The next few months are a whirlwind.

  I send a letter to Weekes in Port Nakanai. He contacts every agent and booker he can get his paws on, working deals and inviting them to the world’s most ambitious music festival. The interest comes pouring in. He sends me a lineup to put the Byrian Isles on the map for years to come. Karla becomes my constant companion, numbering her rows and columns as we parse out what we can afford. We can afford a lot, and we inject the vault’s stockpile into Drowning Man.

  The Isles are home to half a million people, and we can host half a million more. We’ve swaths of land cleared by logging, meaning plenty of space to pitch a tent. Erson wrangles raiders to tear up stumps and build new lodgings and taverns. They like the chance to grunt and hit things. A few teams refurbish the arenas and install movable, stowable stages. I spend days tinkering with the magical amplification in each pit, adjusting them for music rather than dying screams. We build more stages outside the arenas for lesser-known artists, along with rows of stalls and shops. We widen and fix up the roads for more significant travel. We knock down the slave pens, setting up community kitchens and hostels. I say a fond good riddance.

  I send a letter to Lespira at the College in Carthesia. She’s finished her program and is teaching at the ripe age of twenty, now married to her beau, Maesys. For enough gold to fill a pisspot, her wizards create linked teleportation circles on all three islands, offering continuous travel to the different stages. We’ve got hundreds of ships, too, to move people around. I meet with representatives from Varona who’re happy to hear that half a million people will be looking for ferrying. We pay them another pisspot of gold so they won't gouge prices.

  I meet with Norbert and the gnome artificers maintaining my sky skiff. Lucy finds a couple ornarock engines in Byra, and they build a new sky skiff to demonstrate during the festival. He’s thrilled at the prospect of selling new orders, working with Lucy to find a more reliable engine distributor. Not only can we sell longships, but we can sell sky skiffs to the rich Byrians who ingurgitate our premium weekend packages.

  I put my team to work, too. Genk picks the biggest, scariest raiders to oversee security. They won’t restrict people from drinking or imbibing, as long as they’re not causing trouble. Never underestimate Byrians’ ambition for getting fucked up. After all, we’re dropping them on a few islands with nothing to do but party and buy things. He contacts his cousin Gertrid and her halfling husband, Jerry, to set up a tavern for the weekend. Genk says he and Jerry were having a thing long before Gertrid came into the picture - in fact, he introduced them. How Jerry's still walking, I'm not sure. But I pay Jerry and Gertrid another lovely visit, and they offer me more breakfast than I can stand.

  Lucy rockets home on her ship to put her household to work. She drums up hype and sends me a senior marketer for the Running of the Moon, a zippy fairy with a massive propensity for coffee. Lucy calls in favors to set up catering and alcohol, adding Byrian wine to the Vasterholmian ale. Finally, shespreads word to the artists, crafters, musicians, and aspiring bards around Byra that they can set up a stall or perform for a few coppers’ registration fee. We get bent over the desk with offers. It's hard not accepting all of them.

  Deach vanishes except for the few evenings a week when we eat together in my quarters. He prefers being in his half-orc form, but only in private – like changing into something comfortable at the end of the day. He keeps an eye on the Guild, learning everything he can. Through his impressive and abstruse information network, he watches their reaction. They’re certainly paying attention, he says, especially when the announcement and posters go out in earnest. He becomes more pleasant, and we don’t butt heads as much. But I still catch him looking at me oddly sometimes.

  In his own way, Sven contributes, too. He’s constantly within five feet of me. It reminds me of Arriel, and not in a bad way. It's comforting. I suspect in his off time, he chats with the raiders, winning them over. I feel change in the air. Rather than people looking fearful or hopeless when I walk around the settlement, they wave or want to chat.

  That’s not to say it’s easy. Having purpose helps, but it's the longest I've been here since I left in a spectacular fashion. I claw through each day trying not to drink, but I keep doing it. I go for a week without, thinking I’ve gotten myself back together, then thrash awake at the thought of a black, spiky shape lurking from the washroom. Seeing the slave pens gone helps, but my stomach churns every time I ask the kitchens for food or a bath from Ingrid. I feel the lash of fetching my own water or taking care of my dishes. I even catch myself doing it. When I’m asked to perform in the long hall, it sends me shaking to say no.

  It’s finally a week out from Drowning Man, and I finish dinner with the team. We’re at the high table, Erson at a floor table with everyone else. He’s hesitant about Drowning Man, but doesn’t have a choice. That’s what he gets for wanting to keep his job. I’ve opened the hall to everyone, not just the raiders and jarls. It’s first-come, first-served, and the kitchens hand out leftovers the next morning. For and Reesh are following suit. Karla used her magic to broaden the cellars and cold boxes so we can store more for the winter. I knew she was a good addition.

  The fires roar, and voices burble into the rafters. It’s droned in the background of my thoughts for too many hours. Genk leans over, his chair creaking in agony. His bassy voice rumbles. “You look tense, boss. I can work that out.”

  He’s not wrong. I’m exhausted. I’ve been chasing a dozen different threads every day for the last few months. Trying not to drink is draining. Failing is even worse. I haven’t gotten the sleep I need. And I’ve still gotta take down the Guild.

  And I'll take anything to get out of this hall.

  “That sounds exquisite,” I say. I glance him over. His hulking black cleavage dives into his straining shirt.

  I stuff down my last few bites of cod and stand, grabbing my mandolin from the back of my chair. Deach watches us go. Once we’re out of sight, Genk scoops me in his titanic arms. Soon, I’m shirtless and face-down in bed, the sounds of dinner shut behind the door. An illusion drifts over the room, playing airy, droning, calming music like a nuzzling orchestra.

