. She lifted a small cup from the bedside table and offered it.

Water.

Toby sipped—and then, overwhelmed, gulped the rest down in seconds.

“Easy now,” she said, steadying the cup with one hand behind his head. When he finished, she took it from him, refilled it from a pitcher, and returned with a second cup and a small plate covered with a silver dome.

“Yeah. I can talk,” Toby croaked. His voice cracked on the words, and he cleared his throat. “Where am I? What happened?”

“You were attacked by a Warlock, son.”

The dark-haired man stepped to the far side of the bed, his boots quiet against the floor. He looked like a soldier—scarred, broad-shouldered—but his voice was smooth, almost gentle. Odd for a man who probably commanded armies.

“Do you remember? On the ship? You were being dragged into a Demon Pit. Tentacles, fire, screaming... It was close. But we stopped him. You were hurt, so we brought you here to recover.”

Toby’s breath caught.

“I… I remember.” His voice shook. The memory rose like smoke—burning, unreal. He could still feel the slime on his skin, the choking heat of the pit, the pull of those crushing coils. It felt like something that had happened to someone else, a lifetime ago.

He looked around the sunlit room, at the bed that felt like a cloud, at the fresh robe on his shoulders. How could both be true?

“Why?” he whispered. “How was there a Warlock on our ship?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” said the other man—a golden-haired one, too good-looking for his own good. His voice was calm, melodic. Toby liked him instantly, though he didn’t know why. Maybe it was the way he smiled, like he already knew you and wasn’t judging.

“You’re in Malminar now,” the blonde man said. “In the capital city—Retinor.” He paused, watching Toby closely. “Do you know where that is?”

Toby shook his head.

Never heard of either. But if the rest of the country was anything like this room—with its quiet peace and clean smells and soft beds—he hoped he could stay.

The lion-woman lifted the silver dome from the plate on his lap.

Two thick slices of dark bread, meat layered between them.

Toby’s stomach growled loud enough for everyone to hear. He blinked up at the lion-woman, half-convinced it was a trick.

She gave him a soft, amused smile. “It’s for you. Go on.”

He’d never heard of a sandwich, but he didn’t need a second invitation. He grabbed it with both hands and took a huge bite.

Salt. Smoke. Warm bread. Real meat.

His eyes widened.

Delicious.

He chewed, swallowed, and immediately dove back in.

“Malminar is a safe place,” the blonde man said. “We almost never see Warlocks, and when we do, we know well in advance. Magic protects our borders.”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting from casual to serious. “That means the Warlock aboard your ship should never have reached our docks. But he did.”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s a mystery. Did you know the man—Plug—before he was revealed?”

Toby, mid-bite, shook his head and tried to talk around a mouthful of food. “Uh-uh. Seen ’im. Didn’t know ’im.” Crumbs tumbled from his lips as he spoke.

Both men chuckled. The dark-haired one rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, casual but alert. The blonde man—Toby had already decided he liked him—hooked a chair with his foot and dragged it over. He spun it and sat backwards, folding his arms across the backrest.

Toby peeked toward the lion-woman. She stood near the head of the bed, arms folded, mouth tight with disapproval at the mess he was making.

“No rush,” the blonde man said, still smiling. “Finish your food. We’ll talk after.”

Toby nodded and quickly shoved the last bit of sandwich into his mouth, chewing with enthusiasm. The lion-woman—Ms. Almeia, he reminded himself—reached over and gently wiped crumbs and sauce from his chin. Then she cleared the blanket of crumbs and removed the empty plate from his lap.

The blonde man leaned in. “All right, then?”

Toby hesitated.

“…Could I have some more? I’m still hungry.”

He braced himself for a scolding or a flat refusal.

Instead, Ms. Almeia tilted her head slightly and gave him a look that was both stern and kind. “Of course. You may call me Ms. Almeia. And you can say please.”

Toby’s eyes widened. He’d forgotten. Forgotten what it was like to be taught manners without being slapped.

“Could I have some more, please, Ms. Almeia?”

Her frown softened into a proud smile. “You may. I’ll fetch you another sandwich… and perhaps a cookie?”

Toby perked up. He had no idea what a cookie was—but if it was even half as good as the sandwich, he wanted one. Badly.

“Yes, please,” he said, carefully. He remembered now—please, thank you. Words from a different life, when he still had a mother to remind him.

Ms. Almeia straightened, her eyes sharp as ever. “These two gentlemen will introduce themselves properly while I’m gone. And they will ask their questions respectfully and carefully.”

