Silver glinted in the moonlight while Evelyn kept the room dim. Only three candles occupied the small table, replacing the shrine normally dedicated to her goddess. One represented herself, while the others stood for that which remained unsaid. Their flames were small and steady against the darkness.
Evelyn sliced the silver ritual knife through the open air while murmuring in Ancient Hermes, a language she had only recently begun to study. With Lucien's help, she had learned the very basics of ritualistic magic and how to perform the necessary preparations without fumbling through every step. The Spectator pathway offered no natural affinity for ritual magic, which meant none of this had come instinctively to her. She had needed instruction, practice, and more than a little patience.
In that regard, she had been unusually fortunate. A demigod had helped teach her, and one of the orthodox gods had offered guidance of another kind. Evelyn did not intend to forget either fact. As the ritual knife completed its path, the spiritual barrier rose around her without a sound.
“I summon in my name,
The spirit that wanders about the unfounded,
A whisperer who hides in the dark,
A messenger that belongs solely to Sisyphus.”
The air shifted. Candlelight fluttered across the walls before settling again, but the shadows on the far side of the altar continued to move. They pulled away from the floor with a wet tearing sound, gathering into a viscous black mass that congealed into a hovering orb nearly two feet across. Long, needle-thin white teeth pushed from the darkness as it writhed in place.
“Paaaayyyyymeeennttt.”
The word came from the only distinct feature on its body, a wide mouth crowded with rows of narrow white teeth. Beyond them was no visible throat, only pitch-black depth. Evelyn blinked once and tilted her head, studying it as though making certain her eyes had not invented the thing in front of her. Then she considered what sort of payment it might accept.
“I had a book fall on my head earlier today in the library. My head still hurts!” she exclaimed, though she kept her voice relatively quiet.
Pain struck the top of her skull almost at once. It felt remarkably like a second book had dropped directly onto her head, leaving behind a dull, concentrated pressure that lingered for several seconds. Evelyn grimaced and resisted the urge to rub the spot. Then, just as abruptly as it had arrived, the pain vanished.
The creature's mouth twisted into a frown. Its teeth made the expression grotesque, as though disappointment itself had developed a jaw.
“Such a mundane painnnn, may somethinggggg worsssssse befall you next timeeee.”
A black, clawed hand emerged from the mass. The arm supporting it was so thin that it looked as though a strong breeze could snap it, yet it extended steadily toward Evelyn and waited. She winced once more at the memory of the pain, then slipped a hand into the inner pocket of her coat. The letter she had written had pressed against her ribs for the entire carriage ride home with Mara.
Evelyn pulled it free and placed it into the waiting hand. “Not one for simple things, hm?” she thought.
The claws closed around the letter and withdrew into the creature's body. Its black mass sagged toward the floor, beginning to melt into the shadows beneath it.
“Correct... the more personal, the better it tastesssssss.”
Its mouth stretched into a sinister smile before becoming the last part of it to sink from sight. When it was gone, the room felt warmer and strangely quiet. Evelyn stared at the empty patch of floor for another moment, committing the lesson to memory.
“Hm. I'll keep that in mind for next time then, mister...” She stopped herself before the thought could become a name. Giving the creature one felt like the beginning of an unnecessary familiarity, and she had no desire to pry into the personality of something like that.
Once the messenger had disappeared completely, Evelyn restored the shrine in her room. She arranged it carefully, returned the table to its ordinary state, and knelt before it. The unsettling creature did not occupy her thoughts for long. In the quiet that followed, she prayed to her goddess.
Sisyphus sat alone in his nearly empty bedroom with his eyes closed. He replayed preferred strategies in his mind, arranging possible responses to the sort of deadly encounters his work routinely produced. Some of his strongest options demanded substantial costs, and he had learned not to rely on a trump card merely because it existed. Preparation, restraint, and knowing when not to spend something were every bit as important as possessing it.
A familiar darkness gathered around his connection to the shadows, but the change did not originate from him. The air cooled as something pooled along the floor near the wall. Sisyphus opened his eyes and immediately recognized the forming shadow of his messenger. It manifested only halfway, apparently deciding that a complete body was unnecessary when there was no payment involved.
A letter emerged from the darkness. Sisyphus took it, inspected the exterior, then conjured a thin shadow into the shape of a letter knife. The wax seal gave way neatly beneath it, allowing him to unfold the well-made paper inside. The handwriting was simple and immediately recognizable.
Sisyphus,
Good news. I have a messenger now.
Before you ask, yes, I am rather pleased with myself.
He is difficult to miss. If you summon him correctly, you should be greeted by a very large black hound.
You already know the ritual better than I do, so I will spare you an unnecessarily detailed lesson. Establish your barrier, light the candle, and summon in your own name.
The words you should use are:
“I summon in my name.
The wanderer at the edge of castle.
That which protects house and home.
The dark that eats from the open hand.
Messenger of Eve.”
He asks for payment whenever he is called: food. Nothing elaborate, thankfully. Bring him something decent to eat and give it to him when he arrives. I suspect treating him well will make both of our lives substantially easier.
He has agreed to act as my messenger, so give him whatever letter you intend for me and tell him to bring it to Evelyn.
Which brings me to your first assignment involving him.
Write back.
Anything will do. I merely want you to send this hound back with something so I know the arrangement works properly from both directions.
There is also a less practical reason I am writing.
Would you like to go out for a drink with me?
We have both survived enough lately. My treat.
Use my messenger to tell me whether you are coming. Consider it both a test of my new arrangement and an invitation. I’ll send the instructions on where if you reply back.
And please feed him.
I would rather my hound’s first impression of you not be that you are stingy.
