Forsaken by Shadows 66: The Truth

~ 31. The Truth~

Rismyn

They found Mazira in the midst of the crowd, her hips swaying, her hands clapping, and that annoying golden elf flitting around her.

Dancing. Together. 

Music thrummed through the courtyard, vibrating Rismyn’s bones, while envy pummeled his bruised heart as ruthlessly as ever. But he took a breath, endeavoring to stay calm. 

This doesn’t bother me. 

And against all odds, it did not. The gnawing subsided, and his next breath came easier. Not completely carefree, but not the same all-consuming hate that had sent him out of the courtyard not more than half a shade before. 

Wow. Had it really been that easy this whole time? Had he always been able to just think it, and it would be true? 

The head was made to lead the heart, Solaurin had told him once. Perhaps the priest had been right. Again. Maybe Rismyn ought to listen the first time something was said, instead of choosing to discover everything the hard way. 

A gentle tap on his tensed shoulder drew him from his mental wanderings. Ti’yana, casting fearful glances between him and Mazira.

“Aren’t you going to go to her?”

Rismyn made a face. “No.”

“What?” Her expression crashed like stalactite to the cavern floor. 

“I’m not giving up,” he assured her. He lifted his chin, nodding at Mazira. She moved perfectly to the rhythm, as though the beat tethered her with cords and strung her along. 

But she was smiling, dazzling and blithe. Mazira was made for dancing in the same way he was made for swordplay, and Rismyn wasn’t about to take this moment from her. 

“She’s having a good time,” he said. “I can wait.” 

“She might have a better time if her partner was switched,” Ti’yana insisted. 

Doubtful, but Rismyn smiled anyway, a faint, tight lipped expression that didn’t reach his eyes. Much as it killed him to admit it, Vaylan was probably the superior dance partner. He seemed just as at ease as Mazira, and he moved with a warrior’s grace. Meanwhile the thought of even attempting to dance made Rismyn’s face flush.

It was enough to watch, if only to drink in the sight of her exposed back every time she twirled away from him.  

Unmarred ivory. The way she was created.

Mazira’s hand slipped into Vaylan’s, and he spun her, wine-colored skirts rippling around her like embers bursting into flames. 

Her twirling subsided with a graceful arch of her spine, hand outstretched, aimed as though reaching for Rismyn. He’d liked to have thought it was on purpose, that she had somehow sensed him there and was inviting him to come. 

But when her eyes locked on his, she froze, her beautiful smile vanishing from her face. 

Which did wonders for his confidence. 

Vaylan tried to tug her back, but she didn’t move. So he leaned in, his lips nearly brushing her ear as he spoke inaudible words. Mazira started and stepped away, but Vaylan didn’t seem to notice. His gaze had followed hers all the way to Rismyn, and he scowled.

An expression Rismyn didn’t deign to acknowledge. 

Mazira surged forward, weaving through the undulating crowd. Rismyn’s heartbeat matched her pace, leaping as though it could escape and meet her in the middle. He’d stolen her smile, but she was rushing to him. That had to be a good sign, right? It meant she wanted to see him more than she wanted to dance with Vaylan… right? 

Or was she hurrying this way only because Ti’yana was at his side? Who was it she was actually eager to meet? 

He was about to find out. With another few steps, Mazira escaped the crowd, Vaylan on her heels. She was breathless and glittering and so very red in that condemning dress. Rismyn’s head waged a vicious war with his heart over the liberty of his eyes, which he kept anchored dutifully on her face. 

“Hi,” she said, her breath shallow and cheeks flushed from dancing. She fidgeted with the loose curls of her elegantly arranged hair. 

“Hey,” he replied, somehow just as devoid of oxygen without having moved a muscle. 

And then they stood there, staring at one another, while Rismyn racked his brain for the memory of how to form coherent speech, and Mazira’s lips flirted with the idea of forming a smile that never quite materialized. 

Was she cross with him? Was she angry he didn’t come to her right away? She must be. And coming back like this was a mistake. How could he be expected to just improvise his confession to her? This wasn’t something to be done on a whim. He ought to—ouch!

