It had been nearly three days since Fyron and Jerika had arrived in Aarov. Three long days filled with endless “but”s and “what if”s. And if he were perfectly honest, Micaiah was over it. He hadn’t imagined, even for a moment, that restructuring his organization to provide better long term support for mages would be easy, but it was becoming too much. 

Honesty compelled him to admit that he was in awe of Fyron’s ability to plan and network. In three days, the young nobleman had found an apprentice tailor willing to create custom garments meant to cover mage marks and a small mining town whose population had dwindled so far they would welcome any new workers, even mages. He had even sent letters to two trustworthy contacts in his hometown to ask for further ideas. In three days!

         Fyron still spent most of his time in Jerika's room, even when working, unwilling to leave her for more than an hour or two. Micaiah envied the easiness he had seen between them, the trust. It had been brief, but the fire in Jerika's eyes when she saw Fyron hurt, Fyron's confidence in her abilities, how he'd been able to calm her fury with a few words, and how she'd accepted his explanation without question…. It spoke of a deep bond. 

         Micaiah sighed, running his hands through his braids again and toying with the beaded ends. Had he ever had a relationship like theirs? The closest he could recall was the man he'd once loved, back when he was still a prince. He and Gad had shared everything, they had no secrets from each other, at least… that was how it began. Micaiah had suspected his older brother Marel of harassing Gad, trying to come between the two of them. He'd been right that there was something between the first prince and his lover, but all signs said Gad had initiated it. 

          Even after discovering the truth, Micaiah had been willing to forgive; love does such things to people. Prince Marel however, had other plans. When it came to his attention that Micaiah knew about their dalliance and had forgiven Gad, Marel had Gad killed. Gad had never been more than a pawn, a way to ensure Micaiah had no designs on the throne, and a way to get under the skin of the little brother who always showed him up. 

         Gad's death was, in large part, why Micaiah had been disowned. Having overcome his heartbreak at being betrayed, having determined to forgive and move on, only to have that made meaningless? By the same person who caused the hurt, no less? By family? Micaiah's emotions raged and fire burst from him, destroying his wing of the palace along with any evidence that pointed to the first prince as the culprit. Micaiah was thought to be too emotionally unstable to be trusted with magic in the capital, and certainly unfit to rule, making Marel the sole contender for the throne.

          It had been almost twelve years since he'd lost control but even now his hands trembled whenever he channeled more than enough to light a candle. He was the reason mages had become so oppressed, so feared, of late. His lack of control had cost so many their lives, their freedom, their peace. 

        That's why he'd started the Underground. But now he could see that he needed to do more. Fyron had shown him a glimpse of what the Underground could become and it was beautiful. Every single person who had approached him to change the Underground before had been driven by greed, a lust for power, or a desire for vengeance. Fyron truly wanted to help people, that was all. And that is why Micaiah had caved and agreed to the boy's proposal of change.

          Now if only he could convince the pair to stay on and help run the new and improved Underground. He needed someone he could trust and these two… there was something about them that called to him.

Fyron was by Jerika’s bedside again as had become his nightly habit. He had taken to sleeping on a cot near the window, not wanting to be close enough to startle her if she woke but not wanting to leave her either. Though still unconscious, Jerika retained her death grip on his dagger. It had been an instinctive thing, to leave her a weapon when he left the room that first day, but now he couldn’t pry the blade away from her if he tried. 

He recalled the faint silver lines criss-crossing her forearms, the way she always slept lightly, while sitting upright if possible, waking at the slightest noise. He recalled the blind panic in her eyes when she woke from those rare but unavoidable deep sleeps, and realized that she had probably spent many a night wide eyed and trembling, trying not to sleep, a bared blade in hand to ward off danger. 

He had read about the Shadow Houses, had heard of and even seen, on occasion, some of the atrocities inflicted on their mages. House Feol, the house that Jerika had once belonged to, was more secretive than most and in all likelihood, more brutal. Rika had yet to speak of her past with more than a few sentences in passing, but those few sentences had both terrified and enraged him. 

It could not continue. He wanted to be free to live his life, he wanted other mages to have the same, but more than that, he wanted to stop people like Vekir Feol from exploiting the young and innocent, to keep the powerful from breaking and abusing the weak. If he had to put a name to this feeling, it might be righteous fury, and it smoldered within him, its flame growing stronger by the day, as new injustices were discovered.

Fyron patted Jerika’s hand one last time before crossing the room to slip beneath the blanket on his small, lumpy cot.

“Good night, Ri. Please wake up soon.” He cracked a small smile, “It’s terribly boring here without you.”

Jerika floated in a beautiful pastel sea, the foam of the waves silky on her skin, the steady rhythm of the water crashing upon the shore, a soft lullaby. Even the motion, the rise and fall of the waves as they swelled and broke was a gentle rocking, like being safe in her mother’s arms again. 

Then the salty tang in the air faded, replaced by the stench of dye, the crashing of waves and the calls of gulls became the murmur of the marketplace and the hawking of merchants. The neutral warmth became the sticky heat and humidity of late summer in Thyr. 

Voices rose and fell, hushed whispers and open disdain, fear and disgust. The clink of coins followed by a satisfied chuckle, “I'll take good care of her, don’t worry. She’s a valuable commodity now.” 

Then all was blackness and haze and smoke, the tumult of an angry crowd ringing in her ears. Jeers and steel bars, blood and sweat. Flashes of bruising pain glanced across her body, as stones and bottles struck her from all sides. Then, a sharp, pulling pain at the base of her skull as Vekir Feol dragged her upright by her hair and hissed in her ear, “Fight it all you like. You are mine now, mage, and you will never escape me.”

Rika sat bolt upright, the covers clinging to her sweat slicked skin. Her eyes scanned her surroundings in a panic, noting the unfamiliar room layout and furnishings. Then her eyes landed on a familiar figure sitting on the edge of a simple cot across the room, his eyes showing uncertainty and relief. She felt the comforting weight of a dagger in hand and closed her eyes, forcing herself to slow her heartbeat and deepen her breathing. 

When she was calm enough to speak, she opened her eyes and sought Fyron’s gaze, with a smirk only slightly forced, “So what did I miss?”