Murtagh got drunk. When he wasn't training and he wasn't sitting in on meetings and councils, he was drinking. He would fly up with Thorn at night and bring a bottle of mead, watching the stars spin about him as his mind was addled by the drink, and convincing himself that he felt nothing.

It bothered Thorn, he could tell that pretty quickly, but what was the alternative? He didn't want to plague Thorn with the darkness of his thought, the horrible clenching in his heart and the waves of panic that would come over him without warning. Better to feel oblivion than to feel pain.

He told himself he felt nothing when the King rifled through his mind, as he sometimes did, flipping through the pages of thought like he was reading a book, re-hashing Murtagh's pain.

Galbatorix lingered on the decent memories too–the easy conversations with Aberfell, the moments of freedom in the skies with Thorn, all of these things the King corrupted with his touch, but Murtagh told himself it meant nothing.

He told himself he felt nothing when he overheard the spies report that Eragon had gone to the forest of Du Weldenvarden, and was likely this moment frolicking among the elves, learning his own secrets of magic, wandering in the beauty of the forest and enjoying his freedom. Murtagh tamped down bitter jealousy. It meant nothing.

The maid Demelza kept the room cleaned and tidy, even after Murtagh began to break anything within his grasp whenever he got drunk enough. The Chief Attendant Falner approached him one morning in his usual stiff, cordial manner and said,

"Does the staff meet your approval, my lord?"

Murtagh was tightening his sword belt, preparing to spar with Aberfell.

"Yeah, fine," He muttered, annoyed that the reedy man was bothering him with this.

"And the chambermaid girl? She's acceptable to you?"

"She's fine," Murtagh said, straightening and brushing past the man.

"If my lord would prefer another–"

"–I said she's fine," Murtagh spat, irritated that the man was still talking drivel.

He pushed into the hallway so Falner couldn't keep pestering him.

He was foggy that morning with Aberfell, having drunk himself to sleep the previous night. Though the magic he'd learned so far could cure the headaches, it couldn't fix the haggard, fatigued feeling that plagued him.

Aberfell gently reprimanded him after they'd sparred that day,

"If you don't mind my saying, sir," He started with a grimace, "It might do to hold back with the drink, just before training days, you understand…"

Murtagh was too surprised that the young man had had the nerve to say something for him to be really annoyed.

"...so you'll be at your best. Though I understand the vice."

Aberfell chuckled, keeping his tone light, but Murtagh sensed a bit of real concern coming from the swordsman. If any other castle servant had said something so impertinent, Murtagh would've snapped at them, but he had a softness for Aberfell, who seemed to genuinely care, and didn't tiptoe around Murtagh like he was scared. He also didn't seem to want anything from Murtagh, and that was more than he could say about most of the other people in his life.

He didn't have the heart to tell the young man that it didn't matter if he was at his best, didn't matter if he trained, didn't matter how good a swordsman or magician he was–nothing mattered.

"Alright, Aberfell," Murtagh said quietly, to appease the swordmaster, "I'll try."

Aberfell gave him a soft smile that held a lot of sympathy–more than Murtagh would've liked. He wondered how much the man knew, about his plight.

He tried to keep his promise to Aberfell that evening, and avoided sending Demelza down to the kitchens for more mead when she arrived to bring his dinner. Thankfully the King did not often require him to dine at his table, and he could just eat alone with Thorn, rather than going to the private dining room that was available to him. He hated those nice, elegant, lonely places, with all the servants doting on him and the fine china and goblets–especially after the dinners he'd shared with the various nobles in the city.

Demelza set that night's food tray down on the small table as he sat by Thorn, running a whetstone along his sword.

"My lord, is there anything else I can do for you this evening?" The girl asked; she seemed tense today, her shoulders very straight and her eyes distant.

Murtagh had begun heightening his awareness of people around him due to his training, in which he'd now begun scanning the minds of anyone he passed for signs of a threat. Demelza, like most of the castle servants, had been taught rudimentary skills in guarding her mind, but he could still sense some kind of unease coming from her.

