**The following two stories take place after "Of Lowlifes, Lutes, & Liars" Chapter 50: Until No More Remain. It has been one year after the events of Chapter 50, so be warned: spoilers ahead.**

Early morning, choked on either side by ramshackle, rickety walls, the outcast paused from her search to listen. Pale-lilac ears pricked up at the haunting sounds of distant war drums, carried on the harvest breeze.

I can hear them, all the way over here.

In the relative quiet of her dingy back-alley, Khazmine focused on the thump-tump thudding of ironwood sticks on a drum head. The regular rhythm, the familiar beat of them, could only belong to her long-lost friends of the Dark Army.

If her guess was right, the Solanai were engaged in combat west of Old Sarzonn, likely at the Empress’s bidding, but there was no way to know for sure. It had been over a year since those wretched drums had started sounding, issuing a call to arms for the warriors to rouse, and Khazmine sneered at the sound of them.

Catching herself scowling, the Deceiver waved off the peals of wartime noise, refocusing on the task at hand. There was no sense in riling at circumstances she couldn’t change, nor of holding a grudge against a drum. If there was fire on the horizon, the outcast had little say in its course.

No, it was back to her search once again, waking up before sunrise, and scouring The Dregs for anything useful. The most recent purge by the holy house had put the Deceiver’s mind at ease, knowing there would be few survivors on this side of town. And if any Wanderers were still about, Khazmine at least had a weapon at the ready to defend herself.

Major Barshaw’s war whip tapped against Khazmine’s side as she dug around the alley, reassuring the outcast of her mentor’s protection. Though they had parted ways some thirteen or fourteen months ago, it was as if Tazanni was standing beside the Deceiver, watching over her.

Yet even after all their kindness, and giving me a job, here I am again, digging through the dross…

Gloved fingers sifted through debris, stirring up dust enough for Khazmine to cough. The outcast smothered the noise with her tattered forager’s sleeve, desperate to contain any sound from Wanderer’s ears.

Gods, has it really come to this?

Aside from a place to stay, Khazmine had precious little to show for almost a year of toil. Only these regular trips to The Dregs had yielded anything noteworthy, thrusting the half-breed into the throes of despair.

And unlike her last trip scavenging through the ghettos, the outcast had failed to find anything promising so far, leaving Khazmine to silently lament her misfortunes.

Tools, clothing, money—something. Anything.

Khazmine needed a win today. Her trembling fingers and aching belly could be ignored, but the growing unease and anguish in her brothers’ eyes could not. There had to be something to make the trip worthwhile.

But there was nothing worth salvaging back here. Broken glass, stinking casks, and the slick ooze of prolonged poverty were all Khazmine could dredge up. She was just about to give up entirely and head back to her dwelling, when a glint from reflected sunlight caught the outcast’s eye.

It had been too early in the morning to see it before now, but Khazmine lingered long enough for twin suns to light up the only item worth mentioning. The object was long, curved, and carved out of wood, by the looks of it. Strands of thick spidersilk attached to it glittered in the morning light, like a web covered in dew.

What is it? Khazmine wondered as she unearthed the discarded treasure. Scraping off the glaze of filth spoiled the Deceiver’s gloves, but it was well worth the effort. In her hands, sturdy and hollow, was a fine wyrwood lute from far south of Old Sarzonn.

D'jabareen, looks like.

Long gone were the incense sticks and beads tied to its neck, and there was no maker’s mark on the bridge, but it was, in fact, a proper southerner’s lute.

It's dirty, and old, but there's life left in it, Khazmine thought as she examined the discarded instrument. Maybe enough to make some music.

A few dents and dings marred the lute's fine wyrwood curves, but there were no holes, nor scorch marks to be seen. At least two strings would need replacing, but that was easy enough. Mister Benteen at The Blanched Hart might even sell her some to replace the damaged ones, gods willing.

All that was left would be getting this abandoned treasure presentable. Maybe the Langford lad has some batterseed oil stashed away somewhere. That'd at least bring out its shine.

