The Chronicles of Krarshe: The Hearts of Men, Volume 1

Tibault’s home was small and unremarkable, with a plain wooden door bordered by two tall windows, much like the other tightly-packed houses in this part of Castle Ward. If what Krarshe knew of Tibault was any indication, the lesser nobility seemed to be only slightly better off than your average merchant, so this wasn’t beyond his expectation. It felt almost more of a mark of status to own a house in the district than being a desirable location. Much like the rest of the city, orange and gold fabrics twisted in arcs across buildings in celebration of the festival. The sun’s fading light paraded down the whole length of the street, illuminating it in a warm, welcoming glow. Aside from the soft roar of the Silver River but a few streets away, it was quiet, peaceful. All in all, it was a pleasant neighborhood, very cozy.

Tibault stopped as he reached for the door handle. “I’ll just warn you now,” he started before looking back at his two guests. “My family is a bit... odd.”

Krarshe and Bri looked at each other, raising an eyebrow simultaneously. “I could have guessed that,” Bri said, smiling.

“Same here,” Krarshe agreed.

Tibault didn’t respond to their jab and calmly opened the door. He stepped aside and gestured them in. Bri entered first, Krarshe following behind her, both looking around the house as they stepped inside.

The inside was as plain as the outside. There was a slight step up from the entrance way, leading to a small hallway which was dimly lit by the light coming from the two windows by the door and what little light escaped the room to the left. There was a staircase on the right just past the small step, and Krarshe could make out a few doors further down the hall.

“You can hang your jackets over there. And make sure to take off your shoes before you step up,” Tibault said as he leaned against a wall to remove his shoes. “Otherwise, Astrid will beat us bloody.”

“Who?”

“Oh, Tibby! You’re home!” Krarshe turned to see a woman coming out from one of the doors at the end of the hall. Krarshe guessed she was probably in her late thirties, or early forties, but it was hard to guess. Her long brown hair curled and twisted down past her shoulders and draped itself across her red and white dress. Like Tibault, she had a smattering of faint freckles across her nose and cheeks. “And you brought friends!”

“Mooooooooom!” Tibault whined. “I told you to stop calling me that!”

“... Tibby?” Bri whispered into Krarshe’s ear. He could hear her start to chuckle.

“What’s wrong with ‘Tibby’?” Tibault’s mom protested. “I could call you what I used to if you’d rather.”

“No! No no no no no!” he shouted, waving his hands in front of her desperately as he ran toward her.

She laughed. “Relax, I wouldn’t do that to you. Not in front of your friends.” She turned to behold the two guests. “So. Tibby. I believe introductions are in order.”

Despite the dim light, Krarshe could still see a red hue spread across Tibault’s cheeks. Tibault cleared his throat. “This is Bri,” he said, gesturing to Bri. Bri gave a small curtsy. “And this,” gesturing to Krarshe, “is Karshe.”

“Krarshe,” Bri corrected. Krarshe had intended to let the mispronunciation go, but Bri was apparently still very proud of her getting it right.

Krarshe just shook his head dismissively and bowed. “Either is fine.”

“Hmm. Krarshe, was it?”

Again, hearing his name pronounced perfectly on the first attempt startled Krarshe. “Y-yes.”

“Hmm. Interesting. I haven’t seen many elves in Remonnet.”

Krarshe could feel his body relax. “There’s certainly not many.”

“Well, you both may call me Claire. I hope my family and I can exemplify the hospitality and generosity of a noble family of Remonnet,” Tibault’s mom gave a small curtsy. “Now, come into the parlor. I’d love to hear more about you both.”

Krarshe and Bri removed their footwear and began to follow Claire into the hallway.

“Actually, mom,” Tibault started. “We were getting hungry, and-”

“Oh! Shall I make something for you all?” she asked, suddenly excited.

“No, no. That’s okay. We were actually discussing our cooking skills on the way here and-”

“And TIBBY here challenged us,” Bri said, cutting into the explanation.

“A cooking competition? Sounds fun!”

“Could you be an impartial judge for us?” Tibault asked.

A wide smile spread across Claire’s face. “Of course! I’d love to!” she shouted, clapping her hands together with glee. Quickly, though, the smile melted away from her face, leaving behind a stern look that Krarshe couldn’t have even imagined her making before. “Just understand, I’m a harsh judge. I don’t want to hurt your friends’ feelings.”

“We’ll be fine,” Krarshe said. Bri nodded in agreement.

