**The following takes place two years after "Of Lowlifes, Lutes, & Liars" Chapter 50: Until No More Remain & immediately after Side Story 06: Merkander (Part Five).

Recap: Khazmine has managed to escape from a ferocious and experienced huntress—an Araxian Raider, with the help of a rogue who’d been watching the Deceiver. The pair retreat to the stranger’s rented room, only to find that this thief has taken Khazmine’s purses she’d stolen…**

“Whot, these here? Yours?” the rogue goaded with a jingle of coins. He had a playful glint in his eyes, and a pearly grin to match, prodding at Khazmine for reasons unknown. “’Ardly. After all, ya stole ’em yerself, young mess. Tell ya whot—’ow ‘bout a trade? You gimme whot I want, an’ I’ll give thus.”

Khazmine’s lips curled back, exposing a trembling snarl. And a rush of blood pumped through battered limbs to prime them for action. The Deceiver hardly ever let her temper flare, but exhaustion and desperation had flayed her nerves bare.

In the rogue’s hands was the promise of hot food and warm clothes, wrenched away from the half-breed who’d struggled mightily for both. And what did Khazmine have to offer for trade? Tatty’s caravan hammer? Tazanni’s war whip?

No. He can’t have them.

But that wasn’t the half of it. Not only did this strange rogue steal from a fellow thief, but his taunting unearthed a cache of suppressed indignation Khazmine couldn’t tolerate.

“Tha’ ess, unless ya thenk ya can take ’em from me. All I want’s tha’ trick, whot you done b’fore,” the stranger added when he couldn’t get a response. He was taunting Khazmine, teasing her, to suss out what he truly wanted—something that apparently couldn’t be bought. “C’mon then, Deceiver. Teach me tha’ trick… Show me whot ya’ve got.”

Trick? What trick? Is this a game to you, mister? Khazmine thought bitterly, her jaw clenched so hard it could crack. Whatever. I’m not leaving without that money. It might not mean much to you, but for two starving boys… It’s butterpuff twists. Fresh beecher’s corners. A coat for Aranthus. New shoes for wee Pavo…

A quick scan of the room with an icy blue gaze allowed Khazmine to form a plan of attack. There wasn’t much to leverage here; no improvised weapons, or space to maneuver, limiting the Deceiver’s options.

Close quarters, etherless, and wounded. Not a great combination.

Still, before the outcast realized it herself, Tatty’s caravan hammer was whipped from her belt. Her injured arm screamed as Khazmine winced and shook, but the half-breed brandished the hammer, ignoring her pain.

So be it, Khazmine thought, just before springing forth to make her first play.

***

“OY! THA’S NOT WHOT I MENT!” the rogue bellowed as Khazmine attacked.

Spinning around to avoid the hammer’s head, the spritely rogue dodged into the cramped kitchenette. But before he could draw a dagger to make an attack, the young outcast back-peddled out of his strike radius.

Whot's she—

Interrupting his thought with a ploy of her own, Khazmine scooped up her jacket and swung with her hammer.

A mess! She messed me by a—wait!

The lone candlestick dropped to the floor, its flame stomped out by the half-breed’s damp boot. With no ether for combat or strength for fierce blows, Khazmine leaned on the best tactic for fighting this rogue in tight quarters.

I can’ see a damned theng!

Ears twitched to hear the flop of damp cloth and the reason behind it. The outcast donned her wet jacket to smother the glow of green healer’s tape, and keep him from finding her. After that, Khazmine stood on the tips of her toes, slinking silently through the cramped rented rooms.

The rogue cursed silently as he shuffled in old, creaky boots, unable to control the protests of wet leather. I can’ move a step without makin’ a sound. Nor can I ’ear the young mess movin’ about.

Every creaky floorboard and rumpled boot broadcast his location, painting a vivid picture for the skulking huntress. But even though the former fetch-and-carry had some combat training, it would take much more than a blackout to take down her prey.

A whoosh from the caravan hammer missed him by a whisker, and the rogue noticed the blow wasn’t as precise as before. That, and a labored breath told the thief all he really needed to know.

She’s patient an’ feisty, I’ll give ’er that, but ess no good swingin’ at a man ya can’ het.

It was far too cramped to risk using her whip—not that Khazmine had strength enough to crack it at him. No, the Deceiver was quickly running out of steam; etherless, hungry, exhausted, and bleeding. Too weak to swing the hammer any longer, the outcast stowed her weapon, readying shaky hands to attack.

“Juss give it up, mess. Tha’s not whot I want ta see,” the rogue pressed, shifting closer to the bed and his traveler’s pack.

Khazmine paused for a breath to collect dwindling strength, giving the stranger enough time to advance. Reaching into his travel bag, the rogue managed to find a flint-steel striker and a twig to ignite. The powder-coated twig caught a spark from the striker, illuminating the apartment with a small, stubborn flame.