Not that the outcast had much knowledge of musical instruments, but she did enjoy watching Lieutenant Mevralls show her how to maintain the armory all those months ago. If nothing else, she could keep wood, metal, and leather clean—Jaycen made sure of that.

Khazmine paused where she stooped, her filthy fingers tracing over twangy lute strings. Her eyes boggled until the outcast’s vision blurred, and her unfocused stare bore through the discarded lute, transforming it into a soupy haze of browns and reds. I miss you, Jaycen. You and the major. When are you coming home?

It was an utterly useless thought to have, and Khazmine knew it. Wars didn’t end just because the citizens tired of them. They only stopped with winners, losers, and collateral damage caught in between them. As long as Tevrose was under seige, Old Sarzonn was the safest place they all could be, with or without their Solanai protectors.

And besides, the Deceiver was an adult now, and fully expected to take care of herself. No more Solanai handouts, no more fetch-and-carry duties, just a half-breed abomination, scrounging around the city to survive.

If it weren’t for Tatty… Khazmine thought, her mind drifting off again. If not for Harriet Cadlen, the outcasts would have been homeless. She’d taken in the Deceiver and her two little brothers, all sharing a cramped bedroom in the cozy cottage.

And it was back to that very place Khazmine skulked off toward. If she hurried, the outcast could sneak through the shift change between the Night and Day Vigilant, returning to Cadlen Cottage unobserved. As luck would have it, the half-breed managed to slither through a gap in the patrols, avoiding punishment for curfew-breaking lowlifes.

A quick dousing at the backyard well was all the Deceiver could afford before hearing a squeal of mischief from a familiar imp. Sure enough, little Sprig had come running out the back door, only for Harriet to scoop up the tiny terror in her arms.

“Oy, miss,” Tatty called out while wrangling her son. He’d managed to sneak a sticky bun from Harriet’s baking tray, and was being scolded for stealing the pastry. “Where’ve you been all this—hey, mister! No scratching yer mother!”

At Sprig’s defiance, the outcast sent out a sharp whistle of the Solanai command chime for “attention.” Little Sprig was all too familiar with his cousin’s curt whistling, and stopped tormenting Harriet at the resounding chirp.

Once Sprig was silent and still, Khazmine reached into her coin pouch for three copper fawns to hand to Aunt Tatty. “For the bun.”

A hint of a smirk crossed the outcast’s face as she stared down at Sprig, who was unblinkingly awaiting whatever punishment he would receive. Instead, Khazmine stooped down to eye level, met Sprig’s worried glance, and addressed him, lowlife to lowlife.

“Not from your family, little one” Khazmine lectured. “Don’t steal from your family. That hurts everyone. Your mother needs these to sell, yes? Well, I’ve paid for yours, now you work for me today.”

The pair spent the better part of the afternoon cleaning the muck put of the old wyrwood lute, with Sprig doing his level best to escape worse punishments. After a long interval, Sprig finally broke the silence, looking up at his cousin with insatiable curiosity.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why what, little one?” Khazmine replied, polishing the ancient lute with a fine linen cloth. “Why clean this old thing? It is…a present.”

***

Many days later, the three Asteras siblings were out during day’s end to take a stroll through Merchant’s Quarter. Her little brothers were window shopping at various boutiques, with Aranthus drawn to a metalworks, and Pavocinis lingering by the luthier’s. Watching her youngest sibling gawk at a lyre and a lute in a window display coaxed a smile from the Deceiver, who was all the more eager to return home and surprise Pavo with his present.

Back at the little cottage on Aurora and Crescent, the handsome red wyrwood lute was artfully wrapped in clean baking paper and tied with a length of string in a lopsided bow.

Of the dozen or so knots the outcast could tie, none of them made for stylish ribbons or bows. Though it lacked the sleek elegance of those in a boutique shop window, Khazmine did her best to craft a proper present for her little brother.