He glanced at Ti’yana, who had surreptitiously pinched the back of his elbow, but she wasn’t looking at him. Instead she smiled at Vaylan. A big, dreamy smile, as if he was one of those muscular heroes out of the poems she had introduced Mazira to. 

“Wow, Vaylan!” she exclaimed, wedging herself between the sun-elf and Mazira. “I didn’t know you could dance!” 

For the span of a single heartbeat, Rismyn was stupefied. Hadn’t they just both agreed that Vaylan was a cretin? Why was she suddenly fawning over him? 

But then it hit him, as she reached out and latched onto his arm. This was her act, her end of the bargain where she agreed to distract Vaylan if Rismyn agreed to finally come clean to Mazira. She was making good on their pact; there was no going back on his word now.

“Will you dance with me?” Ti’yana asked, apparently embracing her role as romantic martyr. “This one is so droll, he absolutely refuses to entertain me.” 

She rolled her eyes in Rismyn’s direction, and Rismyn shot her a look. She didn’t have to sell it that hard. 

Something dark flickered across Vaylan’s golden features, so quick Rismyn couldn’t quite identify it, before Vaylan covered the look with a bland smile. “Sorry, I’d rather not. We were planning to take a break anyway. We’ve been at it for a while now.”

He aimed his smirk at Rismyn, but Rismyn was more interested in the way Mazira’s brows knit together, as though confused by his words. As if no such discussion had actually happened. 

Ti’yana, blessed, marvelous Ti’yana, refused to be cowed. She angled herself to isolate Vaylan more, doubling down on her insistence that he make just one more exception for her, swearing she was an excellent dance partner, and Rismyn could not let her sacrifice go to waste. 

He caught Mazira’s eye, sweeping one hand in a quick, silent gesture that formed the word, talk?, with an upward tilt that indicated a question.

Mazira’s head bobbed eagerly, and to his free-falling heart’s delight, she moved to him, gesturing in a direction they could go to escape the crowd. Rismyn moved with her, and they fell into step together, leaving Ti’yana to pine for her dance.

This was it. The ideal moment. The time had come to take her hand and tell her how he felt. 

Yet his arm muscles didn’t move, and when he finally forced himself to speak, the words he said were no epic declaration of affection in meter and rhyme, nor even a promise of better things to come. It was a simple, vapid compliment, which he instantly regretted. 

“You look nice.”

Nice? She looked nice? Stars, that was the understatement of the last five centuries. The heavens would blush with envy if they could see Mazira now, shining in all her glory, bewitching him with every simple stride. And all he said was she looked nice. 

Yet Mazira’s cheeks warmed with color and her lips twitched again in that almost-smile. “Thank you. So do you.” 

And unlike Rismyn, who wrestled his gaze into steady submission, Mazira’s darted to his face, then dropped, if only briefly, to his waist, where the exposed muscles of his swordsman’s physique were forced into full display. Her eyes didn’t linger whatsoever, returning quickly to survey the direction they were walking, but brought with them a deeper shade of blush. 

Rismyn swelled with immeasurable pride, his spine straightening, his chest puffing out. Maybe there was something to this Festival costume, after all.

“I’m sorry we didn’t come sooner,” he said, finding his words easier to come by. Yet he still couldn’t make his hand take hers. Maybe when they got to a quieter street, if she’d let them wander that far from Vaylan and Ti’yana. “I—we—got held up. Your Serenade was amazing, Mazira. I’m so proud of you.” 

By now, Mazira was as deeply reddened as her dress, her hand hooking her arm behind her back. “Oh—it’s okay. You’re here now. And… thank you. Though I admit… I’m a little concerned…” She cut off with a shake of her head. “Never mind. Have you had a good Festival?”

Concerned? Rismyn frowned. What had her concerned? He considered asking, but decided against it. Best not to risk losing his opportunity to confess. She would tell him when she was ready. 

“Surprisingly, yes,” he said, in answer to her question. It seemed like the right place to start for a natural transition into the exposure of his deepest feelings. “Despite Ti’yana’s best efforts at ruining my hair.” He tried to laugh, but it came out nervous as he ran a hand over his silver locks. 

Right. Natural.

But when Mazira looked at him, her usually reserved smile blossomed into full bloom. “Really? I like it. I think it suits you.”

