Forsaken by Shadows 69: Whispers

~34. Whispers~

Mazira, Dreder

Mazira knelt before an ornate silver censer nestled at the base of Eilistraee’s statue, doing her best to ignore the whispers that chased her through the sanctuary.

“Poor Mazira, she must be frightened out of her mind.”

“Can’t imagine what is going through her head right now…”

“I’m surprised she’s even here. I would have taken the whole tenday off at least.”

She withheld a sigh, absently scratching at Silverpaw’s ears as the cat batted at the incense burner. Hard to believe that this shade yesterday, she was applying cosmetics in preparation for the Serenade, her greatest fear tripping over the train of her dress in front of the whole cavern.

Now she wondered idly when the city would go to war. It was inevitable, right? And it explained why so many clerics had been blessed with magic.

Strange, how numbed to the idea she’d become. But it wasn’t like she could will the tragedy away just by fretting over it.

So she went about her duty, popping the censer open and brushing the spent ash into a pale sanctified for this specific purpose. Her first cycle as a priestess of Eilistraee, and she was assigned sanctuary maintenance. Much like her first day as a slave in Menzoberranzan.

At least there was no blood in Eilistraee’s worship, and the only idol seldom required polishing.

Not that she resented her assignment. There was a difference between service freely rendered and service forcibly extracted, and this was the path she had wanted. A choice she had made for herself. She’d been commanded to clean Lolth’s chapel as a rite of fear, a reminder of where she’d find her eventual death.

This chapel she would maintain out of reverence and love, the least she could do for the deity that had taken such special care of her. She would serve Eilistraee without complaint, and no one was going to take that from her.

No one. Especially not…

Mazira’s teeth gritted around the name she refused to acknowledge, willing herself to tune out the murmuring voices. Just focus on her work. It was easy, and it was fun. She liked neat and orderly, and she liked the sisters she served with.

She just wished they didn’t whisper so loud.

The breath exhaled over the coals was another escaped sigh, but it did its work. The charcoal bricks blazed to life, the warmth of the glow tickling her cheeks. Mazira retrieved a pouch of fresh incense from the folds of her robes and sprinkled the fragrant wood chips over the coals. Sizzling smoke billowed from the porous metal, refreshing the sanctuary with holy aromas and sending Silverpaw scampering away in a fit of sneezes.

“What are you doing here, daughter?”

Mazira squeaked, nearly dropping her bucket and brush as she whirled around, which probably wasn’t a good look for a full fledged priestess.

An especially bad look in front of the woman who stood over her.

“R-reverend Mother,” Mazira stammered, falling into an awkward curtsey that nearly dumped her collection of ash onto the floor. She managed to save it just in time, her face burning.

The Reverend Mother regarded her with crossed arms and a stern expression. “Did I not instruct you to return home and get some rest?”

It took five full heartbeats before Mazira’s fright subsided enough to allow her to comprehend the question. “I… I mean… I did…”

The Reverend Mother sniffed derisively “The light was so violet it was nearly into Blue when I dismissed you. It’s hardly been four shades since then. You cannot convince me you feel rested.”

Mazira shrank into herself. “I… I was assigned temple service this cycle. I didn’t want to be late.”

A beat of silence fell, save for the constant strumming of the harp played by a more senior cleric. Even the low drone of whispers faded, the gathering attention swirling around Mazira as though she were a leaf trapped in an eddy.

A heavy breath preceded Mother Lara’s next words. “Lift your eyes, daughter. You’re not in trouble.”

Really? Could have fooled Mazira. But she did as she was told.

Mother Lara had her eyes closed, massaging her brow. “Given the circumstances, you should have been released from service today. Go home and actually rest. You may return once you’ve had a full night cycle of sleep.”

She turned away, striding up the aisle as if that was it. The end of the conversation. And really, it ought to have been. She was the Reverend Mother, after all. Her word was law, no matter what the Council tried to espouse.