  The bed groans when he joins me in it, kneeling with corded legs on either side of my hips. He works oil deeply into my back.

  “You don’t talk about yourself much,” he says.

  “I talk quite a bit. Statistically, it works out,” I grunt. I spasm when he inserts his thumb in my shoulder. It releases. I melt. His thighs shift, hugging me closer.

  “Hmm,” he grunts. “Where’s Seven Oaks?”

  “Northwestern Rheda,” I say. “Mercifully far enough from the swamps. We occasionally got hydras wandering our way. It’s the little ones you’ve gotta worry about. I lost a nephew to one, that’s why I don’t mention it.”

  “I understand,” he rumbles. “But I’ve been part of a team before, and it’s important to trust each other. We need you in top shape.”

  “No issues there,” I moan. He works my neck, then pushes me into the bed. Everything aligns with a crackle up my spine. “What about you? Where’d you come from?”

  “Takazaki,” he says. “The family’s still there, but I only talk to Gert. With the Guild gone, she won’t have to worry about the tavern. That’s reason enough for me.”

  “Plenty of good stories start in taverns. It’s a noble profession.” His hands work lower, loosening things up just above my ass. I groan. “You’re fantastic at this.”

  “I was an athlete before I was an adventurer,” he coaches. “Keep breathing. You can’t loosen up if you don’t relax.”

  My blood’s running hot. The gentle dominance of his instruction is getting to me. “What am I loosening up for?”

  He gives a snort. It’s a laugh, I’m starting to realize. “This, if you want it.”

  His hands go away, and then another leg touches me. “Gods above,” I whisper.

  I lay my illusion over the room like a fa?ade, creating a modest Horonese tavern room. An hour later, I’m a gaping mess, whimpering and hoping my organs are still in the right place while he lounges naked, massaging my thighs. My illusion fades. If only I could see Irminric’s face at me being absolutely perforated by a minotaur on his bed.

  “Was that too much?” Genk asks.

  “It was close,” I say, wiping away sweat. “But thanks for asking.”

  He nods. “I like when people tell me.”

  “You know, I see that and appreciate it. I’m lucky having a friend like you.”

  He smiles and props against a yellow, sun-shaped plushie. His steel horn caps are matted with handprints. “You’re too kind.”

  “And so are you, Genk the Destroyer.”

  We chat and play a little longer. Finally, he dresses and stoops out with a goodnight. It's best he doesn't stay with me. Gods know what my dreams will bring tonight. I snap my fingers, and the lights go out. It’s dark, and only the droning churn of the black ocean drifts through the windows. I seek out my flask and let it pull me to sleep, dulling the oppressive buzzing in my head.

  Just under half a million people arrive for Drowning Man.

  The ferries run continuously, transporting people from Varona. Ships fill our ports. Tents sprawl across all three islands. The settlements bustle with people shopping and eating. The weather is perfect – no rain in sight. And there’s art and music everywhere. The air buzzes with excited voices, laughing, and dancing. Buskers occupy any available corner or stage. It's paradise for people like me.

  I spend the morning with Karla now that her part’s done. I help her get in with a weekend companion and her friends – a short half-angel with rainbow hair and a nose ring, skin painted in bright colors. They eagerly accept Karla. Lucy’s returned, too, and I meet her godly high-elf husband Dain – long, jet-black hair and green eyes with a nose and jawline I’d crawl and bark for. He pulls me aside for a private chat about Lucy. Then, they part ways to tour the new sky skiff. What I’d give to be between the two of them.

  By mid-morning, I survey, walking a line of tents toward the Pit. Sven lingers. I’ve got my chain jacket, weapons, and mandolin just in case. I’ve got appearances to keep up, after all. I’ve watched as many performers as I can afford, and even joined a couple who were elated to have me. Still, I get attention everywhere I go.

  A dark elf apparates from the crowd, with deep violet skin, yellow-amber eyes, and short, coiffed white hair. He’s wearing a dapper wool coat with a patterned brocade waistcoat underneath.

  A chime dings in my head.

  “Hey,” Deach says. Sven steps forward, putting a hand on his sword. I gesture him back.

  “Any problems?” I ask. People bustle past us in various states of undress and inebriation. I take a sip from my flask and slip it away. It’s almost sacrilegious not to drink this weekend.

  “Nothing big,” Deach says. “There was a gnome with a shawm bothering people about drugs, but Genk’s people took care of him.”

  I hardly hear him. Past his shoulder, a group of fey elves is carousing in a glade between tents. Or maybe less carousing and more of the languid activities I briefly saw them doing in a bathhouse in Takazaki. One of them waves.

  “Chouncey!”

  I tear myself away and turn. I’ve heard that a dozen times today, and it’s not even noon. But I know that voice. My chest splits.

  It’s Arriel.

  I move Sven aside. She’s wearing a handsome Carthesian-style tunic and breeches with her amulet around her neck. Her tawny blonde hair is loose about her angelic face, warm blue eyes smiling. The sight of her blurs.

  I never knew I could dread seeing her again. But at the same time, I’m bursting at the seams.

  She meets me in the middle. I scoop her up, spinning and holding her tight. People scatter. She hugs me back, as sturdy as ever. Verbena oil washes over me. My throat clenches. Suddenly, the weight of my half-full flask in my chest pocket is too heavy.

  I set her down and kiss her.

  She hesitates, but then her lips respond. It’s the golden light of the heavenly plane.