She turned her gaze on the two men like a schoolteacher daring them to misbehave.

“Yes, ma’am,” both said in unison.

Toby blinked at that. They looked like the kind of men who gave orders, not followed them.

“What’s your name, son?” the dark-haired man asked, his voice steady.

“Toby,” he said. He hesitated. Then added, “Just Toby.”

The man gave a nod. “Able Haningway,” he said, placing a hand on his chest. “Second-in-command of the Phoenix Company.”

The blonde man stayed seated but nodded his head in a little bow.

“And I’m Tybour Insuritor, First Mage of Malminar. Haningway is my right hand. We’re here to help, Toby.”

Tybour tilted his head a bit, his bright blue eyes fixed on Toby with a strange mix of warmth and calculation.

“If you’re feeling up to it,” Tybour said gently, “we’d like you to tell us anything you remember—before the attack, during it. Anything odd about the man called Plug. Even the smallest detail might help.”

Toby swallowed, unsure where to begin.

“I don’t know much,” he said. “I ‘member him… but only ’cause he weren’t nice. He smelled bad—like blood and sweat and... just wrong. Didn’t talk much. No one liked him. He just… hung around. Watching.”

He rubbed his hands together, picking at a scab near his knuckle.

“He tried to get Rishmond to bunk near him. Week after Rishmond came aboard. Said they were from the same place or somethin’. But I was already lookin’ after Rishmond then. He was all knocked out and bloody when they dragged him aboard, so I cleaned him up best I could. He needed someone.”

Toby’s face brightened with a sudden grin.

“I just knew we’d be best friends.”

Then his smile vanished.

“Oh no! Cietus’ breath—Rishmond! Is he here? Do you know where he is? He didn’t get—he ain’t—he’s not dead, is he?”

Panic hit like a wave, crashing through Toby’s chest. “Plug was doing something to him! I saw it! Draggin’ him around with magic! What’d he want with Rishmond? You gotta tell me—is he here?”

Tybour raised a calming hand. “Toby. It’s all right. We don’t know exactly where he is… but we do know he was alive when we last saw him. The Warlock threw him through a portal. My men are out looking for him now. I promise—we’re doing everything we can to bring him back.”

“But you don’t know! He could be dead or lost or—or worse! He’s my friend!” Toby’s voice cracked, his words tumbling over one another. “He’s my only friend. He covered for me. Took beatings for me. Worked when I couldn’t. He always looked out for me!”

Tears spilled freely now. His breathing turned ragged. The light in the room seemed too bright. The bed too soft. His heart too loud in his chest.

Then—

“Toby.”

Tybour’s voice, low and calm, slid into his panic like a warm hand parting a storm. Toby blinked, his blurry gaze drawn to the man’s piercing sky-blue eyes.

And just like that, the fear began to melt.

Something in Tybour’s voice—in him—made it feel true. Like if Tybour said Rishmond would be found, then he would be. The world had rules, and this man knew them.

Toby’s breath slowed. His tears ebbed.

Beside him, Haningway placed a large, steady hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find him soon,” he said.

And for the first time since the attack, Toby almost believed it.

“How do we find him, then?” Toby asked, already swinging his legs out of the bed. “Do you know where to look? Do you even know what he looks like? How would you even know if you found him? I do. I know him. I have to go.”

He started to rise, heart pounding, chest tight with urgency.

But Haningway’s hand landed gently on his shoulder, firm and calm, grounding him like an anchor.

Toby looked up into the soldier’s rough, weathered face—it reminded him of his father’s. Kind. Steady. Trustworthy.

He took a breath. Sat back.

“Rishmond’s lucky, you know,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Always has been.”

He stared past the foot of the bed as the memory drifted back.

“One time, during the voyage from Mott, he dropped a whole bucket of seawater on a priest. Right in the middle of a swell—whoosh—soaked him through, robes and all.”

Toby let out a little laugh, shaking his head.

“The priest was furious, started shouting and swingin’ his little crop around. Got a few hits in—barely. But then, outta nowhere, a fight broke out on the deck. Sailors shouting, throwin’ punches. Big mess. Took half the crew and all the priests to break it up.”

He smiled, eyes distant with fondness.

“By the time it was over, the priest had forgot the whole thing. Never even looked at Rishmond again.”

He glanced up at Tybour and Haningway, the smile lingering. “Stuff like that always happens to him. He just… walks through trouble like it was water. One of the older sailors even said he had Petior’s own luck. You know—Petior, god of luck and all.”