Frost clambered up Mazira’s bones, starting with her spine and spreading through her ribs. A miserable sense of reeling dread. She had failed. She was losing. He was going to win, scar every beautiful thing that had come into her life, just like he had scarred Rismyn’s face.

He always won.

“Please,” Mazira breathed, almost unintentionally. She’d conjured the word in her soul, but she’d never meant to speak it aloud. What good was arguing with a direct order?

And yet the Reverend Mother froze, pivoting back to face Mazira.

“Yes?”

Mazira swallowed, her fingers curling into fists, not out of defiance, but as a desperate act to conjure courage. “Please don’t make me go home. I… I want to be here. I don’t… want… him… to take anything else from me.”

It felt like such a monumental statement, but Mother Lara just stared, her expression a cipher. Mazira willed herself to hold her gaze, hoping the long sleeves of her robes would hide the shaking of her hands.

And then, Emmalara deflated, the tension in her muscles leaking away. “You speak so softly it’s easy to forget you’re hiding steel under your skin,” she said, with a rueful shake of her head.

Mazira flushed. Was that a compliment, or a reprimand?

“Let us agree to a compromise. You may stay until White Light.”

“But—” Mazira began.

“No more,” Mother Lara said, cutting her off. She stepped toward Mazira and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Working yourself to exhaustion is not how you win. Taking care of yourself, resting, thriving. That is how you defeat evil, daughter. Go home and rest, and return rejuvenated and ready to fight. Alright?” She finished with a fond smile, a rare expression that even Mazira couldn’t find fault with.

“Alright,” Mazira said, nodding. “I’ll do my best.”

***

Dreder was wandering. Still wandering. And no one seemed to care.

Wasn’t he supposed to get arrested for trespassing like this? That’s how it sounded when the fancy Queen Mother and Kalos threatened them when they first arrived. Don’t you dare wander off the docks, or the Militia will get you. Like some lolthawful bedtime story a bitter elder sister might tell the charges she didn’t want.

Oh, people certainly stared when he strolled by, but no one accosted him for his crimes. Instead, their eyes went big and starry, whispers hissing after him.

“He’s the one who saved Torafein.”

“Heard he fought off a whole army by himself.”

“Almost died, the way Davion told it. Blood everywhere. Eilistraee herself had her hand on him.”

Then elvish songs of praise to her. Their weird goddess.

For him.

All his short miserable life, Dreder had salivated after the title of legend, hungering for the awe and dread an elite swordmaster inspired. With enough prowess, even women thought twice before bullying legends. It had been the singular focal point he’d set for himself, the higher ideal that made the wretched stepping stones worth it.

He hadn’t expected to achieve that goal before his first century, let alone before his thirtieth decade. Nor had he expected it to feel so sickening.

Shame and disgust churned in his gut, wrestling for dominance. The temptation to grab his hero-accusers and shake them was nearly overwhelming. He didn’t save Torafein and he only dueled one enemy and no deity had their hand on him.

He wasn’t a hero.

His stomach growled and he groaned in frustration, cutting down yet another random street lined with squared houses. He was starving, but the scent of food chased his appetite away, conjuring images of the Xarrin home and the elves who’d chased him out.

And why had he fled? It seemed so stupid now, as he stalked the brightening streets. Torafein’s smile, Ardyn’s grief. The little girl with the big orange eyes, and the matron who wanted to feed him. Weird, sure, but smothering? Suffocating? Dreder distinctly remembered a lack of ability to breathe, but this many shades removed, he couldn’t fathom why.

Ugh, this was so stupid. This whole city was stupid and so was this job, and thankfully, it was over. Launa had their real hero back and probably would be sacked by the end of the tenday, anyway, once House Tear came back with an army. Kalos wasn’t dumb enough to hang around for that. Dreder would be on the boat sailing home by the end of the day, this place nothing but a blip in his memory by the time his centuries were over.