  She pulls away, her cheeks pink. She glances around and straightens herself. I brush some of her hair back. It’s silken. “The stunning Lady Arriel,” I murmur. I smile. “I thought my weekend couldn’t get any better.”

  Her cheeks fold, and it’s a glimpse of warm sunlight after a dark storm. “A certain divine friend of ours suggested that I check on you.”

  My stomach falters. “You look just as beautiful as the last I saw you.”

  “You look good, too,” she says, looking me over. “More robust. I’m glad.”

  The words stick in my throat. I already know the answer. “Did you bring Cheeks?”

  Her smile tilts. “No. He said Rose is due any day now. But he misses you and says you’re welcome anytime.”

  I nod. I turn and gesture, putting an arm around her waist. “Well, this is Sven Odegaard, my very best and devoted bodyguard, and Deach, a friend of mine. Gentlemen, might I introduce Lady Arriel Ronchellard, my lovely wife.”

  Deach’s brows slant. Her smile becomes a poorly hidden grimace. She removes my arm.

  “I owe her my life a few times over,” I say. I turn back to her. “Actually – is it Saint Arriel, now?”

  Deach’s brows drift even higher. She goes red. “It’s not really… please don’t call me that.”

  “What a spectacular honor, having the Dawn Lord’s very own saint among us,” I say louder. People turn. I sleight a finger and she glows. “You’ve truly blessed us with your presence, Your Eminence.”

  “I’m going to hit you,” she hisses through her teeth. I can’t help smiling.

  “Well,” I say, memorizing her face like I’ll have to live off it. Gods, she’s beautiful. “Shall we catch up?”

  She tries brushing off the illusory glow. It stays. “I’d like that.”

  I take her to the long hall, Deach vanishing along the way. Sven patrols while Arriel and I sit at a long table. It’s mostly empty, everyone having ventured outside for the festivities. We’ve got a couple hours until lunch is served. I pour two cups of coffee. She blinks and stares at my pink mug when I set it down.

  “How long are you staying?” I ask. The last time we were in the long hall together, I challenged Irminric to the Pit. It was a lifetime ago.

  “Not very long,” she says. “I’m sorry. I need to return to Bri. The fight against Orinthius was… tough. We’re still pulling ourselves back together. And we’ve been doing nothing but focusing on that for so long, it’s nice to just… be together.”

  I’m assuming the fact she’s here and the world’s not ended in a horrific spew of nightmares means they were successful. I don’t ask how many of her friends are still around. “Well, you could’ve brought her with you.”

  She smiles hesitantly, tracing the handle of her mug. “Maybe next year. She’s actually, um… pregnant.”

  The words don’t fit together in my head for a moment. Then I laugh. “That’s marvelous news. I’m happy for you – although, if you were looking for donors, you could’ve asked.”

  Her face reddens. “We didn’t need one.”

  My brows go up. “Your own handiwork, then? You’re passing with flying colors.”

  “I don’t have a penis.”

  “I’m really not sure what other options that leaves.”

  She rolls her eyes. She licks a spill from the rim of her coffee mug. “Iros gave us a boon. For a long time, she was pressured to marry into another noble house. But she didn’t want to do that with a man she doesn’t love. So, we have a child on the way who's a little of both of us. They’ll be… unique.”

  Is that even possible? She is Iros’ special chosen cleric, after all. My chest wilts. And yet, I smile. “What a stunning work they're gonna be, blessed with even half of you.”

  “Flatterer,” she throws back with a coy smile. Then, it falters. “When we talked about us… sleeping together, that’s off the table. I’m sorry. Bri needs me. The pregnancy is easy. Maybe too easy. But she doesn’t like it, and she’s worried. I need to focus on my family.”

  I should’ve seen it coming. But I ache at the thought of what this weekend could be if she didn't have to go. Somehow, I feel as empty as ever, even with her sitting here. I should pretend I've got things to take care of. “I understand.”

  “What about you? How have you been?”

  “I'm feeling resplendent these days,” I say, giving my best smile. “My dear friend Ricky’s fish food. I found as many slaves as I could and got them coin and aid. I’m making something of this place. Mostly, I’ve been busy with all this.” I gesture outside with my mug.

  “You’re doing amazing work,” she says. “I’ve heard about you in the churches, even in Carthesia. For better or worse, I should say.”

  Gods know what came out of Sunai after my short vacation there.

  “Who was your dark elf friend?” she asks. “The one I met outside.”

  “Deach. He’s actually a shapeshifter. Why?”

  She shrugs. “You hesitated when you said you were friends. I was wondering if it’s something more.”

  I laugh. It’s something less. “I hesitated because we’re friends like a circle's a square. He makes it as easy to fit one in the other."

  She gives a knowing smile. “I’m sure that goes both ways. But he seemed enamored with you.”

  Has she ever been wrong about something like that? Maybe she’s being facetious. We’ve really gotta work on her delivery.

  “Believe me, I’m half tempted to put him back where I got him.” I pause. “Anyway, I thought about writing to you, but it kept slipping away.”

  “And I’ve been meaning to send you a message. I’m sorry. I can teach you how to do that while I’m here, if you’d like.”

  She means that spell she sent me after I splatted myself against her wards and woke up in the Low. “That’d be greatly appreciated.”

  She’s quiet for a long moment, looking at me. I already know what she’s gonna say. “You’re drinking again.”

  It guts me. I open my mouth. Words fall out. “I'm absolutely not.”

  She takes my hand and squeezes it. “It’s okay,” she says gently.