Flickering as it landed in a nearby lantern catch, the twig barely had a chance to spread its fire as Khazmine attacked. Leaping up at the rogue, all tooth and claw, the outcast scratched furiously into her foe.

“AH! GODS OLD AN’ NEW!” the rogue shouted in pain, after Khazmine landed onto his back and gouged her fingers into his arm. Sharp nails dug right into quivering skin, forcing the stranger to fling her away. “AH! THA’ HURTS! LE’ GO, YA WEE BETCH!”

Landing hard against the far wall, Khazmine wheezed in agony, collecting what little breath she could. A bright smear stained the rented room red, a direct hit from her shoulder smashing into the wall. Most troubling of all though, upon her harsh landing, the half-breed Deceiver made no move to get up.

“Oh gods, young mess… I didn’ mean ta het ya tha’ hard.”

The outcast failed to reply, drawing a concerned look from the rogue, who approached carefully, and checked the half-breed for life. A tiny yelp escaped underneath the rogue’s force, his fingertip pressure too much to endure on Khazmine’s wounded shoulder. Orange eyes darted before he backed away, realizing both how badly he’d hurt the Deceiver and how fragile she was to begin with.

Geez… She’s juss sken an’ bons.

Slowly retreating to give the outcast some space, the rogue whispered gently to reason with her. “Oy, I’m not gonna hurt ya anymore, young mess. Juss doan try ta kell me when I let ya go, okay?”

At his voice, the outcast roused, face flushed and breaths ragged.

“Th-the money…” Khazmine whispered, her ears drawn back and brows pitched upward, distressed. A tremble caught in darting, icy blue eyes as the Deceiver reached ineffectively. “Please give the money back. It’s for… It’s for my boys.”

“Oh, zat it then?” the rogue asked, side-eyeing the Deceiver. “Tha’s why ya nearly battered me bloody?”

“They're j-just two hungry children. H-he just wanted some fruit, maybe a fresh piece of meat,” Khazmine clenched her eyes shut, her voice aching with defeat. “And his brother’s still small. They need this money…please.”

Not a trace of falsehood could be found on her face. Khazmine spoke the unvarnished truth, and her companion hadn’t expected it. The Deceiver before him was shaking, tensed, and lifting her already damaged limb to plead.

“If you won’t part with the money, at least leave the fruit…” Khazmine scraped and swallowed, realizing her folly as immediately as she’d said it.

Drawing a curious stare from the rogue, the outcast muttered to clarify her request. “He’s, he’s n-never been south of here, never had anything like it before… Listen, it can’t be worth more than what’s in those pouches. Surely, you wouldn’t notice such a loss.”

A squint caught in his eyes as the rogue squeezed the two purses. Sure, this young woman was a lowlife and a thief, but so was he. It hardly seemed sporting to exact payment for saving her, especially when she had hungry children to feed.

But before the rogue could speak, the half-breed's façade cracked, with Khazmine shielding her face to keep her elder from seeing. Shoulders raised up to conceal her discomfort, a deep shame bubbling up as the lowlife confessed to her peer.

“Th-they won’t even let us celebrate,” Khazmine stammered, hunched over and defeated. “You may not know it, mister, but it’s a holiday. Not that I have anything to give them, it’s… He just wanted something to eat.”

The rogue sucked air through clenched teeth, gripping the purses and bracing to speak. Of course, he knew what day it was. How could he forget?

“Ease-ay, ease-ay,” the elder lowlife replied, his soothing, musical voice lending calm to his rattled guest.

The rogue offered both purses with a raised hand, jingling coins inside to draw Khazmine’s eye. “Go ohn, take ’em. I’m not so strapped for stags. Asides, you’ve earned ’em, keepin’ Valda off my, well…”

“W-who?” Khazmine asked, taking each purse in hand. She searched his face for clarity, but still didn’t understand.

“Th’ Raider, th’—th’ huntress. She’s still after me, after us, as it ’appens.” The rogue could see confusion manifest in Khazmine’s glacier blue stare. “Neva’ mind. Point is, Valda thought you were me, so inna whey, thus is thenks for yer help, yeah?”

Khazmine squinted at the discrepancy. At the time, she was disguised as Radin, her father, yet Valda had confused him for this non-descript fellow? “She thought I was you? But we don’t look a thing alike—”

“How ’bout now?” the rogue asked, dropping his camouflage.

The Deceiver beside her was older, and dark; his rich, earthy skin a dead-ringer for Radin’s. His orange eyes lingered, soft and warm as he smiled, yet this handsome stranger was otherwise entirely different. But the thing that struck Khazmine most were the rogue’s curious locks; shining silver hair in what looked like puffed braids.