Toby’s voice softened. “That’s why I think he’s still out there. Wherever he landed... he’ll be okay. He’s got to be.”

Tybour rose from his chair, swinging a leg around the backrest like he was dismounting a horse. The motion was fluid—too graceful for someone so tall and broad. Toby watched, oddly mesmerized.

There was something about Tybour.

Haningway felt like a father, steady and sure. But Tybour… Tybour was different. Toby found himself wanting to impress him. To be liked. Maybe even to be trusted.

Tybour stepped to the side of the bed and placed a hand lightly on Toby’s shoulder.

“Not to worry,” he said. “We’ve got a whole company searching. Notices have gone out across Retinor. A boy falling from a portal—that doesn’t go unnoticed.”

He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made things feel possible.

“It’s likely someone’s already found him. He’ll be brought to our headquarters, and once he’s here, my people will make sure he gets everything he needs. The moment I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

Toby nodded, comforted by the certainty in Tybour’s voice.

“You and Rishmond will be reunited soon,” Tybour said, his hand giving a gentle squeeze.

Then, shifting tones just slightly, he added, “While we wait—why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself? Where you’re from, what your family was like. How’d you end up on the Dutchess’ Teat? When did you and Rishmond meet?”

He moved back to the foot of the bed, eyes calm but attentive.

The door swung open and Ms. Almeia entered, balancing a tray in her arms. A silver-domed plate sat atop it, along with a smaller dish holding two round pieces of bread—soft-looking, but shaped like the hardtack they used to get on the ship.

The scent hit Toby before she reached the bed—warm and sweet, something like roasted butter and sugar. His stomach rumbled on cue.

“Back in bed, young man,” Ms. Almeia said, her tone calm but final. “You’re in no condition to be wandering about. I’ve brought you another sandwich, two cookies, and a glass of milk. You'll not be going anywhere until you have consumed everything I've brought you.”

She spoke the words like a simple truth, not a suggestion. And Toby didn’t doubt for a second she meant it.

He slid his legs back onto the bed without argument. Ms. Almeia moved with practiced ease, pulling the covers up and tucking them around his sides, then adjusting a lever hidden beneath the frame to raise the head of the bed. She fluffed the pillows behind him with brisk precision.

Toby leaned back into them, eyes already on the tray.

The smell… it wasn’t like the sandwich he’d had earlier. This was sweeter, fuller somehow. Maybe the cookies. He couldn’t be sure—he didn’t think he’d ever smelled anything quite like it before.

Not since—

His mind flickered to a distant memory. The smell of rising dough. Warmth from a brick oven. His mother’s hands, dusted in flour.

He hadn’t thought of her in a long time.

Not since the wagon. Not since the cages. Not since the ship.

But this smell—this quiet comfort—it pulled something forward, soft and aching.

Ms. Almeia lifted the silver dome from the plate, revealing another sandwich—different from the first. The bread was lighter, thicker, and something green and frilly stuck out from between the layers of thinly sliced meat.

Toby eyed the greenery warily.

Whatever it was, it didn’t look promising.

But the sandwich looked bigger, and it smelled amazing. If eating the leafy bit was the price to pay, he’d manage.

He turned toward the smaller plate. The two round, golden-brown discs let off a warm, buttery scent—sweet and rich and almost too good to be real. His mouth watered.

Cookies, they’d called them.

He picked one up, still warm to the touch, and glanced at Ms. Almeia. She gave him a quick frown—just for show, it seemed—before offering a tiny nod of permission.

Toby bit in.

The soft bread gave way to sweet, melty bits—chocolate, maybe? He didn’t care what it was. The flavor hit like a dream. For several long seconds, he couldn’t think about anything else. Just the taste. The warmth. The happiness unfurling in his chest.

He stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth in two greedy bites, chewing with wide-eyed wonder, then immediately reached for the second.

No one stopped him.

The room stayed quiet as he devoured the food, lost in it. Ms. Almeia watched with her usual practiced calm, though with a flicker of concern behind her eyes. Haningway offered a faint smile. Tybour studied Toby with quiet interest—but not interrupting.

For a little while, everything else—Demons, warlocks, portals, pain—just faded away.

When the last bite of sandwich was gone and the milk drained from his cup, Toby leaned back into the pillows with a quiet, contented sigh. He glanced around at the adults and gave a shy smile.

“That was really good,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything that tasted that good.”

Tybour chuckled, and Haningway laughed outright, reaching out to clap Toby gently on the shoulder. Tybour followed with a warm squeeze to the other.

