When Aster was tucked into a corner and sleeping his hubris away, Florence had been left with a half-empty mug of spitfire, along with a couple of judgemental gazes. 

He’d always known that capital citizens like him stuck out like sore thumbs, but nothing prepared him for the bloodlust and spite that rolled off locals in waves as if they were simply waiting for the right moment to gut him like a pig. It would be deserved, given what everyone outside the city of Elysia had to endure. 

But Florence had a real job, something that separated him from the no-good, tax-eating nobles of the capital. He deserved at least a seat. And if someone tried something stupid, he had Aster with him, which was the equivalent of having a sentient knife. 

It was a solid plan. 

Keyword: was. 

I was dead, Aster confessed. I was dead, and then I wasn’t. 

The other man kept saying those words, all red cheeks and bitten lips, as if repeating them held any meaning. He would look at Florence, begging to be believed, but it didn’t matter whether Florence gave his assent or tried to console him. He would only refer to the scribe as ‘Your Highness’, tone halfway between mocking and reverent, and mutter vague pieces of information that Florence assumed to be the alcohol talking. 

You’re not the emperor. 

No masks yet. 

You should meet my friend. 

Aster had gone on wild, almost hilarious tangents about this so-called friend, whom he supposedly shared thirty years of imprisonment with. At first, Florence thought it was all part of his plan – to play the part of a lost-in-the-moment, tipsy drunkard. 

Until he started talking about this friend’s supposedly unmatched wit, thoughtful reflections on how to dismantle the empire, reestablish diplomatic relations, revitalize trade, and many more. Aster had relayed them with such detail, so much so that Florence gave great consideration to these theories. This ‘friend’ supposedly had so much knowledge that it could put the empire’s scholars to shame, yet for some reason, had been stuck in the same hellhole as Aster was. 

Rationality and logic would argue that Aster had no way of being imprisoned in the Fortress of Serberos, because the mere act of getting into Elysia, never mind the capability to commit a crime in there, would have cost him an arm and a leg. If Florence had any bit of common sense, he wouldn’t even bother to listen to Aster’s ramblings. The man could write a novel with all the outlandish things he could come up with, possibly even take Florence’s job as a scribe.

But this friend of his…the one whose name and face Aster didn’t even know, somehow got this blunt, sentient knife to wax poetic about their time together. 

I’ll find him, Aster promised. I’ll introduce you to him, and I’ll get him pardoned… 

Florence didn’t know Aster very long, but to hear him suddenly speak of someone so highly and so fondly…left a sour taste in the scribe’s throat. At that moment, he actually wondered if he secretly harbored anything against men loving other men. But when he imagined himself in that stranger’s place, he realized that he had no issue with it – a fact that Florence found harder to process, so he just gave up on it.  

“They’re gonna kill you,” a voice cut through Florence’s internal dilemma. A man had come up next to him, probably just a few years older, occupying Aster’s seat. “They’re waiting for your companion to drop, and he just did. You’re gonna get jumped the moment you step out of here.” 

Florence took Aster’s mug, giving that abomination of a drink a little swirl. Alcohol can give even the most cowardly of men a little bit of courage, and Florence definitely needed some of that. 

He side-eyed the stranger. “Is that a tip or a threat?”

With Aster out of commission, anyone could walk up to the two of them and run them through with a knife. Florence knew that, and yet he couldn’t help but feel testy, still unable to wash the bitterness from his mouth. 

“What if it’s both?” The man tried. 

Florence took a swig of the alcohol, meeting the man’s gaze through the mug. The burn was extraordinary, but Florence was nothing if not resilient. He’d been forced to drink worse when he worked in the capital. 

“Get in line, then,” Florence doubled down and drank the whole thing. He wasn’t a living weapon like Aster, but when push came to shove, the scribe knew what he needed to do to survive. They’d have to take it outside, though. Lest that poor, drunk partner of his would wind up caught in the mess. 

The alcohol settled in his gut, warm and acidic. He respectfully asked the bartender for a second mug, and for one moment, Florence wondered if he’d be drinking poison next. 

Much to the scribe’s surprise, the stranger took his attitude in stride. He chimed in his order. It was brief, but Florence caught how the bartender’s demeanor immediately changed into something more polite. Unbelievable. 

“If you’re looking for information,” the man leaned closer and whispered, “the bartender is the last person you go to. He knows everyone here, and everyone knows him. The trust between the man who serves drinks and his patrons is never to be underestimated.” 

As if on cue, the bartender arrived with their drinks. He slid a mug towards Florence, then another one towards the stranger. The stranger somehow gets a bigger serving ‘on the house’. 

The stranger smirked, as if to say, see? 

Florence scoffed. He knew a bait when he saw one, but perhaps there was a way to gain something in this little charade. 

“The information I’m after is a little sensitive.” He said. 

“Try me,” the man offered, raising his mug for a makeshift agreement. 

And really, who was Florence to turn away a gift horse from the mouth? 

The sound of their mugs bumping against each other sealed the deal. 

***

They were five mugs in when Florence learned that the man worked as a ‘helper’ around these parts. 

“Living near the borders means a lot of trade opportunities,” the man said, using the sticks from their skewers to build a makeshift map. “You’d think that an empire as big as Ambros would take better care of its borders, but the reality is that we've all bitten off more than we can chew. There are not enough troops to watch over what goes in and what goes out. If there are, well, the law can’t touch them now.” 

Since learning about Florence, the man had gone on nonstop lectures about the ins and outs of the outskirts. Florence had long insisted that he wasn’t anyone of importance – even with the Sibylla name – and if even the empire’s white knight couldn’t change the situation at the borders, then what chance did a mere scribe have? 

But the man argued that the people needed their witness. Not a mere bystander or observer, no. They need a witness who heard and lived the people’s stories firsthand, a witness who knows where to look because they’ve seen for themselves how horrible and miraculous things get. 

I’m a scribe, not a monarch. Florence laughed. At best, His Highness will see my reports and tuck them away at the darkest corner of the Imperial Library, never to be seen again. 

Or, the man countered, you could shove it down his throat. 

Florence couldn’t think of a comeback better than that. 

The price for the man’s cooperation was Florence jotting down every single thing he said. This included the man’s ramblings about the unchecked flow of import and export, rising prices, and more counterfeits in the black market, plus a little something about an assassin's guild. Just in case, you know, someone needs some business being taken care of. 

“If your ‘friend’ somehow manages to catch the attention of the slavers,” the man said, “then you’re better off heading to Sanna. They’ve been on the lookout for able-bodied men since last month – some baron wanted to turn his backyard into a mining site. You’re a Sibylla, right? Maybe you know who it is.” 

“I don’t,” Florence spat out, a little harsher than intended. “I told you, I’m not involved with their business.” 

The man raised an eyebrow at Florence but didn’t pursue the topic. Good. Florence had been one question away from divulging his bastard roots, and while that remained an open secret, he wasn’t sure if the man would suddenly drop business if he found out that Florence had no profitable ties with the family. 

Maybe the alcohol was getting to him. He had a demon-like tolerance for it, sure, but he was still human. That, or the man beside him was way too good at extracting information – setting it up to make it seem that he would be the one dumping information when in reality, he’d been preparing to extort Florence for all that he was worth. 

Good thing that there’s not much of that. 

“My ‘friend’ is going to get away if you don’t speed things up,” Florence leaned against the counter, chin propped by his elbow. “Don’t you have better places to be, assassin?” 

For the first time since the man stole Aster’s seat, Florence was given an actual, genuine smile. 

“And here you tell me that you’re just a scribe.”