Exhibit 7: "Panache"

Alright. Guess I'd better talk about Promise.

He wasn't the devil, he was just the son of the devil.

That was his secret. In the maze, he told us in plain Common that Reishan Repellam was his father. It was a tense moment, so I didn't wanna mention that both Cora and I had overheard him talking to Mama June during our bye-bye bash in Solas. Cora was elsewhere, but my ears perked up on an ill-timed bathroom break. They were close to the back door when I slowly approached.

"Nice to see you again," Mama June said, nonchalant as all get-out.

Promise hummed. "How are things? Better than my time?"

"Better." She paused. "About to get worse."

"And why's that?" His voice had a low, crackling warmth, like a dying fire.

"Your father. I feel him nearby."

Promise had no reply.

Mama June continued, "That girl's father too. I was surprised to have both his children under my care in my lifetime."

There was a long silence before he spoke again. "I wasn't aware he was with another woman," he said very quietly.

She shrugged. "I don't know, birdie." She patted his shoulder and hobbled away, leaving him to stand dejectedly by the door for the rest of the night—Timmy took the piano instead. I said something glib and punched his shoulder as I passed, which he didn't acknowledge.

That was my view of him for a while. Promise was devil-may-care (ha), cool as hell, apathetic to suffering—he was cooler than Keith the Unpreparred. Funny thing, he had the vibe of an actual assassin, not my fuckass pile of words. He slung flames from his hands, from his violin, like it was nothing, with practiced calm. No way he hadn't killed plenty of folks without a single head turning. I bet he could do it on a crowded street in broad daylight.

The day we left, I asked about his name. Kinda similar to mine, right? That was when he told me he'd "stayed in the orphanage for a time." Yeah, alright. This guy was badass. Always dodgin' the most basic questions about his past, but not coming off like he wanted you to ask more, or that he cared, any of that. I'll tell ya, was that a relief, because it meant I got to cut loose and do whatever wild card shit I wanted—provided it didn't outmatch Cora, but still. We had Keelo the wrangler, and Promise the observer. The most reaction anyone got out of him was mild, cold annoyance, like when Cora relentlessly flirted with him despite him being… I actually don't know how old he was. Maybe that was part of it? Who's to say.

Well, his name wasn't from Mama June. He gave it to himself. I learned that way later.

The night we killed Mendax—whom I traded lightning-quick rapier blows with, I will add, though none connected—I sat sketching her head. That maze fucked us all up, and I shed gouts of manic tears off and on when we got to take our rest. In the same stone courtyard we killed her in, Promise burned her body by tapping it with his foot. We figured the head could be a nice weapon, or worth somethin', so we held onto that as it got goopy. Before that, though, it was almost supernaturally preserved, and I tried to capture that as much as I could. Charcoal is not my thing, thanks Carmen, but I couldn't bring myself to try and remake this one in a different way. I think the feelings of that night, the slight char marks around the edges, the little reflection of Promise in Mendy's dead eyes—all that's seeped in here. It wouldn't do to make a lesser imitation a year after the fact, when the magic has faded.

…Sorry, actually, no bidding on this one. I'll set it aside.

When Cora was gifted Venun the unicorn, Promise stumbled upon Aramis the goddamned nightmare. She came and went as she pleased, her coat black as night, leaving charred grass and drips of molten fire from her mane in her footsteps.

Cora had a horse. Promise had a—tentative—horse who was big enough for Keelo to ride. I didn't have no horse, and that would become a problem if I had to walk through many more mazes and travel to 'em on foot. We needed a detour.

So that was, of course, our rationale for stopping into your fair city. Mistston was just as shit as I remembered. We loaded up on baked potatoes at Harmony's place, then split to do our own things for the evening. I took one look at that shiny crooked tree of a castle on the top level and decided I was breakin' in that night. Hadn't properly managed it on my last residency, not for lack of trying, but the numerous jailings and scrubbing of floors and breakouts of the place only gave me more time to think and to get cozy with the layout. I have Nicholas Ridice's arrogance to thank for that.