“Right you are!” Tybour grinned. “Nothing sharpens the taste buds quite like a near-death experience!”

“Mister Tybour,” Ms. Almeia snapped from where she stood, arms crossed. “Seriously. Near death? Must we exaggerate? At no time was Toby in danger of dying.”

Tybour turned, utterly unbothered, and gave her a charming, exaggerated bow. “As you say, Ms. Almeia.” Then, without missing a beat, he winked at Toby.

Toby stifled a laugh, unsure if he was supposed to, but caught a knowing glimmer in Ms. Almeia’s eyes that made him feel like he was in on a secret.

“Now then,” Tybour said, stepping to the foot of the bed. He grabbed the chair by its back, spun it around, and dropped into it backwards, folding his arms over the top.

“Let’s hear it.”

Toby hesitated, fiddling with the blanket in his lap. Then he nodded slowly, his tone turning quiet and steady—like he was retelling a tale, not a memory.

“They brought Rishmond on board just ‘fore we shoved off from Mott.”

He glanced down at his hands, thumbs twisting around each other.

“I’d only been aboard a couple weeks—got put on in Balft. Got in a lotta trouble in those first days. I was clumsy. Didn’t know what I was doin’. Took the strap a few times. The priests didn’t like me askin’ questions either… so I got smacked for that too.”

His voice didn’t waver. Just matter-of-fact, like he was reporting the weather.

“They kept us chained in our berth while we was in port. That’s when they brought Rishmond on—unconscious, blood on his face from a knock to the head. They chained his wrist to a ring under my hammock.”

He paused, then smiled faintly at the memory.

“He looked like a good person. Only a few turns older 'n me. So I figured I’d look after him.”

He risked a glance up at Tybour and Haningway. Both men were watching quietly, not interrupting. Ms. Almeia had paused whatever she was doing, her posture still and attentive.

“I had a bit of clean cloth. Wiped the blood off his head. Watched over him ‘til he woke. Been best friends ever since. He teaches me stuff, helps me keep outta trouble. And I look after him. Make sure he eats. Gets water. I’m sneakier than he is, see, so I could swipe a bit of bread here and there, or steal an extra ladle of soup.”

Toby stopped there, heart thudding slightly.

He looked up at them again, afraid of what he might see—disappointment, judgment.

But they weren’t scowling. No one looked angry.

“I know stealin’s wrong,” he added quickly. “I was raised right. But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Rishmond always said… we did what we had to.”

Tybour gave him a slow nod, his expression unreadable for a moment—then softening into something like pride.

“It’s okay, Toby. You know it was wrong, and you did what you had to. You’re not in that place anymore. You won’t have to do it again.”

He said it like a promise. Like a truth carved into stone.

Toby believed him.

“Rishmond and I—we’re best friends,” Toby said. “We got each other’s backs.”

He sat a little straighter, voice gaining quiet strength.

“He promised we’d never be apart. He’s smart. Real smart. Good at stuff. And lucky. Like… weirdly lucky. Everythin’ just breaks his way.”

Toby smiled faintly.

“Well, not the part where he got roped into crew duty and cracked on the head… but still. Most times, he’s got the kind of luck that makes you stare.”

He glanced between the adults, eyes bright with memory.

“There was a storm, out past the Shattered Islands. Rough one. Two kids got swept off the deck. Rishmond—he unhooked himself and ran out to help ’em. Just like that. Disobeyed orders, risked everything.”

Toby swallowed.

“All three went overboard. I saw it—saw it happen from where I was lashed to the stair rail. I thought he was gone.”

A pause. A flicker of awe crossed his face.

“But then a wave just—threw him back on the deck. Like the sea didn’t want him. Like the gods were watchin’.”

He let that hang in the air for a breath.

"I didn't see it, but others did. They said he had the God's own luck."

“A few days later, Plug started... talking to him. Said they were from the same place, said they were ‘alike as peas in a pod.’ Kept askin’ Rishmond to move his hammock closer. Kept pressin’.”

Toby’s jaw tensed.

“But Rishmond told him no. Told him he was gonna stay by me. Said he owed me for lookin’ after him when he was brought on all bloodied up.”

Toby’s voice softened.

“Truth is, it wasn’t ‘cause he owed me. It was ‘cause we’re best friends. Always have been. Since the start.”

He shifted a little, uncomfortable now.

“Plug kept askin’. But he stopped after a priest overheard one of the talks and… well, he asked Plug why he was so interested. Sorta implied Plug might be… y’know. A boy-lover.”