Ti’yana could do his hair any cycle of the tenday. Never again would he doubt her special brand of sorcery. 

“Listen, Mazira,” Rismyn said, stopping dead in his tracks. To the Abyss with natural. “We need to talk. Can we… Can we go somewhere more private? Just the two of us? Maybe—maybe to the sacred pools, if that’s alright.” He perked up as the idea struck him. The gently glowing waters of Eilistraee’s quiet cavern would be the perfect place to tell her everything. 

Mazira took a breath to answer, her eyes shining, when a sudden commotion to their left cut her off. 

An elf burst into the celebration, heralded by the clamor of startled voices. He stood out jarringly, dressed in full dark Militia armor rather than bright Festival wear. His breathing, though not labored, was heavy, as though he’d been hurrying for quite some time. 

He scanned the crowd briefly, and his eyes locked on Mazira. Something hardened in his expression, and he strode directly toward them.

No, no, no. What was this? Not now. Not when Rismyn had been finally going to have the most important conversation of his life, the one on which his future depended. 

“Davion?” Rismyn said, stepping forward to intercept the drow. They weren’t close, as Davion had been serving on Venom patrol for longer than Rismyn had been around, but one could only share a locker cavern with the same men for so long before everyone became generally acquainted. “What’s wrong?”

But Davion only spared Rismyn a cursory glance before addressing Mazira. “Your pardon, priestess,” he began between breaths

Rismyn stilled, and so did Mazira.

Priestess. 

That’s what she was now. Of course he knew that, but hearing someone else acknowledge it was surreal.  

“Y-yes?” she said, with only a slight tremble to the word. 

Davion gestured her forward, lowering his voice as he spoke. “There’s a problem at the gatehouse. We require a healer at once. Would you please hurry there? Time is of the essence.”

Mazira’s face drained of color. “A problem?” she repeated.  “What—never mind. Yes, I will go at once.” 

“What’s going on?” 

Rismyn tensed as Vaylan barged into the conversation, Ti’yana trailing behind him mouthing apologies. He gritted his teeth, about to tell the sun-elf off, when Mazira beat him to it. 

“I have to go,” she told him. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you later.” Then she hurried into the street. 

Gone. Just like that. 

“Miss Zovarr,” Davion said, as though oblivious to their stunned expressions. “Can you find your father? Tell him Mother Lara is needed at the gatehouse. Immediately.”

“What?” Ti’yana’s eyes went wide. “Why?” 

“Please just tell him.” He was already moving away. “And hurry!” 

Rismyn remained frozen as Mazira was swallowed by the crowd, his confession still beating within his breast, trapped within the prison of his ribs. 

How did this always happen? Was the whole Seldarine conspiring to keep him and Mazira apart? Why was he always left—wait. Hold on. What was he thinking? Whatever was happening at the gatehouse was probably dangerous if it required a healer, Solaurin, and Mother Lara. 

Why was he just standing here, letting Mazira rush into it alone?

Rismyn took off after her, and unfortunately, Vaylan followed, but fighting him off was the least of his concerns. Confessions and squabbles could wait. He just needed to be there for Mazira, the way he always seemed to fail to be.

She’d only made it a single block down the road, her progress slowed by the revelers. Rismyn had no trouble catching up, reaching out an​​d snagging her hand. 

She startled, but relaxed when she saw it was him. 

“Not this way,” Rismyn said. “The crowds are too thick. Follow me.” 

Mazira nodded, squeezing his hand and lacing her fingers with his, allowing him to pull her into an alley that would take them to a less populated side street. 

“What’s happening?” Vaylan asked again, still hot on their heels. “Did that drow say something about a problem?”

Rismyn rolled his eyes. “We don’t know,” he said, not hiding the disdain he was feeling. 

“All that was said was that they need a healer at the gatehouse,” Mazira added, far more charitably than Rismyn. “I… I don’t know why he asked me.”

Most likely because she was the first healer Davion found, but Rismyn didn’t say it. There were so few magic-casting priestesses, at least before the Serenade, and they’d all probably still been gathered in the courtyard. Mazira had simply been in the right place at the right time, and she happened to stand out. 

