“No, what you need to do is rest,” Cyrus told him again, irritated. “I’ve got this covered. Rest now so I don’t have to keep doing your job forever.” He met his brother’s glare with a playful smirk. “How’d you even manage to open that up again?” he asked, gesturing to the now properly re-bandaged wound on his shoulder.

Fiearius nearly shrugged, but seemed to find the effort too painful, so he stopped short. “Jumped out a window,” he admitted.

“Of course you did. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again,” Cyrus remarked darkly. “You deserve everything that happens to you.”

“Ha ha,” Fiearius muttered, cringing a little. “So how’d you supposedly get us out of ‘royally fucked’ status?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Cyrus looked decidedly innocent, to which Fiearius narrowed his eyes.

“Do I trust you?”

“I hope so, you did make me first mate.”

“Well yeah, you were my only option at the time,” Fiearius said bluntly.

Cyrus spun around in his chair to face Fiearius and without warning, he reached over and thwapped his shoulder, causing the elder sibling to yelp in pain. “Go on,” he dared him. “Keep ridiculing me. Let’s see where it gets you. Or would you prefer I just call the doctor and have her knock you out again?”

“Please do,” Fiearius growled. “If I can’t walk myself outta here, at least make me unconscious so I don’t have to put up with you.”

“Stop,” Leta groaned finally, entering the room and coming between them. They could argue all night for all she cared, but Fiearius’ blistering shoulder was now her main concern, and she moved Cyrus’ hands away. “Cyrus, don’t touch that, I just got it to close again.”

Without invitation, Leta moved Fiearius’ chair around so he faced her. She eyed him clinically and pressed the back of her wrist to his forehead, ignoring his look of immediate distaste. “Fever’s down,” she noted approvingly. “Eyes less dilated. You’re about due for another round of painkillers.”

“Won’t do anything,” he scoffed under his breath. “But whatever you say, doc…”

“And once those kick in,” she stated clearly, standing up straight, “we can discuss our deal.”

Despite the bloody events of the last eight hours, Leta hadn’t forgotten. There was a reason she was staying aboard this ship and she intended to see it through. In fact, she held the thought close, like a talisman: help Fiearius, then strike up a deal. Help Fiearius, and help Ren.

“Ah, right,” Fiearius muttered, looking briefly taken aback in spite of his fatigue. “That. Alright, kiddo.” He sighed heavily and glanced over at her. “I’m nothing if not a man of my word I guess. What is it ya need?”

“Well,” Cyrus said unexpectedly, standing up from his chair and hovering awkwardly between them for a moment. “I eh…should go work on the engine a bit more. Still need to realign the modular piston rings…I’ll leave you to it.” He glanced between them and then departed quickly.

So she was on her own then. Leta stared at Cyrus’ retreating back for a moment, torn between amusement and annoyance, before lowering into his vacant chair. Her hands found the armrests and she looked over at Fiearius. He was watching her with an eyebrow raised, looking vaguely skeptical, and really rather tired.

“My fiance’s been captured,” she began calmly. “He was doing a research project on Vescent, and his focus was the Society. He found out — I don’t know what he found out.  He had something to do with ‘identification.’ That’s all I know. Right before he could publish his work, he disappeared.”

Fiearius’ eyes moved toward the window, which showed the subtly moving landscape of stars. He appeared as if he was not listening at all, but then he said at last, “After researching the Society? Hm. Why’s that not a surprise?”

Leta’s eyes flicked to the Society tattoo on Fiearius’ arm. The thick black lines stuck out beneath his bandage. “Everyone at home believes he’s dead.”

Fiearius nodded slowly, his eyes still on the window.  “I’m guessing you don’t subscribe to that theory?”

“No,” said Leta, more sharply than intended. After a moment, she cast him a look of apology and amended more softly. “No, I don’t. A few months after the capture, my father told me. He has a few ties to the Society higher-ups; he knew the truth. That Ren’s alive. In prison. He has been for three months. I’ve also gotten messages … messages that could only come from Ren.” She paused a moment, awaiting his reaction that never came. “So you can guess what I want to do,” she prompted. “I want to break him out.”

Fiearius said nothing. He was still looking sidelong out the window, holding a staring contest with a distant star. But then his fingers drummed lightly on the arm of his chair and his eyes came to her. “So why’s he in there at all?” he asked finally. “Obviously, okay, he found something out. Something they don’t want him to know. But why capture him? Why not just kill him?”

“I’ve wondered that,” said Leta, scooting closer to the edge of her chair. She stole a keener glance at Fiearius’ face, trying to gauge his expression, but he was unreadable. “I don’t pretend to understand how the Society works. But I see a few reasons for it. One, my dad asked him to be spared. But I don’t think he has that kind of influence — so probably something else. Whatever Ren knows, it must be useful and valuable to the Society. They must need him alive.”

“I gave your brother the data from Ren,” she went on hurriedly, “to see if he could pinpoint where the messages come from. Some Society cell is my guess. Far from Vescent. It’s not easy to get passage from there, so I was never able to investigate. But what I’m getting to is,” she paused, “you have a ship.”

“Oh, how nice of you to notice.”

“So with our deal, I’m asking you to use it,” she went on, “And take me to where he is and help me break him out.”

For the first time in the conversation, she got a reaction: Fiearius knit his brow and he stared at her, looking unapologetically doubtful, and perhaps amused. “Oh really?” he asked. “Is that so? You want me to take my spaceship and fly to…who knows where? Some Society prison. To rescue your boyfriend.”

“Fiance,” Leta corrected dully.

He raised his brows and looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or not. “Right. Look, kiddo, you helped me out today and don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that. But do you have any idea what you’re asking?” he asked sincerely. “I know, I’m fucking impressive, but running into a nest of my enemy probably isn’t the best idea even for me.”

It wasn’t the best idea for any person, but Leta was too distracted — too surprised — by the ease in which he spoke. It was like he remembered nothing of the nightmare from earlier.

Corra didn’t breathe as the Dionysian began its ascent. She couldn’t swallow as the ship violently rocked and shook and fought its way up through the sky. She had to look away as they passed through the clouds, the empty thin layer of nothing, the fiery atmosphere and finally emerged into the cold black of space. As the ship calmed from its violent seizure into the sweet stillness of the vacuum, Corra could hold nothing back. The tears flowed forth and she wept.

For minutes, there was nothing in the bridge but the sound of her sorrow until she heard, very faintly, “I’m sorry.” Hesitantly and barely able to lift her head, Corra looked up at Fiearius, hardly daring to believe it.

