A loud roar of “Zounds!” startles Kyros from his thoughts. He looks up to see Danny standing.

“This is good shirt,” the young man says bitterly as he flings ale and foam off the front of his chest. “My mother make for me.”

The article of clothing looks to have been hand-knitted from sheep’s wool, dyed blue, and with a scratchy round collar that shows off the thickness of Danny's veiny neck. Kyros cannot imagine it feels any good to be wearing it.

“Get her to make you another one,” he says, drinking his own ale. The setting sun brings a host of travelers and merchants alike into the Black Raven, and the noise of drink and food picks up with each opening of the tavern doors. Kyros is wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday, a creased leather jacket with a loose-fitting cotton shirt under it, and a pair of old breeches and heavy shoes. He feels lousy from sleeping on Cathra’s floor all night, but it’s the thought of what he must do tonight that makes him feel all the worse.

“My mother is busy,” Danny huffs. “She be strong-arm champion of the Isles for three years now. This year is fourth.”

From across the table, Tim chuckles. “With a son like you, I don’t imagine there's much competition for her.”

Danny turns to flash Tim a gap-toothed grin. “Only it is because my father has better things to do.” He signals for a waitress to come over. “Bring me towel soaked in hot water,” he instructs the young girl when she arrives at their table, “quickly, please, my beautiful.”

Kyros watches as the waitress scurries off with a bashful blush on her face. She is young with a pretty enough face, clearly not the one who served him and Cathra yesterday. Kyros briefly wonders where that plump girl is tonight.

“Either way,” says Tim, “you probably shouldn’t have worn your only good shirt to a tavern, Meaty Man.”

As one of the new recruits, Tim has the lowest social ranking in their bunk room of three. Since first meeting him, Kyros has always thought the boy will turn down any invitations to drink.

But looks can deceive, it turns out.

Danny’s grin does not lessen even as he wrings ale from his shirt. “It is Friday,” he explains, “day women like to relax and accept men. Because on the morrow, no one need to wake early. You know what I mean, aye?”

Tim coughs so hard Kyros almost expects to see ale coming out from the boy’s nose.

The waitress comes back with a towel and a full mug of ale. “On the house,” she says in a sweet voice when Danny voices his confusion about the ale. “I also made sure to soak the towel nice and hot for you.”

“Ah, I thank you, my beautiful.” With an almost elf-like grace to his movements, Danny grabs onto the girl’s waist and spins her around straight into his lap. “This towel would not be only thing you can make nice and hot for me,” he leans in to whisper into the girl’s ear, “if you like.”

The girl starts to giggle, and Kyros feels so embarrassed he has to look away. He can see there a few other girls are working tonight, all busily serving the ever-increasing number of customers. He thinks again about their waitress from last night.

Should he have asked for her schedule like Cathra suggested he should?

It may well have been his only chance with a woman. What happened in Cathra's home last night made it painfully clear to Kyros how far apart they are in status and power, and he has long suspected that she doesn't even see him as a man.

But the more crucial thing is that, should anything go wrong with Cathra's plan tonight, they could both be dead by sunrise.

“Sir Kyros?”

Kyros looks up surprised at the waitress hovering next to him. She’s holding a sealed letter in her hands and it takes a second for Kyros to realize it’s for him.

“Not Sir,” he says, reaching for the letter. “But yes.”

The envelope is no bigger than his hand, and when he opens it, the smell of Cathra is unmistakable. Grassy, like a meadow.

“A letter from your admirer,” the waitress explains, “though she did not leave her name.”

Kyros can’t help but smile. “Is that what she's calling herself then?” He does his best to ignore the curious stares of his friends as he reads the contents of the letter silently to himself.

In thin, feminine letters, the message reads,

Knight of bravest knights, on this night of darkest nights,

go forth into the bowels of the Black Raven,

and empty thy bladder fast.

For our hunt begins for the outcast of heaven,

and my dearest knight, I fear your courage may not last.

-Yours, C.

Kyros folds the paper into a neat square and stuffs it deep into his pockets. I guess that means it's time.

Though Cathra did not tell him any details of her plans, she made it clear that she will send word to him when it is ready to be executed. “I’ll need a day to make the preparations,” she told him. “So use that time to put your affairs in order.” The way she said it left no doubt in Kyros’s mind that whatever happens after tonight, their lives will not be the same again.

Kyros downs a mouthful of ale and looks to his friends. Tim and Danny are talking loudly, the latter still having the young waitress sitting in his lap.

They both turn to him when Kyros speaks.

“I need to go.”

“Now that doesn’t look like the face of someone on the receiving end of a love letter,” Tim remarks, his expression turning into concern. “Is everything alright?”

“You do not know, Tiny Tim,” Danny cuts in. “Kyros is most happy when he looks most sad. It is way of the romantic man. We are too much like real men to know.” He winks at Kyros.

That makes Kyros laugh. “You mean to say you have too much meat in your head to understand, Danny.”

“Ya, you are just jealous of my beautiful body.” Danny nuzzles his thick head into the pretty waitress’s hair, making her giggle in delight.

Kyros catches Tim looking at him. Together, they shrug at the same time.

Ah, my friends.

At that moment, Kyros wants nothing more than to stay in the Black Raven and waste the night away in ale and laughter, but duty awaits him. It is a duty he does not feel the least bit inclined towards, but Cathra’s plan requires him to do his part, and the thought of making her face the Blood Devil alone gives Kyros the incentive he needs to stand up.

“Fellas,” he says, holding out his ale in a toast, “I have not had the pleasure to tell you both how much fun this has been. Tonight is a night that I shall remember for years to come, and I thank you both for your companionship all this time.” He throws back his head and downs the rest of his ale.

“Hear, hear,” says Tim and Danny, throwing back their own brews, oblivious to the ominous undertones to Kyros’s words.

How ironic, that the drink you want to savor never lasts. Kyros sets down his empty mug and with a heavy heart, rummages in his pockets for some silver.

“We have it covered,” Tim says, surprising Kyros with the generosity. “You have somewhere important to be. I can see it in your face.” He gives Kyros a reassuring pat on the back. “Don’t worry. Whatever it is, you’ll be fine. And we’ll both be here.” He looks towards Danny. “Isn’t that right?”

Danny holds up one of his thick-fingered hands. “A man must do what all man must do.” He gives Kyros a thumbs-up. “Go. Chase woman of your dreams. Quickly now, before I change mind about the silver.”

The summer night is balmy and not at all unpleasant. But when Kyros pushes open the doors of the outside privies and spies a lumpy shape wedged in the corner of the dark room, his stomach drops out of him all the same. Wiping the sheen of cold sweat that has gathered on his forehead, he touches the lantern on the wall.

In the light, the bulky black bag on the privy seat stands out like a severed head.

There is another letter tied to it. This one reads,

Knight of bravest knights, on this night of darkest nights,

the time has come to don your armor,

and face the lullaby we know as war.

Worry not the things we leave behind,

for destiny awaits us no more.

-Yours, C.

Through the bag, Kyros can feel the softness of the dress, amongst some other rounder objects his fingers cannot discern. He suppresses a groan as he rips it open to reveal silky green fabric, along with a very elegant wig.

“And they call me the poet,” Kyros grumbles, sliding the bolt in the door.