Chapter 2

Before I have the opportunity to fall forward over top of the wall that now seemed inadequately short for something that was supposed to stop people from tumbling down a thousand-foot cliff, I feel a cool, dry hand wrap around my forearm, and hear a low, even voice speak to me.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

Once the ground feels steady under my feet again, I turn to look at the person who was both the cause of my near death experience and my savior from it.

He's tall, enough so that I have to look up a ways to meet his eyes, but for a male member of the serpent folk I'd say he's about average. Broad shouldered. Well-dressed but in an understated way. Dignified, but not that old – maybe in his thirties. His scales are a dark gray with yellow markings, his snout is short, and the scales on the back of his head spike up a bit. His eyes are a violent blood red. They stare back at me, level and even, and I can immediately sense an aura of calm authority radiating from him.

"Um. No, it's my fault. I should have noticed there was someone else here," I concede a bit sheepishly. "I was in such a hurry and so out of breath, I just got a bit of tunnel vision, I guess."

He lets go of my arm, an action that makes me realize he was still holding it. I rub it absentmindedly.

"What were you in such a rush for?" he asks, glancing in the direction in which I had been staring so raptly moments before. "The view is hardly going anywhere. Not anytime soon anyway."

He doesn't smile, but it's abundantly clear he finds my actions amusing. I don't much care for being made fun of – not by strangers anyway. My lips purse.

"Well, the view might not be going anywhere, but I am," I inform him, trying to be polite but unable to keep a degree of defiance out of my tone. "I'm only in town for a week, and I'll be busy for most of it."

The man blinks, and his forked tongue flicks out from between his lips. If he's bothered by my rude tone, it doesn't show on his face.

"I see,” he says. “What brings you to Dimos, then?"

This question causes the deeply ingrained urge to give our spiel to bubble out of me unbidden. I rattle off the words I've spoken a thousand times in my life with a practiced smile.

"I'm a member of a troupe of traveling musicians and actors, the Restless Warblers. We're in town for the next week, putting on a different show every night. Tomorrow night is a concert with food and drink provided by local street vendors. The music and dancing goes late into the night, and all are welcome."

He cocks his head and stares at me long enough for my addressing-the-public smile to falter. Then he finally breaks eye contact to gaze out over the painted vista.

"Yes, I'd heard there was a group that just arrived today. I hope your time here is lucrative."

The obvious lack of interest in his tone and manner really rubs me the wrong way.

"Of course our time here will be lucrative," I say, unable to keep the testiness out of my voice. "We're amazing, and if you're not interested, you should at least spread the word to anyone you know who does appreciate art and fun."

He gives me a strange look that I can't read, and smirks almost imperceptibly.

"I suppose I shall," he says, though the tone of it sounds more dismissive than anything. He pauses for a moment and looks me up and down in an evaluating glance that makes me bristle.

"You know," he says, "you're really not supposed to be on castle grounds."

I scoff. Is he serious?

"What, are you going to tell someone I'm here and have me thrown out?" I ask.

He seems to genuinely consider it for a few seconds, tilting his head as though weighing his options.

"I suppose I don't find your presence too abrasive. I'll keep it to myself this time."

My face heats up and contorts as my anger flares. He doesn’t seem to notice my outrage at his audacious remark, though, as he just turns back and stares out over the landscape again, seemingly deciding to ignore me. I’m struck with the urge to give him a piece of my mind and show him how abrasive I can be, but then I remember that I’m not here to shout at some asshole I’ve never met. I’m here to enjoy the majesty of nature and light. Screw this guy. I suck in a deep breath and walk about fifteen feet further down the wall away from him, then look back towards the sunset, determined not to let his grating presence ruin this experience for me.

The view is perfect. The shadows are blue and purple and everything touched by the light is in pinks and oranges. The landscape is all jagged peaks and deep canyons, stretching out over an impossible distance. The earth seems barren, yet I know that even in the most improbable corners of this wasteland, there is life just beneath the surface. It's everything I remember and more.

And I can't enjoy it at all with this guy nearby.

I keep sneaking glances at him, but he's never looking back at me. I might be unable to ignore him despite my best efforts, but he doesn't seem to face the same problem. He seems so at ease, which I envy greatly.

