The words hung in the air. Blurted out at a foolhardy volume, the wine room’s din still drowned them out. Haldrych slowly realized what he’d just admitted to his friend.

Adelmar’s face was stone, but his eyes flickered as though examining a ledger. His mouth opened. “Then do so.”

Haldrych blinked. Had he misheard? He gave a nervous chuckle. “You’re jesting-”

“I am not.” Adelmar’s voice ground out. “You had the right of it.”

“…the right of what?”

“We are meant to struggle. To suffer, and be made strong for it.”

Haldrych mumbled. “Copper and tin can never be bronze without the flame.”

Adelmar’s face broke into a ferocious grin. “Well spoken, poet. But are you going to just speak ‘uninspired words’? Or are you going to reach up and take what you need?”

Haldrych looked closely at his old friend. There was a zeal in him that he’d only ever seen in petitioners in the Pantheons’ Plaza. It was somewhat frightening.

And somewhat contagious.

The merchant’s son wordlessly took up a table knife. It twirled in his nimble fingers. “You could do it easily enough. Hells-” he slipped the knife beneath his bracer. “-I could even help you.”

Haldrych gasped in surprise. “What…why are you saying this?”

Adelmar glanced about before leaning so far forward that his short beard nearly brushed the table. “There’s folk who think the way we do. Folk who know things. See things. Say things.”

The poet leaned forward as well. “…what do they say?”

“That blood is weak. Just water that tastes like rust.”

“Adelmar, I-”

The merchant’s son held up a hand. His bronze bracer shone in the firelight, highlighting the etching upon it. A wolf. A wolf curled over itself and feasting on its own tail.

“These folk I speak of, Haldrych. All the things you want? They also want. Blood. Death. Life!”

Bang. His fist struck the table.

“The true life! Outside of weakness, and walls and trembling around fires! Unbound and powerful! You want to write about your victories? What they’ll give you will be-”

“Haldyyyy!”

Juliana returned, sliding up beside the poet with a decanter of wine in hand. “Did you wait long? I-”

“Wait.” Haldrych stopped her. “Juliana…I must be alone with my friend for now.”

“Ah.” She placed the wine on the table then gave him a little wink. “Come find me if you change your mind, Haldy.”

Her velvet robe did terrible things as she sashayed away.

Both men watched her go. The beer and lust were settling in Haldrych’s skull, buzzing about his warming ears. He thought hard on the marriage his mother had made for him. The soft life. The safe life.

The drab life.

He clasped the wine container and took a long draw from it. “These folk. Can they help me?”

Adelmar barked a low laugh. “No. They won’t give you help. They’ll grant you a calling. One where you’ll never see the end of triumphs to write about.”

“…tell me more.”

Bang.

The merchant’s son slammed a palm to the table in excitement. “So-”

Bang!

Another hand came down on the table top, nearly toppling the wine.

Both young men startled and swore.

A muscular arm, suffused with freckles, rose from the abyss beneath the table. The woman it belonged to - broad of shoulder and powerful of waist - climbed onto the bench. Chestnut curls matted the side of her face and her large blue eyes swam blearily.

“Amitiyah’s Tears,” she groaned, her voice deep for a woman’s.

Bang!

“What?!” Adelmar exclaimed.

A dark-skinned hand gripped the table from the other side, bearing a shining ring. A knife-lean man dragged himself up. Haldrych gasped at his sinister features: crimson eyes and slightly pointed ears on an otherwise symmetrical, somewhat feminine face.

“I think…I think I might hate myself at the moment,” the man moaned, his deep voice tight and pained. His words carried a liquid accent. “Who won?”

The woman gave a stiff grin, revealing even white teeth. She weakly raised a thumb toward her chest. Haldrych noticed her dress struggling to contain her heavy bosom. “I did.”

“Impossible,” the man grumbled. “You drank three for every one Wurhi and I had.”

“And I saw you both fall…” she murmured. “Granting victory to me-”

“You sugar-tongued, lead-skulled bastards!”

Bang!

“Why!?” Haldrych cried in as much consternation as alarm.

A hand belonging to the third denizen beneath the table emerged. A tiny woman was connected to it, olive skinned and with eyes beady, blood-shot, and green. She dragged her mop of black hair from her face and her grimace revealed a slight overbite.

“I nearly died! Died!” she hissed, her Laexondaelic bearing a slight Makkadian accent. “I must be three idiots stuffed in one skin to let you talk me into a drinking match!”

“Oooooh, you had fun,” the man chuckled weakly. “You also had quite the singing voice.”

The small woman looked at him sharply. “Don’t joke with me, Kyembe.”

“I am too weak to joke, Wurhi,” Kyembe murmured. “Ippolyte and Thesiliea could not stop their laughter-Ah!” He looked about. “Where did our Vestulai friends go? You were awake the longest, Cristabel, did you see them?”

“They made retreat upon the fourth round.” Cristabel jerked her thumb toward the doorway. Great muscles flexed in her arm. “They were the ones who bore true wisdom-”

She paused, seeing the two young conspirators for the first time. “Oh, hail, fellows.”

“Er, hello,” Adelmar muttered.

“We were just leaving,” Haldrych threw a meaningful look toward the merchant’s son before rising from the bench.

They left the three drunks to their own affairs.

The poet drew close to his companion. “We’ll do it tonight. Climb the north wall when the moon is at its highest and I’ll let you in through my balcony. Keep that knife ready. And in the next few days when this is behind us, introduce me to these people you speak of.”

“Good.” Adelmar said. “I look forward to introducing the Heir of House Ameldan to them.”

“No.” Haldrych smiled. “Not heir, my friend, but master! My inheritance comes before the sun rises!”

Kyembe of Sengezi watched the two young men leave the wine room, huddled against each other.

Liquor dulled his gaze, but suspicion sharpened it.