  Something breaks deep inside. A ripple stirs across the surface of the calm pool. I need to go. Words bunch in my throat to tell her to fuck off. But somehow, I need whatever she’s about to say. My chest wells. “I’m here. It’s always gonna be here.”

  “Maybe it won’t. But I still believe in you,” she says. “Don’t forget that. You said you would try. That’s enough for me.”

  I shake my head. “Trying only got me three months.”

  She squeezes my hand again. “Three months is amazing. We both remember where you were. This is nothing like that. I’m proud of you.”

  I shatter. There’s been nothing but darkness, day after day, since I got here - since I left Carthesia. I’ve missed her and Weekes so fucking much. It’s awful feeling lonely when I’ve got a whole team of people invested in the same goal. But none of them know me like she does. And maybe I’m finally seeing a glimmer of light again in the distance. It’ll be gone when she leaves.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Another tremor ripples across the pool. Tears thrash to my throat. I can’t stop them. I bury my face in my hands. She slides around the table. Arms wrap around me. “I’ve prayed for you every morning. Here,” she says. She digs in a too-small purse and pulls out a small wood statuette the length of my forearm. It’s a robed figure with a sun sigil etched on its chest. “I should’ve given you this before you left. But I’ve had the feeling that you could use one.”

  Warmth like a sun ray washes over me. Maybe it’s Iros. Or maybe it’s the comfort of her touch. Or maybe it’s one and the same.

  That afternoon, Arriel leaves. She could take me with her when she casts her spell, and it’s like grabbing a thorn. We say goodbye and hug one last time, long and hard. I put myself back together in my quarters. I set the statuette on a table in the corner, as instructed. I’m not sure why she gave it to me. I’m not a follower of Iros. I’ve never prayed to him in earnest, and I’m not gonna start. We’ve just got an arrangement. But maybe the gesture is comfort enough. It reminds me of her.

  I return to the festival, Sven following. Multicolored banners and streamers drift in the breeze, hanging from branches and poles. I stumble upon Lucy at a tavern. She’s sitting outside saying her husband’s coming back with drinks. I stay for another hint of what it'd be like for him to put a baby in me. We chat for a bit, and Deach manifests. He’s a fey elf with long, wavy, mossy hair and beard, wearing a breezy, Byrian, thigh-length dress of pale yellow. It’s cute. I think he’s collecting ideas and making up for lost time, being in petrification. I think he’s also making himself slightly taller than me. Arriel’s words stick in my head. Deach and I agreed to be friendly, but we still can’t go five minutes without an insult flying. He's not even good at it. Why would she think he likes me?

  I spot Genk a half mile off, head and shoulders above the crowd. They eagerly part. He’s wearing his harness and a straining pair of pants, seamed off at his backward knees. His maul’s slung across his back, too. “Boss, we got a problem.”

  Considering we’ve made it this far without one, I’m impressed. “What is it?”

  He tosses his head toward the tavern. “Some bard is causing trouble inside. He’s throwing your name around.”

  He’s giving me a chance before he chucks this loon into the sea, is what he means. I glance at the tavern. “Alright, I’ll give it a look.” I turn back. Lucy, Genk, and Deach are lined up, empty space between them. I point at Genk and Deach. They step forward. “You two, let’s go. Lucy, get Odegaard a drink.”

  “I should go with you,” Sven says.

  I gesture at Genk. “Genk will just tear his arms off.”

  Genk snorts hotly on the back of my neck. My cock twitches.

  Genk and Deach follow me inside. I pause when I realize who’s standing at the bar. His dark hair is pulled back in a small knot, patchily shaved on either side. A cheap lute – missing a couple strings – is slung across his back, and a Vasterholmian shortsword is belted on his waist, the leather barely broken in. He’s wearing gray padded armor, knitted to look like chainmail.

  “Look, I know you want to help me. But I can’t guarantee what’s going to happen if I have to use one of those cast-iron pans over there.”

  The barkeep turns to me. She’s a middle-aged dark elf with deep sapphire skin. “Are you the Warchief? Can you take care of this guy before I magic-barrage his ass?”

  Scur whirls. “Chouncey! Hells below. It’s me – Scur. We met in Sunai.”

  “Sure,” I say, crossing my arms. Scur Cox – I’ve not forgotten that name. “You wanted to be a bard. It looks like you got yourself there.”

  “It turns out it’s easy when you’re talented. I’ve been helping people with their problems. I was inspired by you – in fact, I was talking with a shipwright about how you sank The Black Tide while fighting Irminric one-on-one. And then you died.”

  I feel both Genk and Deach look at me. “Who in the frigid fucking hells told you that?”

  Scur gestures with a thumb. “I met a rabbitfolk in Port Nakanai who told me all about you.”

  I’ll be sending a message to Weekes later.

  “What’re you doing here, Scurvy?”

  “I’m on the trail of some Guild assassins. Or maybe spies. I’m not sure why they’re here.” Deach perks, leaning in. Scur continues. “But I heard them talk about you and a bounty. I couldn’t let them take you when the show must go on, as we say in the biz.”

  I’m headlining tomorrow night, so they only had to stumble face-first into a poster. At least the Guild’s paying attention.

  “Thanks. We’ll take over.” Deach says, turning to Genk and me. It’s hard taking Deach seriously in a sundress. “They’ve probably been tailing us. Let’s split up. You and Genk head out, and I’ll follow. Head toward the Pit and then circle back to the long hall. But come back this way and stop at the table outside like you’re looking for Lucy. The chances are slim they’ll come back here if they’re not following us –”

  I glance at the corner of the tavern. A hooded human is sitting there, doing a bad job of drinking an ale. There’s a dagger on the table next to him. He’s skimming a notebook with a Guild sigil stamped in the corner of each page. There’s a sketch of my face. He glances at me, and his eyes go wide.