The silence that would have been relaxing if I were alone has been made deafening by his presence. I shuffle my feet as I try desperately to rein in the urge to tell him to piss off and find his own lookout spot. Because I can’t say that, can I? Strictly speaking, I don’t have any right to be here, and he actually could get me kicked out if he wanted. I have to say something, though. Ignoring him isn’t working, and the longer I try to do so, the more my anger is going to build until it bursts out of me like trapped steam. Instead, I opt to blurt out the first innocuous subject that comes to mind, in the hopes that saying something at least will help let off a little of that steam. I walk the fifteen feet back to him and start talking.

"I came here once before, a long time ago," I say. "We got to play in the castle that time. I really fell in love with the scenery."

I glance over. He's looking at me now, expression inscrutable, waiting for me to continue.

"I've wanted to come back ever since," I go on, "I've been all over the continent and seen a lot of beautiful places, but nothing has really called to me in the same way."

He looks out into the distance, a faint smile playing across his lips and a far off look in his eye.

"Yes," he says reverently, "I feel the same way. In all the years I've lived here, I never tire of it. I come here all the time when I need to think. It never fails to clear my mind."

Good, he said something that didn't piss me off. I can work with this.

"Have you traveled much?" I ask.

He chuckles lightly. "Here and there, but I’ve seen far more of my own country than any other."

"I've never not been on the road," I say. "I wouldn't have it any other way, and my troupe is my family, but some places make me wish we could at least linger for a little while. Tell me, as a Dimos native, what should I make sure to prioritize seeing before we leave?"

He takes a long time before answering, taking deep breaths as he mulls it over. "Honestly? It doesn't get much better than this. Prioritize coming up here as often as possible."

“Is there a public lookout spot?” I ask. “I’d rather not have to sneak across castle grounds.”

“There is on the north side of the castle, but that park is nothing compared to the garden here. I’d advise you to risk it.”

I hum thoughtfully. If I do make it back up here, no way in hell am I coming back to this spot if this guy says he comes here often. He’s already ruining my experience this time, a problem about which I am still simmering at a steady level of background anger.

"I just wish that our campsite were closer to the summit,” I lament. “We're all the way back next to the east entrance of town. It was a long way up here and it'll be a long way back, though thankfully I won't have to go uphill the other way too."

"You have to go all the way back across town?" he demands with some urgency. "Are you serious?"

"Well yeah, but it's no big deal," I say dismissively. "My whole life is walking long distances, and I have a great sense of direction."

My answer doesn't seem to please this guy. His brow furrows deeply.

"It'll be dark the whole way back," he says as though I don't know this already. "Dimos's crime rate isn't high, but it's far from non-existent. A woman walking alone at night… You could get mugged, or worse."

I scoff and try to cover it up by coughing, but it's not really convincing.

"Look, I've been out alone at night in way sketchier places than this and still have yet to be effectively mugged," I reassure him smugly. "Don't worry, I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

My reassurances aren't convincing. His brow furrows deeper still, and I can see his tail lashing sinuously behind him.

"I'll go fetch a carriage for you," he says in a definitive tone.

"That's really not–“

"I insist," he interrupts with some force. "Please wait here. I will return shortly."

And he turns and walks away without another word.

I splutter uselessly at his receding back. There is a tiny reasonable part of me that knows that this is a kind and gentlemanly gesture, wanting to make sure my trip back to camp is safe and without incident. My wounded pride, however, is overpowering all reason, and I'm becoming more irate by the second. What, he doesn't think I can handle myself? He has no idea who I am and what I'm capable of, and I'm not fond of being underestimated.

So I’m faced with two options: either I can run away now and miss what remains of my sunset, but preserve my pride, or I can stay like I planned, but resign myself to accepting help that I don’t need. I pace back and forth for a minute before deciding that I’ve already let this asshole ruin enough of what was supposed to be a serene and individual experience – I’m going to stay and enjoy the fact that he’s not here right now. Maybe he’ll even take enough time to get back that I can make a break for it before he returns.

Unfortunately, I still can’t appreciate the silent stillness, because inside my head it’s loud with all the arguments I’m mentally planning out with this stranger. I just keep thinking of more things I’d like to say to his stupid face. I’m also arguing with myself, because my reason has found its voice a little, and I’m realizing that strictly speaking, he hasn’t done anything to me besides call me “not too abrasive”, offer me help that I don’t need, and exist in the same space as me, a space that he actually has more right to be in than I do. If I blow up at him like I want to, it would be completely disproportionate. And that’s pissing me off more than anything.