Evelyn
Sisyphus read the letter a second time. The paper was clean, sturdy, and entirely ordinary despite the spirit that had delivered it. He stood and carried it into the small kitchen of his apartment, still reading portions of it as he walked. Of all the messages he might have expected from Evelyn, an invitation to celebrate had not been high on the list.
His gaze moved first to the icebox, where he kept red meat in bulk. He had Roselle to thank for making perishable food substantially easier to store. His eyes then shifted toward the liquor cabinet. A few bottles remained inside, although he had barely touched them since beginning to practice as an ascetic.
Sisyphus reached into one of the many pockets of his coat and drew out a topaz pendulum. He steadied it, cleared his thoughts, and spoke the statement he wanted to divine.
“Will going out for a drink harm the mastery of my potion?”
The pendulum turned counterclockwise. A small smile appeared on his face. If the evening only delayed his mastery by roughly a day, he could tolerate the cost. His progress had been good enough that he expected to complete the current stage within the next month or two.
He returned to his bedroom carrying a sizeable slab of cold red meat. After establishing a barrier and arranging a simple altar, he followed Evelyn's instructions and spoke the summoning words.
“I summon in my name.
The wanderer at the edge of castle.
That which protects house and home.
The dark that eats from the open hand.
Messenger of Eve.”
The shadows around the edges of the room deepened. Candlelight trembled once as the air seemed to still, and a pair of eyes opened within the darkness. They watched Sisyphus for only a moment before one enormous paw stepped forward, followed by another. The creature emerged until its great head had to angle downward to look at him.
“Payment,” it stated plainly.
The voice came from deep in its throat as a low growl. Had it been a living dog, Sisyphus could easily have imagined drool hanging from its massive jaws. Its general shape resembled some breed of mastiff, but it was far larger than any ordinary hound, large enough to make a Great Dane look modest beside it. Its body was formed from shadow-dark fur that shifted as though stirred by a wind he could not feel. Despite the resemblance to his own summons, its presence carried none of the cold, degenerate quality he associated with creatures of his pathway.
Sisyphus silently decided he was glad Evelyn had not stumbled across one of those instead. He held out the sizeable chunk of raw meat on his open palm. Without more detailed instructions, following the creature's honorific description seemed the safest approach. Then he waited.
The hound stepped closer, making its immense size impossible to ignore. It lowered its head until its jaws were level with Sisyphus's hand and, with a gentleness that seemed absurd for something so large, plucked the meat from his palm. The offering disintegrated into shadow as the hound swallowed it. Its tail struck the floor three times before it sat and looked at him expectantly.
“Good dog” almost escaped Sisyphus by instinct. He stopped himself in time. He had no idea how intelligent the creature was, and there was no reason to discover whether a powerful spirit found the phrase patronizing. Instead, he took out a small piece of paper and a quill and quickly wrote a three-word response.
I accept.
Congratulations.
He held the note toward the hound. “Thank you.”
The creature leaned down and plucked the paper from his fingers with its canine teeth. It studied him for a moment with the same quiet attention a dog might give a new person, then turned and stalked back into the shadows. Its enormous form disappeared piece by piece until the room was ordinary again. Sisyphus was left standing beside the altar with the faint impression that he had successfully made a first impression of his own.
He cleaned the ritual space and prepared to return to his solitude, but the invitation remained in his thoughts. This was not like the occasional drink with Nox, which usually took place over some matter of business. If he was going out socially, he would need something other than a warlock's robe. That realization was irritatingly mundane.
After chiding himself, Sisyphus performed another divination concerning possible danger during the evening with Evelyn. The result revealed nothing worth avoiding. Satisfied, he allowed himself to leave the majority of his combat and mystical equipment behind. If he had already decided to break routine for one night, he might as well do it properly.
Evelyn rose from where she had been kneeling before the restored altar and dusted off her knees. A patch of shadow thickened near the wall, and the enormous head of her hound pushed through it with a folded piece of paper held gently between its jaws. She smiled and took the parchment from him, then reached out without thinking to run her fingers through his dark, curling fur. The hound offered no complaint and remained where he was, apparently aware that she intended to send another message.
She unfolded the note. The handwriting was neat, but several lines dragged oddly across the paper as though it had been written without a proper surface beneath it. There were only three words.
I accept.
Congratulations.
A short chuckle escaped Evelyn. She sat in a nearby chair and selected one of the cleaner pieces of paper scattered among her studies, then wrote a brief reply.
Meet me at the Hound's Tavern.
She fed the messenger some leftovers from her earlier meal and waited for him to finish. Once he had received his payment, she placed the new note between his jaws and watched him disappear into the shadows. Evelyn straightened her blouse, buttoned her coat, extinguished the candles, and left the room.
The carriage ride took longer than she expected. Her memory of that part of the city had been shaped by previous visits made for business, and she had apparently forgotten just how far it sat from her current residence. Uneven roads rocked the carriage from side to side until it finally slowed to a halt a street away from the pub. Evelyn thanked the driver, stepped down, and continued the remaining distance on foot.
Sisyphus had solved his clothing problem through Nox, who seemed to possess a suit for nearly every plausible emergency. The outfit cost ten pounds, somewhat above retail in exchange for convenience, and Sisyphus had accepted the price with little argument. He rode a public carriage directly to the tavern, although traveling so openly felt strange after spending so much of his life moving under other identities. When he stepped out, he wore a new topcoat over a waistcoat in what Nox had described as “a classic style of a modern gentleman.”
The click of familiar shoes drew his attention. Evelyn approached from down the street, her dress fitting neatly beneath the overcoat she wore and gloves covering her hands. She had forgone a hat, instead arranging her auburn hair into an intricate bun pinned at the nape of her neck with a silver brooch. Her appearance was formal enough to suit the better-dressed patrons entering the tavern without making her look out of place.
