A black carriage awaited them outside, manned by a young coachman. The moment he spotted his regal charge striding out from the shadows of the bath house, he hastily hopped down from his perch. He scrambled to open the door, and kept his head bowed in deference, silent but for an obsequious murmur of ‘Sir Knight…’ that went ignored by Umbra. Once the knight and his companion had taken their seats, the door closed neatly behind them.

The young man had been invisible to Umbra, but Esra saw him; a face pinched in concentration, downcast gaze, combed brown hair and a tidy grey uniform. In that brief glance, Esra felt he’d seen something of himself.

He was well used to being unnoticed.

With a sharp crack of the whip, they were whisked up the streets in a clatter of hooves.

Secluded from prying eyes by the dark interior of the carriage, Esra could at last take a view of the city. He peeked curiously out the window, feeling the briskness of the wind kiss his heated face as the streets swept by. The coolness of the late afternoon seeped in, betraying the end of summer.

Only a few citizens would catch a fleeting image of him, the pale oval of his face glimpsed from within a swift palace carriage, a small bare hand on the black sill.

Esra still wore the peasant clothing he’d left his village in. The workers of the bath house had washed and dried his meagre possessions with much care, and laid them out for him beside the knight’s court clothes. The sight of the simple items had given Esra pause; these were the last reminders of his village, and all that he owned in the world.

Beside him, Umbra sat dressed in opulent blacks: velvet dark as midnight, supple leather, fine linen embroidered with intricate blackwork at the collar and sleeves. The steel mask, its sharp edge gleaming. The rest of his armor had been vanished away.

Along the city, the clustered buildings were coloured anew by warm gold as the sun arched low in the sky. Streets thinned out, businesses shuttered; although the inns and taverns had only begun to light their torches, in anticipation of the evening crowds.

Esra jolted when a weight pressed his shoulder, a warm gloved hand.

The knight was near a shadow in the dim carriage, except for where the sleek geometry of his mask caught the light like a knife edge. The black mask reflected nothing, and revealed nothing. There was something hypnotic about it. The more Esra stared into it, the more the darkness seemed to invite him in. Deeper and deeper, until he felt darkness encroaching upon the edges of his own vision.

He was staring into the black abyss of a predatory eye. As he looked, it looked back at him, through him, piercing into skin and bone and blood…

Esra swayed where he sat, feeling the carriage rock all around him. His eyes stuttered over the strange dark figure before him, the pale slice of its face below the obscurity of the mask. A horrible chill prickled over skin, this primal fear -

“Esra…” came Umbra’s deep voice, quiet.

Esra let out an unsteady breath. It was only Umbra, after all, peering at him, the comforting weight of his hand on his shoulder. He gave Esra a gentle squeeze, then slid his hand down to down to the dip of his waist, and drew him in with a deft tug. Esra yielded easily, shamelessly grateful for the comfort. An eerie peace settled over him as he leaned into Umbra’s warmth.

“Are you feeling all right?” Umbra asked.

Esra nodded. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his heart still pounding. He thought of that mask in the darkness, of tales of black pits that drew the unwary in, and sucked them deep into the earth. “I only felt dizzy, for a moment.”

Umbra’s hand stroked, as if it were only natural, down Esra’s back. “Going from the heat of the baths to the fading day; it is normal for one like you to feel a little unsteady.”

His voice was meant to soothe.

Pressed up against the knight, Esra could feel the velvet of his doublet against his cheek, the warmth of him, the solidity of his muscular form. Not an hour ago, they had been together beneath the heated water, skin to skin, and joined, so completely. His own hair was still slightly damp. He breathed in the autumn scent that clung to Umbra’s skin, and knew it was the same scent that marked his own.

From this vantage point, he saw only a slice of the view out the window; upwards. The sky was aflame with the dying sun, clouds billowing silver and red up to the heavens.

The castle rose up from the earth, the white walls growing out of the mountains to surround them. As its long shadows enveloped them, Esra felt acutely his own smallness. The towers stood tall and white, dizzyingly high, spires outlined against the burning sky. The sun turned crimson over the battlements, painting the parapets with a blood-red glow.

They passed through giant gates, the barbican where castle guards kept watch from the turrets. Esra only caught a glimpse of the majestic main entrance, its grand white steps. With a deft command, Umbra ordered their driver to take them around to a northern entrance, the servant’s gate.