"No, Demelza," He said, as always. He wished she would take the hint and stop asking.

The young woman didn't curtsy and leave then, as she usually did. She lingered by the door with her hands wringing, and Murtagh bit back a mean comment–he knew he would hear about it from Thorn if he was rude to her. Thorn liked Demelza.

"Is there something else you need?" Murtagh asked coolly.

"M–my lord, I only… wanted to see that you felt my services were adequate," She said quietly, and there was a soft quiver in her voice.

Murtagh fought from rolling his eyes, annoyed at the question, which Falner had already asked that morning. What did they want him to say?

"You're doing just fine," He answered, feeling Thorn tilt his head. He expected the girl to leave then, but she didn't move. She still seemed nervous.

"I–if…" She began, "If you would prefer another girl be brought to you, I can request the Chief Attendant to have me reassigned," She murmured, her eyes still on the ground.

Murtagh paused with the whetstone on his blade. He blinked. He realized several things at once.

Blast, He cursed in his mind, and Thorn blinked a questioning eye at him.

Murtagh took a breath, his eyes closed.

Slowly, so as not to scare the maid, Murtagh set his sword and stone down, and he rose, facing her directly, at a good distance. Now he could sense the girl trembling, hear her uneven breaths.

"Demelza," He said softly, and she swallowed, "You are a fine chambermaid. You perform your duties well. You keep this place clean, and you provide Thorn with water and food, as I've requested."

There was a breath in the room.

"Thank you, my lord," She murmured.

"...and that is all I ask of you," He said determinedly, "Is that understood?"

The girl's eyes lifted to him, unsure. He was kicking himself for not realizing it earlier–the way Falner had presented her to him like a fine piece of jewelry, the way she asked him every evening if he needed any other services.

He had been too absorbed in his own troubles to notice how nervous she had been, how she always lingered reluctantly, as though waiting for him to make a command of her. No doubt Falner had put her up to this–demanding that she ask him directly–convinced that Murtagh must have found something unattractive about her and would want a different plaything.

"I would like to make you a promise, Demelza," Murtagh continued, feeling sympathy for the young woman. She looked up, surprised, and he took a deep breath.

"I give you my word that you are safe in this room," He said, speaking slowly, and feeling Thorn's encouraging tendril of thought, "I will never ask you to do anything that is beneath your honor. You are an excellent chambermaid. And that is all I shall require of you. Is that understood?"

Demelza's eyes were wide with a mix of fear and shock, but her expression was full of tearful thanks.

"Y–yes, my lord, thank you my lord," She curtsied again, and Murtagh sensed that this thanks was genuine. She kept her head down, as though unwilling to lift her eyes back to Murtagh.

He breathed, self-conscious and unsure.

"Well. Y–you're free to go, then," He said, and she curtsied once more.

"Thank you, my lord, good evening, my lord," She said, and Murtagh could hear relief and elation in her tone, like she had been holding her breath and had finally been able to release it.

The girl turned to the door, when Murtagh had another thought, and he stopped her with a word,

"One more thing, Demelza," He said, and she turned. He was thinking of Falner, the reedy, sneering man who'd brought this girl before Murtagh like a prize animal at a farm auction. He didn't like the way his hands had held her.

"...if anyone else in the city bothers you," He began, giving her a significant look, "You may feel free to tell them that you are mine, and that I shall be very cross with anyone who tries to take you from me."

It took a moment for her to understand, but Murtagh saw a flicker of great relief in her eyes. He knew he had hit the mark–a woman of her age and bearing no doubt had to fend off plenty of unwanted advances, especially considering her low status. Murtagh had seen first hand the unsavory nature of the populace of Uru'baen.

The girl seemed like she was close to tears, and Murtagh hoped she wouldn't start crying. He didn't think he would know what to do.