“Sisyphus!” she called happily. “It has been a moment, hasn't it? I apologize I couldn’t send a letter sooner. I have been quite the busy lady these last couple of months.”
He turned toward her with a smile. Without the hood and clothing she associated with his work, he looked younger and softer than his behavior during their first meeting had suggested. His black hair was long and untidy without quite reaching his shoulders. He raised one slender finger to his lips.
“Please, when I'm not working, call me Tyrion.”
There was no irritation behind the correction. Evelyn's curiosity sharpened at once, and so did the small smile on her face. Her Telepathist abilities made the surface reaction behind his expression easy enough to catch as well. He had noticed her appearance, although the thought was no more intrusive than the sort she occasionally detected from men, and sometimes women, while passing them on the street.
“Tyrion?” She regarded him openly. “Your... real name or..?”
So Sisyphus had not been his real name after all. Evelyn had suspected as much, and learning the truth brought a quiet sense of satisfaction. More importantly, he had volunteered it. That made the revelation feel less like something she had uncovered and more like something he had chosen to give her.
“My real name, though it is the name I use the least.”
The statement was truthful. Far more people knew him as Sisyphus, and almost no one from his old life remained in regular contact with him besides Nox. He lowered his hand and gestured toward the entrance.
“Shall we enter?”
Tyrion hesitated over what degree of etiquette the situation required. Oddly enough, standing here without his hood made the stakes feel higher than they did during a mission. He settled beside Evelyn with one hand near his chest and his elbow offered outward in a somewhat careful approximation of gentlemanly formality. If she ignored it, he could always pretend he had meant to reach for his watch.
Evelyn looked from his face to the offered arm. She slipped her hand through the loop without comment, sparing him the need for an escape. Together they approached the tavern while music spilled through the open doorway and dissolved into the night air. The place was crowded enough that patrons entered and left in a nearly constant stream.
“Thank you for accepting my invitation. I know you're probably quite busy yourself.”
“Indeed, though you caught me at a good time.”
Tyrion matched his pace to hers as they walked. He had enough awareness of formal shoes to know there was no reason to hurry her. After a moment, he added, “I just returned from a two-week job with Nox.”
Evelyn glanced toward him. Tyrion realized the statement might sound oddly vague without context and continued before she could ask.
“It was a public archaeology expedition of some nearby ruins from the Fourth Epoch. You may see a paper by Nox written about it.”
“How interesting. I was quite interested in archaeology when I was younger, though nowadays, sadly, I have little time for such things.” Evelyn turned her head toward him as they neared the entrance. “I scoped out this place a couple of days ago after a job of my own. It's somewhat casual. I just wanted to dress nicely for my first night out since arriving in Tingen.”
One of the men near the door held it open for them. At least half the patrons inside were dressed with comparable formality, while the rest wore simpler clothes suited to laborers, clerks, and tradesmen finishing their day. Neither group looked out of place beside the other. The mixture gave the Hound's Tavern the rare feeling of a place where several parts of the city were temporarily willing to share the same room.
“A good choice...” Tyrion's gaze flicked once toward Evelyn's outfit before returning to the tavern. “...of a pub, perhaps the safest in the city.”
He did not explain the remark. Instead, he scanned the crowded interior for an empty table and tried to estimate how long they might otherwise be waiting. Evelyn noticed one near the center of the room, somewhat closer to the musicians than either of them might have chosen under quieter circumstances. Her smaller arm tugged lightly against his, guiding him toward it before somebody else could claim the seats.
“It is! I had noticed that as well. I wasn't expecting that with the location, but Tingen is full of odd things like that, isn't it?” Evelyn sat in one of the chairs already pulled away from the table. Her expression remained easy and pleasant. “Tell me, Tyrion, have you ever been out to celebrate like this before?”
Tyrion took the seat opposite her. The musicians nearby were not a drawback in his eyes. He had always appreciated the way music could drown out less desirable noise.
“I have, though not since my graduation from the university. Your invitation was a welcome surprise.”
He accompanied the answer with a charming, grateful smile. Evelyn's own smile took on a slightly mischievous quality.
“Would you believe me if I told you I have never done such a thing?” Her expression shifted almost immediately into curiosity. “You graduated university? One here?”
The tavern moved around them while they spoke, bodies crossing between tables until the crowd seemed almost like a living wall. Tyrion initially doubted that Evelyn had never gone out to celebrate anything, then remembered how little ordinary life seemed to exist around her current circumstances. Perhaps, in that respect, she had been just as busy as he had for years.
“Yes. This is the City of Universities, after all. The only place in the Kingdom with more schools is the capital, Backlund.” He paused only briefly before adding, “I graduated with a doctorate in Orthodox Religious Studies, with minors in Anatomy and Ancient History.”
There was a trace of embarrassment in the admission, not pride. More than six years of education sat behind the statement, yet Tyrion spoke as though he had confessed to an eccentric hobby. Evelyn stared at him for a beat.
“Three different studies? That's impressive!” The enthusiasm in her voice was genuine enough to sound almost like she was celebrating the accomplishment for him. “I guess I shouldn't be entirely surprised about the anatomy studies.”
The reference to the morgue was light enough that neither of them needed to linger on it. Before Tyrion could respond, a barmaid approached their table carrying two mugs. She set down what appeared to be beer without asking for an order, then moved away before either of them paid. Evelyn looked at the newly arrived drink, then at the departing woman.
The room around them had become increasingly rowdy. Evelyn watched several nearby patrons, taking in their mood and behavior before the explanation became obvious.
