“Yeah, we tell people that,” Arn said. He took another chug. “It’s mostly true. Our stomachs are little miracle workers. We can eat rotten food and feel fine. It’s damn hard to poison us, and even snake venom does little more than make our skin swell up like a mosquito bite.”

“So why drink the wine? Do you enjoy the taste?”

“The taste? Hah!” He gestured to the two other bottles he’d set out before him. “With perseverance and dedication, we may all reach our desired goals. I’m a stubborn man, Cyrus, and by the time I’m done with these bottles, I’ll be a drunk man, too.”

Cyrus reluctantly settled into the chair opposite him.

“Don’t take it too far,” he said. “We need you in top form for tomorrow. I’d rather not fight alongside a traitorous paragon discovering for the first time what a hangover is.”

“You barely look like you could grow facial hair, and you want to lecture me on hangovers?” Arn’s boisterous grin didn’t last. “Besides, you don’t need me. You got a good head on your shoulders. A lot better than, say, that Stasia woman. She’s death in a fiery body. Someone’s gonna get burned when it comes to her. I pray it’s not you.”

Cyrus crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. Arn had to admit that, for a young brat, he managed an impressive scowl.

“You are one of the finest fighters on this island, and a fine ally. Former paragon or not, you’re risking your life for our sakes. I am glad to have you with us. We all are.”

“You show me too much kindness, young prince.” Perhaps the first bottle was finally starting to hit him, because he felt uncharacteristically honest. “What help I’ve given you is nothing when compared to my past. The weight of my sins is massive. Fighting with you? Killing some soldiers in Thanet’s name? It’s me removing a few measly feathers resting atop a pile of stone. It won’t equal out the scales. It won’t even make them twitch.”

“Let’s say you’re right, and it is but a few feathers,” Cyrus said. “At least you’re removing feathers and not adding more stones. That still has to mean something, doesn’t it? Better that you struggle one inch higher up the mountain you’re climbing than fall another dozen feet.”

“I see the young prince is now a philosopher,” Arn said with a chuckle.

“I’d rather hit things with swords like Stasia taught me, but you looked so sad drinking in the dark, I had to try my best.”

“Sad?” He thudded the table with the empty bottle. “I’m drinking to celebrate another victory tomorrow. Get out of here with that ‘sad’ nonsense. Go sit under your stars, boy. Leave this tired adult to his wine.”