“Cap’n?” she ventured tentatively.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again as he stared straight ahead into space beyond the window. “I couldn’t do it.” Her tears slowed and her sniffles weakened. Fiearius Soliveré was actually apologizing to her? It didn’t change anything. It didn’t solve it. But it was a step.

“We can still go back,” she murmured, laying a hand on his arm. “We can turn the ship around. We can go back. We can help them.” The desperation in her voice was apparent. “Please…”

At her touch, Fiearius suddenly looked down at her and for the first time, she saw just how horrified he looked. Horrified and…off. Confused. “I’m sorry,” he said again, sounding desperate himself. “I should have listened to you. We could have left. I was just–I didn’t—I couldn’t.”

Suddenly, he reached over and seized her wrist. Corra came to her feet and took a cautious step back, but his hold was strong and she couldn’t break free. She did, however, get the very distinct feeling that despite his eyes being fixed upon hers, Fiearius was no longer speaking to her.

“I couldn’t do it,” he pleaded again. “It was my fault. Everything. All of it. If I had just done what you said–” He brought his other hand to his temple and clutched it viciously as though trying to rip something out of it.

Corra had almost thought it was funny the other day when she’d caught Fiearius talking to himself about some feverish nonsense. Funny not in the way he was rather terribly sick and possibly dying, but funny at least in what he was saying. Now, however, she wasn’t laughing. “Cap’n…” she said again, worried now.

Thank the gods, then, that she didn’t have to do this alone. Corra was relieved to see that the doctor arrived in the doorway, out of breath but ready, a knapsack of med supplies in her hand. “All right,” said Leta, her eyes on Fiearius, “how is — “

“If I didn’t hesitate,” Fiearius went on, as if he were in the middle of a concerned conversation with the wall, “if I’d just done it. I’m sorry I didn’t read your message. I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know.”

Instantly, Leta’s expression shifted with confusion.

“Corra,” she remarked quietly, “who’s he talking to?”

Corra looked up at her, her concern drying her eyes. “I–I don’t know,” she stammered. “He’s just…” She looked down at the broken man attached to her hand and frowned. “Talking nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense!” Fiearius snapped,  pulling her by the wrist closer to him. “I would do anything for you. You know that. Anything. Except…I couldn’t let him kill him. I had to do it. I didn’t have a choice.”

Corra knew it was just fever talking, she couldn’t help herself. Her curiosity was unbearable. “What are you talking about?” she asked quietly. “Couldn’t let who kill who? You had to do what?”

“I had to shoot him,” he replied shortly, looking up at her with his brow furrowed. “I couldn’t save you. I had to save him.”

Perplexed and strangely fascinated, Corra opened her mouth to ask more, but she was cut off.

“Corra,” Cyrus barked sharply at as he stormed into the bridge, causing the now even more confused young woman to almost jump at the sound of her name. “Get out of the way. Let Leta do her thing.” Corra nodded slowly and drew her hand away.

As she retreated to the back of the room, Leta came forward and dropped to her knees, pulling out a collection of needles and bottles from her bag.

Seeming not to notice his doctor, Fiearius’ eyes grew distant with longing toward the wall. Cyrus took one moment to grimace down at him and say softly, “That’s not her,” much to the confusion of the two other people in the room. Corra and Leta exchanged glances, but Cyrus pressed on quickly.

“How fast do you think you can get him back to normal?” he said. “At least coherent would be acceptable,” he added. “We just shot part of the engine with that takeoff and we’re running dangerously low on our fuel reserves. And I’m guessing we didn’t get paid for that one, right?”

“No,” said Leta, now pressing a cloth to Fiearius’ arm, “we didn’t get paid. Torian was there waiting; Solon double-crossed us. Double-crossed Fiearius, I mean.”

Corra watched from the sidelines as Leta cleaned and dressed the wound and began to put together a needle. As she worked, Fiearius’ eyes looked emptily over her head until he finally noticed Leta. As though she would understand this more than anyone else in the room could, he informed her, his voice too calm and haunting, “You can’t fix it. You can’t bring back the dead.”

His words brought Leta to pause. She halted in the middle of filling a shot, provided him a startled look, before hastily recovering. Whatever he’d meant by that, it clearly disturbed their doctor.

“I’m not,” she said, too forcefully. “I’m not. I’m — going to give you something for the fever; it’ll put you to sleep,” she finished quietly, and finally administered a needle to his shoulder.

It took only seconds for the patient in the room to quiet. Fiearius’ feverish nonsense faded as his eyes fell closed and his head slumped back in the chair.

Slowly, Leta stood up to her feet. Her expression was darkened. “He’ll be asleep for hours. Then, he needs rest. Actual rest. He shouldn’t lift a spoon tomorrow, let alone fly a ship.”

The bridge lapsed into solemn, expectant silence. Leta was standing there numbly, her brow knit, looking ghastly pale and rather lost. Corra was fairly certain she knew what  they were all thinking. The captain was unconscious. They had no plan, no next-step. They were out of money and very nearly out of fuel. And Solon Goddora was dead. One of the most powerful traders in the span. Dead at the hands of the man in the pilot’s seat. His ghost would be back to haunt them. That was for sure. Finally, she found the nerve to speak.

“Now what?” she wondered quietly from her place by the wall.

Cyrus heaved a long sigh. “Now?” he repeated, looking between the two of them and back down at his unconscious brother. “Now, we leave.”

“I saw Arty bleeding, trying to treat himself,” he told her. “And a couple others wounded too. Take care of them. Do your thing. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Oh, will you?”

Her words hung in the air with a bit of a nasty sting, but she didn’t take them back. Instead, she turned around swiftly and inhaled a sharp breath. Half a dozen faces of the crew looked back at her. A few people were crumbled against the wall, managing injuries. Barely.

“All right,” she said, her tone raised to address the room at large. “You heard him, I need help. If you’re hurt, find a place to sit. If you’re bleeding anywhere on the core of the body, don’t move far. Everyone not injured, pair with someone, apply pressure to the wound with whatever clothing you have. Or just use your hands, get them dirty. Press as hard as you can,” she explained, her tone heavy with significance. “And then press harder.”

Leta crossed through the room, assessing the damage on either side of her, seeing who needed the most immediate help. Actually, she knew who needed the most immediate help, and he was currently in the bridge. Looking around quickly, Leta had to appreciate their attempt to organize, but this ship needed a fuckin medical team.

Finally, the young woman dropped onto her knees before a particularly washed-out looking, sweating, shaking, younger member of the crew. “Hi,” she greeted, attempting a smile through her breathlessness. It was a quick effort for a better bedside manner, although she still preferred it when her patients were unconscious.