He hesitated, glancing at Ms. Almeia, unsure how far he could go.

“Not somethin’ the Church really lets slide.”

“So… Rishmond and I been friends maybe two months now? Somethin’ like that. Hard to say, exactly. Days kinda blur on the ship.”

Toby shrugged, but his voice firmed.

“Doesn’t matter how long, really. We’re best friends. Real ones. He’d do anything for me, and I’d do the same for him.”

He looked up at the three adults, chin lifted slightly, daring them to doubt it.

“We’re thicker than blood-honey,” he added, quiet but proud. “Always will be.”

None of them spoke right away. They didn’t need to. Tybour met his gaze with a steady smile, and Haningway gave a small, approving nod. Even Ms. Almeia seemed to soften around the edges.

Tybour tilted his head. “And where are you from, Toby? You mentioned Balft before. Is that home?”

“Oh—no, sir. I’m from Olitaft. That’s north of Balft and Mott, I think. I don’t rightly know how far. We got taken in a wagon cage. Traveled for weeks, it felt like.”

Tybour’s brow furrowed slightly. “Taken? How did that happen?”

Toby paused. He looked down, twisting a fold in the blanket between his fingers.

“Our house burned down. Killed my Da and my older sister.”

The words dropped flat, emotionless, like something repeated too many times.

“Mom tried to keep us together. But with the baby and my little sister Pauly, there weren’t any place for us to go. No money. So the taxers came. Took me and Pauly for Church indenture.”

He didn’t look up.

“I got sent south, to Balft. Pauly… I dunno. She’s smaller, so maybe she went with my aunt. Or maybe to a Church house. I ain't never been told.”

He let the silence sit for a breath.

“Mom and the baby went to the Count’s place. He always seemed nice. Gave us sweets when he passed through. She was scared they’d take the baby away, so I was glad she got to keep him. I hope she's doin’ okay.”

He looked up finally, eyes dry but distant.

“I try not to think about it too much. Can’t change it.”

A strong knock sounded at the door, and a moment later a soldier stepped into the room, dressed much like Haningway. He was shorter than both Tybour and Haningway, with a long face framed by red fur. Two pointed ears stood atop his head, twitching slightly. Toby’s eyes widened—his legs were oddly shaped, like a dog walking on its hind legs. Toby had never seen a beast-man like this one.

Tybour stood from his chair. "News, Sergeant Cordy?"

“Sir. Lieutenant Norft reports that First Sergeant Halmond paid him a visit—with a special guest. Looks like the kid we’ve been looking for. They’re on their way here now. The other special guests haven’t been told he’s in the city. Also, the guests at the barracks are demanding we escalate our search for their missing. They’re insisting we know more than we’re saying.”

Cordy spoke quickly but clearly, firm in tone, standing at relaxed attention with his helmet tucked under one arm.

"Right. Good. Okay," Tybour said, processing. He turned to Toby, his expression brightening. "Toby, it looks like Rishmond has been found—and he's in good shape."

The fox-like soldier gave a small nod to confirm.

"And he’s in capable hands and headed this way to see you," Tybour continued, a grin breaking across his face. "He was found by a friend of mine, not far from here."

"I told ya he was super lucky!" Toby’s relief broke out in a grin. "I bet he’s got a wild tale to tell too—like he was zapped into a dragon’s cave and narrowly 'scaped with his life."

Tybour chuckled, then turned back to Cordy. “Sergeant, bring First Sergeant—uh, Halmond—and the boy here as soon as they arrive. This young man will be wanting to want to see his friend right away. And we’ll want to talk to him.”

"Yes, sir!" Sergeant Cordy barked. He saluted sharply, pivoted on his heel, and exited the room.

“Well, Toby,” Tybour said, smiling warmly, “it looks like things are turning around—for you and your friend. We’re grateful for what you’ve shared so far, and we’re all relieved the both of you are alive and well.” He leaned forward slightly. “Is there anything else you can tell us about Plug? You see, Warlocks shouldn’t be able to get anywhere near Malminar without setting off alarms. But somehow, he managed to slip past our protections. Anything you remember could help.”

Toby shook his head, eyes still fixed on the door. “Can’t think o’ much, Mister Tybour. I didn’t like him and didn’t wanna be 'round him. He was weird—and not liked. Always smelled bad. Like chicken blood and old sweat.” Toby made a face. “He always volunteered for slaughterin' duty. Fish, chickens, anything alive. He seemed to enjoy it too much. I mean, killin’ chickens ain’t that strange, but why’d he always wanna do it? Guess he just liked killin’ things.”