I saw a sad little guy on my way up. I crouched and gave him the bell I carried with me—comfort thing. Told him to ring it if there was any trouble, tousled his hair, and turned invisible. He seemed confused but a little happier.

There were only two guards on the wide steps that day. Probably figured the poor folk didn't have no magic or ingenuity to get past. I had both. Almost got caught because their conversation describing exactly that was downright cartoonish, and my fists shook so hard I barely brushed one of 'em, but I held it together somehow. Weren't guards going from the second level to the third—no need to guard the clouds from the wind. I stalked through that palace, ducking corners and letting my hand glide to my dagger to keep it still.

When I got to the east wing, Promise and Cora stood poised in front of Ridice's door, about to knock. They were dressed to the nines, like attending a ball or some such.

We were all gobsmacked, pointing and making incredulous noises. Promise was apparently a "friend" of dear Nicholas, and Cora wouldn't get off his ass, so they were both paying a visit, apparently after a quick second level shopping trip. It was then I learned our endless money wasn't Cora's. I didn't know what to think, but we'd talked enough about distrusting the gods and authority in general that I trusted them.

I listened from the doorframe, re-upping my invisibility as Promise—Nicholas called him "Quincy"—chatted with Nicholas graciously, talking about trade and percentages and fine parties. I was in awe of his bullshitting technique, and made a note to ask if he was classically trained or self-taught.

That exchange led to the impulse I still deeply regret. Turns out I was right, and Promise was intimately familiar with killing. We talked about it.

We talked about a lot more, too. He was a killer, and a survivor, and he had been his whole life. I told him what I was feeling, how it was all too much, and said the opposite: when he did it, he didn't feel anything. He said it'd been like that for too long. There'd been many deaths because of him, and only the early ones got anything out of him. Nowadays it was just work. Just numb.

And that surprised me a bit. Not because of what he was saying, but how he said it. I thought he was a stone cold cowboy, but that talk showed me his guts, whether he intended it or not.

Truth was… Promise hated himself.

Son of a devil. Mother died in childbirth. Named repulsive, curse, the signs of his heritage sawed off by bullies and burned into him by blood. His life was the pits, no doubt. Seemed doomed from birth, and he started believing that… he might've even decided so. He fully embraced it, writing his sad songs about the lone figure in the distance who killed everything he ever touched. Bloody right hand, fire in his eyes, eventually sailing off into nothingness to crumble to ash and cinders, just a reflection of something far bigger that only ever taunted and prodded. He'd decided exactly how his tragic boo-hoo life was gonna play out.

I didn't have anything to offer. All I could say was me too, and that was enough.

Cora told me later about how she'd seen him pay for a struggling brothel girl's time, then sneak her out the window with enough gold to flee the city. He said he had "appearances to maintain," apparently as a stereotypically awful fella. It never did stick. He wanted others to hate him, but for all the panache and the lies, his flesh and bone showed.

I should explain that. He wore that big black coat, right? Trailed down to his ankles, opened just enough to show the cracked red-black scales on his chest that glowed from within. Well, the downy side of that coat was pure white dove feathers. For his lost love, he told us at the end of the road, but I saw it different, I guess. He had that little boy with horns inside him, still.

Promise was a tempest. I didn't see that at first. A storm of fear and self-loathing, off on a little journey as a year-long suicide note. I thought I was doing the same thing, but—that seems to be the pattern, here. I thought I was doing certain things, until my party showed me I was just a little village boy playing rambunctious, playing hero, playing tragedy.

I thought I was ready, but I didn't want to die, no matter how much I tried to convince myself I did. Just like always, I was scared, and I was running, and I tried to cover it up and light the darkness and fill the hole, but—

Promise would just not allow that. He was too damn sullen.

He looked like his father, no doubt, but I was only afraid of that asshole because he'd probably kill me before I even got to square up with Harvest. The truly scary resemblance was to Timera. Physically they looked almost nothing alike, though they shared both parents, but I saw something in both of their eyes as we neared our finale that made me want to bolt out of my skin.

Like Timera, it was hooded and cloaked, but as Promise opened up more, as we crept closer to the final showdown, I saw those invincible, void-black eyes looking to me for help.