“Mind if I take a look?” she inquired keenly, and without waiting for an answer, she got to work.

–  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –

“Fiearius, stop!”

Still, nothing. Corra had followed the captain all the way from the cargo bay to the bridge, desperately trying get his attention, but no matter how much she shouted and how often she begged, he seemed not to hear a word. She had had a hard enough time just keeping up with him (for a wounded man, he was unusually fast), but as they reached the bridge and he collapsed into the pilot’s chair, she was finally granted the opportunity.

Breathlessly Corra seized the back of his chair and tried again. “Fiearius please. We can’t….we can’t just leave.” But the captain seemed wholly focused on his task, his eyes locked on the console before him and his hands furiously at work. Frustrated, Corra shook the chair. “Cap’n, stop, don’t.” Still, nothing. It was as if she were invisible. But she had to tell him. He had to stop. They couldn’t leave yet, they just couldn’t.

Finally, tired of this, she released her clutch on the chair and instead reached for his shoulder (the one that wasn’t bleeding profusely all over the bridge) and spun him around to face her. “Fiearius, fucking listen to me!” she yelled in his face and at last, some semblance of recognition flashed in his eyes. Her heart leaping, Corra jumped on the opportunity.

“Fiear, we can’t leave,” she told him desperately, her voice cracking under the weight. “You–you killed Goddora. This is our one chance. We have to go back. We can break up his compound, we can get those people out of there. If we leave now–” Her voice caught in her throat at the very thought of it as her eyes began to water. “If we leave,” she went on more steadily, “someone else is just going to take it over. Nothing will change. We have to do something before that happens. Take advantage of the confusion.” The tears were now starting to stream from her face. Her hand gripped his shoulder more tightly. She could barely get the words out. “Fiear, we have to save the allies. We have to go back. Please.”

But even as she spoke and laid out what should have been a decision clear as day, she began to realize that he perhaps wasn’t even listening. Yes, he was looking at her now, but his eyes were glazed over, his pupils wide and it almost seemed as though he didn’t recognize her at all.

Instantly, she wanted to scream. How did he not understand how important this was? He had been handed a unique chance, a chance she had been praying for her whole life, and he was just about to throw it away. Oh how she wanted to shout and yell and beat on his chest until he listened. Until he understood.

But all he did was stare right through her.

Suddenly, a crackle erupted from the intercom to their right and Cyrus’ voice sputtered out of it. “I’m ready,” he said, worry in his voice. “Can you do this?”

While Fiearius seemed entirely unable to comprehend Corra’s words, he understood his brother’s just fine. “Of course I can,” he replied, breaking free of her grasp and turning back around to the console. “I’ve done this a million times. It’s fine. I’m fine.” True to his words, Fiearius tapped the right combination of commands the the ship’s engine rumbled to life beneath them. Corra’s heart stopped. No, she thought furiously, they couldn’t. They couldn’t just abandon them like this.

Tears were streaming down her face now as she fell to her knees beside his chair, holding onto the arm of it like a liferaft. “Please, Fiearius. Don’t do this. We have to go back,” she said again, her voice quiet now, muffled behind her sobs. But it was hopeless, wasn’t it? He hadn’t listened before, why would he listen now? “This could be our only chance. Fiearius. We have to–”

The ship lurched forward. The intercom crackled again as Cyrus’ angered voice shouted, “No, it’s not ready yet!”

Fiearius, however, did not bother to hit the return button so it was only Corra who heard his reply. “We have to go now. If we wait, I’ll never see you again.” She frowned and lifted her head to stare up at him through fuzzy, water-soaked lenses.

Beneath her, the ship lifted off the ground and began its usual shudder. Subconsciously, she braced herself for the lurch and consciously tried not to think of all the people they were leaving behind. The people she’d known, grown up with, the people who were, for all intents and purposes, her kin. Her kin that she had abandoned three years ago. And abandoned now again.

Unfortunately, while the Dionysian was only fifty feet away, there were about twenty gunmen roaring up its ramp and spilling into the cargo bay. Goddorra’s men? How had they made it here already? From here, it looked like the Dionysian crew was putting up quite a fight.

Amid the roar of gunfire, the most they could do was duck behind the nearest fence and wait.

“Okay,” Leta began carefully, “so are we going around, or should we — “

“You can get there,” Fiearius said suddenly. He sounded mercifully like his normal confident self, but Leta was far from relieved by what he had just suggested. He dropped his hands on her shoulders and turned her around toward the ship.

“Go back out the way we came, around that building, underneath the other ships. They won’t notice you. You’ll be fine. There’s a small airlock on the backside of the Dionysian. Just a door, with a ladder. You’ll see it. They’ll have a someone there watching it.” After a short pause, his expression darkened and he said, “They fucking better have someone there watching it. Just announce yourself before you try opening it.”

Fiearius took a deep breath and stood up straight again. “You’re good. You can do this. I’ll distract them.”

Leta stared. This was the same person that had been talking feverish nonsense minutes prior. “Distract them?” she cried. “You can’t go that way. You’re seriously hurt, you’re already half-dead, you can’t g–”

Fiearius gave her a gentle push backwards, to which she steeled her legs. But it hardly mattered as Fiearius suddenly turned around, grabbed the gun from his hip, and dodged straight into the fiery fray. Standing there in shock, she swore she heard something of a battle cry rise in the air.

For one wild moment, Leta gave serious consideration to following after him, if for no other reason than to yell at him some more. But even if she somehow managed to stay alive for more than three seconds, she wouldn’t have been able to convince Fiearius of anything, anyway.

Growling in frustration, Leta clapped a hand to her forehead and wheeled around to gain a view of the path Fiearius had laid out for her. This side of the docks seemed relatively clear and out of the way of the action, and so, taking care to slide the gun out of its holster and into her hand, she slipped out from behind the fence.

Ducking her head, she swept beneath the other enormous overhanging ships, and save for the shots of gunfire in her peripheral and ringing horribly in her mind, all seemed clear.  She increased her pace, slipping around a corner as the Dionysian came gratefully into view — the explosive gunfire was closer now, but so was the door Fiearius had talked about, she could see it thirty feet away, and then —

With newfound resolve, she sprinted the rest of the way up the ladder, and as she wrenched open the door, a rather girlish scream met her ears:  Nikkolai, keeping watch with a gun in his hand, ducked backwards until he realized who she was.

“You!” he gasped, looking shaken. “Get in!”

Leta never thought she’d be so grateful to be inside the Dionysian, even the Dionysian under attack. Without breaking her stride, she rushed past the young deckhand, wound through the winding halls and found her way to the cargo bay.

