There is a feast, of course.

You can feel Flanker at your right, taut as a bowstring. You touch his hand under the table. He flinches, but some of the tension leaves him.

The evening is a blur of food and frivolity. A certain improvement over the stale bread and slop you've subsisted on throughout your journey. Flanker eats like a ravenous dog; it might be the first real meal he's had in months.

When the dancing begins, Flanker is whisked away from you, into the crowd. Some time later, you feel him at your back, a comforting shadow. You turn.

'Dance with me,' you say, extending your hand.

He glances around, uncertain. You've never seen him so out of his element.

'Don't mind them,' you say. 'It's just like the Archmage's library. Or shall I spell you again?' You grin.

Flanker growls under his breath. 'You have the manners of a Gnome.'

But he takes your hand and allows you to pull him closer. His body is lean and muscular against your own, honed by years of hardship. He is made for a different kind of dance.

'Sindla may be your goddess,' you whisper at his ear, 'but this seems far from hopeless to me.'

'Death comes for us all in the end,' Flanker replies.

'Not for me,' you say ruefully. 'But I praise Effe that I chanced upon you in the forest that day.'

'You think yourself immortal?'

'I know it.'

Flanker shakes his head in bewilderment.

'One day, beloved,' you say, for his ears only. 'One day you will know all my secrets, and I yours.'

He shivers in your arms. To frighten a cold-blooded assassin is an exhilarating thing. But you've felt his blood on your hands before, and it's as warm as your own.

You close the heavy oak door behind you. You take a breath, equal parts relief and nerves. Alone with your assassin once more. You feel those dark eyes on you as you turn. You busy your hands by removing your sword and traveling cloak.

'Wine?' you ask, gesturing at the round table in the parlor suite.

'Please.'

You pour two goblets, and take your seat beside him on the chaise. You hold yours aloft—a toast. But you falter.

'To mercy,' Flanker says simply. You both drink deeply.

A dim silence settles over you both. The sun is setting, and the single westward window is awash in gold. You are compelled to fill the empty room with words, but you don't know what to say.

Flanker touches your arm and you nearly spill your wine. You put it down hastily.

You see the same fire in his eyes as the day you met. Something then told you not to quench it; now something urges you to stoke the embers burning there. Flanker takes your hand and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your palm. You shiver.

His hands move to the laces of your tunic, where they still. His eyes search yours.

'Why do you tremble, love? Do you fear me?'

You shake your head. 'I fear the morning.'

'You think I will slip away. Sand through your fingers.'

You shrug. 'You called yourself a ghost once.'

Flanker's deft fingers are gentler than you ever imagined as he shucks off your tunic. His palms are warm against your chest. 'Can a shadow be separated from the man to whom it belongs?'

Your heart leaps. Flanker can surely feel it racing beneath his fingertips. You swallow hard. 'Then be my shadow.'

'Always,' he whispers.

You reach up, slowly, so as not to startle him. He is a feral beast; tame in your hands, but wild all the same. You remove the black mask that covers all but his eyes to reveal his face. He is younger than you thought. You lay one hand against his stubbled cheek and draw him forward until your breath mingles. There is no return from this.

You kiss him, and open the floodgates of every dream and vision he's starred in since your meeting. Flanker responds to every move you make, moulding his body to yours. He is your shadow, after all. You trace sigils of Effe across his bare flesh, praising your goddess with every touch. Every chance you took on your journey led to this moment. Mercy, the greatest gamble of all.

The sun sets fully, and starlight sparkles, casting a silver sheen over Flanker's skin. You trail your fingers over many, too many, puckered scars. Your hand stops at one in particular. You lower your lips to the ugly evidence of your own sword's keen edge. You bound this very injury with your own two hands, weeks ago, and sealed your fate. Flanker watches you intently.

'Wounds of the flesh are so easily healed.' He takes your hands and pulls you back in. You lose yourself in the richness of Flanker's eyes, the honeyed thunder of his laugh, and your name, whispered like a prayer, on his lips . . .

In the morning, you wake. Flanker is curled up beside you like a Snattacat cub. He murmurs in his sleep. The zED curse still hangs over you, but you don't fear it quite as much anymore. A thousand lifetimes with this man are a fair trade for the Crown. You sigh, and draw his back flush against your chest. There will be time enough for that.