"Thank you, my lord," Was all she said, gravely, as she bowed again. He only nodded, and she turned to leave, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Thorn nudged him when he sat back down with a plate of food, leaving his sword-sharpening for later.

Friend-Demelza is thankful, The dragon thought.

Murtagh just nodded, still dizzy from the realization that it had taken him so long to reach. The poor girl had probably been terrified of him for months.

He decided that he would seek to have Falner reassigned after all. The slimy little man had always rubbed him the wrong way, and he wanted to show the Chief Attendant just exactly what he thought of his games.

That night Murtagh slept better, without drink–glad, for once, to have done something decent. It felt good to have made a promise of his own free will–to make an oath that he meant, rather than one he was forced into.

I am proud of you, my heart-partner, Thorn hummed.

After their conversation, Demelza's demeanor towards him was markedly different.

She had been polite before–respectful, dutiful, always ready to work, but now there was a certain lightness to her step and a shine to her eyes when she spoke to him. She was comfortable; the curtain of fear that he'd failed to notice had been lifted from her–she took him at his promise.

It was hard for him to admit, but he began to fall into a sort of simple rhythm; between his practice with Aberfell, his flights with Thorn, and his brief conversations with Demelza, there was some light in his day, and it made it a little easier not to drown himself in drink.

He was surprised that Aberfell's quiet chastening had impacted him so much–perhaps it was just the knowledge that someone had noticed, that someone cared what he was doing to himself. Besides Thorn, of course, who had noticed right away, and cared a little too much.

Murtagh tried to pull back, not drink so heavily, not destroy the room that Demelza worked so hard to keep tidy, not be so intoxicated when he flew with Thorn that he couldn't share in the good moments with his partner, or so hungover when he sparred with Aberfell that he couldn't enjoy that small, decent part of his day. Some days he was more successful than others.

Most of the King's time was taken up with pursuits that Murtagh was not privy to–some sort of private study in one of the scroll rooms that was for him alone. Murtagh wondered what secret evil he was trying to learn, what power he was seeking for so hungrily, and he was afraid for The Varden, and Nasuada, and Eragon, if the King should succeed in whatever endeavor he was pursuing.

Despite his worries, though, he was thankful that the King was distracted with his studying; this meant that Murtagh was left alone more often, and had fewer responsibilities towards the nobles. It had been almost two months since the incident with Lady Rathurst, and Murtagh was beginning to hope that the King had tired of that particular game, and would not be trading him out to any other officials.

Because of the King's unusual absence, Murtagh was surprised, one day, to arrive at a sparring match with Aberfell, and find that Galbatorix was there, sitting on a fine chair that had been brought for him, his current concubine sitting at his side and a table of hors d'oeuvres in his reach.

"Ah, Murtagh, I thought I'd see how you were coming along with your swordsmanship," The King said with his usual false warmth.

Thorn, who had joined him on his way to the sparring ground, tensed upon seeing the King, and Murtagh's hackles were instantly raised, but he kept his expression blank, glancing at Aberfell, who was doing his own warm ups. The young man gave Murtagh a bit of a nervous smile, just as surprised by the King's attendance as Murtagh was.

There was a woman and a young boy sitting in two simple chairs under the wooden overhang, and Murtagh knew this was Aberfell's wife and son; he'd met the woman once when she came by to deliver food for her husband. It had given him a sort of heartsick longing, to see Aberfell and his wife together, so full of love for each other.

There were a few other well-dressed people in the spectator's seats around the sparring ground, probably just enjoying an easy pastime, honored to have been invited by the King. Murtagh didn't know why today of all days Galbatorix had decided his sparring should become a show, but he knew he couldn't protest.

"Alright, Aberfell?" Murtagh said, taking the man's blade as usual and casting his dulling charm over the blade.

"Alright," Aberfell smiled. Murtagh knew they could not say much more, with the King nearby. Murtagh glanced back at Thorn, who had lain himself down on an open stretch of cobblestone, blinking encouragingly.