Claire studied the three of them for a moment. Her jovial smile returned in an instant. “Okay then! I’ll get Astrid to start the oven for you. Come, let me show you around the kitchen and our pantry. Astrid! Could you come down here?! Come, come, this way.”

Claire led them through the open doorway on the left, the dining room, and through a pair of double doors. It opened into a large kitchen, large enough to compete with one in a restaurant. A large window spanned nearly the whole back wall of the room, letting in an incredible amount of sunlight compared to the dark hallway. Claire flew through the kitchen, showing them where to find pots, pans, and cooking utensils of all sorts, many of which Krarshe couldn’t even guess at their purpose. She boasted about the two ovens the kitchen had, and the elaborate flue that supported them. Krarshe noted her enthusiasm felt as though she was trying to impress someone.

As she led them around the corner to another pair of double doors, a woman entered the kitchen. “You called for me, milady?” Her plain gray dress and graying hair was contrasted by a stark white apron. Krarshe shuddered as he felt her cold eyes fall upon him.

“Could you start the ovens and stove for our guests, Astrid, dear?”

Astrid didn’t say a word, just bowing solemnly and turned to her task, pulling wood from a pile beside the chimney.

“Okay,” Claire said, pulling Krarshe’s attention back to the tour. “This,” she said, dramatically pulling open the double doors around the corner, “is our pantry.” Krarshe looked over the shelves of foods, spices, and anything else one could think of using in their food preparations. “We have meat and fish stored in the ice box there,” she said, gesturing to a large box in the corner of the pantry.

“What’s an ice box?”

Claire turned to Krarshe, surprised.

“He’s from some rustic village up north,” Tibault explained.

Claire smiled understandingly. “This box is a magic item, imbued with an ice spell. You can put food into it to keep it cold, thus keeping it from spoiling so quickly.”

Krarshe raised his eyebrows. “Wow. That’s amazing.”

“Modern magic certainly is, isn’t it? Just be careful reaching into it, the sides are quite cold,” Claire explained. “Well, that’s the end of the tour. I’ll be in the parlor if you need anything. Let me know when your dishes are finished, okay?”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Thank you very much,” Bri said.

Krarshe bowed slightly.

Claire left the kitchen, followed silently by Astrid.

“Your mother’s nice,” Bri said.

“Oh? Just wait...” Tibault said with a knowing smirk. He rolled up the sleeves on his shirt and tucked them neatly to hold them in place. “Well, time to show you what real cooking is!”

“So, what do we have here, Tibby?” Claire picked up a fork and knife and looked at the plate in front of her.

“Seared and salted silverfish, paired with sautéed bush beans and carrots, and sliced tomatoes.” Tibault stood there proudly, already the victor in his own mind.

“Ugh, I hate bush beans,” Krarshe complained, staring at the wiggling green bean at the end of his fork. He was more entertained watching it dance than he was interested in eating it.

“You can’t just cook toward one person’s tastes,” Tibault quipped.

“The fish is okay, I guess,” Bri said, mouth full, finally able to sate her hunger a bit. “Maybe a bit too salty.”

“And a bold choice to use tomatoes.” Claire picked one up with her fork, looking it over. “Tough skin at this time of year, Tibby.” She pulled it off her fork with her teeth and began to chew.

“Well, I-”

Claire held up a hand, halting Tibault’s response. She spit something into her napkin. “Too tough. The beans and carrots seem nicely cooked, and have a proper texture.” She ate both in one mouthful, chewed slowly for a bit and then swallowed. “Could have used more seasoning. Now...” She cut into the fish and inspected it closely. Krarshe and Bri had stopped eating for a minute, watching Claire’s assessment. Tibault’s earlier confidence seemed to be breaking down, clearly getting a bit nervous as his mother looked over the focal point of the dish. “You should have seared this longer. There should be a crisp edge here, but it’s lacking that entirely. Just because it looks seared doesn’t mean it’s done yet.” She took a bite, and immediately spit it into her napkin. “Too much salt. This isn’t some salted meat for adventurers.”

Krarshe watched as the final remnants of Tibault’s pride evaporated. Tibault slowly pulled out his chair and plopped into it. He put his face in his hands, just sitting there. He was right, Krarshe thought. She’s a harsh critic.

Claire took a sip of her glass of water and swished it around briefly before swallowing. “So, who’s next?”

Bri glanced at Krarshe before sighing. “I guess I’m up.” She stood and walked through the double doors leading to the kitchen. She emerged with three plates, placing them on the table in front of each critic.