“It seems someone has paid for drinks for the entire tavern. How fortunate.”
At her earlier praise, Tyrion turned his head and scratched at one ear. “I may have had an... unfair advantage.”
The arrival of free alcohol offered him a convenient escape from discussing his schooling. He lifted the mug with a smile, privately grateful that he had already divined the evening for danger. Otherwise, an unexplained drink appearing at his table would have been enough to sour the entire thing.
“Our good fortune.”
Tyrion was curious about Evelyn's life before the circumstances that had brought them together. He wondered whether she had gone to school, what she had studied, and what sort of person she had been when her days were not filled with Beyonders and secrecy. The questions remained unasked. He raised his mug instead.
“A toast, in celebration.”
“Yes, to our good fortune!”
Evelyn lifted her own mug and clinked it against his. Around them, people drank to private victories, forgotten frustrations, and the simple end of another workday. Across the room, a group of better-dressed gentlemen entered and claimed seats along the bar. None appeared interested in Evelyn or Tyrion.
Tyrion drank and waited for the promised liquid courage to arrive. A few seconds of silence were enough for him to remember that he was terrible at small talk. Rather than stare awkwardly across the table, he let his gaze wander over the room as though casually searching for a familiar face. It was easier to inspect strangers than decide what harmless thing to say next.
He wondered whether Sisyphus, rather than Tyrion, knew anyone here. Approaching such acquaintances while dressed this way would create questions he had no desire to answer. The better-dressed men were more plausible, since circumstance had put Sisyphus in contact with their class more often than with laborers, but even then he dismissed the idea. He was Evelyn's guest tonight, and inviting someone else into their celebration without reason would be poor manners.
The music near them grew livelier. Evelyn leaned forward with her elbows near the edge of the table and finally tasted the beer. Her face tightened almost immediately at the bitterness. Tyrion did not need Telepathist abilities to understand that beer had failed to earn her approval.
“Well, I certainly wasn't expecting it to be this bitter. I suppose Lucien does have good taste in alcohol.” She put the mug down with visible displeasure, then followed the direction Tyrion had been looking. “Something over there you're wanting to see?”
The beer had surprised Tyrion as well after weeks without anything similar. Unlike Evelyn, he was determined to accept the unpleasantness as part of breaking his routine. He turned his attention back to her.
“Oh, just thought I saw someone I recognized.”
He chuckled as soon as he said it. The explanation was transparent enough that even an ordinary person might question it, much less Evelyn. If he had only looked away because he recognized someone, why had his attention wandered before there was anyone in particular to recognize?
“There is nothing over there I want to see,” he added.
Tyrion met Evelyn's eyes with a shy smile. She did not rescue him from the awkwardness.
“I was sure that no woman in here was dressed better than I was. Now I'm curious.” Evelyn turned slightly and waved toward one of the tavern workers, using the motion as a perfectly ordinary excuse to glance in the direction Tyrion had been watching. “A bottle of something finer, please!”
She returned to him without any obvious effort and settled more comfortably into her chair.
“I see. Not a woman. Not anyone I would want to invite over here either.”
“You think I'd sneak glances at a random woman? What type of man do you take me for?”
Tyrion frowned and softened his eyes in exaggerated injury. The performance was deliberately poor enough that Evelyn could not mistake it for genuine offense. She rested her chin against one hand and smiled back at him.
“I think you are a man. Even women glance too, you know. There is no shame in the direction your eyes take.” She leaned into the teasing without hesitation. “Now let's see... what type of man do I take you for? I take you for an honest one. Maybe a bit chivalrous at times. Quick thinking...”
She paused just long enough to make him wait.
“And incredibly resourceful, wouldn't you say?”
The joke left Tyrion unexpectedly bashful. Compliments were rare enough in his life, and he had never been especially convinced that he deserved the few he received.
“Thanks for your kind critique... though I think you give me more credit than I am due.”
He searched for some response sharp enough to return the teasing, then discarded several possibilities before they reached his tongue. Caution made friendly jabs almost impossible. If he wanted to keep pace with Evelyn, he would need to accept the same risk and potential sacrifice that his pathway had made familiar in more serious circumstances.
“The kindness and hospitality you've shown me has not gone unnoticed,” he said instead.
“Critique? My friend carries himself like someone who does jobs and expects no thanks. I only wished to let him know that there was someone that appreciated him. I am giving you the exact credit you are due.”
A tavern worker arrived with a bottle considerably finer than the abandoned beer. He opened it and produced a wine glass, pouring a modest amount for Evelyn before offering it to her. She smelled it first and took a careful taste.
“That is much better. You may leave the bottle.”
Evelyn paid the man properly and waited until he had stepped away before looking back at Tyrion. Her smile remained amused.
“I won't be able to finish this by myself. Help me with that, will you? Or must I employ your work again?”
She lowered her voice just enough to make the last line sound like an inside joke to anyone who happened to overhear it. Tyrion laughed, relieved to find a response that did not require him to invent more small talk.
“That won't be necessary.”
He poured himself a glass. If tonight was already a deliberate reprieve from mastering his potion, he saw little reason to participate halfway. The first sip was far better than the beer, and he found himself watching Evelyn's pace out of habit, careful not to appear as though he intended to become drunk before she did.
Another song began before either of them had much time to settle into the wine. The tune was faster than the previous ones, some local jig or tavern favorite that drew attention from nearly everyone in the room. Patrons began moving in rhythm with their drinks still in hand, many of them already too intoxicated to care whether the steps were correct. Two of the well-dressed gentlemen from the bar joined the celebration with considerably less dignity than their clothes suggested.