Served them right. They’d been gambling with fate. A city of drow devoted to non-drow ways? Of course Lolth was going to wreck them. They were stupid to think they could get away with this. They reaped what they sowed, whatever that meant. Another one of Kalos’ dumb surface sayings.

And he was stupid for caring.

No, no, no. They were ruining him. Turning him into something else. He didn’t care about this city, with their sweet frozen creameries and calf-eyed Ti’yana’s and self-sacrificing Ardyn’s. He would laugh when it fell.

Laugh.

Laugh, darn it!

The sense of suffocating returned, and Dreder picked up his pace as if he could outrun his turmoil. Wandering wasn’t working. He needed a distraction. Something action-oriented. Preferably violent. But the thought of returning to the barracks left a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn’t stand those elves. It wasn’t going to help.

Maybe he ought to go torment Riz. That was usually fun, watching the veins bulge in his neck as he tried to contain his temper. And he could go for a rematch with Riz, one where Torafein wasn’t there to save him.

Pain lanced across his stomach. Dreder swore, clenching his hand into a fist, as the rematch-thought evoked memories of Mazira on the academy floor, choking on her own blood. Why did every thought lead back to that woman?

Fine. No Riz. What about Ti’yana? He had her azurite, after all. And he could easily get lost in her beauty. A worthy distraction.

Except apparently he didn’t really love her. Da—arnit! Why did Ardyn have to say that? And what did love have to do with infatuation, anyway? He didn’t have to love a woman to be happy with her, or to make her happy.

He didn’t.

Ugh. A fight. He needed a fight. A good brawl to get him back to feeling like himself. Wasn’t there somewhere these Launites fought? Like their own Melee-Magthere, or even just a real tavern?

Wait, didn’t their clergy fight? They all carried swords, and blade was in the name. Yes, that would be a perfect match. A tangible reminder of power. And probably deeply offensive, too. Just what he needed to silence the hero worship haunting his steps.

He turned another corner and rounded back toward the temple, determined to pick a fight with a priestess.

***

Mazira raced to escape the temple grounds before White Light softened to yellow, praying she didn’t cross paths with Mother Lara as she went. While she was technically still within the parameters of the Reverend Mother’s instructions, most of the other clerics had already drifted off to have their mid-cycle meals. She alone had remained, determined to wring every drop of service out of her first day as a cleric as she was allowed.

Toloruel was not taking this from her.

Yet even as she thought it, she wilted a little. Her circumstances seemed to imply otherwise.

No, stop. Just go home. Everything would seem brighter after a nice long sleep. Exhaustion was the enemy of her recovery. This wasn’t a route from battle, it was a tactical retreat, allowing her to strike harder another cycle. Or at least, that sounded like something Rismyn would tell her.

She blinked sleepily, a wan smile tugging at her lips. Even without his physical presence, Rismyn still made her feel better. Maybe he would be home, too. It was an unofficial holiday, after all. Most of the city was shut down to sleep the effects of the Festival away.

Come to think of it, if they were allowed to rest, why not she?

“Mazira!”

Her heart tripped as her name echoed across the courtyard, startling her like a mouse caught in the pantry, despite the fact that she recognized the voice.

“Vaylan,” she greeted, fidgeting with her robes as she paused to wait for him.

He’d been so angry the last time she saw him. So hurt and broken at the revelation of Toloruel’s presence. And she’d done nothing to comfort him. Hadn’t even pursued him. Barely thought of him after he left.

What a terrible friend she was.

Yet he smiled at her, warm and bright, as if none of it had ever happened. “I’m glad I caught you. Can we get lunch?”

Mazira flinched, a reaction she instantly regretted. But she couldn’t stop herself. Despite the strangling guilt at abandoning him in his hour of need, she wasn’t ready to face him yet. He would want to talk about it, while Mazira just wanted to move on. Focus on actionable steps, not wallowing in fear and the pain of reliving the past.