“Well, this is new. What is it?” Claire asked.

“It’s actually a recipe I came up with on my own. It... doesn’t really have a name. I just call it beef in brown sauce.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. She looked down at her plate of brown goop with bits of meat and vegetables in it. “This looks like a stew.” She stirred the mixture with her spoon, then lifted it and watched the brown sauce drip slowly back to the plate. “Sort of.”

“I love stews. They inspired this dish.”

“I guess I’m not surprised to see potatoes with this,” Krarshe said, remembering the comments Bri made at lunch when they had first met. He looked across the table at Tibault. He seemed to have recovered slightly from his mother’s harsh words.

“A pseudo-stew?” Tibault laughed.

“Just eat. The stew first, then your words,” Bri retorted.

Krarshe took a spoonful and shoved it in his mouth. His eyes widened. It was good. Very good. He took another spoonful, and another. “Wow. This...”

“Is quite delicious,” Claire cut in, having just finished her spoonful. “The meat is properly cooked. The strips of thinly sliced beef carry the perfect amount of this sauce. The traces of sliced, sautéed onions and garlic really bring out the savory flavor of this sauce. The reduction in the sauce gives it a perfect, sticky consistency to cling to the beef and potatoes.” She stuffed another spoon of it in her mouth, smiling as she relished the bite of food. “What spices did you add to this sauce?”

Bri smiled. “Oh, you know. A bit of this, a bit of that.” She looked over at Tibault, who looked even more rejected than he had previously. The combination of his mother’s harsh words toward him and the praise she showered upon Bri had decimated his pride, leaving nothing in its wake. “I can share the recipe with you later if you’d like.”

“Oh, please do. One thing I would change, however, much like Tibby, you used too much salt. I’d use less and add more black pepper. It should enrich the taste even more.”

Bri bowed. “Thank you for the advice. I will take it to heart.”

Claire ate a few more bites before putting the plate aside. “One contestant left,” she said with a smile. “I hope you have something unique from your homeland, Krarshe. I always wondered what types of meals elves enjoyed.”

“Oh, it’s nothing special. I had it a lot while travelling,” he explained as he headed to the kitchen. He emerged momentarily, placing the three plates in front of the three.

Everyone stared at their plate in perfect silence. The only noise heard was that of Astrid moving around above them upstairs. Claire was the first to speak.

“What... in Teva’s name... is this?”

“It’s beef.”

She continued to stare at her plate blankly.

“Umm... Karshe? Did you... just burn a cut of meat in the oven?” Tibault looked at his plate inquisitively.

“I cooked it.”

“This is cooked?” Bri asked, turning the charred black slab on her plate over with her fork.

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“Umm...”

The three were startled by Claire slamming her hands on the wooden table, causing all of the dishes to jump slightly with a clatter. “This... This is not cooking!” She stood up violently, knocking her chair over. “This is not cooking!” she repeated, louder than before. “I hesitate to even call this food! This is an abomination! An insult to every chef and livestock everywhere!”

Krarshe raised an eyebrow. He picked up the charred lump from Bri’s plate, looking over the hard object. “Seems fine to me.” He bit off a piece with a crunch, black char crumbling onto the table. He chewed it a bit and, to the horror of his friends and Claire, swallowed it. “Tastes fine too.”

Claire stared blankly at Krarshe for a minute, blinking repeatedly. She then picked up her chair, sat back down, and breathed deeply. She brushed her curly brown hair back out of her face and composed herself. “Krarshe,” she started calmly. “This is... unquestionably... the worst thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I regret beholding it for even a moment, as it will undoubtedly stain my eyes for the rest of my life. For this insult- No, for obliterating this poor cut of meat, I demand an apology. Apologize to every cow in existence, and swear upon your life, and the lives of your children’s children’s children, that you will NEVER step foot in a kitchen again. In fact, you should not be allowed within a shipspan of one, on penalty of the Hungerer’s annihilation. May Teva have mercy on your soul.”

The three students sat there staring at Claire, dumbfounded. “Umm... That seems to be a tad bit excessive,” Krarshe replied after a moment.

“No. It’s not,” Claire said flatly. Krarshe waited a minute, expecting her to continue, but she just sat there, her forehead resting gently against her steepled fingers, eyes closed, as though she was praying.

Krarshe looked at Tibault and Bri. They just looked back at him. Tibault quietly snuck Krarshe’s plates off the table and back into the kitchen. When the so-called food was gone from Claire’s view, Bri spoke up. “So, who won?”