They began their usual warm-ups and exercises together, though everything Murtagh usually enjoyed was tinged with a sense of unease. He could tell Aberfell was nervous around the King, eager to impress him, of course, and possibly also eager to impress his wife, who smiled encouragingly any time Aberfell glanced her way.

Murtagh, too, was eager to impress, though he didn't admit it. He never went easy on Aberfell–the man didn't need him to; they were well-matched, once Murtagh had regained his strength and stamina–but today especially he was determined to win.

Whatever this odd visit was, he didn't care to have the King taking more interest in him than he had been–Galbatorix's absence from his training had been just as he liked it.

Because of Murtagh's focus and determination, combined with the fact that he had not been drinking as much lately, he was able to defeat Aberfell in three out of three bouts, and he stopped the last duel with his sword at Aberfell's neck after the man had stumbled to his knees. The man was panting, smiling ruefully, clearly disappointed to have lost.

There was polite applause from the gathered crowd, and Galbatorix said,

"Very good, Murtagh," In a voice that carried throughout the courtyard. "I think it's safe to say the student has surpassed the master."

Murtagh was catching his breath too, lowering his sword and reaching a hand to help Aberfell up, when the King said,

"Finish the job, now. You may kill him."

Suddenly every muscle in Murtagh's body clenched. He froze, and his mind was filled with a blank buzzing. Aberfell blanched, instinctively looking to the King, before he could stop himself.

When Murtagh followed his gaze, he saw a stony, unreadable expression, the barest hint of a smile dancing across Galbatorix's lips.

No. No, no, no, no, Murtagh began to panic. He felt Thorn lift his head in alarm.

Kill him? Why? Why kill him?

Murtagh looked back at Aberfell, then at the woman on the sidelines, whose face had paled and whose eyes were wide.

No, he couldn't. He wouldn't, obviously. Why would the King…? Just because he'd beaten Aberfell? Just because…?

Then Murtagh remembered.

Shame what happened to him. He was a good man.

Aberfell's encouragement about Tornac. Aberfell's confidence in Murtagh. Aberfell being one of only three people in the whole of Uru'baen whom it didn't sicken Murtagh to be around. The King had gone through his mind, had seen that memory, had seen that Murtagh liked Aberfell, and had seen–most unfortunately–that Aberfell dared to commend Tornac's actions. Dared to sympathize with Murtagh's rebellion.

There was a moment of shocked silence, even the other nobles who had joined the sparring show seemed stunned. Murtagh was frozen, and he looked back at Aberfell, whose expression had taken on a sort of despairing acceptance.

He didn't command you. You don't have to do it. It wasn't a command, Murtagh's inner voice said. He didn't feel the pull of his oaths yet.

Murtagh looked back at Thorn for help. The dragon only shifted his eyes, just as unsure.

Then Murtagh brought his gaze back to Aberfell's wife, and his child. And immediately he remembered the sight of the two broken bodies on the throne room floor. The spy whom he'd refused to kill. The message was clear: if Murtagh didn't kill the swordmaster, then they would all pay.

The woman, to her credit, held her head tall and clutched her son close, clearly terrified, but making no scream or cry for help.

Murtagh felt the weight of a thousand stones pulling him down, felt a hook in his stomach that might as well have dug his insides out. He had to do it. If he didn't take this one innocent life, then three innocent lives would be lost. He shouldn't have beaten Aberfell. He shouldn't have let the young man speak so openly. He had been a fool.

"Tell your son to look away," Murtagh murmured, so still, only his eyes moving. Aberfell winced, his eyes tearful, but he seemed to understand the situation. Understand his fate.

He took a shaking breath, and he turned his gaze towards the woman and child, managing a rough smile.

"Rellena," He said the woman's name as both a plea and a command. Her chin quivered and she shook her head, disbelieving.

"Rellena, please," Aberfell said. Murtagh dug his fingernails into his palms so hard they bled.