“I’m supposed to go home and rest,” she tried. “Mother Lara said so…”

But Vaylan would not be deterred. “Can I walk you?” he asked, glancing around as though afraid they were being watched. And perhaps he was suffering from a bout of paranoia. Now that he was close, she saw what his smile couldn’t hide. Bloodshot eyes dragged downward by dark circles. Had he slept at all? “We need to talk.”

Mazira bit her lip, tightening her grip on the fabric of her robe. He wasn’t wrong. They should talk. Hadn’t that been what he’d been telling her the cycle before? That he needed her, and that she was the only one who conjured good memories for him?

The thought curdled like sour milk in her stomach. She wanted to be needed. She even wanted to help him. But something about the way he had said those words frightened her. Like he expected things from she didn’t have to give.

But he was her friend, and he was suffering. She was being selfish.

“Okay,” she conceded.

Vaylan relaxed and fell into step beside her. “You look good, by the way. The robes suit you. How was your first day?”

Right to the heart. Mazira winced, looking away. “Fine,” she said, for it was easier to say that than try to explain the hollow ache gnawing on her insides.

“Did you do anything interesting?” he pressed, as they left the courtyard behind and started down an empty street. “The monks who raised me would spend hours in morning meditation. I could never sit still that long.”

“Just some cleaning,” Mazira said, studying the way her toes kicked out the hem of her robes.

“Cleaning?” Disdain bled through the word. “I thought you were a priestess, not a maid.”

She flinched again. “Maintaining order in Eilistraee’s sanctuary is important work.”

“Is that what they told you?” He scoffed. “Sounds like they’re exploiting you for free labor.”

Mazira withheld a sigh. She didn’t have it in her to argue that she received a salary for her service, nor that she was happy to do the work. “What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked instead. Better to get it over with.

Vaylan’s good humor faded. “Can’t you guess?”

She didn’t answer, glancing upward instead as they passed beneath the shadow of a bridge. Even in a city supernaturally lit, there still managed to exist pockets of lingering darkness. A small observation which seems magnified by her current life circumstances.

His hand caught hers, jarring her to a stop, and Mazira tensed, resisting the urge to yank out of his grip. Why did he always have to touch her?

“We didn’t get to finish our conversation last night,” Vaylan said, his golden gaze reminiscent of blazing metal.

Mazira’s brows knit together. Their conversation? Which conversation? Didn’t he want to talk about Toloruel?

The memory hit her like falling into a vat of icy water and her body went from tense to ridgid. Oh, no. No, no, no.

“Vaylan…” She tried to tug her hand back, but he wouldn’t release it.

“I’m sorry this is how the Stars wrote us,” he said, dragging his thumb over the back of her hand in what was probably meant to be a gentle caress, but all it accomplished was sending a horrendous crawling sensation across her skin.

“Vaylan, I don’t really think the stars—”

“Shh, it’s okay.”

Mazira bristled. Did he just shush her?

“Whether you believe in the Stars or not doesn’t change what they write.”

He wasn’t going to listen to anything she said, was he? Not until he’d said his piece. Mazira swallowed and looked away, completely at a loss for how to stop his words.

Perhaps it was best to just let him speak. Get whatever this was over with. Who knows, it might not be as bad as she was assuming.

“It isn’t an accident that we found each other down here,” Vaylan continued, apparently needing no encouragement from her to keep going. “Nor that he turned up shortly thereafter. We’re meant to be here.”

He took another step toward her, as if drawn in by their linked hands.

“We’re fated, Mazira. Fated to avenge our families. And restart them together.”

Her nose crinkled as he forced the words on her. Fated? Seldarine have mercy. Fated for what? She had guesses, and it made her stomach church. He couldn’t honestly believe this, could he?

“I know, it’s hard to believe,” Vaylan said, as if he had read her mind. “I never expected a comedy arc in my life.”