  “Are you sure it’s not him?” I nod. The hooded figure scrabbles for his dagger. I snap out my pick and bring my mandolin around, strumming. I latch a metaphorical hand on the second ley line. What was the one Arriel used on Irminric? I sing:

  If you’ve got a moment to spare

  I’ve got myself a would-be killer

  Fuck it, this line can just be filler

  Light Daddy, stop that sumph over there

  I point. A pink flash pulses. He freezes in place, mid-reach. Magic crackles along his form. Genk’s gravity maul turns him into paste on the wall. The building shudders.

  “Well,” I say, ignoring the dripping sound. “That’s taken care of.”

  Deach frowns at me, somehow still a radiant beam of sunshine in his dress. “I hate you.”

  "I hate you, too, you sunflowered wanker."

  He flips a middle finger at me. I do it back.

  “Wow,” Scur breathes. “That was amazing.”

  Genk returns, wiping his maul with a paper napkin. The dark elf behind the bar grumbles and starts filling a bucket. Deach is already rifling through the assassin’s gore-flecked notebook. I clap a hand on Scur’s shoulder. “You’ve done a lovely job here.”

  He brightens. “I’m honored. Hey, would you like to meet my band?

  “You’ve got a band?”

  “Yeah. Aren’t bards supposed to have them? We’re playing on the For stage later. We’re called the Scurvy Seas.”

  I’ve got a faint recollection of seeing that name on the list. He brings me outside to a table.

  It’s full of catfolk.

  They’re all bards, or at least musicians. I spot a small drum, a flute, a harp, and another lute. He’s got a whole fucking band. They’re eating candied fish and passing around an enormous joint, red-eyed.

  He points to them. “This is Alistar, Jeffries, Monica, and Naru. Friends, this is Chouncey. He’s the Warchief, and the reason I’m here. Do you want some?” He hands me their toiling joint.

  “That's generous, but I’ll pass. That shit rots your brain.” I take a swig from my flask.

  Scur shrugs and draws a long puff. The one time I tried it, it sent me screeching in panic, teleporting into the foothills of the Bellenstein Dynasty, colliding with an unlucky family of dire badgers. And that’s saying nothing of the time a druid outside Galran gave me mushrooms enough to kill a horse.

  We sit and chat, Lucy and Dain joining us. The Scurvy Seas are from all over the world, and somehow, Scur's their leader. He’s definitely fucking Monica, or maybe all of them. He’s wearing one of those fluffy tails a dwarf is selling a few stalls down. When Deach gives it a subtle tug, I get the sense it's not attached to his belt.

  Scur finally turns to me, eyes pleading. “Would you do a song with us?”

  I pause. One wouldn’t be terrible. I owe him for not letting that assassin get the spring on Sven and me. And it’s been a long time since I’ve played with a band. “Alright.”

  The Scurvy Seas does a laudable job. We spend an hour getting the feel of each other and throwing something together. They’ve got a complex, groovy sound, and a mandolin brings it together beautifully. Normally, both Scur and Monica sing, their voices twining together, but she lets me and Scur duel for a twenty-minute number. Word gets out that I’m joining them, and it quickly becomes their biggest show yet. The air’s thick with smoke.

  Afterward, they invite me to revel with them and their satyr booker, but I rip myself away and return through the teleport circle to Jor. Maybe seeing Arriel again gave me new will toward quitting. I finally spot Karla with her half-angel friend, who apparently has a belly-button piercing, too. Karla’s doing shots from it. I run into other familiar faces. Lanese from Carthesia brought her friends, and they ask about Weekes and Rose and coo over their imminent babies. The elf, Auriane, is six months pregnant, too. They invite me to their tent for a drink, but I tell them I’m not available this weekend, overseeing things instead. It guts me. To great disappointment, I get hugs and kisses and continue on.

  The sun creeps toward the ocean horizon. The party’s starting up proper now – the headliners are setting up on all three islands. I check the list. Carthesian Cleric Revival is starting soon on Jor. On For, it’s a group of birdfolk from northern Talnir called Aarasmith, kobolds calling themselves Blue Oyster Clan from Ammon, and, of course, Led Skyship. And on Reesh, we snagged Simulacrum and Garfunkel and the trio called Reesh. They’re normally called Rash, but they’ve been doing a bit as their own tribute band. They explicitly asked for that stage.

  It’s overwhelming. I can’t see them all. My feet ache. It’s been an exhausting day, and I’ve still got tomorrow. I plod to my quarters, bothering the kitchens for dinner. They deliver some dense bread and butter, roasted cod, and yams. I pack it down, starving. I pull out my flask and look at it. It’s just under half empty. Gritting my teeth, I pour it into the bottle and tuck it away in the kitchens. After a bath, I plop on the couch. I feel bad for keeping Sven from his evening, but he reassures me he’s got a much more critical job.

  I breathe, rubbing my face. I can’t go out there. I’ll not come back, and three months is the most I’ll ever make it. I fill my pink mug with water and snap my fingers. It looks and tastes like milky coffee straight from a lush Carthesian bistro, steaming hot. And I hum to myself and watch the lavender sunset ease down.

  A knock comes from the door. I whistle, and it barges open. I feel the chime before I turn to see it’s Deach.

  I pause.