He said it in a rush, almost breathless, distracted by the thought of Rishmond arriving any moment.

Tybour’s gaze flicked to Haningway. They shared a brief, knowing nod.

Maybe that’s it, Tybour thought. Some kind of concealment ritual—tied to blood, death. A way to mask the Warlock’s presence from their wards. Nothing either of them had encountered before. Certainly something worth investigating.

But they wouldn’t be getting any answers from Plug—not with half his body missing and the other half barely recognizable. Unless he’d found a way to survive that, too.

Haningway quietly pulled out the small leather-bound notebook he carried everywhere, along with a stubby pencil that looked almost comical in his large, square hands. He scribbled something down without a word.

Tybour smiled at the sight. Haningway was steady, reliable—a man who missed nothing. His habit of taking constant notes had proven invaluable more times than Tybour could count.

Ms. Almeia stepped to the side of the bed opposite Haningway and Tybour, carrying a neatly folded bundle of cloth. “If you’re to have visitors, Mister Toby, then you’ll need to be dressed. The back of that gown is practically nonexistent, and you don’t want to be indecent around company.”

She laid the bundle on the little table beside the bed. “Gentlemen.” The look on her face brooked no comment or protest, and both men obediently moved to stand near the door.

Ms. Almeia drew the curtain around the bed, enclosing herself and Toby behind it. Toby watched the swishing cloth with interest, fascinated by the metal track overhead and the way the curtain curved smoothly along it.

“Can you dress yourself, Toby?”

His head snapped around, and suddenly he felt shy—exposed, even. Only now did he realize the thin robe he wore had nothing underneath. His backside pressed self-consciously into the bed.

“Y-Yes. ’Course I can!” he said, voice full of wounded pride. “Where’re my things?”

“What you were wearing when you arrived—if you can call those clothes—was filthy and damaged. They've been properly disposed of.” She said it firmly, anticipating his protest. “I’ve brought you new ones. No arguments.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. New clothes. How long had it been since he’d gotten anything that wasn’t stolen or found in a gutter?

“Yes, ma’am… but I had somethin’ in the pocket. It was special. You didn’t toss that too, didja?”

Without a word, Ms. Almeia pointed to a small ceramic bowl beside the clothes. Toby lunged for it, careful to keep his backside firmly planted on the bed.

Inside lay the small wooden horse. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

It was the last thing he had of his father. His family. The only thing in the world he could truly call his own. His father had carved it for him on his tenth birth anniversary.

Time and wear had dulled it—the wood darkened with sweat, smudged with unknown stains, its legs worn smooth from anxious rubbing. But it was still here. Still his. His father had been a skilled carver, sometimes even commissioned by nobles or priests. It wasn’t a life of wealth, but it had kept their family fed, housed, and free from the chains of a lord’s service.

Toby closed his hand around the little horse and felt the carved wood dig into his palm like a promise. Maybe things really were about to change.

“Mister Toby,” Ms. Almeia said gently, “can you manage on your own, or do you need help dressing?”

“No ma’am. I got it.”

She nodded and slipped back through the curtain, leaving Toby alone.

The clothes were the nicest he’d ever touched—soft, fine cloth with real brass buttons. A crisp white shirt with no stains. The pants were a bit too wide at the waist, but the suspenders held them up fine once he figured out how to work them. There were shoes, too—brown leather, stiff as wood.

He stared at them for a moment, then decided, Nope. Shoes weren’t for him. Barefoot meant sure-footed, after all.

There were also some strange tiny white shorts. He had no idea what they were for—maybe something to wipe his face with? Or a spare cloth for blood-stopping emergencies? He stuffed them in his left pocket. The wooden horse went in his right, after carefully checking for holes.

The pants were soft but tough. Clothes a priest might wear. Or a noble. He’d enjoy them while he could—until they made him give them back. Until he had to return to the Dutchess' Teat and that life again.

The thought weighed on him, but only for a moment. Rishmond was coming. And there might be more sandwiches. Maybe cookies. Rishmond was going to flip at the cookies.

Toby padded barefoot to the curtain and paused. He looked down at himself. He was clean. Cleaner than he’d been in… maybe ever. The constant itch in his hair and—other places—was gone. He smelled good. Like sunshine after a rain.

He could get used to this.

He and Rishmond were gonna have to make a plan. Stay here as long as they could. Milk it for everything it was worth.

He pushed through the curtain.

Tybour and Haningway stood near the foot of a nearby bed—alert but at ease. Soldiers through and through. Toby knew soldiers. He just wasn’t used to not having to run from them.