He doesn’t remember his firstday, so it’d only be a guess, but…

The youngest of the Asteras family had to have had a firstday by now. It had been over a year since their meeting, and stood to reason that of the thirteen months in a year, Aranthus and Pavocinis must have had at least one firstday pass by unmentioned. Aranthus at least knew his firstday was sometime in winter, but Pavo…

Even just a single firstday would have been enough to make a guess, but no. Pavo was too young and broken for his parents to bother with saving, casting the lad out once his ether core had fractured. Khazmine’s fingernails dug into her palms at the thought of it, of no one celebrating Pavocinis’s firstday in his short, difficult life.

But that unhappy streak ended today. Khazmine was determined to give Pavocinis a proper firstday, and now was as good a time as any. It was better, in fact; since the Deceiver chose today, of all days, Pavo would never forget it.

“Lady Kiss-Me? Who’s that?” Pavocinis asked as he listened in on a local bard’s tune.

“Shhh…” Khazmine whispered, hugging her brother from behind to silence him. “She’s a bard, little one. Celebrating Merkander’s firstday, I imagine.”

An ancient woman with skin-and-bone fingers plucked at a lyre on the luthier’s stoop, urging visitors to stop by and pay a fawn for a song. She was a skilled musician, despite her age, and must have been the luthier’s mother, by the looks of her. Whoever she was, Pavocinis stared with rapt attention as her spidery fingers plucked strings as she sung.

Many's the penny
That's needs for the lot.
Fresh bread for when he
Has stew in the pot.

Cruel fates, harsh answers,
No harvests to reap.
Farmhands and free lancers,
Too hungry to sleep.

And who tends to the lost?
The thin sisters and brothers?
Who shoulders the cost
For all of the others?

The wisest and just,
The kindest of souls.
Shall do what they must
To fill up the bowls.

The pot filled with spices
And searing, soft heat.
The bold scent entices
With rich, tender meat.

All sit together
To eat and discuss
The strong ties that tether,
When "They" becomes "Us".

Then many's the penny
Tough times we forgot.
Fresh bread and plen'y
Kinship in a pot.

At the song’s end, Khazmine dropped a single fawn into the bard’s cup and had to pry wee Pavo away from the stoop. He’d been entranced by the singer’s skill, and the pretty verses she sang about togetherness and community. It tore the Deceiver up to have to take the boys home, but they needed to be back inside before curfew anyway, so it was time to leave.

“Aranthus? Let’s go,” Khazmine called out in synchronism with the beams of the midtown sun clock.

Loath as Aranthus was to abandon the storefront with its wondrous metal tools, the outcast broke off to join his big sister. The trio hastily returned to Cadlen cottage, only to find a modest feast prepared for their arrival.

Aunt Tatty had outdone herself, with a ham steak for each child, and a sweet thistle-wheat crumb cake for dessert. Still, the special dinner was overshadowed by the most wonderful present of all.

Pavo’s lute.

“Is this? Is this really for me?” Pavocinis asked, confused, yet delighted. A nod from Lady Kiss-Me was all the acknowledgment he needed.

Ruby-red eyes lit up at his first-ever firstday present, with Aranthus standing by in disbelief. The two brothers were so excited to play with Pavo’s treasure that they’d scarfed down their food to rush outdoors to experiment before dark.

“Men hees dee pen hee…” Pavo struggled to play, his tiny fingers missing the strings more often than not.

Just look at him though, Khazmine mused to herself as Pavo tried again, staring fiercely at his lute with his mouth hanging open. He tried sounding out the notes again, missed his strings, and flashed an infectious grin at his gaffe. Look how happy he is, all for some beat-up old—

The outcast hadn’t noticed before now, but her eyes were welling with tears. It was such a meager present, hardly worth gushing over, yet here he was. Pavocinis was smiling and laughing like nothing was wrong. No blockade, no war, no Wanderers, no looting, no Star Guards—just a little boy and his precious lute.

Khazmine remained silent, watching her little brothers from afar as lonely teardrops slid down her cheeks, unnoticed.