“But that doesn’t mean they don’t change at all,” I whisper into my wine. A month ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of this moment, warm and content and laughing over food. I’d given them up in my mind; Fione and Malachite and Lucien most of all. I almost start to cry again, happily.

uselessly.

I swallow more liver to shut the hunger up. But, however faint and however irritating, it has a point. This isn’t the time for tears. Not for me, anyway. There’s work to be done.

I open my mouth to say something about Varia, asking the table to start formulating a plan for her, for our next move. But I catch Fione’s smile as she talks and Lucien’s scoff. Not tonight. Tonight, for one night, they should rest. I’ve been fighting the hunger, fighting for my heart for so long, that I almost forgot about rest, about the concept of it. Everyone needs a moment to breathe. Tonight’s for mourning, for recuperating, before the fight begins all over again.

I rake my eyes over Lucien’s face.

I could do with a rest, maybe. Just for one night.

After spiced cake and aged tea, the old sage offers us his assistance tomorrow, and we agree to meet in the morning at his tower.

“To make plans,” Lucien asserts, half of his words hanging unsaid. To fight Varia.

We walk back through the night and to the inn together, the Blue Giant above swollen and full with azure moonlight. It shades the pure banks of snow on the ridge a deep blue, everything radiating melancholy and a faint feeling of being underwater. Fione hurries into the inn first, Malachite lingering in the door.

“You two comin’?” he asks. Lucien looks over to me, and me up to him. It’s the sort of look full of knowing, sore and heavy with it, and it makes my unheart curl at the edges like burning parchment.

“In a bit,” Lucien assures him. Malachite makes a shrug.

“A walk it is. I’ll get my sword, then.”

“You won’t be following,” Lucien continues. Malachite pivots back with a quirked brow, the open doorway spilling fire heat and the smell of mulled mead.

“Oh?”

“Malachite, dearest.” I reach up and softly yank on his long ear tip. “Don’t make me duel you to get some peace and quiet.”

“You already did.” He motions at the three distinct scratches on his face. “And I’d say you won.”

Guilt needles through my chest, but the beneather takes my falling hand in his long-fingered one. His skin is cooler—much cooler than a human’s.

“You could ask Lucien to heal those,” I say. “With magic.”

“I’d do it, too.” Lucien nods. “Or at least I’d try.”