Evelyn watched the room come alive around them. A smile spread across her face as people abandoned their tables and crowded toward the music. Before Tyrion noticed anyone approaching from behind her, a stranger caught Evelyn by the arm and practically dragged her from her chair into the gathering. She went willingly enough, laughing as she was pulled away, but managed to catch the front of Tyrion's coat before the crowd could separate them completely.
“Come on, we've been formally invited!” she called over the noise.
Evelyn still had her wine glass in hand. She took another drink and disappeared into the moving bodies before Tyrion had time to object. The entire thing happened so quickly that he remained seated for a second with his own glass halfway raised. Then he remembered he was supposed to follow her.
He downed the wine in one motion and set the empty glass on the table. An inward prayer asked that the alcohol begin working quickly. Tyrion rose and entered the crowd, offering a steady succession of polite apologies as he worked his way through.
“Excuse me, pardon me, passing by...”
A smile remained on his face as he moved. The press of bodies should have made him uneasy, but instead the walls of flesh around him awakened the confidence of his Beyonder instincts. In a crowd like this, several of his abilities felt more useful rather than less. He suppressed the thought almost as soon as it formed, determined that tonight would remain a night in which none of those abilities were necessary.
A hand caught his coat and pulled him sideways. Tyrion turned and found Evelyn in the middle of the celebration, her face bright with uncomplicated enjoyment. Something in him relaxed at the familiar sight, and the wine finally seemed to reach him at roughly the same moment. The noise, movement, and warmth of the crowd stopped feeling like something to navigate and became part of the evening instead.
“Dance with me, Tyrion! Have some fun, why don't you?” Evelyn clapped along with the music and moved with the people around her. “Besides, we're celebrating!”
Tyrion attempted to imitate the steps of those nearest him. There was no single proper dance to follow, which made the task easier. Everyone appeared to be inventing something of their own, and mistakes vanished into the broader movement of the crowd before anyone could notice them. He found that he preferred this to small talk by a considerable margin.
The drink, the music, and Evelyn's insistence allowed him to relax in a way he had not managed for nearly a year. For one brief moment, the memory of his psychiatrist's death surfaced behind the feeling. Tyrion pushed it away before grief could take hold. Tonight was not the time to measure happiness against old losses.
He stepped closer to Evelyn and matched her movement when he could, keeping the distance between them to only a few feet. Even that proved difficult once the crowd thickened. People crossed between them, spun past them, and drew each of them into different pieces of the celebration before releasing them again. Evelyn briefly found herself dancing with one of the finer-dressed gentlemen, entertained him with a few light steps, then wheeled away and eventually found Tyrion again.
Alcohol settled pleasantly through her body, enough to soften the edges of the evening without stealing her awareness. Evelyn knew her limits and had not drunk enough to lose control of herself. Even so, after months filled with work, danger, ritual studies, and more prayer than indulgence, the sensation felt almost luxurious. She let herself enjoy it without turning the moment into something that needed to be analyzed.
By the time Evelyn escaped the center of the crowd, her hair had begun to come loose. Too much movement had defeated the careful arrangement held by the silver brooch, leaving auburn strands around her face and shoulders. She stepped aside, catching her breath, and searched the crowd. Tyrion was easy for her to pick out once she knew where to look.
Tyrion, however, did not immediately find her. The temptation to use spirit vision crossed his mind, then vanished beneath his own refusal. This was a normal night, or as close to one as he had experienced in years, and he would not introduce the supernatural merely because he had lost sight of a friend for a minute. He continued moving with the dance while searching naturally.
Without Evelyn nearby, the dance lost some of its appeal. Tyrion began weaving through the bodies with more purpose, still moving enough not to disrupt anyone around him. Evelyn remained near the edge and patiently watched the crowd turn over in front of her. Eventually he came within reach.
She caught the back of his coat with one hand and pulled him free. Evelyn was careful not to send any of the more intoxicated patrons stumbling as she retrieved him.
“Tyrion, don't get too carried away now!” she said with an amused grin.
He turned, and the small concern behind his smile disappeared the moment he saw her. “The crowd was a bit more... lively than I expected. Lost track of you.”
Tyrion stayed close afterward, as though the crowd might otherwise seize one of them again. Evelyn allowed the closeness without comment.
“Hm, I never thought I'd be better at moving through crowds than you.”
A small laugh escaped her. She stepped farther from the densest part of the room and raised both hands to the brooch in her hair. Once she released the clasp, the remaining pins surrendered and her long auburn hair fell down her back. Evelyn gathered it with practiced movements and used the same brooch to tame it into something simpler.
“I think I am done dancing. That was probably the most excitingly happy thing I think I've done in my entire life.”
She looked genuinely pleased as she said it, relaxed enough that Tyrion took a moment to consider her earlier claim about never having celebrated like this. He also realized, with some irritation, that she really had moved through the crowd more effectively than he had. His mind briefly searched for a supernatural explanation before he dismissed the thought. Nothing he had seen from her during the fight with Vale suggested some hidden burst of speed.
“It was fun, yeah. Been years since I've felt like this.”
Tyrion laughed softly. The feeling was worth savoring precisely because it was so unlike his ordinary life. For once there was no contract to fulfill, no enemy to anticipate, and no price to calculate before acting. There was only noise, wine, and a friend who had dragged him onto a tavern floor.
“Has it been? That's quite unfortunate. I should invite you out more of...”
Evelyn turned while still glancing toward the crowd over Tyrion's shoulder and walked directly into one of the better-dressed gentlemen. They had both been moving, so neither could properly blame the other. The man recovered with a short step backward as Evelyn stopped herself.
“My apologies, sir. I didn't mean to bump into you.” She glanced briefly toward Tyrion. “It seems I have had too much to drink.”