Predictably, the bay was a mess. She saw Cyrus working frantically with the technical controls near the door, while all around him, gunhands ducked and fired. Amid the panic, yelling and gunfire, Leta slipped along the wall and ducked by the nearest familiar face. Corra.

“Fiear, do you see Fiearius?” she breathed, a slight crack to her voice. “He was — he ran out, he distracted them — ”

Corra was far too distracted herself, however, as she fired off round after round at the attackers, to even hear let alone answer Leta’s question. When there was the slightest break in the onslaught, she finally glanced over at her, confused. “What the hell happened out there?” she asked, exasperated.

Leta could hardly think of how to answer. “Fiearius shot Goddorra,” she managed at last. “He’s dead.”

The moment the words hit the air, Corra’s rifle dropped to her side, her eyes widened with disbelief. Breathlessly and almost desperately, as though hoping for her clarification to change, she asked, “He’s what?”

Aghast, Leta wheeled around in alarm, staring at the man she’d worked to save, now lifeless in the shambles of his disassembled bed. The ease in which Fiearius had done the deed paralyzed Leta in place for several seconds, all the breath knocked out of her lungs. It might have been Roman’s innocence in this moment, his unknowingness of what was happening around him. It might have been because he’d been her patient (against her will, it was true, but still her patient). Whatever it was, the gunfire shocked her in place, as though she’d been shot herself.

By the time she’d turned around, Fiearius was lowering himself from the window.

Feeling nauseated, Leta leaned herself toward the window and watched as the rope of sheets went taut along the windowsill. Below, along the edge of the building, Fiearius was suspended in midair, his feet against the building as he eased down toward the ground.

The rope did not reach the ground, however: there was at least fifteen feet of space between Fiearius and the matress. After hanging off the last stretch of the rope for a moment, he let go and fell.

Amazingly, Fiearius somehow managed to land on the mattress with a roll and almost instantly he jumped back on his feet and called up to Leta.

“Come on, kiddo, no time like the present!”

For a moment, Leta could not decide what to do — shouting “fuck you” came nastily to mind — but as it turned out, she did not have much of a decision in the matter. Behind her, the doors flung open in an explosion of shouting and gunfire.

The panicky need to go, do, leave, act shot through her and before she could talk herself out of it, Leta holstered her gun, braced her hands at the windowsill and ventured, quickly and carefully, down the rope of sheets.

Grimacing, she lowered herself down the wall, pausing only slightly once she’d reached the end — true to his word, Fiearius stood there on ground to catch her — and, holding her breath, she released her grip.

In her falling motion toward him, Leta’s hands wrapped around Fiearius’ shoulders, her knees caved, but, thank the gods, her feet touched mercifully solid ground of the street with only a slight stumble between them. She staggered slightly against Fiearius, but she pulled herself tall to her feet, and shouted at once into his face.

“What was that for?” she demanded. “Why’d you kill Roman?! He wasn’t involved — he didn’t do anything –”

“Roman Lilliander? Didn’t do anything?” he repeated incredulously, cutting her a nasty glare. “That’s hilarious. Do you want me to tell you what he’s done? Because I don’t think you really wanna hear it — “

Turning his back on her, he started down the street the way they came. Leta’s feet pounded on the dirt beside him, and it was then she noticed something odd: looking down, she realized her palms were soaking wet and sticky. Blood. It wasn’t her blood. So that meant —

Her eyes went to Fiearius. His wounded shoulder, the same injury she’d been brought aboard to heal, was broken open and leaking crimson heavily down his arm. Of course it was. He’d fallen fifteen feet …

He did not seem to notice the injury, at least not consciously. As his eyes darted around the city and he searched for the clearest path for them to escape, the pain was settling in now. Even as he hastened forward, his expression was growing clouded, his eyes narrowing in something like confusion as he looked around over Leta’s head, curious, dazed.

Which was fucking fantastic, Leta thought, that her guide out of this city was starting to lose it. And unless she was very much mistaken, there were zinging shots of gunfire beginning to follow them.

Throwing a panicked look over her shoulder, Leta summoned her resolve, seized Fiearius by the elbow (he had halted in the middle of the sidewalk and looked up at a building) and dragged him into a narrow alley.

“Fiearius, “ she barked, resisting the urge to slap his face to get him to listen. “They’re following us. Can you get us back to the ship?”

“Following us?” he repeated, a little absently. He seemed determined to focus on her face, but his eyes were glassy. “Following us. Yeah.” Then he paused, and jabbed a thumb toward the sounds of gunfire behind them. “Oh no. These guys aren’t what I’m worried about. It’s the other ones that are gonna be a problem.”

Afraid of what that even meant, Leta squinted at him. “What other ones?”

But he simply continued his pacing. “This way, there’s a…there’s a bridge…” he mumbled, glancing blankly toward the open street. Meanwhile, he was shaking his injured, blood-soaked arm, as if to fling a fly off of it. “There’s the way..around…” His voice trailed off, until suddenly he seized his shoulder violently and shouted “Fuck!” into the din of the alley.

Then, just when Leta’s eyes went wide, he took a deep breath. “No no, it’s fine,” he went on, unaware of Leta’s alarm, as he walked in a small circle. “It’s gonna be fine. It’s totally fine. All fine. I’m fine.” He halted in place, looked at Leta, and insisted, “I’m fine.”

“Oh, boy,” Leta breathed sharply, a faint lift to her brow. Her widened eyes flew to the blood soaking cleanly on his shoulder, and she could imagine few things worse for the injury than the landing he’d just made. She’d seen this many times before in her emergency room, the mild hysteria that accompanied mind-numbing pain, and now with the gunfire at their back —

“It’s that way!”

His voice broke over the alley proudly. Leta thought he sounded downright crazed, but he beamed at her with confidence. “That’s it. The way around the back. Got it.” He nodded at her, then quickly turned down another street and ran off, shouting, “Follow me! Stay close!” over his shoulder.

As they dodged through the city, Leta had to wonder what kind of hell Fiearius had in store for them next, or if he even knew where they were going. But to her surprise and relief, his manic, scattered sprint along streets and down alleyways did lead them back where they started: the ship docks.

Cyrus seemed to realize after she did what, exactly, they were reading. Quickly he closed the document and tracked back to the original directory as he told her, “We shouldn’t be looking at that.”

Even as he said it though, his expression at her was less reprimanding as it was begging ‘please don’t tell anyone’.