He meant it in the literary sense, of course. A comedy was a tale with a happy ending, whereas a tragedy was, well, tragic. Yet she couldn’t help but appreciate the irony of his words. Nothing, absolutely nothing, about the last cycle spoke to Mazira of a comedy arc.

“Vaylan, I’m not sure—”

“Shhh,” he said again, lifting a finger to her lips, and Mazira ground her teeth together to keep from biting him, shocking herself with the violent impulse. Still, his insistence on shushing her like a frightened child was starting to get more than annoying.

“You need only look at the proof to understand. We found each other. That monster is right outside the gates. We’ve been put here to kill him. And after that, we rebuild.”

As if restating his points would somehow make her change her mind. Mazira’s brows furrowed and she tried to take a step back, but he caught her free hand and drew her uncomfortably close.

“Vaylan,” she said, struggling against his grip. “I agree that it is quite the coincidence, but I lived with him for a long time. We aren’t strong enough to kill him. Not alone.”

She didn’t mention the rebuilding part. Hopefully she could distract him from that subject. Permanently.

“We’re not alone,” Vaylan insisted, and he snaked an arm around her waist, and any doubts Mazira had that she was overthinking his meanings evaporated. “We have each other.”

No, no, no! What was wrong with him? What about her words or actions had made him think she wanted this? Mazira squirmed to escape but he was strong, pinning her in place as he leaned in, parted his lips…

“Vaylan—wait!”

A burst of warm energy erupted from her skin, solidifying into a solid bubble of light, which forced his arms away from her body. Vaylan’s forehead smacked into her shield with a crack and he stumbled back, swearing and holding his brow.

“I’m so sorry,” Mazira squeaked, staggering backward until she hit the column of the overpass with her still-intact shield.

“Did you…” Vaylan gasped, staring at his hand as if he expected to find blood. “Did you just use magic on me?”

“N-no… I mean… kind of…” She was shaking, both from what he had tried and what she had done to him. He was her friend.

Yet she held onto the threads of her shield spell, just in case. “I’m sorry Vaylan, but no. I can’t do this. We aren’t fated.”

Vaylan just stared at her as if he couldn’t comprehend what she was saying. “Of course we are, the story—”

“Life isn’t a story!” Mazira cried, louder than she meant as she clutched at the fabric of her robes. She regretted raising her voice, but he needed to see reason. “We aren’t characters in a play. We’re just… just doing the best we can in the world we live in. I don’t feel the same way about you as you seem to feel about me.”

His pained expression morphed into anger. “What do you mean you don’t feel the same way?” he asked. “You have to. We’re… ah. Maybe I’m jumping the script. You will—”

“No, Vaylan!” she snapped. Then, softer, “There’s already someone I love. I’m sorry. We will work together to stop Toloruel, but we’ll all do it. The whole city. He’s beyond what you or I could handle.”

The emotion storming in his eyes tore her heart in two, but there was nothing she could do. The alternative was to submit to his talk of destiny, and that was impossible. She hadn’t decided yet where she landed on the subject, but knew with absolute certainty that it wasn’t with him.

“You already love someone?” Vaylan finally echoed, his voice low and dangerous, “Who? That drow? The one who you were enslaved to?”

“I was never enslaved to Rismyn,” Mazira said, which wasn’t technically true. She’d been enslaved to all the drow of House Tear, even if Toloruel was her owner.

“It’s disgusting, Mazira,” he snarled, stalking toward her. “He’s kin to the one who killed your parents. His kind don’t possess souls. How can you even look at him? How can your parents even rest in their graves knowing you would consort with that?”

Mazira closed her eyes, shaking her head. If Vaylan had only seen what she had seen in her vision when her scars were removed. Corellon and Eilistraee speaking together of their fates. A drow goddess and an elven god. The unity of kindred that had always been meant to be.

Her friendship with Rismyn was a small reclamation of that reality. Even if they never became more…

She took a deep, steadying breath, and closed her fists into balls. “I don’t have to justify my feelings to you,” she said, finding her center. What had Mother Lara said? She hid steel beneath her skin? “I don’t love you. And I don’t think you love me either. I think you love the idea of me.”