The gentleman lifted one hand instinctively but stopped before touching her. Surprise appeared on his face for only a moment, without irritation.
“No harm done, miss. I’m afraid I was paying more attention to where I was going than where you were looking.” His eyes flicked once toward Tyrion, then returned to Evelyn with the faintest trace of amusement. “Though if you’ve truly had too much to drink, I’d recommend finding a chair before the next gentleman you collide with proves less forgiving.”
Evelyn answered with a quick smile and stepped around him. She made her way back toward their table, where the wine bottle and abandoned glasses remained untouched. Behind her, Tyrion met the stranger's eyes. The two men exchanged a brief nod that required no explanation.
Tyrion followed Evelyn to the table and picked up the bottle. “Another glass? Or perhaps you’ve had too much already?”
He smiled as he refilled his own. Evelyn slowly pushed her empty glass toward him while looking elsewhere, as though pretending not to notice her own hand moving.
“Another. What I told him was a lie, obviously.” A small smirk appeared on her face. “I would rather not ruin the night.”
“Good.”
Tyrion nodded and refilled her glass.
“Had me worried for a moment that you couldn’t hold your alcohol.”
He took another sip of his own wine and quietly wished it affected him more. Somewhere along the way, whether through his constitution or his Beyonder state, he had developed enough resistance that becoming properly drunk required considerably more effort than it once had.
“I can't. I just haven't drank too much tonight.” Evelyn watched the stream of red wine enter her glass, fingers lightly pinching its stem. “It's alright, Tyrion... if I get too drunk, I will send a letter to my babysitter Mara to come pick me up in a golden carriage! Maybe she'd even give you a ride if I asked nicely.”
The image was extravagant enough that Tyrion had no difficulty recognizing the joke. He played along without hesitation.
“I’ll have to decline.”
He leaned back slightly before adding, “This face is meant for only you, not Mara.”
A droplet of wine remained on his lower lip. Tyrion wiped it away with his thumb, apparently unaware that his wording had handed Evelyn an opportunity.
“You should be more careful saying such words to a woman, Tyrion.”
Her smile widened by only a fraction. Evelyn looked down at the wine and moved her wrist enough to set the red liquid circling inside the glass.
“Anyone other than myself would consider what you just said as a proposal.” She raised the glass for another small sip. “Of course, that wasn't your intention though, right?”
The music behind her had begun to quiet as the spontaneous celebration exhausted itself. People returned to tables or leaned against the bar, leaving enough room around Evelyn and Tyrion that the tavern no longer felt quite so crowded. Tyrion understood that his statement had been an intentional twist on the fact that she was one of the only people allowed to see him without his hood. Evelyn had simply carried the joke farther than he expected.
“Meaning is left to the interpreter. Interesting, for you to take it that way.”
He tilted his head as if studying her.
“Are you plotting to steal my last name before you even know it?”
The implication was obvious enough. If she had heard a proposal, perhaps she had wanted one. It was a jest built on top of another jest, and Tyrion watched to see which of them would be the first to retreat.
“I wasn't looking for a new last name, to be quite honest. I hope that isn't too disappointing for you to hear.”
Evelyn leaned slightly closer as she returned the jab. This was not that kind of night in her mind, and she had no intention of allowing harmless teasing to become something else. In another life, perhaps the comment would have embarrassed her badly enough to end the exchange. In this one, she knew how to let the joke pass without mistaking it for a confession.
Tyrion took another drink and allowed his heartbeat to settle. The tavern had returned to something closer to its earlier rhythm, and with the dancing finished, conversation reclaimed the space between them. He found himself wishing the musicians would start another energetic song. Small talk was once again becoming his responsibility.
“Anything about yourself you like to talk about... not work related?”
Even the question felt uncomfortably close to prying. Both people at the table were, in technical terms, wanted criminals living lives constructed around secrecy. Ordinary questions about childhood, family, occupation, and home carried risks that other people never had to consider. Tyrion had tried to find the safest possible version and was not sure he had succeeded.
“You want me to talk about myself..?” Evelyn gave him a faintly flustered look. “You already know more than the average person, and my work life at this point is my entire life... except for this moment right now.”
People continued moving around them, carrying drinks and conversations from one side of the tavern to another. The room remained lively even after the dance ended, and the two of them no longer looked unusual sitting together. Evelyn took another sip before continuing.
“It doesn't help either that I can't talk much at all about my life from before a year ago.”
Tyrion did not ask why. Vale's manner of speaking about her had already suggested enough for him to recognize that whatever sat behind the answer was not something to pry open at a tavern table. He had hoped she possessed harmless memories from before Vale, perhaps schooling or some old interest that could sustain a conversation. Apparently even that ground was uncertain.
His eyes fell to the red wine turning inside her glass. For an instant it reminded him of thinner blood. Tyrion closed his eyes and exhaled, irritated with himself for allowing another grim association into the evening. When he looked up again, he smiled and nodded so Evelyn would not mistake the pause for a problem between them.
Her eyes moved over him with the same quiet attention she gave nearly everything. Evelyn's observation was open rather than furtive, but polite enough that she did not stare past what the moment allowed.
“I have nothing, but I am sure you have a past with less private details than mine... yes?”
“Only partially, I'm afraid. My past is full of... working, schooling and tragedy.”
Tyrion's smile weakened. The answer was truthful without being especially informative, which was all he could comfortably offer. Work had consumed much of his life from an early age, and some of the reasons were not subjects that could be discussed freely.
“I don't have much of a life outside work, I'm afraid.”
He finished his glass and began pouring another. This time he only glanced at Evelyn's drink rather than attempting to match her pace. His body appeared to process the alcohol more quickly than hers, and he had accepted that keeping equal pace would leave him noticeably more sober.