Claire breathed deeply again before opening her eyes, cheerful once more. “Without question, you, my dear.” She smiled at Bri. “Your dish was truly marvelous.”

Bri didn’t even try to hide her smug grin. She looked at Tibault. “A fair competition,” she said, offering her hand mockingly.

Tibault rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. Okay, I take back what I said.” He stood up and shook Bri’s hand.

“What about me?” Krarshe asked.

“You, don’t talk,” Claire shot a look at him, a brief flash of her previous irritation surfacing again before disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. Clearly she was still upset by his cooking.

The door around the corner opened and shut. Krarshe could hear a man groan.

“Oh, Dear! Tibby brought some friends!” Claire said, hurrying to the front door.

“From the academy?” said the man as he stepped up into the hall and into view of the dining room. His hair was dark, a disheveled mess of waves. His clean-shaven face exposed its soft features. Paired with the gentleness of his tired eyes, every bit of him gave off a calm, kind feeling.

Bri stood up and ran out from behind the table. “I’m Bridgette Bulliere, a friend of Tibby’s,” she said hurriedly with a curtsy. Tibault glared at Bri, while his father gave a slight bow. “You can call me Bri.”

“A pleasure to meet one of House Bulliere, Miss Bri.” He turned to Krarshe. “And an elf? How rare.”

Krarshe followed Bri’s example and hurried to the other side of the table. “Krarshe, sir,” he said with a bow.

“Is it uncommon for elves to have family names?”

Krarshe hesitated before answering. “I’m just a commoner.”

“Ah, I see. I didn’t realize elves shared that in common with us.” He looked up for a second. “But wait. A commoner? At the academy?”

Maybe I should have claimed to be some noble from a far-off land... Krarshe sighed. “It’s a long story. I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

“Dear, don’t pester the poor boy.”

He laughed. “Fine, fine. A pleasure to meet both of you. I’m Bernard,” he said, bowing once again. “So, what’s all this?” he asked, gesturing to the dining room.

“We were competing. In cooking,” Tibault said.

“Well, two of us were...” Bri said, giving Krarshe a sideways glance.

Bernard took notice of Bri’s comment. “You didn’t participate?” he asked as he took off his coat. “I would have loved to try elvish cuisine.”

“No. You wouldn’t,” Claire said sharply.

Bernard froze, then looked at Tibault. Tibault put up his hands and shook his head. Bernard nodded nearly imperceptibly before changing subject. “So, what about my dinner?” he asked with a laugh.

“I’ll make you something, Dear.”

“Fantastic! Well then, if you two are okay staying for a bit, I’d love to get to know Tibault’s friends more.”

“Of course,” Bri said.

“Let’s take this to the parlor,” Bernard said, heading for the door next to the staircase. He murmured something that Krarshe couldn’t make out. A moment later, several candles ignited, bathing the hallway in a warm orange glow. “There we go. A bit too dark in here for my eyes.”

“I forgot you were a mage,” Krarshe said. “That startled me.”

Bernard laughed. “We both are, in fact,” he said, looking at Claire as she walked through the door to the kitchen. “Truthfully, it’s thanks to magic that we have this lifestyle. I earned this title on the battlefield.”

“You must be quite skilled.”

“More lucky than skilled,” he joked. He opened the door to the parlor and muttered the spell again, lighting the candles across the room. There were several ornate chairs and a couch encircling a beautifully carved table, the finish of which reflected the dozen or so candles in the room. “Come, sit.” He gestured to the gathering of furniture as he sat down in one of the chairs.

Krarshe hurried toward the couch, having never sat in such a lavish seat. The seat sank comfortably as he sat, cradling his body. “Oh... This is nice.”

Bri sat in the chair adjacent to the couch. “What? The couch?”

Krarshe nodded. “I’ve never sat on anything but hard wooden chairs. This is luxurious...” he said, letting his head roll back as he closed his eyes, immersing himself in the soft, cushy sensation of the couch.

“I hope you don’t mean like the ones at the academy,” Tibault said, taking a seat next to Krarshe on the couch.

“Sometimes worse,” Krarshe said, looking at Tibault without lifting his head. Tibault grimaced.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Bernard said. “Now, I have so many questions. I’ve never had the opportunity to speak with an elf, if you don’t mind indulging my curiosity.”

Krarshe’s gaze shifted to the ceiling. This could be an issue... Krarshe lifted his head up. “Well, I don’t mind answering. But I’m much more curious about you.”