“How dare you,” he hissed.

He surged toward her, and Mazira’s bubble of light shattered as a burst of white fire sparked around the hands she raised to defend herself. This time, it wasn’t accidental. She’d sung the line to conjure it.

Vaylan stopped in his tracks. “More magic? Mazira, I’m not going to hurt you!”

His tone said otherwise.

“Please—I want you to leave,” Mazira said. “We can talk about this later when you’ve calmed down, but my answer will not change.”

“Mazira,” he said again, then froze as the skittering sound of a rock against stone interrupted whatever he intended to say.

He turned, and Mazira’s gaze darted beyond him to the drow who stood in the street watching them, arms crossed over his chest.

“Oops,” he said, gesturing to the pebble that had caused the commotion with a silver hooked hand. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. But please, don’t stop on my account. I was enjoying the show.”

***

When Dreder decided to head to the temple for a fight, he had mistakenly assumed he was going to have to start it. More than that, he’d assumed he’d be participating in it. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he would stumble upon one in the making. Not in this boring little hamlet. It was the ideal situation—almost.

Unfortunately, the brewing conflict just so happened to involve the very girl he was trying so hard to forget. Riz’s girl.

Mazira.

Big lavender eyes stared at him from beyond Blond-Elf’s shoulder, wide and afraid, accusing him in all the ways that stirred up those troublesome emotions he’d been hoping to smother with violence.

It wasn’t his fault she got stabbed back at the academy, lolthdarnit. It wasn’t. Accidents happened.

But that’s not what her eyes said.

“What are you doing here, sell-sword?” the blond-elf demanded. “You’re supposed to have an escort.”

Dreder shook from his bitter reverie, glancing from Mazira to Blond-Elf, pursing his lips. He was already in a foul enough mood without being harassed but some uppity faerie.

Well, at least he’d found someone to fight. He painted on his cockiest smile and put his good hand to his hip. “Am I? Guess I forgot. You gonna arrest me or something, faerie?”

Blondie glowered and clenched his fists. “Get out of here. This doesn’t concern you.”

“What, and miss all the fun? My money’s on the girl, by the way.”

“You really want me to call the Militia on you, don’t you?”

Dreder’s smirk became a wide grin. “Oh, by all means, please, call the Militia. ‘Course, that might not end well for you. Or is forcing yourself on a woman acceptable in this backwards town? Where I come from, it’s a good way to lose your—”

“Forcing myself!?” Blondie cried. He looked to Mazira, whose stony expression beyond her glowing hands must not have offered him any comfort. He stepped away from her, his face draining of color. “Mazira… I didn’t mean…”

“Please just go,” Mazira said, in a voice Dreder didn’t know she was capable of. Cold and hard, a far cry from the meek and mousey whispers he’d heard from her previously.

And it worked. Blond-elf staggered backwards, before turning on his heel and fleeing into the city. Dreder cackled at his retreat, until the ramifications of what had just happened hit him.

Oh, scat.

Now who was he supposed to fight? It sure wasn’t going to be Mazira. She might qualify as a cleric but… he shuddered, as the sentence finished itself in the most un-drow-like way.

She might be a cleric, but he’d done enough damage to her already.

Something was deeply wrong with him. And he sensed it was Mazira’s fault.

He turned to glare at her, and found her slumping to the ground, her sparkle of light fading as she buried her face in her hands. An overt display of weak emotion unbecoming a warrior who just successfully drove away her attacker. He wanted to be disgusted.

But he wasn’t. He just felt worse.

Ughh. This day, or cycle, or whatever, just went from bad and worse. Grinding his teeth, Dreder strolled toward her, intending to walk past her and find a real fight to get into. Yet as he drew level with her, he found himself hesitating.

“Hey, what’re you crying about?” Dreder asked, nudging her gently with his toe. “You won.”