Ms. Almeia was busying herself at a cabinet near the door. She didn’t seem like the type to ever be still—and even less like someone who tolerated stillness in others.

“Toby, did the shoes not fit? And where are your socks?”

“I never had shoes before,” Toby admitted, eyes downcast. “Those ones seemed real stiff and uncomfortable. Barefoot’s best, ‘less it’s cold. Then I just wrap 'em up.”

He glanced toward Tybour and Haningway, unsure. Tybour had an amused glint in his eye. Haningway looked like Toby’s father had sometimes—concerned, but proud.

“I left ‘em behind the curtain,” Toby said quickly. “I can wear ‘em, if I really gotta…”

Ms. Almeia looked at him, then relented. “All right, Toby. You don’t have to wear those shoes. We’ll find you something better. I’d rather you be barefoot than have sore feet because I gave you the wrong ones.”

That surprised him. He’d expected a fight—or at least a scolding.

“Shoes aren’t really necessary here anyway,” Tybour said, stepping close and resting an arm around Toby’s shoulders. He smelled like woodsmoke, leather, and something else—something old and clean and strange.

“Let’s step into the waiting room, find a comfy chair, and wait for Rishmond. Maybe you can tell us a bit about your adventures. Sailing through the Shattered Islands must have been exciting.”

He guided Toby toward the door, Haningway following behind.

“MISTER Tybour,” Ms. Almeia said sharply, her voice full of disapproval, “we will please not refer to a conscripted, forced voyage—on a ship barely better than a slaver—as ‘exciting.’ People shouldn’t be treated as he was. That kind of thing is not an adventure. It’s deplorable.”

Tybour kept walking, still guiding Toby, though his smile had grown sly and mischievous. Ms. Almeia swept past Haningway to catch up.

“Ms. Almeia,” Tybour said gently, “you know I didn’t mean it that way. I just thought a young man like Toby might have found some adventure in it, despite the circumstances.”

Toby was too busy staring around the new room to chime in. The polished wood floor gleamed. Large leather lounge chairs were arranged across the space, and a massive couch sat beneath a wall of tall glass windows. Sunlight streamed in through the checkered panes. Outside, the breeze carried the scent of grass and honeysuckle through the two open windows.

“I would never glorify what he went through,” Tybour continued. “But I do want him to feel that his story is worth sharing—even the hard parts.”

He guided Toby to a massive leather chair and gestured for him to sit. Toby grinned as he sank into it, legs sticking straight out. Tybour winked at him—sneaky, so Ms. Almeia wouldn’t see.

Then Tybour dropped into the chair beside him with theatrical flair.

“Almeia,” he said with a broad grin, “surely you don’t think I’d make light of Toby’s situation. Especially not in front of you. I know how delicate your sensibilities are. If I’ve offended, allow me to offer my most humble apology—and a solemn vow to try never to do it again.”

He stood and gave a low, elaborate bow, one hand extended toward her, the other pressed to his chest.

“MISTER Insurator,” she said, exasperated—but a smile tugged at her lips.

Toby watched, grinning.

“There are many women who’d fall for your charm and fancy words,” she said, “but I’m not one of them. You treat life like a game. Something to be won. Preferably by you. But not all the world is as lucky or cavalier. Some day, you’ll learn that bad things happen—even to good people. And I hope that lesson doesn’t leave a permanent mark. On your body or your soul.”

For a moment, the twinkle faded from Tybour’s eyes. His hand drifted to the scar along his neck. Then the grin returned, brighter than ever.

“I hope the same,” he said softly. “And I work every day to ensure it doesn’t.”

Ms. Almeia’s smile faded like sunlight behind a passing cloud. The room dimmed. Then, gently, it returned, softer and full of care.

Her eyes met Toby’s. “Try to behave, Tybour. Be more like Haningway—controlled, thoughtful. You’re an important man, and you will leave a mark on this boy. Make sure it’s the right kind.”

She turned and strode toward the stairs at the far end of the room. Barefoot, she made hardly a sound as she descended.

Haningway returned to the room from the hallway beyond the stairs, carrying three large wooden mugs.

“Drink up, young Toby. This should help clear any cobwebs left from your ordeal.”

He handed one of the mugs to Toby, who took it in both hands. It was heavy, filled with a dark, bubbly liquid. Toby sniffed it cautiously—it smelled sweet and peppery in an odd, unfamiliar way. He glanced over just as Tybour took one of the other mugs and downed a large gulp without hesitation.