“W-who are you, mister?” Khazmine asked at last, realizing this rogue was much more than he seemed.

“Oh, ’adn’t I said?” the rogue answered, wiping his bloodied hand on a towel before offering to shake. “Ma name’s Olan Makanda—th’ Rascal of Runigad.”

***

Another bout of healer’s tape and some hot spiced nog was had, before Olan addressed a few questions for his guest.

“Kin ya show me tha’ trick? How ya doubled ya’self?” Olan asked, not knowing what else to call it. “I’ve never sen anytheng like it, young mess.”

“I wish I could, but there’s nothing left to give,” Khazmine sighed defeatedly. “Back in the alley… That’s all that I had.”

“Damn, I wesh we could share. Ether, tha’ ess, I doan half anytheng else,” Olan confessed. “Aside from ma pack, I doan travel with much.”

Khazmine gave him a frowning half-smile, disappointed at not being able to demonstrate her rare skill. In attempts to cheer up the half-breed, Olan donned a fresh face—one that the outcast could recognize.

“Friend uh yours? Family, perhaps?” Olan asked, doing his best to recall details from before. He looked just like Radin, just without the right voice.

The illusion was convincing, save for a lack of freckles he couldn’t have seen at a distance. Warm, hazel eyes crinkled as Olan smiled, and done up black hair even had a few clay beads and metal bells threaded in it that jingled.

Khazmine gritted her teeth behind closed lips, but couldn’t blink, for fear of losing him. A tentative hand reached toward Radin’s face, only for the outcast to retract it and cringe.

It was a lie. A beautiful one, but a lie, nonetheless. All the foreign Deceiver had done was remind Khazmine of all that she’d lost.

“Sorray, I… I didn’ know,” Olan whispered, dropping his borrowed likeness.

Khazmine pursed her lips into a thin line, the cords of her neck protruding as she inhaled deeply to steady battered nerves. Unable to dwell on things she couldn’t fix, the Deceiver changed topics, hoping the rogue wouldn’t notice.

“The huntress, Valda… How were you able to hide?”

Olan exhaled, a soft smile returning at the half-breed’s question. If the young Deceiver didn’t already know how to cloak her ether, then that answered every other outstanding question he had.

After all, parents usually taught their children about ethercraft, or siblings, if they had the same gifts as their peers.

“There’s ah trick to it, young mess,” Olan replied. “A good-in, but not strong enough fer elite magicians, I fear. Ess not ’alf as impressive as yer echo there, lass.”

“Could you…” Khazmine started before trailing off. The wheels turned in her head, lending the outcast courage to speak. She might never meet another Deceiver, so this could be her only chance to ask. “Could you teach me?”

Orange eyes brightened, crinkling behind a joyful grin, like twin suns dawning on a dark horizon.

“I think I kin manage,” Olan scoffed with a smirk. He stood up with a grunt, using a bent knee for leverage.

The Rascal of Runigad stepped forward on one foot, spreading his stance as he opened his ether core. “There’s a music to it, young mess. Listen well an’ doan blink.”

Khazmine stared, her pupils dilating to round discs, soaking up every scrap of detail that she could. Standing right before her, ether swirling around every limb, Olan smiled brightly before leveraging his skill.

“Git ready. Watch thus.”

***

The morning after, still reeling from vibrant twin suns casting their gilded rays, Khazmine shambled outdoors to watch her boys play. Aranthus was planting a dried fruit seed in the yard, unaware that it likely would never sprout. Pavo watched on with rapt attention, his new presents jingling whenever jostled them.

They look nice, Khazmine mused as their gifts caught morning light. For Pavo, a set of gold hoop earrings, and silver for Aranthus.

“Presents…for ya boys,” Olan had said before the pair parted ways. “Ya said ya didn’ have any ta give. Doan lose ’em, now. Had ’em for decades.”

Khazmine hadn’t noticed in the dim candlelight, but the silver hoop earrings Olan had given her right from his ears…

They were platinum.

A king’s ransom, a treasure trove; worth enough to buy a fine house, should Aranthus part with them.

Wringing her hands together and frowning, Khazmine gestured to her little farmer to take him aside. “You won’t ever sell them, will you?”

Puzzled by his big sister’s question, Aranthus launched his most fiendish attack against Khazmine. Two spindly arms locked around her torso, and the Outsider child nuzzled into her chest.

“No, Kiss-Me, never,” Aranthus whispered, his voice barely reaching her good ear.

Straining to listen, Khazmine ducked low to ask what the Outsider had said, only to flinch at contact she hadn’t expected. It was subtle and brief, but a tingle of warmth spread through the half-breed’s cheek where he’d kissed it.

“Happy Feast of Merkander, big sis.”

Khazmine smiled, warm and wistful. “And to you, little one.”