“Then we are alike in more ways than one.”
Evelyn shrugged and finished what remained in her glass. Her gaze wandered briefly over the crowd, searching without any obvious target, then returned to Tyrion.
“I will admit, I have too many questions regarding work, but this is hardly the place. Instead I will ask something else. Were you born here in Tingen?”
Tyrion nodded. “Yes, spent my entire life here. I considered moving to the capital but figured here would be safer.”
Safer had more than one meaning. Tingen had less mundane crime than Backlund and, more importantly for someone like him, a smaller concentration of official Beyonders and truly dangerous powers. Backlund offered anonymity through sheer size, but too many high-level figures occupied the capital for Tyrion ever to consider it comfortable. He did not return the question because he had no idea whether Evelyn could answer it safely.
“I was born here, though I don't remember much, if anything at all, of my childhood. Just little tidbits here and there.”
Evelyn offered the information easily and watched for his reaction. Tyrion answered only with a small, sad smile. He did not ask why she seemed amnesiac. In his mind, Vale remained the most likely explanation, and that assumption was enough to make further questioning feel cruel.
“It seems we have similar and opposite stories. You know little about your younger years, and I knew too much when I was young.”
The phrasing suggested that Tyrion had been forced to mature early, although Evelyn could not tell whether the cause had been mundane, supernatural, or some combination of both. She let the implication sit without pursuing it. There were boundaries between friends that did not need to be crossed merely because she was capable of noticing them.
Evelyn leaned back in her chair and regarded the emptying glass for a moment.
“Tell me, Tyrion. You said you liked that poem I spoke of in the Clockmaker's Pub, yes?”
Tyrion lifted the bottle, now noticeably lighter than when it had arrived, and refilled Evelyn's glass. The wine poured in a careful red stream.
“Yes, it was... unique. And invoking. I'm curious as to who wrote it.”
Poetry was not one of Tyrion's areas of expertise, though he could appreciate it well enough. He had always enjoyed music and had encountered a broad variety of hymns during his religious studies. Evelyn's poem had stayed with him because it sounded unlike either.
“It is by a man by the name of Poe. Quite the macabre man, but I can appreciate his works.” Evelyn's expression settled into something more neutral. “I do doubt you've ever heard of him. Nor will you find his works here.”
She accepted the refilled glass and drank slowly.
“I am an enjoyer of the arts. I suppose that will do for an answer to you asking me to tell you about myself?”
“Art, of any variety, is our greatest creation. To appreciate art is to appreciate humanity.”
Tyrion smiled between sips. A less pleasant thought followed naturally, one he chose not to voice. Much of the art he admired remained easiest to access for the middle and upper classes, while factory workers spent their lives ground down by hours that left little room for anything beyond survival. He had often thought that beauty would do more good among people starved for it than among those wealthy enough to take it for granted.
The evening settled into night around them. They continued talking without either noticing exactly when the tavern began to empty. Evelyn gradually coaxed Tyrion into a more conversational state, enough that pauses stopped feeling like failures he had to repair. By the time the bottle was finished, most of the patrons had already left.
Evelyn stood and glanced around the quieter room. “It is getting late, isn't it.”
“Indeed. Planning to take a carriage home?”
Tyrion rose with her. The alcohol affected him only marginally, his slight healing ability clearing the buzz at a rate that made sustained drunkenness difficult. Evelyn, meanwhile, seemed cheerful and tired rather than impaired.
“It is much too far for me to walk, especially in these shoes. I already did a number on them dancing.”
She stepped away from the table and headed toward the door. The few patrons who remained spoke in lower voices over the last traces of music. Tyrion followed beside her, watching her gait closely enough to judge whether she could safely make the trip home.
“Think you can manage a carriage ride alone? I could escort you home, free of charge.”
He smiled at the joke, although the offer itself was genuine. Leaving a woman who had been drinking to travel across the city alone did not sit comfortably with him.
“You could! Is your house near here or the manor?”
Evelyn asked the question while waving down a carriage. Outside, crimson moonlight caught along the folds of her dress, but most of the usable illumination came from a nearby gas lamp that sputtered intermittently. The street had quieted considerably since their arrival.
“Neither. I reside near the river on the south side of town, so it won't be in or out of my way to join you.”
When a carriage stopped, Tyrion gave the driver the manor's address and opened the door. He offered Evelyn his hand to help her inside. The riverfront housed ports, trade warehouses, and what limited presence the Church of Storms maintained in inland Tingen. Tyrion's answer narrowed his home to an area of more than a dozen blocks without giving away anything precise.
Evelyn accepted his hand and stepped into the carriage. She gathered her dress around her legs carefully before sitting so none of the fabric bunched beneath her or caught when she stood again. The cushion gave beneath her weight as she moved toward the wall and turned to face Tyrion. He climbed in after her, closed the door, and sat on the opposite bench.
A knock against the wooden wall signaled the driver. The horse gave a short neigh, and the carriage began its uneven journey over the cobbled road.
“I hope you found my company enjoyable, and my dance skills passable.”
Tyrion smiled as he spoke. His cheeks were almost sore from how much he had smiled during the evening, an unfamiliar enough sensation that the thought amused him on its own.
“Of course I did. You're my friend. Also, you were quite good at dancing. I was surprised!” Evelyn sounded openly pleased. Fatigue kept her from suggesting he move to the bench beside her, though the thought crossed her mind briefly. “What about mine, Tyrion?”
“I enjoyed my time. Thank you for the invitation. It was very... relaxing.”