“I’m not crying,” Mazira said, though it sounded more like the muffled squeaks he had come to associate with her. Yet when she lifted her face, it was true. Her eyes and cheeks remained dry. She held his gaze—something he still wasn’t used to faeries doing, and spoke again in that strong, feminine tone. “And I didn’t win anything. He’s… he was… my friend…” Her eyes drifted away.

“Friend?” Dreder scoffed and plopped down on the ground next to her. “Look, where I come from, friends do a lot of sh—er—crappy things to each other. But we don’t do that. You clearly wanted him to back off, and he clearly didn’t care.”

Mazira sniffled and hugged her knees to her chest, though an inspection of her gaze revealed no wellspring of tears forming. “You saw?”

“I saw enough,” Dreder said, leaning back to prop himself up with one hand. “Man, Riz is going to beat the shadows out of that elf when I tell him. What was that prick even thinking? Everyone knows you’re Riz’s girl.”

Mazira groaned and pressed her forehead to her knees. “He doesn’t—I’m not—” she groaned again, then rolled her head back, looking him in the eye again.

He wished she wouldn’t do that. All he saw in her gaze was accusation.

“I am not Rismyn’s girl,” she finally said. “But please don’t say anything to him. It’s not his fault. He’s just confused, he—”

She kept talking, but Dreder had stopped listening. Truthfully, he barely registered anything she had said after her first five words.

“Wait, hold on!” he cried, sitting up and staring at her, utterly aghast. “What did you just say?”

She flinched at his sudden reaction, evoking memories of their first meeting which rubbed his soul wrong. Oh yes, he was definitely going to have to deal with this head on if he ever wanted to find peace in depravity again.

“I—I said it was his fault. Vaylan—”

“No, no, before that.” He waved his hook. “You’re not Riz’s girl? Not his lover? Like, at all? Since when!?”

Her hands shot to her face, creating a little cage of fingers for her to peer through. “What? N-no. We’ve never been—”

“What!?” He scrambled to his feet. “Are you serious!? Why the… heck… not?”

Her eyes widened as if she were afraid, and as well she should be. Dreder had lost his hand for their little romance. The thought that they hadn’t even done anything with their escape at his expense was, well, maddening.

“Well?” he demanded.

“I… I…” She scooted back.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, sorry,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’ll have to forgive me. I forgot I’m supposed to talk all sweet and gentle-like. I’m just struggling to comprehend what the problem is here.”

“N-no, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

Like his apology was actually serious. What was with this girl?

She swallowed and stood up, though she hugged her arms around herself. Her quartz-white cheeks had a touch of rose coloring to them. “It’s just hard to explain. I—well. Truthfully I don’t think he loves me anymore. He claimed to, once, but I wasn’t ready, and I hurt him. I think he’s moved on.”

Dreder couldn’t believe the words he was hearing. He wasn’t certain his jaw would ever hinge properly shut again, with how often he was dropping it. “When did he tell you this?” he demanded.

“Tell me what?”

“That he loved you.” Geez, woman, keep up.

“B-before he left for Melee-Magthere,” she squeaked. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

“Because!” Dreder waved his hooked hand above his head by way of an answer, which didn’t seem to communicate much judging by the baffled expression on her face. “You’re telling me that he took on the entire class and both teachers and threw away his whole identity for a dying girl he wasn’t even in love with?! Yeah, no. Sorry. Not buying it. Riz might not be the deepest shadow in the gloom but he’s not a complete idiot. Starting to wonder about you, though.”

Her lips thinned into a line. Apparently, Dreder had offended her. Well, good. She deserved it. How long had she been stringing poor Rismyn along for? Even Dreder had limits on how much suffering he thought was funny.

“I’m not stupid,” she said, but her mousey voice betrayed a lack of confidence in the statement. “Rismyn hasn’t indicated his feelings for me have returned. He’s had plenty of opportunities to.”