Frankly, Corra was not concerned with anybody finding out. She was more intrigued by what she had seen. What she had read. Corra had never received a love letter in her life nor had she known anyone that had. Or rather, nor had she known anyone that had admitted to it. This was fascinating. How romantic and mysterious. She hadn’t actually believed that people did that kind of thing outside of fiction and yet here was this doctor who had love notes saved on her back-up. Maybe all the glamour of fiction wasn’t made-up after all. Maybe Corra had just been on the wrong planets to see it.

“Relax, Cy-cy,” she reassured her concerned friend with a friendly pat on his head. “She’ll never know. I won’t bring it up, I promise. But I do wonder who Ren is.”

Suspiciously, Cyrus said nothing. Too suspiciously. His response should have been ‘I don’t care’ or ‘yeah whatever’ or even ‘maybe he’s no one and Leta just writes letters to herself like a crazy person’. But Cyrus said nothing. He always was terrible at keeping secrets.

“You know,” she realized, narrowing her eyes at him. Instantly, his eyes widened and his lips sealed shut uncomfortably and she knew she’d caught him. “You know who he is. How do you know? Why would she tell you that? Why didn’t she tell me?” Those were stupid questions, she realized. “No, scratch all that. Just answer me one thing. Who is he?”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus lied, climbing out of his seat to have an easier out and holding his hand up to her as though it might stop her onslaught of interrogation.

“Yes you do. Tell me,” Corra demanded, stern, but good-natured. It didn’t take much threatening to get information from the younger Soliveré. Especially information he didn’t care all that much about. She couldn’t imagine his attachment to Leta’s admirer was that strong.

“No, I don’t know anything,” he insisted again, backing up towards the door.

Corra rolled her eyes and held out her hand as though he might physically drop what she wanted in her palm. “Just tell me, you’re gonna lose this and you know it.”

“That’s not true,” he muttered half-heartedly, stumbling backwards. “I won’t necessarily–”

Suddenly, Cyrus’ words were drowned out by none other than the Dionysian herself. Over their heads, the ship’s warning alarm — loud, booming, intrusive — blared from the speakers.

The Dionysian had exactly one alarm for all incidents.  Yet, the captain had often claimed that each alarm meant something different and he would rattle off what “each” one meant. That its noise had a sort of code that he had cracked and the sound differentiated with each emergency. To Corra and to every sane person aboard, it always sounded exactly the same and truthfully, she had no clue why it would be going off now. They weren’t even in the air. She glanced to Cyrus, who looked just as confused.

It was then that shouts and yells that began drifting up to the bridge from the decks below provided some clarity. This was no false warning. Forgetting about Leta’s mysterious lover, the two of them fled from the bridge and hurried down the stairs.

When they arrived in the cargo bay, it was crowded — not only with crew. From the position Cyrus and Corra took on the upper catwalk, they had a view of the chaos and arguing starting to unfold. A small team of men and women — all of them armed — had stormed up into the bay and seemed to be intent on taking the crates of guns that the captain was currently out peddling.

“Great,” Cyrus muttered sarcastically through his teeth, catching Corra’s worried glance and letting out a sigh. “As if the deal wasn’t already doomed enough as it is….”

Who were they? They couldn’t have been Goddora’s men, Corra was sure of it. Goddora would never dress his people so poorly and, had the deal been sanctioned, they wouldn’t have barged in with their weapons raised. They would have waited to be ushered in by the captain himself. This wasn’t right. The rest of the crew seemed to agree.

Arty, the Dionsyian’s product manager, was arguing with them, a handful of the crew backing him up. Unfortunately, Corra noticed, they were all unarmed and thus Arty blatantly yelling at the intruders was likely not the best idea. Not when they were carrying standard assault rifles that could clear the bay in all of ten seconds.

From where Corra stood beside Cyrus on the upper catwalk, her hands clenched over the railing tensely, she couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but it didn’t matter. It was hostile. Even if she couldn’t hear the words, the loud bang as poor Arty took a shot straight to the shoulder was all she needed. The gunshot exploded over the cargo bay, and Arty staggered backwards.

And then all hell broke loose.

Furious and frenzied, the rest of the crew shot off, some straight towards the assaulters and some straight to hide. They’d been unarmed, but the one who’d done the deed went down regardless when five of her own peers piled onto him viciously. The others, wisely, fled down the ramp, shouting unintelligibly.

Corra and Cyrus looked at each other for a moment, both in shock. Frantically, her head whipped back to the ramp and the ground below just as a swarm of people, just as armed as their predecessors started flooding into view as they sprinted towards the ship, ready for battle. A battle that they, the Dionysian, was hardly prepared for.

“Shit,” Cyrus summed up in a single word, clapping his hand to his forehead in mounting panic. “Who the hell are these people and why are they attacking us?”

Corra glanced sidelong at him in disbelief. “I don’t think that really matters right now, do you?”

“It could,” Cyrus muttered back. “If we knew who they were maybe we could talk to them and…figure this out … “

Down near the ramp, bullets were flying, ricocheting off metal, shouts were erupting from both parties, people were running and ducking out of the fray Corra drew a deep intake of breath before looking back to him, wide-eyed.

“I don’t think they’re interested in talking, Cy-cy,” she stated firmly.

“Well…” Cyrus began, the panic cracking his voice, as he waved down at the crew below him. “Why aren’t we shooting back then? Shouldn’t we be defending ourselves? What are they doing?”

“What are they doing?!” Corra repeated incredulously. “They’re panicking. Like you’re panicking. They need their captain. Their captain who is currently a few miles away making arrangements to sell weapons that are about to be stolen out of our own cargo bay while we stand here panicking.”

They may have been without their captain, but Dionysian did have a replacement. A replacement who shared the same genes, a fact that, looking at the two of them, was easy to forget. But Corra knew because Corra had seen it before. She also knew that sometimes the second in command just needed a little push.

“They need a leader,” she pressed more seriously, grabbing his arm, hoping to remind him as well. True, Cyrus wasn’t like his brother. In fact, he made an effort not to be. That is, until moments like these. Cyrus stared at her for a moment longer, looked pained, before sharply turning away.

“Listen!” he suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice bouncing in echoes off the wide metal walls of the bay. No one had ever described the engineer as ‘commanding’, but in that moment, every crew member halted, looked up at him and went deathly quiet.

From her vantage point, Corra could see him swallow uncomfortably before continuing on. “You three!” he pointed to a hardly fight-worthy group. “Go with Corra to the armory and bring weapons and ammo back. We need someone covering the other entrance. You.” He pointed at Nikkolai. “Get a gun from the armory first. In the meantime, someone get those crates open. Use what’s inside. Cover the entrance, don’t let anyone up that ramp.”