  He’s a profoundly fuckable half-elf. His chestnut hair is back in a loose bun, and he’s got bright teal eyes with tanned skin. It's all accented by full lips and a perfect nose, a clean-shaven jawline to cut glass, and slender, tapered ears. He’s wearing a tight shirt, slim-fitting pants, and glossy leather shoes.

  I peer at him. All of his forms have been beautiful in a dozen different ways. But this time, Arriel's words trickle into my head. Has he been fishing for what I'm into?

  “Hey,” he says, stepping inside and closing the door. His voice is a throaty tenor. “I was looking for you. I thought you’d be out there.”

  “What do you need?”

  He shrugs, clasping his hands together. His fingernails are painted black. “I, um… did something I think you’ll like. If you’re up for it.”

  “Did you kill someone?”

  “What? No. I mean… no.”

  I take another drink. “What’s this thing then?”

  He gestures outside. Drifting through the windows, airy and arousing over the droning waves, is the sound of Carthesian Cleric Revival playing at the Pit to raucous cheers. They’re bouncing through “Bad Moon Falling,” their biggest hit. “You put this thing on. Aren’t you going to enjoy it?”

  My stomach clenches. He’s right. This is a dream – nothing but music and festivities as far as the Isles stretch and beyond. For the first time, it’s not the sound of people dying in the Pit, but people living. A hundred different lies spring to mind. But I can’t put my heart behind any of them right now. “If I go out there, I’m gonna start drinking again.”

  He pauses, scratching his neck. “What if you had accountability?”

  It might help. I can only think of talking with Arriel earlier. I wish she were here.

  “Come on,” he continues. He tosses his head toward the door. “Back Stabbath is next, and I haven’t seen them in years. They’re my favorite.”

  They’re a group of rogues, and it's no wonder he likes them. And I’ve never seen him so eager to spend time with me. I pause. Could Arriel be right? I glance him over, lingering on the cut of his shoulders. He’s got impeccable style.

  I stand and gather my things, following.

  We hustle to the Pit. Deach leads me not through the general entrance, but up familiar, guarded stairs. We emerge on the Warlord’s platform jutting over the seats.

  The crowd is staggering. I’ve seen this place full of people plenty of times. But people are also packed on the floor to the edge of the stage, heaving and churning like waves. The sound is deafening. Workers are clearing the set and putting up a new one.

  On the platform, a few padded chairs, a couch, and a footstool are arranged, offering the best view in the arena. An awning stretches overhead. A blanket is draped over the back of each chair. Pillows are piled on the couch. There’s a table set with drinks and snacks. There’s even a magical lantern that disintegrates bugs. Deach takes a chair, offering the one beside him. Something stirs in my chest. It's a nice gesture. Almost too nice. I hang my mandolin on the back of the chair and sit.

  “This is what you did?” I ask.

  He shrugs and hands me a drink. It’s fizzy citrus juice Lucy brought from Byra. The nostalgia chokes me. His eyes linger. “You’re the Warchief. Shouldn’t you get the best view?”

  My throat clenches at all the times I’ve stood here while Irminric drank and watched people kill each other for fun. It's the first time I've sat here with someone decent. Cheering erupts as the band enters. For once, I might be the most sober person in a square mile. But so is Deach. I smile and snap my fingers. Heart-shaped chunks of ice float in my drink.

  The show is astounding. Only in Byra can you find music of this magnitude, but we’ve brought it here – and with flair. It’s a whole arena of people dancing, cheering, and partying in a place that’s seen so much death. Most of them don’t know what went on here. I find myself looking at the spot where Irminric breathed his last. If only he knew what I was doing with his precious Isles, his dragon hoard. Me, the gem of it all.

  Deach glows with the music. He gushes about the band while we eat, drink, lounge, and watch. It’s cute. I drape an arm across the back of his chair, and he doesn’t shy away - in fact, he leans in when I talk in his slender half-elven ear. They’ve got a true master illusionist driving their lights and sound, making no mention of their raw talent. He’s been a long-time fan, having missed the last five years of their trajectory. Some of it’s entirely new to him. Maybe I’ll send word to the band that the Warchief wants to meet them. Maybe I’ll bring a friend.

  They wind down their set, and Deach has left his chair. He’s standing, dancing at the edge of the platform. He’s far from the only one, but it’s hard watching anything but him. He’s got terrible rhythm, and yet there’s something profoundly graceful about his movements, the fluidity of his hips. His tight pants are doing half the work for him.

  I step behind him. “As much as I'm happy to watch, you're looking lonely. Do you mind me joining?” I ask in his ear.

  In the bright lights of the arena, a faint blush creeps along the back of his neck. “That's fine.”

  I reach for his chest and pull him against me. It’s warm and damp. His ass grazes my hips. The world shrinks to the itch to touch it. His chest expands with a hitched breath. He touches my thighs while we move together. And the smell of citrus and pine wood washes over me.

  It's Byrian cologne and ritzy stuff, like the vibrant air that washes through the pine-wood city, carrying the scent of freshly harvested citrus, sugared or squeezed over roasting shanks of pork by street vendors. I'm thrust into hundreds of nights spent there, unwetted by the black pool of water bored into my mind. The stomach-fluttering of good memories, for once, is like seeing light again. I brush along his neck, smelling it. Moisture is gathering on the nape of his hair. I stop, lips hovering over skin. Gods, I want to. His ass rubbing me isn’t helping. But he doesn’t seem intent on stopping. Instead, he lets me keep his rhythm. It’s hot – not just the sheer number of people here building heat, but the close proximity of our bodies and the sweat building. The thought of what I'd find under his clothes tugs at my blood.