Or the wrong place, depending on one’s perspective. With his chances of speaking to Mazira alone dwindling with every hurried step they took, Rismyn wasn’t entirely sure which perspective he favored. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, hoping to reassure her. “You are a healer. We just need to get you there.” 

And so they ran, from one side street to the next, cutting through the city in a winding path until they spilled out onto the riverwalk.

By the time they reached the gatehouse, Mazira was gasping for breath. But she never slowed, and never once asked for a reprieve. 

The guard outside the gate straightened as they approached. “Miss Zylvaris,” he said, before putting his fist to his chest and offering her a salute. 

A gesture of deference. Because she was a priestess. Would Rismyn ever get used to it? 

“Thank Eilistraee,” the guard continued. “It might not be too late.” 

Too late? Too late for what? Rismyn held his breath as the guard swung the door open and motioned for her to enter. He must have been shaken, because he did nothing to prevent Rismyn or Vaylan from following. 

And Rismyn wouldn’t blame him if he was. 

Blood was the first sight that greeted his eyes. Red, dark liquid, spilled all over the floor. He followed the trail to Ardyn’s calf, which had a scarlet sodden bandage wrapped around it. A silver throwing knife lay discarded on the floor near him, as though the blade had been wrenched from his leg and left carelessly where it was tossed.

But that couldn’t be the source of all the blood, so his eyes kept traveling, up Ardyn’s form to where he knelt over a body laid out on a cot. The gloam-drow’s muscles were taut as he pressed a wad of linen down onto the bedridden elf’s abdomen, the upper half of the injured elf blocked from view by Ardyn’s back.

But there was no mistaking the silver hook that hung limp from the side of the cot. 

Rismyn inhaled the sharp scent of iron and shifted to see more. Dreder’s armor and undershirt had been torn open, revealing his too pale chest, the pallor of his skin far too close to the color of ash for whatever lay beneath the bandaging to be anything less than serious. 

And though Rismyn had seen death before, and though he was no stranger to the gratuity of blood, he fell back a step, as images of Mazira in a similar state conjured in his mind. Victims of the same sort of stomach wound, the kind that gushed and gushed and never relented.

Blood. There was so much blood, pouring from an elf who… Well, who he didn’t quite hate as much as previously thought.

Funny, the effects a mortal wound had on an observer. He hadn’t understood what he felt for Mazira until Gylas had punctured her stomach. He didn’t know exactly what he felt for Dreder now, except for one clarifying thought. 

No matter how much of a nuisance he found the mercenary, he didn’t want Dreder to die. Not like he used to dream about when they were schoolmates in Melee-Magthere.

“Move aside, please,” Mazira said, and the strength of her voice shook Rismyn. She swept across the bloody floor like it was nothing, the hem of her lovely dress trailing in its stains, the difference in the shades almost imperceptible. 

Ardyn jumped, gaped at her, and then staggered to his feet, limping off to the side, and Rismyn noticed two things at once. 

First, that the dark shadow in the corner that Ardyn retreated to was not a shadow at all, but a haggard, yet living Torafein Xarrin. Second, as his eyes fell back to Dreder, that the wound on his stomach was far less concerning than the wound on his face. 

The perfect, artful crescent, just like the scar on his own left cheek. 

No. 

The joy of seeing a living Torafein was utterly obliterated by the sudden void that opened in his gut. Numb was too weak a word to describe the sensation that overcame him. Numb implied feelings that could be revived. 

What Rismyn felt was nothing. Not fear, nor rage, nor shock. It was as though his mind simply could not comprehend all of the implications of what he was seeing, so it chose not to acknowledge any of it. 

Mazira dropped to her knees in Ardyn’s place, and a vague desire to rip her away from Dreder’s body overcame him. Whatever it took to keep her from seeing the truth. 

No. 

It couldn’t be true. He took a step forward, and then another, and his boot kicked the knife that had been left on the floor. He stooped and picked up the blade, rising to his full height. His gaze locked with Torafein’s and something clouded the weary soldier’s eyes. 

But he said not a word, as Mazira’s voice filled the air with sacred song, startlingly out of place in this room of the macabre. 