Toby sipped.

The taste was strange—sweet, creamy, and bitter all at once. Tiny bubbles tickled his nose and pricked at his tongue. It was cold. And good. The aftertaste was warm, almost spicy. He blinked. Another amazing thing.
How could a place he’d never heard of have so many wonders?

“Toby,” Haningway said gently, settling on the edge of a nearby chair, “how long ago did your father die?”

Toby looked up, startled by the question. Then he looked down into the dark liquid in his mug, watching the bubbles swirl and pop.

“Been at least a turn now. Maybe more. Hard to keep track of the days.”

He paused.

“I stayed with Mom for a bit, at my auntie’s place. But there was too many of us, and the owner raised the cost on account of all the mouths—me, Mom, the baby, my sister. My cousins too. We all tried to earn what we could, but there ain’t a lot of work for kids under seventeen turns. Eventually…”

He swallowed.

“Eventually the Count came by. He always helped my Mom out. Always brought us candy. One day he offered to take her to his manor—but he couldn’t take me or my sister. So we got handed over to the Church.”

He rubbed his thumb along the rim of the mug, eyes still down.

“They put us to work. And after a while, I got ‘dentured to a man said he was with the Mer’cant Marys or somethin’ like that. Got carted to Balft and put aboard the Dutchess’ Teat.”

He looked up, a flicker of a smile touching his lips.

“Kinda right good I did, really. Wouldn’t’ve met Rishmond otherwise.”

Toby reached into his pocket and pulled out the little wooden horse, setting it gently on the arm of his chair.

“I mean... I loved Dad. And Mom. And my brother and sisters. But sometimes folks pass on, and the rest of us gotta keep livin’, y’know?”

His voice caught, just a little.

“I cried a lot, those first few months. Mostly at night. Alone.”

He glanced at Tybour, unsure what kind of face he’d find. Tybour didn’t look uncomfortable or embarrassed. Just listening, kindly.

Haningway looked like his father used to—concerned, but warm. Like someone who wanted to help even if he didn’t know how.

The sound of someone hurrying up the stairs caught Toby's attention. He looked up from his mug just as Rishmond crested the final steps and burst into the room.

Toby didn’t hesitate. The mug slipped from his hands, crashing to the floor and sloshing its dark contents as he launched himself from the chair. He sprinted across the room and flung himself into Rishmond’s arms, wrapping both arms around his neck in a fierce, almost desperate hug.

“Rishmond! I thought you were dead!”

"Toby!  Not a chance! We still got a lot of world to see together—and I could never leave my best friend alone in this world, now could I!?"

The hug lasted longer than either of them might admit. When they finally pulled back, both were wiping tears from their cheeks, grinning like fools and sniffling through their joy.

They took a moment to look each other over.

“Lookin’ good, Toby,” Rishmond said with a smirk. “What, did you get adopted by a noble or somethin’?”

“Me? No way! What about you? Fancy new clothes, shiny boots—did you fall into a pile of gold after you fell through that hole? Would be just your luck to trip into a treasure hoard.”

“No treasure,” Rishmond laughed. “But I did get a warm bed and hot food. And you—” he leaned in and sniffed dramatically “—finally took a bath. You smell like a nobleman’s daughter!”

“Hey!” Toby swatted at him playfully. “Have you tried cookies yet? You gotta try cookies. They’re the absolute best thing ever made!”

“Cookies?” Rishmond raised an eyebrow. “Never had one. Can’t be better than pie—and I had pie today. Something called strawberry. It was delicious.”

Toby’s eyes went wide. “Wait—what's pie!? I didn’t get no pie! Where was my pie!?”

Their laughter filled the room, echoing off the polished wood floors and tall windows.

Halmond stepped forward, a grin on his face, and clasped forearms with Haningway, then Tybour.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I hear you’ve been looking for this young man? Something about Warlock portals and danger and adventure for the First Mage of Malminar?”

He said it with a mock-serious tone, but the grin never left his face.

“Hey, Toby!” Rishmond said, pointing to him. “This is Halmond. He and his wife, Beritrude—they saved me. Pulled me right out of the sea.”

Toby’s eyes went wide again, this time with gratitude.

“They’ve offered to take me in. To take us in…”

The words hung in the air.

It took a few moments for the meaning to settle into both boys’ minds.

Safe. Together. In a place full of cookies and pie and warm beds and polished floors.

For the first time in a long while, they weren’t running, hiding, or surviving.

They were home—or at least, something very close to it.

And they had something like family.