  Finally, the song ends. Applause rattles the Pit. He turns. He’s close. Over the hum of the crowd, he says quietly, “Do you want to, um… head back and… mess around?”

  Something’s gonna happen, with or without him. I give my best charming smile, glancing down. Something’s burgeoning in his pants. I can only imagine greeting it with my face. “Let's not miss your show. I’ve got magic for that.”

  He opens his full-lipped mouth. I'm a breath away from kissing him when words come out. “Are you serious?”

  I flick out my arcane hand, and it brings my mandolin. I pluck a few harmonic tones, grasping a ley line and crafting a pink illusion over the confines of the platform – a dome. It comes into color. Nothing changes on the inside, but on the outside, we’re sitting here like usual, chatting and drinking. The next song starts up, and the crowd goes wild.

  “How risky are you feeling? Or frisky, for that matter.” I graze a finger across the front of his pants. It twitches.

  He sputters for a moment. Then he gives an incredulous laugh. “Okay.”

  My arcane hand returns my mandolin. I lean in close enough to kiss him, brushing my cheek against his with a slight rasp. “Get started without me.”

  I approach Sven, who’s keeping a careful eye. He jumps and reaches for his weapon when I emerge from the boundary of the illusion.

  “It’s magic,” I say. I stick a hand inside and wave it. Nothing’s visible. “See?”

  He grunts, relaxing back into his steady, surveying pose. “Okay.”

  “We’re gonna be… closing the curtain here, let’s say. The line’s right about … here.” I point, and a pink line appears on the ground. “No promises on what you’ll see if you come in. You’ll hear from me if I need anything.”

  He smirks. He’s already heard me with Genk, if my experience waiting outside those quarters is anything. “Enjoy.”

  I return to Deach.

  He’s lounging on the couch and watching the stage, drink in hand. It’s inviting as hell. I’m quivering, my blood springing. I shrug off my belt and chain jacket and drop them on a chair. Thousands of people are here, some not twenty feet from us. Our only cover is a thin illusion and my grip on it.

  “You’re sure they can’t see us?” he asks, glancing around. I peel my shirt off, too, tossing it down. His eyes rake over me.

  “Would you rather they did? Let's see... we can keep watching the show, or you can pick your poison.” He gapes as the illusion's interior shifts. It looks like we’re in the midst of an orgy. Then it becomes a mirrored depiction of us from multiple angles. Then people appear, looking in on us -

  “Just play the show,” he stammers. I’m glad. I’d be thrilled knowing someone’s so inspired as to be fucking during my set. He puts his drink aside and stands, seeming to gather himself. He approaches, putting his hands on my stomach. He drags them lightly, shaking his head. “You fucking freak.”

  “I don’t hear you complaining, you irritable knob.”

  I kiss him hard, holding him by the nape of his neck. He shudders. I’m ensconced in citrus and pine wood cologne and the taste of his assaulting tongue. It’s aggressive and dueling, in the same key as most of our conversations - like he’s trying to win. The music swells around us, the crowd thrumming and dancing. I wish I could hear more of the panting moan that hums from his throat. I reach for the hem of his shirt.

  “Hang on. It’s –”

  He unbuckles something invisible. The shirt vanishes. It’s leather armor, and enchanted at that. He pulls it off and tosses it aside, then his shirt underneath, revealing a hair-flecked, sculpted chest begging to be held down on that couch.

  I nudge him backward, and he plops down. I kneel, pulling off the rest of his layers. I assume, being a shapeshifter, he can craft virtually any cock to walk around with. And what a master crafter he is. It's art all its own, hot and halfway ready. I greet it heartily.

  “Gods,” he groans, reclining. Then, he gives something like a nervous laugh. “Why did I let you talk me into this?”

  I pause, tasting him and savoring the velvet beneath my fingers. I'm sweating to find out how exquisite it’d look next to mine. “I talked you into it? You’ve not been subtle about wanting to slobber on me.”

  His pointed brows pull together. They falter as I rub him just so. He flares beneath my fingers. “Well, fuck you.”

  “That’s a work in progress here, you appetent nit.”

  He pushes my head back down.

  He rocks his hips and gasps, the sound eaten by the crowd. His cut, half-elven face is flushed and slack. I'm utterly solid. The music pumps. He arches, growing more rigid in my throat. He pulls me away by a fistful of my hair before I can embarrass him. I’m throbbing, sweat gathering on my back. His chest glistens and drips, too. I lick it up, and he shudders. I chomp on his stomach’s lean, muscled contours. I'd devour the rest of him. I stand, freeing myself from my pants. I’m a sopping mess. He pulls them the rest of the way off, eyes darting up and down. His lips wrap around me, his cut, masculine cheeks dimpling into hot velvet. My mind blanks, anything else falling out. At the last moment, I fumble my grip on the illusion. It stays. The crowd cheers on a solo.

  I heft and maneuver him so he’s flat on his back. He huffs in surprise, teal eyes raking over me. It’s nothing to pick him up. His legs curl around my waist. I grab a handful of thigh. His hands clench my ass. We lock together like we’re scuttling on the forest floor, beating each other senseless. His chestnut hair’s mussed and tangled, coming from its bun. I kiss him again, and we duel. He spasms, hot breath warming me when I rub against his cock. My blood's fire, flaring through me with sharp, melding pleasure. He’s positively solid. He grips my arm. I consume the sweet and masculine scent of his cologne on his neck, up to his pointed ear. It’s intoxicating. I moan, or maybe sing, into his neck, and he goes weak.