Rismyn flipped the blade over and inspected the hilt. And there, as he’d known it would be, was a simple design he’d hoped to never see again.

A crescent moon hovering over a  teardrop, surrounded by eight spindly arachnid legs.

House Tear. 

“It’s him,” Rismyn said, and though Mazira’s song drowned his words, Torafein shut his eyes. 

He nodded once.

Dreder gasped and bolted up, his good hand snatching Mazira’s wrist, his eyes wild and frenzied. 

Mazira’s song cut off with a small gasp of surprise, and Rismyn reacted. Dropping the knife—he would definitely be revisiting this topic later—he darted forward, ready to reinjure the mercenary again if he didn’t come to his senses fast enough. 

Fortunately for Dreder, it didn’t come to that. His grip relaxed as his manic expression turned to one of confusion, before he let Mazira go completely. 

“You—” he said, as though uncertain of what he was seeing. Then he blinked, his eyes unashamedly traveling the contours of her body, widening in surprise. “You…” he repeated, in a markedly different tone.

Then he groaned and pitched forward, vomiting blood and bile onto the floor, and Rismyn decided that was punishment enough for letting his gaze wander where ought not wander. 

Mazira danced back in time to avoid it, her shoulder bumping into Rismyn. Yet her expression remained smooth and blank, as though nothing in the world disturbed her. Not Dreder, not his blood, not the cut that vanished from his face, completely healed by her sacred song. 

Maybe she hadn’t seen…?

“I’m sorry,” Mazira said, when Dreder finished retching. He remained hunched over, bracing his stomach with his right arm while cradling his face with his good hand. “I’m not powerful enough to fix all the damage. But I am certain more help is on the way.”

Dreder groaned again, lifting his hand and waving as though to wave her away. “‘S fine,” he croaked. “I’ll live. I think.”

Noravar, Venom patrol’s lieutenant, moved in and offered Dreder a cloth, murmuring something about a washroom as Mazira turned her attention to the Xarrin’s.

“I reserved some power,” she said. “May I tend to you as well?”

“See to my father, please,” Ardyn said at once. “My wound is nothing.”

“I’m beyond your help, girl,” Torafein countered, and though his voice was rougher than Rismyn remembered, he didn’t sound unkind. Just tired. “Don’t waste your energy on me.” 

Mazira flinched, her hand flexing as though she wanted to curl in on herself, but she remained as straight as a plumbline. “May I at least see, and judge for myself?”

Torafein sighed, and with tremendous effort, stood, tugging away the grey folded tunic that covered him.

The sight stole Rismyn’s breath. 

There were too many wounds to count, too many scars and sickly yellow scabs. His veins stood out against his emaciated skin, darker than his charcoal complexion could conceal. 

For the first time since arriving, Mazira’s stoic countenance cracked. She breathed in, biting her lip, and after a moment, shook her head. 

“Yes, you’re right, I’m sorry.” Her eyes misted, and Rismyn recognized that set of her shoulders. Defeat, internalizing failures that weren’t real. “The infection has poisoned your blood. It’s beyond my skill level to heal.” 

“It’s alright,” Torafein said, sagging back onto the stool he’d been occupying. “Davion went for Mother Lara, too. She’ll set me straight.”

Mazira nodded, but the helpless look didn’t leave her solemn gaze.

“Heal Ardyn, then,” Rismyn suggested, nodding to the younger Xarrin. “Might as well save him the suffering.” 

Ardyn started to protest, but Dreder had already shuffled after Noravar to clean up, leaving him the only eligible victim in the room. Resigned, the gloam-drow nodded and gestured for Mazira to approach. 

Mazira did so, taking his hands, and began her healing song anew. Ardyn’s eyes closed and he shuddered, relaxing under the power of her magic. 

“Thank you,” he muttered, as Mazira stepped back. He leaned down and unwound the bandages, his skin still smudged with blood, but devoid of all traces of a wound.

Mazira allowed herself a small, satisfied smile, which she shared with Rismyn, and some of the dread that had been building in his gut eased. For the moment, the chaos had subsided. They’d done all that could be done, which meant he could finally deal with—

“I’ve seen this before,” said a voice behind them, and Rismyn winced. 

