YAN

YANICK STIRRED AWAKE in the dim light, his senses sluggish, his body as though it had betrayed him, each limb heavy with the aftermath of pain. The air was thick with the earthy, medicinal scent of herbs, but underneath that, something softer lingered—faint, almost intimate. Lavender, maybe? Or something more elusive, a fragrance that felt personal, human.

Every breath burned, fire crawling up his ribs, his face throbbing in sharp, pulsing waves. He tried to move, but a spasm shot through his side, forcing a muffled groan from his chest. The sound echoed faintly off the walls, swallowed by the quiet room.

“Easy now,” a soft, calm voice said nearby, familiar in a way that made his pulse spike, as though he’d heard it before—in a different life. “Now’s not the time to play the hero.”

A figure emerged from the shadows, her dark curls framing her face. Her eyes, large and luminous, glimmered in the flickering candlelight, catching him in their gaze. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t sure if he was awake or still lost in the fog of his dreams.

“It’s you…” he croaked, his throat dry and rough. “I saw you in a dream.”

She settled at the edge of the cot, her nearly symmetrical face tilting toward him with a blend of concern and amusement. Her skin was darker than his, but not as dark as the cityfolk in Valhafen. The way she looked at him made the pain seem distant, like it had never been there.

“It wasn’t a dream,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I’ve been taking care of you for a few days now.”

“Days?” Yanick’s brow furrowed as he tried to sit up, but his muscles screamed in protest. The pain was still there, but it was more of a dull ache now manageable. Not enough to keep him down.

The memory crashed back into him— the mob, Club Guy, the beating, the moon mocking him. No, this wasn’t a dream. It was real.

“Your brother? The chef-assassin?”

A smile tugged at her lips, gentle but with a spark of mischievous amusement.

“Chef-assassin,” she echoed with a soft laugh. “He’ll love that.”

Something stirred in Yanick at the sight of her smile. Something deep and unfamiliar. It had nothing to do with his aching body, but everything to do with the warmth that spread through him, unexpected and potent. It gnawed at him, waking something he hadn’t realised was dormant. Something he needed, something he missed, though he couldn’t explain why.

They sat in silence, the quiet between them charged with meaning. Yanick’s pulse raced, his heart beating harder as if his body recognised something his mind hadn’t yet grasped.

“Drink,” she said, breaking the stillness as she handed him a cup.

Her fingers brushed his, a fleeting touch. Soft, delicate. It sent a shiver through him, something that was more than just the lingering effects of the pain. It was a strange, inexplicable spark that ignited between them, one that he couldn’t ignore.

Yanick sipped the water, feeling the cool liquid slide down his throat, soothing the fire there. But it wasn’t just the water that comforted him—it was the moment. The quiet intimacy that filled the space between them.

Their eyes met. It wasn’t a passing glance. They held it, the world around them shrinking down to nothing but the weight of her gaze, the soft rhythm of her breath, the closeness that pressed against him.

“Thank you,” he started, his voice rough.

She raised an eyebrow, her gaze cutting through his words before he could finish.

“No need.”

“I don’t mean the water,” he added, voice barely a whisper. “I mean…”

“I know.” Her voice was steady, unwavering. “Neither my brother nor I leave people to rot in the streets. We’re not that kind of people.”

THE STILLNESS OF THE STORY was shattered by a cold voice, clipped, and cutting through the air like a blade.

“I didn’t ask about your romances,” the interrogator interjected, leaning forward so suddenly that Yanick could feel the man’s breath against his skin, as if the air between them had turned toxic. “Focus on what you’ve been doing for Rayla.”

Yanick clenched his jaw, resisting the surge of irritation that clawed its way up from his gut. His fingers twitched at his sides, but he kept them still, trying not to betray his growing frustration.

“Ademund and Amaia brought me to their farm the same day,” Yanick began, forcing the words out, his gaze darting away from the interrogator’s relentless, icy stare. “I needed time to recover. Once I could move around, I started… exploring.”

“Exploring?” The interrogator’s voice oozed sarcasm, and Yanick could almost hear the mocking smile that had to be there.

“Discreetly asking questions,” Yanick corrected quickly, deliberately ignoring the disdain dripping from the man’s words. “I talked to the workers, the neighbours… about the Nordlings. But they weren’t eager to talk to me. So I explored the house.”

“Explored.” The interrogator arched an eyebrow, his lip curling upward in a sneer. “And what exactly did you explore?”

Yanick took a breath, steadying himself, then continued.

“Ademund and Amaia spent most of their time in the city, running the tavern. They wouldn’t come back until well past midnight, sometimes even at dawn. I was bored. I didn’t even suspect… that their father was the one Rayla was after. That he was the monster…”

The interrogator’s movement was sudden, like a strike of lightning. He jerked back, as though he'd been slapped.

“Wait.” His voice was sharp now, too sharp. “So did you meet him or not? Don’t test my patience, Yanick.”

Yanick glanced sideways at him, delaying just a fraction longer than necessary before answering. The interrogator’s eyes narrowed, the silence between them growing unbearable.

“In one of the rooms, I found some papers. In a desk drawer. The language… it was strange, incomprehensible, but...” He hesitated, the weight of the memory pressing on him. “There was a symbol on them. The same symbol Nemeth and his armies used during the Great War.”

The interrogator’s expression tightened, his face hardening like stone.

“Black Moon?” His voice dropped to a low growl, and Yanick could feel the fury rippling through the air, making the space between them feel even smaller.

Yanick’s pulse quickened, but he kept his voice steady.

“Yes.”

The interrogator’s eyes flared with sudden anger, his chair scraping against the floor as he leaned forward once more. The atmosphere thickened, the tension palpable.

“That was the symbol you saw?”

Yanick met his gaze, not flinching.

“Yes,” he repeated, quieter this time, a thin thread of truth in his words.

The interrogator leaned back slowly, his eyes narrowing further, studying him with a fierce intensity that felt like it could burn right through him. It was as though he was trying to peer beneath the surface, searching for a lie, for a crack in Yanick’s resolve.

“Did you find out what those documents contained?” The interrogator’s voice was tight, edged with impatience, but there was something else—something hungry in the way he asked.

Yanick shook his head, but even as the denial left his lips, he knew he was holding back far more than he let on.

“The next day,” he began, his voice softer now, “I went with Ademund and Amaia to the city. I visited the port, to the place where I was supposed to report my progress.”

The interrogator’s gaze didn’t waver, but the faintest flicker of something lingered in his eyes. Suspicion, perhaps. He was waiting, as if the next piece of the puzzle would change everything.