Cyrus halted again and looked down at his crew below him, all looking up attentively and ready. He winced uncomfortably and Corra could see him struggling for that final order. The motivation. The inspiration. In the end, he gritted his teeth and settled on, “Let’s kick some ass!”

To his surprise, a sudden yell of approval roared from the crew below, before they all shot off in directions to follow orders of their stand-in captain.

At his side, Corra smiled a little pathetically at her friend and patted him on the back. “Nice one,” she commended, before rushing down the stairs herself, calling, “To the armory, with me!” just as the first wave began.

“Come on, let her do her thing,” he said casually, pushing himself from the wall and weaving his way back to the center of the room. “How’d you like to operate on someone with a gun to ya? Ain’t that enough stress on its own?” He raised his brow at the man and then lowered them both in challenge. “It’s not about her. It’s about us. You want collateral? Fine.” Carefully, but not without a shove of force, he put his hand over Saviano’s gun and moved it to not point at Leta, but to point at himself. “She kills him, you can shoot me. Deal?”

A much-too-agreeable sense of excitement rose in Saviano’s face. “How noble of you,” he remarked grandly, sounding truly glad now to hold his gun to Fiearius’ chest instead. His head tilted toward Leta as he added softly, “Good of you to protect your merchandise.”

Fiearius smirked and replied sarcastically, “Nah, I’m just jealous. Can’t have my employees getting all the attention now, can I?”

Merchandise? With a rather angry jerk, Leta suddenly seized the broken medical cart and drew it closer to herself, though her gaze was halted sternly on the two men against the wall. Breathing was coming easier to her now that she wasn’t the direct target of a bullet — she’d have to thank the captain for those heroics later, she thought, in a moment of hysterical amusement — though the sight of Fiearius with a gun to his chest wasn’t doing much to ease her riddled nerves.

If Fiearius was killed, she realized, she’d have to find her way out the door herself. It was not a possibility she could fully wrap her head around, him falling to the floor at her feet. Though, apparently, it did not seem like a scenario he found very likely. Or maybe he thought it was entirely likely, and he was more insane than she’d even thought. She wondered, then, exactly how many lives were at stake here.

She silenced that thought in her mind as quickly as it arrived. Ignoring the icy sweat that touched the back of her neck, then, she got to work.

Mercifully, the rest of the scene began to fall away. For several long minutes, it was only her and the set of small, rusted knives she found in the med cart, which she held up to the light of the window for a moment before turning down to her patient. She stood over him and set her forearms at an an angle over his abdomen, her fingers working the knives quickly at first, then with painstaking patience. She paused only to brush her arm over her forehead, swiping away matted hair, before continuing the surgery.

“You know,” Saviano said thoughtfully, breaking the silence that had spread over the room as Leta worked, “when we hadn’t heard from you in awhile, Soliveré, I was certain you’d been killed. But I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”

“If anyone should be killed,” Leta muttered suddenly, stepping back from the bed, “it should be the surgeons you have onboard. They stitched him up before closing his portal and hepatic veins; he’s been bleeding internally for three days.” Heaving a steadying sigh of exhaustion and relief, Leta replaced the knives back onto the tray. She began to unsnap her crimson-stained gloves from her hands, speaking on measuredly. “His circulation’s plateaued now, vitals are stable.”

Half-turning to face the two men once more, she glimpsed Saviano’s gun still pointed at Fiearius, and she inwardly willed it away. “It’s done,” she clarified decisively. “He needs your strongest painkillers and a week of bedrest and recovery. But it’s done, he’ll make it.”

Both men turned to look at her. Saviano eyed her skeptically. Fiearius looked simply smug. “Absurd, you said?” he repeated to Saviano. “I may be a thief, but I make good on my deals.”

“That you do,” came the sudden voice of Goddorra near the doorway. Leta saw Saviano discreetly lower his gun to his side as his boss entered the room.

Goddorra watched Roman in the bed. His eyes moved past Leta without acknowledgement, and Leta remembered what Saviano had called her: merchandise.

After surveying the bed, Goddorra looked back to Fiearius, as if he’d been the one to do the surgery. “I’m impressed.”

“Fantastic,” Fiearius said heartedly, turning to face him again as if greeting an old friend at a dinner party. Then his expression fell and he said seriously, “10k please.”

“But as you say,” Goddora went on slowly, putting a finger under his chin in thought, “You are a thief.”

There was something taunting his tone, Leta thought, that made her believe this deal was not over. She felt herself tense. Fiearius must have sensed it too as his eyes narrowed.

“And guess who I ran into?” Goddora continued, as if this were all just so amusing. His expression was of supreme satisfaction as he stepped aside, allowing another man to join the room.

The newest arrival, a short, round man with slicked-back hair and a layer of greasy shine on his pink skin, pushed past Goddora eagerly. In his hand was what appeared to be nothing more than a common kitchen knife, but he was brandishing it with a wide impish grin that implied the intentions of it were not quite so common. Leta had no idea who, exactly, this man was. He didn’t look like a physical threat. But that didn’t matter, it was already obvious what was happening.

The deal was going south.

Just as her eyes flashed to Fiearius, Leta felt it at her side: first, she thought it was Saviano’s hand, grazing her hip, and she jerked away with her hand raised and ready to strike him. But it was somehow even worse than that. It wasn’t his hand. The barrel of Saviano’s gun came to rest, gently but decisively, against her back.

She was trapped. Stuck. And forced to watch the scene in the doorway.

Fiearius simply let out a small sigh, the smile back on his face, though perhaps a little tiredly so.

“Torian,” he stated plainly to the newest arrival.  “Well. Shit.”

“What’s wrong, Soliveré?” the little man called Torian asked with a simpering voice that matched his face. “Didn’t think you’d be seeing me again so soon, did you? But did you really believe you could just waltz off with my property and I wouldn’t follow?”

“It’s nothing personal, Fiearius,” Solon assured as Torian slowly moved towards Fiearius with a sharp hunger looming in his eyes. “See, you want me to give you 10k for your product, but Paolos here is going to give me 15 to get it back.” He tilted his head and smiled wider, clearly quite pleased with himself. “And kill you. It’s just business. I’m sure you understand.”

Fiearius just smiled calmly at Solon. “Sure I do,” he said simply before turning his sights onto Torian who was now threateningly making motions with the knife around his neck. Fiearius did not look impressed. “What’s this? You making dinner or something? You know, I can only eat things with low sodium so best make sure you prepare for that,” he deadpanned.