The woman clutched the young boy's head against her skirts, hiding his gaze from his father. Aberfell's chest rose, taking a shuddering breath, but nodding, still meeting his wife's eyes.

"I love you," He said.

Murtagh felt the King's eyes on him as the man turned his head back, and bowed it.

"It's alright," He murmured, so only Murtagh could hear. Murtagh refused to let his own tears fall. Damn Galbatorix. Damn this city. Damn Aberfell for being a fool. Damn himself for getting attached.

"I'm sorry," He said, breathlessly.

Then he whispered a single word in the ancient language, and the man was dead.

There was an awful silence after the body had hit the cobblestone. The people in attendance seemed to have the decency not to murmur or mutter. The only sound was the barely-constrained sobs of Aberfell's widow. Murtagh didn't know if the woman comprehended–if she understood that he had just saved her life.

You feel nothing, Murtagh told himself. And he turned to the King, sheathing his sword and bowing, expressionless.

"Very good," Galbatorix said as two guards swept in to remove the body. "We'll find someone who can match you yet, Murtagh."

Murtagh said nothing. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would scream.

Murtagh found the seediest tavern in the seediest part of the city, and he sat there and he drank until he couldn't see anymore.

Thorn didn't like him being drunk? Well Thorn didn't have to see it. He would keep away from Thorn, who wasn't allowed to leave the palace. If the barman recognized him he didn't say anything, just accepted Murtagh's coin wordlessly and gave the appropriate amount of conversation.

A middle-aged merchant struck up some talk with him; the man's name was Garren, and he'd just taken up business in the city. Murtagh didn't have much to say to him, and might've punched him in the face just for the fun of it, if he'd thought he could stand up from the barstool without falling over. But at the end of the night Garren ended up helping Murtagh stumble back to his horse and mount without killing himself.

"Ye 'gon be alright, mate?" Garren asked, his own speech slurred, as Murtagh slumped onto the animal.

"Fine," Murtagh muttered.

"Alright, well, see you next night, then," The man said with a good-natured rosyness that bespoke his own drinking.

As it turned out, Murtagh did return. The bar was called the Old Chestnut, and he found it a decent place to disappear and drown himself in the evenings when he didn't want to face Thorn's questions and sympathy.

Garren seemed to drink as often as he did, and was good at talking so much that Murtagh didn't have to. He soon took to sitting with the man in one of the wooden booths and drinking until he was ready to pass out, just so he could get back to his chambers and sleep without Thorn asking him questions.

He didn't care about keeping himself fit for training anymore–Aberfell had been replaced with a new swordmaster, who was friendly enough–but Murtagh treated the man with a decided indifference, and allowed him to win more often than not. He didn't care about perfecting his fighting skill, and he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. He wouldn't get attached.

Galbatorix had gone back to his distant, unaffected approach to training, once again absorbed in whatever mission he was pursuing amid the dusty scrolls and tomes of his personal library.

Murtagh was forced to mentally spar with the Twins sometimes, but often what he was doing involved going out into the city and searching the minds around him, learning to assess threats and develop an awareness of many dozens of people at once.

It was overwhelming, at first, listening to all those voices, trying to hear and not hear at the same time, but he soon came to treat the minds of the people around him like the shushing of wind through the trees, only aware when one mind stood out from the others–when thoughts were loud, or aggressive, or conspicuously absent.

The Twins, it seemed, were also busy with some sort of mission or preparation. Murtagh's assumption–that Galbatorix would rid himself of their services as soon as they'd turned Murtagh over–had been wrong. Evidently the King had found some use for them, and they were also frequently absent, off doing something in his service.

Murtagh was fine with this. They were the people he hated most in the world, besides Galbatorix, and he would rather have never seen them again.

The main time he saw the King was during their weekly war councils, when his leaders, spies and generals would report to him on the state of the army and the Varden's movements. Murtagh could sense that something was coming–the King was preparing his troops for an assault; the time would not be far off when he would call on Murtagh and Thorn to lead his army into battle against the Varden, against Nasuada and Eragon. Murtagh's stomach clenched at the prospect.