  With a flick of my wrist, my pink arcane hand appears, wrapping around both of us. We’re a hot, seeping mess in the making, stirring together. He gives another incredulous laugh. “What - holy shit. Oh.” I nudge forward. It’s electric. I groan. I put my hands on his chest and lean my weight. His eyes roll back. "This is amazing," he breathes, barely audible.

  I move faster. “I'm surprised to hear you say that.”

  His godly face scrunches. The band announces their last song. “I still hate you.”

  “What’re you gonna do, come at me?”

  Neither of us was destined to last long. Maybe it’s the thrill of one failed illusion finding us frotting each other silly in front of an arena. Or maybe it’s the pent-up heat of butting heads. Or maybe the fact that trying not to be the first one to blow has the opposite effect. Either way, I keep our beat with the song and make a mess of his pretty, half-elven chest. He follows suit at the first possible glimpse.

  The crowd erupts as the last notes ring out, sweeping to their feet in applause.

  We clean up and dress, stepping from the illusion and down the stairs. Sven follows wordlessly. The arena buzzes, moving to the next show. We can’t stay – we’ve gotta keep things going tomorrow. But gods, my blood pulls me back toward that couch, and with Deach on it. The illusion shows us leaving, then I drop it. My head fogs with the effort.

  We’re inside the long hall when he stops me. He gestures toward my quarters. “Did you want to, um… go again?”

  I raise a brow. He’s speaking my language now. But I pause. My chest wilts. “I’d love nothing more. But unfortunately, I’m out of illusions, and I can’t be in that room. Or any of them, really.”

  He looks at me, then nods. “That’s fair. I just thought… I haven’t been sleeping great. It’d be nice to… not be alone.”

  I feel his words in the marrow of my bones. My guts tell me to go, but… I head toward my quarters, beckoning. He follows.

  We don’t say much as we undress. I flop into bed, my body like lead. He blurs and shifts into his half-orc form. With hardly a stir, he slips into the silken pink sheets next to me. I snap my fingers, and the lights go out.

  It’s dark except for the soft pink light in the corner.

  The idol on the table is cast from nowhere. It melds gently, chasing away the dark corners where a spiky, black figure might be waiting. It swells my throat. A feeling like warm sunlight on a brisk morning eases over me. And then a warm pair of legs brushes mine. A hand touches my back. I feel steady breath against my neck.

  And I crash into deep, revitalizing sleep.

  The next evening, the Pit strains with people.

  It’s been the talk of the festival. Everyone is curious or rabid to see the Warchief of the Byrian Isles perform. Not just that, but a bard of some renown, word having spread about what happened in this arena half a year ago.

  I spend an hour warming up and practicing in my quarters, and then the whole team helps me assemble something to wear. I settle on an expertly tailored cream shirt, a leather jacket embossed with knots, and baggy pants with light green woolen leg wraps, my fur-lined cloak draped for warmth against the nighttime chill. I head to the arena, greeted by thousands of people. If it was a full show last night, it’s burgeoning now. People crowd the walkways outside the arena, too, watching the illusions projected onto the outside walls. Sven and Genk cleave a path while Deach and Lucy stay ready behind me. From backstage, I strum three chords on my mandolin, and magical energy gathers behind me.

  I fly up and descend onto the stage to thunderous applause.

  It’s been a wildly successful weekend. We put Drowning Man on the schedule for next year, regardless of whether it gets us the attention of the Guild or not. Money’s streaming into the Byrian Isles, and we’ve raked in coin in abundance from merchandise, vendors, and selling sky skiffs. We’ve got people interested in moving here, especially young artists. Not everyone so easily believes we’re not keeping slaves anymore. But we’ve done wonders for our reputation in the meantime. Above all, we’ve shown it's possible to make change.

  People strain toward me, Genk's people keeping them back. I don't even need minor magic to project my voice. “My dearest thanks to all of you for gracing the Isles this weekend. It’s so very lovely to hear music in a place where there’s been none for a long time.” They cheer. “For those of you who don’t know, we’re gathered in what was once a fighting pit. I think we’ve found a much better use for it. And it’s thrilling to see thousands of people dancing and partying on the watery grave of Irminric the Black.” More cheers echo. Some of them boo and hiss at the mention of his name.

  I smile. “And to all of you, as you return home far and wide, take the music with you. And never forget it.”

  Once, playing the Moon Scythe Theater was the most I could hope for. Tears pull at my throat. I can't think of a better way to spit on Irminric’s memory than an arena of people chanting my name, not to see me kill someone, but to inspire them to seek the light and enjoy the music inherent to the universe – making the Byrian Isles a place of life and joy, not strength and death. When I reach inward to latch onto the second ley line and craft an illusion, the third hums with light, begging to be touched.

  Pink, yellow, and blue lights cast over me. Accompaniment swells. Images depict in giant size, visible to all - a view of the Isles from the ocean, rocky, black, and foaming with seawater. “Now, to close this fine weekend and start your evening of festivities, I’d like to play one of my favorite works. It's dedicated to the drowning man who sprang this idea.”

  I pluck the opening melody of “The Biggest, Blackest Dragon,” and every Byrian Islander shrieks in applause.

  I play for four hours that night.

  It’s grueling, but I’m fueled by an unending divine inspiration – it hums in my blood, propelling me to a height I’ve only dreamed of touching. I bring the rumbling arena to a close. I can hardly stand or speak. I’m utterly spent, thoroughly wet, and out of breath. Genk carries me off stage to stomping and chanting, and I’m half asleep before I’m deposited in my bed.

  And in the morning, a pink and gold sunrise splayed in the sky, I mingle and watch ships depart carrying not slaves, but people who want to come back.