I’m still leaned against the wall fighting with the stranger and myself in my head when I feel a tap on my shoulder. For the second time tonight, I jump so hard I feel like I’m about to fall forward off the cliff. And for a second time, a cool, dry hand wraps around my arm to steady me. I snap back to reality to notice that the sun has already set without me having really processed it.

“You know,” the stranger suggests gently, “if you startle so easily, perhaps you shouldn’t spend so much time leaning over cliffs before first observing your surroundings.”

I yank my arm back this time.

“Thanks,” I say sarcastically. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

He offers his arm out for me to link with mine, presumably to lead me to the carriage he has prepared for me. I look down at it in distaste, then back up to him, pointedly refusing to take it. He shrugs and turns, waving for me to follow him. I reluctantly do so, still not sure whether I’m going to accept his objectively generous help, or give into my unwarranted anger and tell him to fuck off. I go back and forth about it the whole way as we walk across the garden in silence, but once we reach the road where the carriage is waiting, I make the decision to be the bigger person.

I look up at him, trying to wrangle my expression into something other than a vicious glare and failing miserably.

“Thank you,” I say. “This is very kind of you. I appreciate your concern for my well-being."

I manage to get it out, but I was aiming for cordial and missed the mark by a long shot. It sounds much more like a death threat than an expression of gratitude.

At my words, he makes a pained expression that it takes me a minute to realize is a rapidly failing attempt not to smile. I feel my face heat up to unprecedented levels. He has to break eye contact in order to get himself under control.

"You're quite welcome," he says. "I couldn't very well let you wander the dark streets alone."

He holds a hand out to help me up into the open carriage seat, and I glare at it for a few seconds, but ultimately choose to take it. When I'm seated, he's finally wrestled his smile into something that's more polite rather than openly mocking.

"You know, I think I will come to your concert tomorrow," he says, to my complete and utter shock. "I'm finding it hard to imagine you expressing anything other than poorly-concealed hostility, and that's something I'd like to witness for myself."

My brain short-circuits. Did he actually just fucking say that? All the anger I’ve been harboring that I told myself was so unwarranted has suddenly become justified, and all the things I’ve been planning on shouting at him try to explode from me at the same time. Unfortunately, they run into each other and get stuck on the way out. My mouth opens and closes but I can’t get any words out.

"By the way, I don't believe I ever caught your name, Miss…?

"Catarina," I spit, voice dripping with venom. "And yourself?"

"Khysmet," he replies amicably. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Catarina. I look forward to seeing you again soon." He signals to the carriage driver, and suddenly he's receding into the distance.

Khysmet? Through my haze of anger, the name sticks out to me. I've heard it before, I know it, but I can't place it. Someone politically important, a Veilsung lord or count, or maybe a general. The name nags at the back of my head the whole way back to the campsite. It's a long ride, actually. Maybe I should be grateful I didn't have to walk all this way. That doesn’t stop me from stewing the whole way back, though, planning what to say when I give him a piece of my mind tomorrow.

I stomp back into camp with a black cloud over my head. Folks are gathered around scattered campfires, talking and laughing and singing. I see Portia and Suzanne sitting outside our tent playing cards. Portia waves as I approach, swaying a bit, clearly having gotten into the alcohol.

"Cat, you- you have to come play and help me keep an eye on Suzie, ssshe keeps cheating," she slurs.

"You're back sooner than I thought you'd be," Suzanne says, ignoring Portia's drunken accusation. "I figure the stars would be out well before you could walk your way across the whole city, but there's still light in the sky."

"I met this asshole while I was out," I explain irritably, "and he got me a ride back."

Suzanne raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Ah yes, nothing more asshole-ish than making sure you get across town safely after dark," she says dryly.

"He was an asshole," I insist. I don't, however, have anything of substance to back up this claim, so I just scowl. "I don’t want to talk about it," I say tersely, grabbing the plate of food that Suzanne kindly set aside for me and storming off toward our tent.

It takes ages to get to sleep that night, partly because I would normally stay up late talking and laughing with everyone else. But my mood is sour in a way that I don't want to talk about it or even really think about it, so once I’m finished eating, after I clean and return my plate, I just go to bed anyway, laying there with my jumbled up thoughts for hours until finally slipping into a restless slumber.