Their arrival would be less of a spectacle, then. Umbra, perhaps cautious of Esra’s nervousness, and his humble peasant garb, wanted as few eyes on his prize as possible.

* * *

In the dark belly of the castle, the winding network of servants’ passageways reminded Esra of the way roots tangled beneath an ancient tree. Torches lined the stone walls, dim and flickering orange.

Stone surrounded them, enclosing all. Esra thought of the caves in the seaside cliffs he was warned away from as a child. When the tide went out, their open mouths would be revealed, the soft sand and tidepools glittering in the sun. But inside they were dark as night, and there was no telling how deep the cave went, and when the ocean rose again you would never get out...

Esra’s bearings quickly spun out of understanding. In one tunnel, there was the mossy smell of the deep underground, but at the next turn, the air was high and clear, and Esra could hear the thundering rush of a waterfall. Around them, the walls whispered with life. He could hear the movements of furtive servants, even if he could not see anyone. From above, the sound of footsteps on flagstones. Below, the clanging of metal, the hissing of steam, muffled voices shouting orders. There was no making sense of the sprawling paths.

All he could do was follow Umbra; the long shadow of his figure stalking through the dim passages, lit golden by flame, and then plunged back into darkness, man, then monster.

* * *

The sky was unusually light, still, when they exited into the Order’s quarters. Arched windows lined the grand hallway, and through them all Esra could see were the clouds. They were so high up, Esra realised with dizzying knowledge, they must have traveled up so many floors, yet the sky had not even fully darkened...

Guards marched the halls, the stamp of their boots echoing against the stone floor. As they passed, they inclined their heads in respect to the black knight. Umbra, as usual, barely took notice. He looked like some sort of aloof prince, stalking the halls of his castle dressed all in black. Esra followed cautiously in his wake, anxious not to draw attention.

The walls grew into high curved ceilings that canopied far above Esra, like the evergreens of the forest when their branches bowed to touch. Tapestries hung high on the walls: Fomori myths depicted in thread, strange gods ascending from spiralling waves. Majestic spires rose from barren rockland, the birthing of a city. Millions prostrated themselves before a glowing giant.

There were paintings too, in ornate frames. Esra had never seen a painting before; he’d never had the opportunity. One landscape in particular made him pause: a grey ocean cast in gold as the sun dipped below the horizon, a solitary figure rendered in hazy shadow, watching from the corner.

The vastness of the bleak ocean before such a tiny figure had Esra suddenly thinking of his home.

He’d wake with the sun, and walk out of the sleeping hut to see this same blue-grey expanse, rushing against the shore. Sometimes he would see sails on the horizon, his father’s ships coming home. Sometimes the sea would whip up into a storm, and as a small child, Esra would curl up in his father’s arms in terror, certain that they would be swept away…

“You like these sorts of things, don’t you?” came Umbra’s deep voice from above his ear, just behind him.

Esra glanced up, startled, but the knight had only interest in his tone. In the dim torchlight, he loomed above Esra like a dark statue.

“Storytelling,” the knight elucidated. “Myths and legends. I saw you looking at the bath house murals as we passed. And now tapestries, paintings. Do the arts interest you?”

Esra flushed, caught off guard as he realised the extent of Umbra's close attention. “Y-yes, Sir Knight,” he stammered. “Although, I have not seen much of these things before.”

“Do you like this piece?” Umbra spoke of the painting, but his focus was on Esra. “What do you think of it?”

It was certainly rudeness to turn his back to the knight, but he had to consider the painting, the silver-gold sunset brushstrokes. “I think it’s beautiful,” he replied carefully, his fingers twisting together. Perhaps Umbra was looking for a certain answer. “But also… lonely, I think.”

“Why? Because only one man stands?” Umbra asked. “There is nothing like the thrill of setting off into the wilds on your own. One can be solitary, and content with it.”

“Yes, Sir Knight,” Esra said softly. Yet, he saw no contentment in the painting, the figure so pinned in at the corner by nothingness.

“Always seen this painting as an expression of ambition,” Umbra remarked, his head ducked to Esra’s ear. “It’s a century old, and at the time, all men spoke of was advancement into the Continent, though it never panned out. The painter surely had similar aspirations. All that stands before the figure is possibility. New lands to be conquered across the sea.”