He was standing in one such meeting–tired of listening to the various underlings report their findings–when he heard something that made his veins turn to ice.

A short, stocky man whose role Murtagh didn't care to remember was talking about some caravan that was leaving for Belatona soon.

"...and Lord Rathurst has requested permission to come along; his wife is apparently with child and he wishes to settle the whole Nodringham affair and return before she's too far along."

Murtagh had been staring blankly at the corner where the gray statue of a dragon sat, but suddenly he snapped his focus to the stocky man on the other side of the table.

"I have no objection. Let him go along," The King dismissed, signing papers that the man had set before him. Murtagh felt chills running down his spine, his ears were ringing, his vision got blurry.

His wife is with child…

Images of that night came back to him, unbidden. The woman's dull eyes, her vacant expression, the man standing in the doorway, watching them. With child? It couldn't… no. He couldn't have…

Sound was muffled around him as the man bowed and left, and Galbatorix took a sip from a goblet, sending a servant to fetch a plate of food while he waited for the next ambassador to come report.

"It's not yours."

Murtagh heard the King's voice at a distance, almost like he was at the other end of a long tunnel, echoing and distorted. But he blinked, and looked up to find Galbatorix glancing his way with a bemused expression.

"...what?"

Murtagh couldn't muster a 'your majesty' in that moment, his heart was beating too fast.

"Lady Rathurst's runt," The King had returned to the papers laid out before him, "It isn't yours. Don't fret yourself."

Murtagh felt like something was blocking his throat, he wanted to feel relief, but he was too confused. Galbatorix seemed to have understood what he was thinking, but how could he possibly know for sure?

"H–how can you be certain?" Murtagh managed, his voice weaker than he would've liked.

Galbatorix raised one dark eyebrow, amused.

"As I've said before, Murtagh, I don't permit people in close service to me to have families. It makes their loyalties… complicated. Learned that from your father's failures."

Murtagh swallowed, still confused. So he didn't have a family; he was alone except for Thorn, but that didn't mean…

The King saw his uncertainty, glancing up from the letters he was scribbling down, and sighing.

"You think I would send you out on my behalf and let you sire bastards with half the noblewomen of the city?" Galbatorix scoffed, "The Chief Healer made certain you wouldn't have to worry about any of that. It's quite impossible for you to father any children, rest assured."

Murtagh blinked, the words bouncing around his skull, trying to understand. Chief Healer?

He was taken back to those dreadful moments after he'd given his oaths–when he was hazy and half-conscious, when Thorn was being forced to grow, and he was distracted by his partner's pain. The old man had murmured over him, had bound his wounds, had healed him with magic, had forced him to sleep, and had… Murtagh felt sick.

He hadn't known. He hadn't realized.

His relief at knowing he was not the accidental father of Lady Rathurst's child was mixed with a hollow, panging feeling in his chest, like someone had dug a piece of him out with a spoon.

Quite impossible.

He left the King's meeting still feeling empty and vacant, unsure what emotion was trying to force its way into the front of his mind, but certain he didn't want to feel it.

Of course he hadn't actually wanted to be a father–he'd only come of age a few years ago, and hadn't even come close to thinking about such things for himself. Now that he was enslaved to the King for what looked to be the rest of eternity, he didn't see the point of having children, and he certainly wouldn't want to bring one into a world such as this. But still… he might've liked to have made that decision for himself.

To know that he couldn't, ever, not ever, choose to have a family of his own left him feeling sort of… empty. One more thing that the King had taken from him.

He was still feeling this strange lethargy, this hollowness in his chest, when he'd returned to his chambers for the evening and Demelza had delivered his food. He'd told Thorn, only to keep his partner from worrying over him, and Thorn had much the same reaction–a sort of confused sadness, not knowing quite what had been lost, but feeling the loss nonetheless.