“Yeah, well, that’s probably because he’s a male.”

She blinked at him, and Dreder was tempted to rip out his hair. How was she not getting it?

“Maybe you don’t remember,” he said, in as patient of a voice as he could muster, “but we’re not exactly allowed to approach women with our interest where we come from.”

“What?” She narrowed her eyes. “I mean, yes, I remember. But he did so before. And besides, you and Ti’yana…”

“I’m obnoxious on purpose,” Dreder clarified. “It’s my thing. Rismyn, on the other hand, is a good little drow. Always has been, s’why he was a teacher’s pet.” He rolled his eyes, not that he was bitter. “He does what’s expected. And if he broke the rules once and it turned out bad for him, then he probably knows better than to try again. Geez, you’re probably torturing him worse than neurotoxic venom! And I thought I was cruel.”

And, finally, Dreder succeeded in sparking her eyes with tears. Yet it had the most deplorable effect on him; it made him regret what he said. He bit down on his tongue before he could do more damage and crossed his arms. What was it about this girl? Had she actually put an enchantment on him? “Look, I—”

“But wouldn’t he show it?” she asked, wringing her hands. She looked far more distressed than she had ever seemed defending herself from the blond elf. “Wouldn’t he… you know… treat me differently? He’s always been so kind and courteous to me, in his own way.”

“Ugh, you’re asking the wrong elf about love,” Dreder said, kicking at another stone to avoid looking at her as Ardyn’s accusations haunted his fringe thoughts. “But maybe, I dunno, maybe he’s loved you for so long you just got used to it.”

She squeaked, and when Dreder glanced at her, he found her wide-eyed again, with her hands clapped over her mouth. And, unfortunately, still leaking tears like a broken faucet.

“Would you stop crying?” he complained. “It’s not that big a deal.”

It had only cost him his dignity, his hand, and his future.

“Dreder…”

He flinched when she said his name. Had she ever said his name before? They weren’t supposed to be talking to each other, according to Riz’s rules. But he’d broken that boundary last night and the cavern hadn’t caved in. What was one more conversation?

“You’re right. I am an idiot, aren’t I?”

“Uhhh…” He hadn’t expected that. It felt like one of those girl questions you weren’t actually supposed to answer.

“You’re right. Oh, stars, you’re right.” She wiped her tears away, and smiled.

He’d definitely never seen that before. Worse, her smile eased some of the dark feeling in his heart.

“I have to go,” she said, turning away, “I have to find Rismyn. I—”

“Wait!”

She stopped midstep, glancing back at him.

“Hang on,” Dreder said, shuffling awkwardly. “I actually have something I need to say to you.”

She blinked and cocked her head, then turned to face him, indicating he had her full attention.

Great. Now he had to do it. He had to face this disgusting shame and get rid of it. Cure himself of whatever spell she’d placed him under, even if the magic was all in his head.

He took a deep breath. “Getting stabbed…” he said, indicating his abdomen. “It sucks. So. I guess… sorry I got you stabbed. And, uh. Thanks for not letting me die.”

There. He’d said it. Gratitude needed to be expressed, right? That’s what Ardyn had said. Yet he didn’t feel any better. Not until… until…

Oh, dark Seldarine. That smile. Was that what the warmth of the sun felt like? Mazira smiled, and he was transfixed, calcified to the stone as she glided toward him, raising her arms. He had no idea what to expect next, but it certainly wasn’t her hands on his shoulders, or her soft lips against his cheek.

“I forgive you,” she said, and though the words were whispered, they weren’t mousey. “Thank you. And thank you for helping with…” she looked away, gesturing to the area around them, and Dreder knew what she meant.

Thanks for helping her scare that punk away. Son of a… had he played the hero again?!

Yet as she turned away from him, he found he couldn’t be mad about it. In fact, he was… elated. Free. Feeling lighter than he had felt in a long, long time.

For the first time in his life, Dreder finally understood why a drow might want a different life.

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.