“You know, I’m actually glad that things worked out this way,” Solon remarked thoughtfully, ignoring Fiearius’ comments as he too stepped further into the room at a slow pace, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That so?” Fiearius asked, mildly curious as he kept his eyes locked skeptically on Torian and his weapon.

At her back, Leta felt Saviano shift: he was standing close to her, too close, but his gun moved. Now he pointed it at Fiearius, cornering him.  Three against one, Leta couldn’t help but think.

“It’s fitting, don’t you think?” Goddora continued. “That you should meet your end here, of all places. Here, where you found your beginning years ago. I still recall the first time you barged your way into my office.”

“It’s a memory that I, too, cherish daily,” Fiearius muttered.

Disregarding his comment, Solon continued coldly, “Just another dumb upstart trying to get his foot in the door. I honestly didn’t think you’d last another month with the way you’d been running things.” He paused and glanced down at Torian. “The people you’d been messing with. Promising jobs you couldn’t pull. Making deals you couldn’t afford.” A humorless chuckle trickled from his throat. “Why did you make such a fuss of buying that girl anyway? Just to get on my good side? I’ve always wondered. Was she worth the debt?”

At the very mention of Corra, Fiearius’ careless expression tinged slightly. By the twitch in his arm, for a moment Leta thought he might finally reach for the gun at his hip. But just as quickly as the anger had come, it left and he replied with a shrug, “What can I say? I like short people.” A vaguely crazed smile found its way down to Torian as he added, “They make me feel superior.”

Torian growled viciously and the knife he’d just been playing with lunged forward, the cold metal meeting Fiearius’ throat with just enough force to draw a thin line of blood. The grip on Saviano’s gun tensed. The beginnings of an angry yell formulated in Torian’s mouth and the muscles of his arm readied themselves to finish this until Goddora stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. Paolos Torian looked up at him, enraged, but didn’t argue the unspoken order.

Fiearius leaned back in his chair and swung his arm over the back of it. The joking and mockery disappeared from his face as he spoke briskly, “Six cases, standard artillery. Fine grade stuff, recent models, Riolan made. Virgin heat. Asking 10k.”

Solon too had shed any mask of friendliness as soon as Fiearius had switched his own attitude. He was listening intently. Almost too intently. His eyes trailed downwards to his hands, clasped together before him on the surface of his desk, and he stared at them thoughtfully for some time. Until at last, he looked up. “What’s the catch?”

Fiearius’ head tilted innocently. “Why do you think there’s a catch?”

“Because 10k is about what it’s worth,” Solon pointed out, unweaving his fingers and letting them tap together thoughtfully instead. “You always ask for more.” He smirked gently. “So I ask again. What’s the catch?”

Fiearius returned his smirk with one of his own. “They’re marked,” he admitted, sounding reluctant to do so. “Paulos Torian.”

Solon’s brows raised thoughtfully at the name, his eyes still hanging around his patiently drumming fingertips. Again, he fell silent before finally deciding, “I’ll give you five.”

“That’s not enough,” Fiearius replied promptly.

“Well it’s what they’re worth,” Goddora shot back, equally as unhesitant.

“They’re worth at least six five,” Fiearius told him matter-of-factly, to which Solon shrugged.

“Fine, six five, then,” he said simply. “Saviano, make the arrangements–”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” Fiearius said calmly, raising his hand to interrupt the order. “I need ten.”

“And why would I give you ten for something you just admitted wasn’t worth anywhere near ten?” Solon counter-pointed, narrowing his eyes at his opponent.

“Because you like me,” Fiearius replied with an unmatched calmness. “Or because it’s an investment. Or because I said pretty pretty please? I’m sure we can work something out.” Fiearius gave the man a knowing look that clearly stated that something else was available to be put on the table which was just enough bait to interest Goddora.

He leaned forward on his desk and met Fiearius’ eyes rather intensely. “I thought you didn’t do that type of work anymore,” he remarked, to which Leta sent Fiearius a curious look.

“I don’t,” he said absently, shrugging one shoulder. “Well, not usually anyway. We can talk about that some other time. But for now, I’ve got a better idea. Who’s critical?”

Solon raised his brow again, looking ever more curious as to what the crack captain of the Dionysian was up to. “Sorry?” he asked, confused.

“You said someone was still critical,” Fiearius said bluntly, nodding at Saviano. “Who’s still critical?”

Solon fell silent for a moment, then admitted, “Roman. You’ve met him. My right-hand man. A good man. A family man.” He seemed genuinely sad about the state of affairs he spoke of, his eyes downcast and his tone grave as though the man were already dead. “Shot in the stomach a few days ago. And you know how doctors out here are. No matter how much you pay them, they don’t get any better at their jobs.”

His sight went from the floor to the door Saviano had come from, lines of anger creasing his face before he let it go and glared back at Fiearius. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Fiearius began, standing up to his feet and striding toward Leta’s chair. “I happen to have with me a seasoned trauma surgeon with a decade of experience and mighty fine alpha planet medical training.” He dropped his hands on her shoulders. Leta tried not to wince in distaste. Instead, she maintained a half-smirk of her very own. That’s what these people did, didn’t they? If she wanted to make it out of here alive, she supposed she had a part to play too.

“She’s pretty good with gunshot wounds,” Fiearius went on, his voice smooth and confident. “And by all means, about a thousand times more capable than any of the failures you’ve got here.” Abruptly, his tone dropped to seriousness as he said, “Ten if she can fix him.”

Across the desk, Solon also stood to his feet. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the two of them, not liking the way this was turning out. Mistrust glinted in his eyes as he glanced at Fiearius, then down to Leta. “If,” he repeated skeptically.

Fiearius shrugged. “Can’t promise anything,” he admitted. “But it’s worth a shot isn’t it? At least let her take a look.”

Solon watched the smiling egotist across from him for a long moment. The seconds dragged on and Leta was certain they were about to be thrown from the office.

“If I may ask,” he finally stated carefully. “How did you happen across this decade-experienced, alpha-planet trauma surgeon?”

Fiearius pulled his hands away from Leta’s shoulders, stood up straighter and offered casually, “Kidnapped her.” Saviano made a murmur of amusement across the room. At Solon’s subtly astounded expression, Fiearius smiled and added, “A man has his vices.”

Head shaking, Solon rolled his eyes and sat back down at his desk. “Take her to him,” he ordered Saviano, waving his hand as though to get the whole stench of this mess out of his office.

Goddorra’s building did not resemble a criminal headquarters, at least not in Leta’s eyes. It was several stories high and looked like it had once been a sprawling, elegant hotel, but now suffered from age and decay.