“Me?”

“I, as well,” Bri said. “Since you mentioned it, I’m curious about how you earned your title. And about life as a full-fledged mage.”

Bernard smiled. “I’d be happy to tell you. So, it all began ten years ago...” He leaned in and began to recite his tale. Bri and Krarshe listened attentively as he wove the tale, undoubtedly embellishing it as he went. While Krarshe wasn’t certain of its authenticity, it didn’t matter. He was glad to keep the focus off himself, and thanked whatever deity it was that urged Bri to distract Tibault’s father.

Krarshe sat at the dining room table, playing with his spoon, putting pressure on the tip to lift the handle and spinning it around in a circle. Luckily, Bri and Bernard had continued talking about magic for hours, thus freeing Krarshe from needing to fabricate any stories about his homeland. Tibault and Claire had helped Krarshe find a suitable outfit in Tibault’s brother’s closet for the gala. It fit shockingly well, but took forever to put on. Krarshe already knew he’d probably put it on wrong the day of the gala, and had resigned himself to asking Tibault to fix it. When they had returned to the parlor, Bernard told them to stay for dinner, to which they agreed. Krarshe was eager to see what Claire could do, after her critiques earlier.

Claire burst through the doors to the kitchen, carrying two plates, which she placed before Bri and Krarshe. Astrid skillfully carried the remaining three plates, which she put before Tibault and his family. “Thank you, Astrid,” Claire said. “Now, eat up and tell me what you think.”

“Looks beautiful as always, just like you,” Bernard said.

“Oh, you.” Claire kissed her husband before sitting down in her seat.

Krarshe wasn’t sure what he was looking at. The white sauce coated the meat entirely, hiding its color and texture. A light sprinkling of herbs covered the meat and vegetables. It smelled delicious. He spooned a bit of the sauce and saw it was slightly stringy as he pulled it.

“Oh, mmm! This is incredible! What is it?” Bri asked. She kept her polite posture, unlike Tibault who was already shoveling mouthfuls of food into his mouth like his father.

“The sauce uses cheese and milk as the base,” Claire explained. “I’d be happy to show you how to do it some time. You need to be careful not to burn it.”

“Absolutely!”

Krarshe stirred it briefly before finally tasting it. His eyes lit up. It was exactly as Bri had said, delicious. He cut into the meat and ate it also. He recognized the unmistakable texture of chicken as he bit into it, the creamy sauce mixing with the taste exquisitely. The bliss was immeasurable. Truthfully, this cheese sauce would probably pair well with just about anything. The vegetables were the same, the divine taste of the cheese was a perfect match.

“Better than your cooking?” Claire asked, looking straight at Krarshe.

“Definitely,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of food. “I never said I was a good cook.”

“I don’t know if that constitutes cooking,” Bri joked.

“Let’s leave that where it belongs, lost unknown to the ages,” Claire said, returning to her food.

The five of them ate in silence, enjoying the food. The quiet meal was quite the departure from Krarshe’s usual dinners at the Easy Lute, full of music and the clamor of patrons. It was relaxing.

“Where do you two live, if you don’t mind my asking,” Bernard said as he wiped his mouth off on his napkin. His eyes darted to the wide window facing the street. Krarshe turned to see that it was getting dark and the street lamps were being lit.

“I live on the other side of Castle Ward, just a bit from the city walls,” Bri said.

“I’m staying in Feyfaire.”

“Feyfaire?!” Tibault’s parents said in unison.

Krarshe nodded. “Was cheaper than Castle Ward.”

“That’s really far. Do you need an escort?”

“I’ve walked there later than this. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Bernard pressed.

Krarshe nodded.

Bernard turned to Bri. “I know it’s not that far, but what about you, Miss Bulliere? I’d feel terrible if something happened to you. Especially with the ruckus this afternoon.”

“In White Stone?” Bri asked.

“You saw it?”

“On our way here. We had to walk around it.”

“Oh my. Was something happening?” Claire asked.

“Do you know what it was, Dad?”

“Sounds like the king of Talyra was here with his escort,” Bernard explained. He took a sip from his glass and set it down gently. “I don’t know if that’s true, but it makes me nervous if it is.”

“Teva’s protection...” Claire muttered quietly.

“After that recent battle near Varenne Grove, I fear Her Majesty, the Queen, may be offering up her surrender,” he said somberly.

“I can’t imagine that being true,” Bri said.

