The palace courtyard had softened into hues of gold and crimson as dusk laid its quiet claim over the kingdom. Stone benches sat tucked among neat flower beds, their petals closing for the night, while the central fountain whispered a steady rhythm of falling water. The sound eased the tightness in Jace's chest, though his body still throbbed from the morning's punishment. He sat hunched on one of the benches, elbows on his knees, watching the sun melt into the horizon as if the day's exhaustion might sink with it.
The healers had patched his cuts and bruises, but they hadn't touched the heavier fatigue—the kind that settled deep into bone, the kind that whispered he hadn't been enough. That would linger longer than the bruises.
Footsteps broke the courtyard's stillness. They weren't hurried or sharp, but steady, deliberate—steps Jace could recognize without looking up. Tor emerged from the fading light, broad-shouldered and steady, carrying two glasses of wine like they were more fragile than he was. The warrior eased down onto the bench beside him, stone groaning faintly under his weight.
"Thought you might need this." Tor offered one glass.
Jace stared at it. The liquid caught the last of the sun, glowing like molten ruby. His lips twisted. "I'm not sure I should be drinking. Still trying to process this morning."
"Trust me, lad." Tor's voice held a low rumble, the edge of weariness tempered with gentleness. "Wine can help more than brooding."
After a breath, Jace accepted the glass. His fingers lingered on the stem, cool against his still-raw palms, but he didn't drink. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the trickle of water from the fountain and the muffled voices of servants clearing the palace halls for the night.
"You know," Tor said finally, his tone softer, almost reflective, "I once had a squad like this. Six of us. Different skills, different tempers. Thought we couldn't be beaten."
Jace turned his head, surprised by the rare glimpse into the giant's past. "So why leave?"
Tor rolled the glass between his hands. "A mission went bad."
"That simple?" Jace asked. "Mercs must see bad missions all the time."
Tor's jaw tightened, shadows hardening the lines of his face. "There was nothing left to go back to. My teammates—my friends—died because of a choice I made."
The words pressed into the air like a weight. Jace stayed quiet, sensing the man needed to finish it without interruption.
"They warned me," Tor continued, eyes sinking into the wine's dark surface. "Said it was beyond us. Wanted to wait for easier work. But the gold…" His lips twisted with bitter self-disgust. "The gold was too good. I pushed them into it."
"What happened?" Jace asked.
Tor's voice dropped. "It was a trap. An ancient lich. Legions of undead. We never stood a chance." His knuckles whitened against the glass. "They held the line so I could run. I was the only one who walked away."
The image hit Jace harder than he expected—Tor, younger, fleeing while others were torn down around him. He swallowed, the wine burning as he finally took a sip.
"Is that why you went so hard on us this morning?" he asked quietly.
"Partly." Tor finally looked him in the eye, the weight of years behind his gaze. "It feels like history's about to repeat. Not for gold, not for glory. This time, there's no running. We fight, ready or not."
He gestured toward the palace, where the others were likely nursing their own bruises. "Last time, I wasn't strong enough, or smart enough. I won't let that happen again. I need to know you all can stand when it counts."
His voice softened, almost weary. "I like this squad, Wart. More than I should, maybe. But fondness doesn't keep anyone alive. Strength. Trust. That's what will."
Jace breathed out slowly. He finally saw the morning's brutality for what it was—not cruelty, not pride, but a man trying to keep them alive the only way he knew how. He lifted his glass, a small, steady motion. "Then I'll be ready. I'll make sure we're all ready."
Tor's laugh rolled out of him, low and surprisingly warm. He clapped Jace on the shoulder hard enough to make him flinch. "You're doing better than you think. Keep going, lad. There's a future in you—if we live to see it."
They drank in silence after that, the courtyard dimming as the first stars threaded through the sky. Jace felt the story lingering in the space between them, not heavy now but settled, like a truth finally shared.
From the shadowed edge of the garden, Lila watched. She hadn't come for Tor's confession but for Jace himself. His goddess remained an enigma, untouched by books, prophecies, or the words of any scholar she had sought out. Lyss was a blank where there should have been history.
If the records refused to yield answers, she would need to turn to less distant methods.
As Tor and Jace rose from the bench and made for the palace, a guard moved to intercept them at Lila's quiet signal.
"Tell Champion Wart I require him in my chambers tonight," she instructed, her voice steady but edged with purpose. "This cannot wait until tomorrow."
The guard bowed and left to deliver her words.
Lila gathered her scrolls, satisfaction curling at the edges of her thoughts. If books could not open Jace's secrets, then perhaps Jace himself would.
The safety of the kingdom—and her own restless curiosity—demanded it.
She turned toward her chambers, already planning the evening ahead.