Ahead of her, Fiearius pushed through tarnished double-doors without hesitation. Leta followed and got one glimpse of the circular, red-carpeted lobby before there was a flurry of movement and noise.

In a flash, at least ten men were on their feet, guns cocked and lifted to their faces. Leta, who came to a sharp halt, felt her blood go cold and heart stop in her chest.  For a moment no one moved. No one breathed. Then —

“Wow,” said Fiearius. He sounded amused. “Definitely upped the security lately, huh?” He regarded the men only distractedly. “Relax, boys, I got business with the fine gentleman upstairs,” he continued, and then gestured toward her. “And the kid’s with me.”

Mercifully, the men relaxed. The tension thinned from the air. Nonetheless, it was only when they had crossed through the lobby and slipped inside the elevator that Leta managed to take a deep breath.

“Fucking shit,” she hissed under her breath, wondering wildly what she had just gotten herself into it. But — perhaps the worst was over. Perhaps now she just had one quick job to do. Exhaling slowly, Leta spoke as calmly as possible to the person at her side.

“So,” she said pointedly, “what exactly is your ‘plan’ — “

“Your hair’s too neat,” said Fiearius suddenly, swinging his hand around and ruffling it atop her head, much to her chagrin. More seriously, he said, “Slouch more. Don’t smile. Don’t be nervous. He can smell fear. Don’t look him in the eye. Don’t look him anywhere. But don’t look away either.” His expression went suddenly grave. “And don’t say a word or you will die a quick but painful death.”

Feeling unnerved, Leta stared at him for a moment before he broke into a grin and said, “I’m just messin’, kiddo. You’re fine,” and reached to cheerfully mess her hair again.

This time, Leta grabbed for his wrist, groaned in embarrassment and looked away. “Don’t call me that,” she muttered, shoving him off a bit harder than necessary.

With that, the elevator gave a friendly ding and the doors slid open. As they stepped out into the hallway, they were greeted, once again, by a circle of men with guns in their arms. They seemed to be guarding one singular door in the center of the hall.

At her side, Fiearius groaned in annoyance before shouting, “Solon, I swear, I’m getting fuckin’ tired of this.”

Not a moment later, the door swung open and man’s silhouette filled the space it left. The figure stepped out and Leta’s eyes narrowed.

So this, she thought, was Solon Godorra. A slave trader and master weapons dealer. He was thin and tall, dressed in a fine patterned suit. Leta guessed he was somewhere probably in his sixties, with silver hair and sunken eyes they were currently fixated on Fiearius. It wasn’t his strongly-armed crew that made Leta feel nervous. It was this single man. She could only imagine the horrors he’d inflicted, directly and indirectly, into the lives of women and men everywhere. The prickling on the back of her neck was indication enough that this was a person Leta shouldn’t have been near, now or ever.

“Fiearius,” Solon stated, the name sounding rather bitter on his tongue. “Funny. I had a feeling I would be seeing you sometime soon.”

“You subscribing to that weird psychic religion stuff again?” said Fiearius. Leta kept her eyes on Godorra, but she could feel Fiearius smirking beside her.

For a moment, it seemed Solon was unresponsive. His eyes narrowed, his stance hardened. His men picked up on the body language and they too were changing the grips on their guns. But then, unexpectedly, the powerful weapon’s dealer smiled genuinely and swept his arm towards the door.

“Good to see you again, old friend. Please,” he offered. “Step into my office.”

In spite of her every instinct telling her not to, Leta followed after Fiearius to the door, feeling many pairs of eyes pressing onto her as she did so. She knew she must’ve looked out of place. She was out of place.

As the door fell shut, Leta swept her eyes quickly around the office. It was large, circular and lavish, its windows  covered in heavy drapes. Leta thought of what funded this sort of living and felt another twist in her stomach. These people were sick. Godorra was sick.

And, horribly, Fiearius was treating him like an old buddy.  She watched as Fiearius dropped into the chair and swung his feet up on the desk between them. Tentatively, she took the other seat.

It was then that the other set of doors across the office opened a crack, and another man slid his tall frame inside. He, too, was dressed sharply in tailored clothing. His deeply tanned, narrow face was lined with age, but his grey eyes were strangely piercing, as he sent a look toward Solon.

“He’s the same,” he said gravely to Solon, indicating toward the room he had just left. “Still critical.”

Pulling the door shut behind him with a snap, he looked up just then to the other arrivals. “Soliveré,” he greeted. Something close to a smirk touched his eyes. “It … has been a long time. Care for a drink?”

“When do I say no to a drink, Saviano?” said Fiearius, waving his hand in the air in mock-aristocratic fashion.

The man called Saviano went to the small bar in the corner, crowded with glinting crystal. He lifted a decanter and filled rocks glasses, then turned and offered them out to everyone except Leta, raising his eyebrows as he did.

“And what’s this?” he wondered, a little unfavorably, as he flicked his eyes toward Leta and rested them there. Instinctively, Leta narrowed her eyes. After a moment, Saviano smirked and mused grandly, “You know, slave trading season is over, Fiearius.”

The innocence in his voice made Leta’s feelings of fear fade away. Now she felt something else. Now, she felt anger. Apparently the lone female in the room wasn’t even worthy of an introduction, let alone a name or a title.

“That’s nice to know,” she put in suddenly, mockingly matching Saviano’s tone of innocence. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as she finished coldly, “I’m not up for trade.”

At her side, Fiearius had paused, his glass halting halfway to his mouth as he glanced sidelong to her for a moment, then looked up at Saviano.

“Now now, you know me,” he said at last. “Crew, not captives.” He smiled and reached over to gently pat Leta’s hand. Discreetly, Leta slid her hand away.

“Except for one,” Solon pointed out from across the desk, tilting his own drink back.

“Well,” said Fiearius in surprise, “a man’s allowed a few vices, right?” He shrugged his shoulders and then downed the liquid in the glass in one shot.

“I’d say you’re a man with more than a few, though, wouldn’t I?” said Solon.

Here, Fiearius smirked broadly. “I didn’t come here to talk about my bad habits, Solon,” he told him frankly, skidding his empty glass across the man’s desk. “Though if you’re really that interested, take me out and buy me a drink,” he laughed. Solon chuckled an airy laugh in turn.

“Yes, well, I’ll think about it,” he remarked absently, clearly uninterested in continuing down Fiearius’ slippery path. This wasn’t a negotiation, Leta realized, as much as it was a pissing contest. She was torn between apprehension and, actually, rolling her eyes. Thankfully, Solon seemed ready to call it to an end.

“Business then,” he said briskly. “What have you got for me this time?”