Murtagh didn't consider himself to have much of a future–he tried never to think about the future, as it only held darkness so far as he could see–but this revelation somehow seemed to deepen that gloom, to block the way to a path that might once have been possible for him, might have brought him a measure of happiness.

Demelza had just finished turning down the bed, and Murtagh could tell she was preparing to leave, when he broke his vacant silence, saying,

"Demelza."

"Yes, my lord?" She said quickly, her tone much brighter these days.

"Do you have a family?"

She didn't serve directly under the King, so Murtagh figured she might not be bound by the same constraints as Galbatorix's personal servants.

The girl was surprised, obviously, by this sudden line of questioning.

"Uh, y–yes my lord. I have a mother and father, and a sister," She answered with a bit of a smile. Then, after a moment of hesitation she said,

"And I am betrothed."

Murtagh looked up. She smiled again, and there was a soft sparkle in her eyes that he recognized–the same look he'd seen on Eragon when his brother talked about Arya.

"Ah," Was all he said. How terrible for her–to be put in the situation she was in, to be given to the whims of another man when she had one who loved her at home.

"And how is it you ended up in the King's service?" Murtagh asked as Thorn chewed his scraps of meat. This brought a sort of cloud over the young woman's face, but she answered,

"M–my father was in heavy debt, my lord, and… I was put in servitude until I could work it off."

Murtagh grimaced, sorry that he had asked. He knew indentured servitude was a common practice, a common way for the poor to pay off their debts to the rich, but he'd never really thought about how badly it could go wrong, if you were indentured to the wrong master.

"How did you come to be in the palace?" He asked, unable to stop himself, just wanting to talk to someone, to distract himself.

"I… was selected by the Castle Manager," She murmured, "It is a great honor."

Murtagh watched her, and saw the way her eyes fell.

"You really think that?" He asked, knowing the answer.

She looked back up at him and gave him a rueful smile.

"No, my lord."

"You don't have to call me that," He said. "Just Murtagh is fine. And if you can't, well… just sir is okay."

Demelza's expression was soft.

"Yes… sir," She said with a smile.

"Would you tell me? About your family?" He asked, surprising himself.

And she did.

Demelza spoke of her life in Tirendal–a small city a few miles north of Dras Leona, where she'd grown up with a younger sister. Her father, a jewel worker, made some investments with some bad merchants, and ended up well in debt. The whole family was threatened with prison if he could not pay his dues, and so Demelza had volunteered (Murtagh was amazed by this) to sell herself into servitude in order to pay the debt.

"My betrothed–he's called Calden–he–he wanted to go into service himself, but he's a skilled worker of fine metal, and I knew he could make enough money to set us up well, once I was finished with my two years."

She was sitting on the trunk that lay at the end of Murtagh's bed–having taken a seat only after he'd asked her to several times.

"He still lives in Tirendal; he's waiting for me to be finished, and then we'll be married."

"And… how much longer do you have?" Murtagh asked, his heart broken for the poor woman, far from her family, forced to do whatever she was commanded.

"Little under ten months, my lo–sir," She answered with a smile. It was clear she was counting down the days. Murtagh wondered what it was like–having someone waiting for you–having a date in the future when you would be free.

"What about you?" She asked suddenly, as though she couldn't talk herself down from it, "Do you have a beloved?"

Murtagh looked up, leaning against Thorn's scaly side, his elbows leaning on his knees.

"No," He said softly, "Just Thorn and me."

He patted Thorn's neck, and the dragon hummed, blinking at Demelza, who smiled back.

"Well, that's no small thing," She said kindly. "It must be nice to have someone who knows you so well."

Thorn glanced his way. Murtagh knew what he was thinking–sometimes he hated that Thorn knew him so well. Sometimes he tried to run away from that naked, exposed feeling. Sometimes he wished Thorn's eyes weren't so keen.

"It's the honor of my life," Murtagh said finally, and he meant it.