“I… I know so little of these things,” Esra stammered. “I’m sure you are correct…”

“Well, I’d still hear your thoughts.” Umbra paused, his gaze sweeping over Esra. “There is more than one way to look at a painting.”

* * *

Umbra’s private quarters were situated high in one of the circular turret towers of the castle.

Golden light swept over Esra as Umbra pushed the door open. Flames danced and crackled in the fireplace of carved marble. The hearth had been warmed, in anticipation of the knight’s return.

Esra stepped across the threshold to the drawing room, eyes wide at the luxury before him. The air was warm and pleasant, smelling of herbs and beeswax. The room was shaped like a half moon, and furnished with plush seating, thick carpets. Umbra had full bookshelves, tables of curios, and his walls were decorated with tapestries, prints and paintings.

Behind him, he heard Umbra shut the heavy door, and let out a soft sigh.

Esra stilled, turned to him. His face heated as he realised that Umbra had been watching him gape in awe.

“Come take in the view,” Umbra said. His hand went to Esra’s back, under his cloak, heated against his spine.

* * *

From the balcony, Esra could see the whole expanse of the city sprawl, and beyond it, the ocean stretching out to the horizon. There was something dreamlike in being up so high, as if they stood amongst the clouds.

He turned to see Umbra close by him, watching the wonderment on the youth’s face. The knight had removed his mask, and held it loosely in hand.

“Am I really to live here?” Esra asked, breathless.

“Yes,” said Umbra simply, a faint smile on his lips.

The knight could have been himself a painting, dressed in all black, his pale features seeming to glow against the rich blue of twilight sky. Golden light from the fireplace struck the side of his face, sparking embers in his sharp grey eyes, carving out his sleek cheekbones, the perfect angle of his jaw. He leaned on the balcony by Esra, unaffected by the view. His eyes instead trailed over his latest possession.

Esra, flustered by the attention, returned his gaze to the streets. The seagulls circled below them, cawing. Beyond their white wings he could see the expanse of the city beneath, a rich carpet of twisted streets, homes, businesses, inns, theatres, and more. Small circles of gold bloomed as they lit the street lanterns, and the city glowed to life.

Caught up in the beauty of the view before him, Esra’s mind rushed. Before him, a thousand stories were being played out, like the tales Kian had…

Kian.

Esra saw, suddenly, Kian’s ruined face, heard the sound of his ragged, pained breaths, panting into his ear. It had only been yesterday. How could it have left him? Two nights ago, he had huddled with Hester on the cold dirt, and looked up at the smithy, black smoke billowing up through the chimney.

He thought of his father. The last time he’d seen him had been from a distance, Esra watching from the top of the hill as Marten gave commands to the other village men. His father hadn’t even been aware of his presence. Marten had risen earlier than Esra that morning, so busy with his duties that the two of them had not exchanged a single word. If only they’d known that would be the last time...

How could he have forgotten any of it, the blood and the bonfires? Sorrow had haunted his every waking thought during their entire journey. Every time he looked at Umbra, he’d known what he’d done, even through the intoxication of forbidden pleasure...

Esra swallowed, his mouth hot and dry, stomach twisting. He had resolved to be pleasant for his knight. He could not allow himself to once again be overcome by the crushing grief in his chest, the urge to shudder and cry--

Esra blinked and looked down. For some reason, his hands were gripping the stone railing of the balcony, fingers clenched and knuckles white. Yet he could not think of why.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Umbra’s long dark figure shift, as the knight moved towards him. Esra turned to him, and the knight’s hand went to Esra’s narrow shoulder, stroking down his waist. There was yearning in his eyes, but he kept a careful distance.

“Stay,” he told Esra. “Have business to attend to.”

“You are leaving?” Esra asked, suddenly nervous at the thought.

It was his own foolishness, of course. To not have considered the idea that Umbra might leave his side. Yet Umbra was his only anchor, the one familiar thing to him in this strange world. This very room, that had been so beautiful and grand only moments before, now seemed both overwhelming in its vastness and suffocating in its opulence. He would be left behind, all by himself, with no one else to turn to, no one left, the only who had survived -

He had to resist the urge to cling to Umbra’s sleeve.

Umbra either did not notice the growing terror in Esra’s eyes, or did not care. “Won’t be gone long,” he promised, and dropped a gentle kiss on Esra’s lips before pulling away, placing the black mask over his handsome features without another word.

The sky continued to darken.