“You talk as if I have any love for them at all. Do your worst – I’ll be watching from the plaza. With your army, of course.” 

-Letters of Emperor Dominique Sibylla the late Emperor Narcisse Silvano; Records

Florence squinted at Aster, unsure if he was hallucinating. 

Aster’s hands moved towards him, and for one moment of weakness, Florence had flinched, his body expecting something else entirely. 

“I’m just going to untie you,” Aster said softly, and Florence looked away. 

“I know.” 

Aster’s hands were surprisingly gentle. He’d barely felt the man cut through the ropes before the feeling in his wrists had returned, and soon Florence was feeling the sting of his bruises. His body was no stranger to beatings, having spent a significant time of his life as a commoner, but it still hurt. 

He glanced at Helen’s father, still unconscious next to him. There was no blood, and his chest was still rising and falling. 

“You didn’t kill him, right?” Florence still found himself asking, as Aster helped him up. 

“Of course not. I just knocked him out,” the man scoffed. And then, in a more serious tone, he asked, “do you want me to?” 

Your man, the words echoed in his head, as disturbing and ridiculous as the first time he heard it. Florence didn’t even have enough time to be embarrassed – instead, he whacked the man’s hands off him and tried to get himself together, despite his sides aching to high hell. 

“You were watching, weren’t you?” He hissed. “You were already free, and you just had to wait until he came to check up on us. Tell me, were you entertained–” 

“No. If I got here earlier, he’d be dead before he put his hands on you.” 

Your man, your man, your man. 

“Why did you even leave? Where the fuck did you go?” Florence squeaked out, in an attempt to calm down his burning cheeks. 

Now it was Aster’s turn to be exasperated. “I took back our things!” The man reasoned, gesturing to their packs behind him. “You’re a scribe, right? How the fuck do you expect to write without ink and parchment? Plus, how am I supposed to fight?” 

With that face, Florence thought, and then felt a wave of nausea creeping on his throat when he realised it. It must be the food. Perhaps Aster put something on their dinner and breakfast. Something, perhaps some kind of mushroom…

“With what?” 

“Let’s just go,” Florence limped away. 

***

The cave, as it turned out, was the mouth of a long, winding tunnel. 

Florence had little recollection of being dragged this deep into the ground, but as soon as they broke out of their cells, it became more evident that the bandits had found a way to establish a base in plain sight. Strategically, Florence imagined this setup helped this particular group of thieves stay away from unwanted attention, being right under the noses of passing caravans and even the army itself. 

Their cells were located in the innermost caverns of the tunnel. Florence tried not to think what would happen had he been captured and left to rot there all alone, where the moonlight can’t even get through. Already buried six-feet under the ground before he was even dead. 

“We’ll surface just a few feet up ahead,” Aster’s voice rang in the dark. His face was illuminated by the torch, and from the light, Florence could see the little splashes of blood on his cheeks and on his clothes. 

Throughout their escape, Aster had been like a snake in the dark, slithering about and cutting down anyone that stood in their way. 

When you’re attacked in groups, it’s often more efficient to attack the strongest, the man had said, explaining how he’d killed the bandits that attacked his village. Aster had sat in the snow, cross-legged and still injured, as he recalled his ‘hits’ for Florence to jot down. 

You’d be surprised how many of those ‘groups’ are only fodder. As for the rest, once they found out that their leader was missing, it was easy to kill them off: think of it like hunting down headless chickens. They’ve got no situational awareness, no knack for covering their vitals. It’s not so scary anymore if you’ve got more than one hundred ways to put someone on the ground. 

So far, Florence had seen Aster kill someone with a swing of their bags, a snap on the neck, a knife on the throat, a foot in the face, and the occasional head-slam on the nearby table. The movements were quick– ruthless in their efficiency–and the more he watched, the more Florence became convinced that Aster had done more time in the army than he had. 

There was a swiftness about him that betrayed years – no, probably even decades– of experience. Which sounded as ridiculous as it was unbelievable. Aster couldn’t have been older than Florence by a few years, and the scribe had never seen someone so proficient in the art of killing. 

The two of them had surfaced in no time, only to find the mouth of the cave empty. The seats and campfires were empty, and Florence would have stepped right out into the snow had Aster not held him back, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. 

“Shh,” Aster put a finger over his lips. Then, without a word, he grabbed Florence’s pack and threw it outside the snow. A sharp, whistling sound pierced the air. 

The bag had been pelted with arrows. 

From where they stood, the empty snow seemed to beckon them forward, with the occasional breeze reminding them that freedom was so close and within reach. Yet from the way the arrows hit, Florence imagined that the archers must’ve been waiting for them by the cliffs, effectively blocking their exit. 

He and Aster exchanged looks. This is it. 

It always astounded Florence how the man seemed perfectly capable of reading his mind, as though the two of them had known each other for a long time. Aster returned his expression with something equally revolting, as if it physically offended him to be told that there was no way out.  

Aster took one step forward, and at that point, Florence immediately knew what the idiot was about to do. 

“Aster, no–!” 

But it was too late: Aster had stepped out into the snow, hands raised in the air. None of the arrows pelted him. 

***

Florence almost ran after him. Almost. 

It was the second time in their mission that Florence felt the need to do Aster’s job for him – which was, frankly, to ensure that Florence stayed safe through it all. Maybe it was because the man cooked a mean dinner, had a family to get back to, or Florence simply felt indebted when he saved him from the wolf – he had no idea. 

But he found himself walking back into the darkness of the cave, helpless as the archers came down and pinned Aster to the ground. He was saying something, and it was too dark outside for Florence to make out the words. 

“We should go,” a hand grabbed his wrist, causing Florence to swing out of instinct. Thankfully, his target was significantly smaller and shorter. 

“Helen!” 

The kid still had a split lip and some bruises, but there was a determination in her gaze that hadn’t been there before. Florence fought the urge to wrap this kid up in a bundle and simply run out of here. 

“Where have you been? Did you–” He was about to kneel down and examine the kid for more injuries, but for some reason, Helen held him back, shaking her head. 

“We need to go.” 

Florence looked outside. Sooner or later, they would storm back here and discover that Florence also broke out. “But Aster, we can’t just leave him–”

“He’ll be okay,” the kid began dragging him back to the tunnels. “Uncle Aster is very strong, he said so himself.” 

The last thing he saw was Aster’s back turned towards him, as if the man already knew that it was going to turn out this way. 

First was with the wolf, and now this. 

“He better be,” Florence swore under his breath, following Helen into the dark.  “If he dies here, I’ll kill him twice.”