He’d completely forgotten Vaylan had followed them here. He turned and found the sun elf staring at the discarded knife from House Tear’s forges, which he had gathered from wherever Rismyn had dropped it previously. 

“This symbol,” Vaylan said, his expression haunted as he met Rismyn’s gaze. “I’ve seen it.” 

Rismyn’s insides knotted up, and he took a step forward, raising his hands in a calming gesture. There was a look of madness in Vaylan’s eyes, one that didn’t blend well with the knife in his hand.

“Give that to me,” Rismyn said. 

“Why?” Vaylan snapped, his face twisting. “Because it’s yours? That’s what this symbol is, isn’t it?” He brandished the knife, the motion blurring the engraving he raved about. “I’ve seen this on the back of a drow’s cloak, the night my family was murdered! It’s seared into my mind. And it’s yours, isn’t it? The crest of House Tear.” He went still, the teardrop insignia glinting in the faerie fire light, shining for all to see.

For Mazira to see. 

No.

Silence fell thick and heavy in the gatehouse, and Rismyn didn’t dare move. Not while Vaylan looked at him like, well, like he was Toloruel himself. There were far too many people in the room for him to risk an altercation. Someone could get hurt. 

Yet the situation required de-escalation. He had to do something. Just… what? 

Before he could figure it out, Mazira moved. She shifted beside Rismyn, stepping forward and reaching for Vaylan. 

Vaylan tensed, and for one perilous moment, he looked at Mazira as if he’d never seen her before. As if she was a danger and a threat, his tanned knuckles going white around the hilt of the knife.

Rismyn tried to grab her, to pull her back, but she somehow evaded his grasp, her delicate hands encircling Vaylan’s clenched fist around the hilt of the knife. 

“Yes,” she said simply, and the strength of her countenance was awe inspiring. 

Rismyn had imagined this revelation a thousand times and more, his worst fear manifesting in his dark dreams. Dreams he knew Mazira shared, as she rent the night with her screams. 

Toloruel, here. Toloruel, at their doorstep.

Never, in all his bleakest fantasies of this worst-case-scenario, had Mazira remained so calm.

Vaylan’s tension evaporated under her touch, and he surrendered the knife willingly to her hand, staring at her as though transfixed. 

“The symbol is House Tear’s,” Mazira said. “But this weapon belongs to my master. Not to Rismyn. His blood may be theirs, but his soul has no kinship with those elves any longer.”

Master. Rismyn cringed. She said master. 

So she wasn’t as okay as she seemed. 

And yet she still defended him. It ought to have been comforting, even moving, but it cut Rismyn as surely as the knife she handed back to him, which he tucked away in the sash of his ridiculous outfit. 

How could she absolve him of guilt, when this was so clearly all his fault? When it was he who had lost his temper and fled Menzoberranzan in the most dramatic of ways, bringing shame to the entire House. Shame which could only be assuaged in with vengeance. 

Toloruel hunted them because Rismyn had left a trail. And he lived to do so because Rismyn had failed to keep his promise of killing him to Mazira. Ten people were dead. And Torafein looked on his way to becoming the eleventh. This was, unequivocally, all his fault. 

The knife might as well be his. He had brought this calamity.

Vaylan looked around at each of them, his expression hardening. “Why are you all standing around staring at me?” he demanded. “He’s out there! Let’s get him!” 

He made to plow forward, and his motion sent everyone into action. 

Rismyn raised his hands to block his way, while Ardyn darted from his corner to intercept him. Even Torafein straightened, though he made no more moves to stop Vaylan than a glare could accomplish. 

Mazira, who’d been holding onto his hand, gripped him hard and attempted to hold him back. But Vaylan was stronger, and she lost her balance as he dragged her forward, growling, “Out of my way, Tear.”

She slipped in the blood which still coated the floor and fell back, and Rismyn watched, horrified, as gravity took her, unable to do anything about it as he had engaged himself in preventing Vaylan’s stupidity from manifesting in his untimely death. 

But she didn’t hit the ground. Unnoticed until then, Dreder had returned, just in time to catch her under the arms, bracing her back with his chest. 