The evening reminded him why he made the effort to remain sane and human in the first place. For a fleeting moment, the relief was strong enough to make him imagine walking away from all of it. The thought was impossible. He was already too deep in his work, and too ambitious to abandon what he had chosen, but tonight had at least provided a respite he had badly needed.
“I must say, it might be a while till I see you again. I'll be seeking more ambitious work within the next couple of months...” Evelyn trailed off and looked away before meeting his eyes again. “You probably will not hear from me much.”
Tyrion released an exasperated sigh. “Likewise... the advice you gave me has expedited my plans significantly. Though I am grateful. Don't know if I'll have any free time before I reach my next goal, or if... something else will need my attention right after.”
For a moment, the sentence had nearly ended with if I die. Tyrion left those words unspoken. People in their profession understood the possibility well enough without forcing it into every farewell.
“I see.”
Evelyn let the silence remain while the carriage rattled along the street. Her gaze drifted through the window toward the crimson moon hanging beyond the rooftops.
“If you need my help, at all... please do use my messenger. If it's urgent, I will drop what I am doing to help. I'll even bring Mara along if necessary.”
“That's...”
Tyrion stopped. The offer was simple, but he had difficulty processing generosity without a price attached to it. After a moment, he abandoned the attempt to formulate some elaborate response and returned the only thing that seemed adequate.
“Likewise.”
There was no joke in his voice this time, nor any suggestion of payment, employment, or professional obligation. It was an offer made to a friend rather than a client.
“My work differs from yours immensely. I don't foresee needing your assistance but... who knows. The future is surely filled with surprises.”
Evelyn finally leaned fully against the carriage seat. For tonight, the shade that so often seemed to follow her was absent. Tyrion relaxed against his own bench and considered what she had said.
He doubted either of them would often be useful in the other's work. If Evelyn needed somebody killed, perhaps that would be different, but he struggled to imagine what sort of problem would require her particular talents on his behalf. Read emotions, perhaps. Control them, maybe. Tyrion did not actually know what someone farther along the Spectator pathway could do, nor did he know the names of its later Sequences.
Evelyn's attention shifted outside again. After several seconds, she spoke.
“That man I bumped into, and the others with him, they were Nighthawks.” She paused, looking through the window toward the stars. “You don't think they took note of us, yes?”
She had seen no definitive badge or uniform that identified them. What she had caught from their surface thoughts, however, had been enough to make her cautious. Tyrion did not appear surprised.
“Nothing to worry about. The low Sequences of the pathways of their church don't have a way to detect Beyonders.”
Then he frowned.
Tyrion's gaze sharpened as he inspected the carriage around them, the window, the dim light passing through it, and the rhythm of the wheels beneath their feet.
“Unless we are in a dream right now.”
Evelyn looked as though she might laugh, but the sound never came.
“We are not in a dream.” Her certainty was immediate. She tilted her head and looked back at him. “Not right now, at least. And if it is a dream, I would like it to be one that I never forget.”
Tyrion smiled. “I'd be rather disappointed if tonight turned out to be a dream... though not surprised.”
Evelyn raised one eyebrow. “And why exactly would this be a dream?”
Tyrion laughed at the sudden seriousness of the question, bending forward for a moment before straightening himself.
“Because tonight is too good to be true.”
His smile was broad and genuine. Evelyn's expression softened.
“I was asking literally, but that answer satisfies me as well.”
The carriage jolted over a rough patch of cobblestone. Tyrion lifted one hand, palm outward, and seemed to shrink slightly beneath the realization that he had misunderstood her.
“Ah, apologies. Nighthawks are most often on the Sleepless Pathway. They can make you fall asleep without realizing, pulling you into a realistic dream.”
His posture straightened again once the explanation was finished. He had forgotten how much of the Beyonder world Evelyn still did not know. To him, the possibility was basic professional caution. To her, it was new information.
“Terrifying,” Evelyn murmured.
Her attention drifted away from him. Almost immediately, her thoughts returned to the first night she had arrived in this world, and to something that had never sat comfortably in her memory.
What buildings disappear right before your eyes? Was that a dream as well?
A faint frown crossed her face. Tyrion noticed the change and leaned back against the bench. He had not intended to unsettle her, but the subject of dreams had clearly touched something beyond the Nighthawks in the tavern.
“Don't worry. Official Beyonders rarely look for random Beyonders. As long as you don't harm any of their believers, they will leave you alone.”
“Well... that is good, I suppose.”
Evelyn closed her eyes for a moment and filtered out some of the carriage noise while listening to him. Before either of them found another subject, the vehicle slowed and came to a halt. Light from a street lamp passed through the window in dim bands.
“I believe this is my stop.”
Evelyn gathered her dress properly and stood. Tyrion rose as well and opened the carriage door for her.
“Indeed. I believe you can make it the rest of the way yourself. Thanks for humoring my offer to escort.”
The familiar smile had returned to his face. Evelyn stepped down, then looked back over her shoulder.
“And thank you for escorting me.” Her own smile remained small, but something sad passed through her eyes before it disappeared. “I do hope we get the chance to see each other again sooner than later. Good luck with your work, Tyrion.”
She fully exited the carriage, boots clicking against the cobblestones as she started toward the manor.
“And good luck with yours.”
Tyrion watched her long enough to make certain nothing suspicious waited along the approach to the house. Only once he was satisfied did he signal the driver to continue toward his own home. He settled back against the bench as the carriage began moving again, replaying pieces of the evening in his mind.
Once their schedules aligned, he would invite her out for another night like this. It was the least he could do in return.
Evelyn reached the manor and paused at the entrance. The carriage was already moving away when she turned to watch it go. Then she slipped inside as quietly as possible so she would not disturb the other inhabitants. The lock clicked into place behind her.