Bernard shook his head. “We suffered quite a number of casualties.” He paused for a moment. “But so did they... Hmm...” His view grew distant, his mind clearly turning ideas and possibilities over again and again. “Hmm. Maybe you’re right. I don’t think she’d surrender so easily, not with the company of troops returning from Aebrodora.”

“I trust she knows what she’s doing,” Tibault chimed in. “She’s led well.”

Bernard looked at his son, then smiled. “I agree, though I know not all think such.” He stretched with a great sigh. “So, are you sure you don’t want an escort? Neither of you?”

“I’ll see her home,” Krarshe volunteered. “If it’ll allay your fears.”

Bri nodded. “If anyone here could protect me, it’d be Ka- Krarshe. Though I’d fear for the city if it came to that...”

Tibault’s parents gave a confused look. “Karshe’s magic is... something else,” Tibault explained.

“Oh. Yes, elves. I guess that makes sense,” Claire said, nodding.

“I’ll entrust my honor with you then, Krarshe,” Bernard said. “Ensure my honored guests make it home safely, yourself included.”

Krarshe gave a slight bow and smile.

The rest of the dinner passed by quickly, as they made small talk. Claire had offered them tea, but Krarshe and Bri declined. As they got ready to leave, the servant Astrid offered Krarshe a cloth satchel containing the formal attire for the gala. After the delicious dinner and pleasant company, he had almost forgotten it was the reason for coming here. He thanked her and he and Bri said their goodbyes, then set out into the night.

“That was delicious,” Krarshe said to Bri as they walked down the street, now completely dark aside from the street lamps. There was no moon or stars to be seen, indicating oncoming rain.

“His mother is quite the chef. I’d say she is probably better than my family’s cooks.”

“Cooks?” Krarshe asked, emphasizing the ‘s’.

“... Yes.”

“Wow, your family must be really rich.”

Bri shrugged. “They’ve been advising Her Majesty’s family since the empire collapsed.” Bri started to rub her shoulders and shivered. “It really is cold out here. I should have brought a cloak or something.”

“I suppose so. It’s already mid-Harvest.”

“You suppose?”

“I guess the cold doesn’t bother me as much. Maybe a bit uncomfortable, but not much else.”

“You’re so strange. Aren’t elves supposed to have weaker constitutions than most?”

“I don’t know.”

Bri stopped and stared at Krarshe.

“What?” he asked.

Bri just shook her head and groaned. “I just don’t understand you.” She started walking again, more quickly than before. Krarshe couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or just cold, but he did his best to keep pace with her.

As they passed through White Stone Plaza, Krarshe could see some people still mulling about. The chatter seemed to be lingering conversations about this afternoon. “They were nice,” Krarshe said, thinking back on their dinner.

“Hmm?”

“Tibault’s parents.”

“Oh. Yeah. Really nice.” Bri’s pace slowed, eventually coming to a stop. “I’m a bit envious, honestly.”

“Aren’t you high nobility?”

Bri shook her head. “We are, but that doesn’t matter. I’d trade a title for a family like that without a second thought.”

“It’s unwise to wish without careful consideration.”

“I have considered. I have considered it plenty.” She looked straight at Krarshe, her dark brown eyes glistened with the light of the street lamps. “I still wouldn’t hesitate, even for a moment.”

Bri held Krarshe’s gaze for several moments before Krarshe turned and started walking. “Okay, okay, I get it. I don’t question your decision. But are they really that bad?”

“It’s this way.”

Krarshe turned to look at Bri, pointing down a street Krarshe had walked past. “Uhh... Right.”

Bri laughed and continued in step with Krarshe. They continued down the maze of streets, in a part of the city Krarshe had never been to before. There were fewer and fewer houses, and each became larger and larger. There were even ones with grassy yards and trees within their stone walls. Krarshe never knew there to be such extravagant houses in this city.

They eventually came to a large gate, flanked by armored guards on either side. At her approach, the guards stood at attention. “Welcome home, mistress!” they said in unison. Bri gave a dismissive wave as they hurried to open the gate.

As the gates opened, Bri turned back to Krarshe. “You’ll see and understand my certainty at the gala.” She gave him a smile, tinged with sadness. “Thanks for escorting me. I’ll see you at the gala,” she said, with a small bow. She turned toward the gate without meeting his eyes again and walked through.

“Bye,” Krarshe said softly with an unseen wave, watching her walk as the gates slowly closed once more, with a loud clang and a click of the lock.