And for one, suspended moment, Rismyn was back in the halls of Melee-Magthere, while Mazira was tossed around to his classmates, purposely kept away from him.

“Damn,” Dreder said, staring down at the woman in his arms. “That is a nice dress.” 

Mazira flushed scarlet and regained her feet, and unlike those days in Melee-Magthere, Dreder let her go, allowing her to scurry to Rismyn’s side, though he wore a similar expression of amusement as he surveyed the tension in the room. 

“What’d I miss?”

No one acknowledged the question, their attention rapt on the fuming sun-elf.

By now Vaylan’s path had a wall of three preventing his escape, with Mazira and Ardyn at Rismyn’s sides, and he glowered. “I won’t ask you to move again,” he said, though his hateful stare only took in the men.

“Be reasonable, Vaylan,” Ardyn said, while Dreder loomed up behind the elf, as though just waiting for the invitation to subdue him. “There are already two patrols and all of Bregan D’Aerthe out there. Wherever he is, they’ll find him.” 

Mazira inhaled sharply, though Rismyn suspected he alone was aware of it, her gaze drifting away. 

“Be reasonable?” Vaylan said. “Like you were reasonable every time your request to look for your father was denied? How many times did we try to sneak you out of the wall? This is my destiny, Ardyn. You will not stand in my way.”  

Ardyn flinched, and Rismyn sensed the resolve around him crumbling. 

“We didn’t know then who was out there,” Rismyn said, though as he said it, it occurred to him that wasn’t entirely true. Yes, he was ignorant of the killer’s identity. And yes, he believed Ardyn and Mazira were, too. 

But someone had to have known. Why else would he alone have been barred from the Militia? And the way Solaurin had been unable to look at him after speaking to Mother Lara about it…

No.

The pieces snapped into place. They’d known. They’d all known. Their leaders and superiors, and probably even Torafein. They’d known Toloruel was here, and had refused to say anything to him. They stripped him from his place in the Militia and gave him a sword to assuage his pain, like a child being mollified with a toy. As if a toy could chase away the long, sleepless nights of wondering what he had done so wrong that he’d lost his chance to serve before it was even given.

He wavered, suddenly unsure of why he was bothering to stop Vaylan from doing what he wanted. 

Vaylan must have sensed it, because he made to shove between Rismyn and Ardyn, and neither of them prevented him this time. He was all the way to the door before Rismyn recovered enough to realize that regardless of how he felt about how the situation was handled, letting Vaylan go after Toloruel was a fatal mistake. 

He whirled around as the door swung open, but Torafein’s gravelly voice stopped him in his tracks. 

“Let him go,” the battle-master commanded. 

“Toloruel will slaughter him,” Rismyn said, as the sun-elf crossed the threshold. And though he hated Vaylan, no one deserved Toloruel’s wrath. 

“He won’t make it out of the walls,” Torafein countered. “Let the Militia deal with his tantrum.” 

“But Venom and Magma are out in the tunnels,” Ardyn protested, his expression twisted with concern.

From the doorway to the washroom, Noravar, sniffed. “We didn’t leave the gates completely unmanned. We’ll take care of him. I suspect Mother Lara will want to speak with each of you when she arrives.” 

He gave Torafein a significant look, one which dripped with meaning Rismyn failed to comprehend, but Torafein seemed to understand. He grimaced and nodded, and the Militia-elf strode for the door, calling to the guard who stood there to follow him after Vaylan. 

“I should go after Vaylan,” Mazira whispered, clinging to Rismyn’s hand. “He’ll listen to me…” 

“I think it’s best you stay here,” Rismyn murmured to her, pivoting to face Torafein and raising his voice. “Because we have some questions.”

Torafein regarded Rismyn with a look that resembled iron. “I’m sure you do. But you’ll have to wait. My first report goes to Mother Lara.” 

Tendays worth of bitterness and resentment all bubbled to the surface at once, as Rismyn clenched his free hand into a fist. 

Ten people dead. Removed from the Militia. All his fault. No one bothered to tell him. 

Toloruel was here.

“Fine,” he spat. “But we’re going to be here when you give it.”

Disclaimer: Forsaken by Shadows is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.