"I thought I may have missed my chance." She drew back to the table she'd left for longer than she meant to.

"Missed your chance?" He leaned back in his seat and looked up at her. The lights were steadily burning down, backlighting her in the softness of an evening past its peak.

"To—" she paused, shifting her weight and considering her words. "I thought you might have left already, is all."

"And pass on the pleasure of your company? Never" Numair smiled up at her, conveniently omitting the fact that he had very much been considering retiring for the evening. He'd watched her, more closely than he had any right to, when a recruit had pulled her aside and commanded her attention for the better part of an hour. An hour he had thought to be his, rightly or not. Mood soured with jealousy, he had been collecting himself to leave before he had to watch them leave together. And then she'd come back. To him.

"I'm sorry that took so long. I couldn't find a polite way to get away."

He made a dismissive noise and waved his hand, not trusting himself to say anything that could be considered kind about the man. "Not to worry. Although I can't actually remember what you left for in the first place." He'd been quite content to wile away the party in their own quiet corner, speaking only to one another and enjoying the show of their friends making foolish decisions. She'd left for what was promised to be a short errand, only to be delayed by Miri, and then Evin, and then the man he didn't know by name—distractions coming from sources in a decidedly negative trajectory.

She held up the bottle in her hand, shaking it gently and earning a laugh in return.

"Ah, now I remember." As a rule, neither of them was one to imbibe regularly, but her suggestion of sharing a bottle had been a welcome one that he had readily agreed to. So late in the night, with most well past their limits, sharing a glass or two seemed a pleasant way to wind down the evening. She shifted again, drawing his attention to her other hand and he raised an eyebrow at her.

"Well," she smiled, nose scrunching in mock innocence as she held up the second bottle. "They've already been opened. Would be a shame to let them turn bad."

"The responsible decision, then." He laughed, the sound carrying further than expected in the nearly empty room. He realized that the party was not ending, but had already ended in the time he had waited for her. With some vagueness, he recalled the midnight bell calling but couldn't say how long ago that had been. And yet, she seemed in no hurry to bid him goodnight.

"Always. Seems like all the mischief has already been spent for the night." She looked around, eyes falling on the sole remaining recruit—curled into the far corner, snoring with growing volume.

"Suppose we should wake him?"

She shook her head. "And deprive Sarge the opportunity?"

"Good. Then we can be on to better things." He slid a goblet towards her.

"Actually," she paused, nose crinkling again but not in amusement. She shifted to balance a bottle against her hip, fingers toying with the neck.

He tried not to let his disappointment look as acute as it felt. "That's okay; It's late—"

"Oh." She looked at him, blinking. "I suppose it is. If you need to lea—"

"No." He said it too quickly, he knew. He earned a smile in return, though, so a fair trade for his eagerness.

"Good." She swallowed and if he didn't know better he'd think she was trying to temper her smile.

"Actually?" He prompted, steering the conversation back to before he had thrown it off track.

"Ah, well, I was going to say that it had been merry enough when I left but now it just smells like stale ale and embarrassment in here." She turned at the waist, the bottle still against her hip, gesturing to the wreckage of the festivities littered around them.

"You have a point." He stood, threading his fingers around the stems of their goblets to clutch them in one hand. "Fresh air then?" He had a spot in mind, more pleasant than their current one and not as secluded as he'd truly prefer—a positive on both counts.

She turned and motioned for him to lead; in agreement without the need for words. The air was cold—the crispness of lateness that came before dew settled. A barn owl flew overhead, swooping low, and Daine cocked her head—stubborn chin pushing forward in a silent greeting. A motion he knew well. As well as how their paces matched when they had the luxury of being at ease with one another. His long, languid strides matched her shorter ones perfectly. It occurred to him once how odd it was, that despite the height difference neither one needed to pause or rush to move at the same pace. It occurred to him shortly after that it had not always been that way, and over time they had changed to suit one another. Forming their movements around the other until they reached equilibrium.

"After you." He motioned with his free hand to a small staircase tucked between the stone of the barracks and the rough wood of the stables. An attempt at a breezeway, but abandoned without egress to either structure cradling it. They'd discovered it years ago—a middling stargazing spot if he was being generous, but one that would do in a pinch if leaving the barracks was too great a task for an evening. It was quiet, though, and they'd rarely been disturbed when there—at least not by two-leggers.

She moved to the crate they'd commandeered as a makeshift table after Numair complained about his books getting dirty and made a tsking noise.

One of the ale barrels they'd set up as make-shift chairs lay on its side, planks splintering away from the iron band failing to keep it together.

"Well, that probably lasted longer than it should have." He waved his hand and a flicker of black fire filled the air, spreading into a blanket that settled slowly to the ground at their feet. Pleased, he settled on the blanket, frowning at a stray thread. She sat next to him, legs crossed and closer to him than she need be.

"I think I like this better anyway." She set one bottle to the side and uncorked the other, tipping it towards him. They worked fluidly, paying little mind to who did what, until they each held a drink in hand. The quiet that only comes with deep night lay around them, comforting in stillness.

She reached forward and tapped his goblet with her own. "Thank you."

"For what?" He took a sip, sweetness heavy on his tongue.

"For staying." She replied after she lowered her drink. "I'm glad you're here," she paused, "with me." Her last words were quiet, nearly hiding beneath the breeze that picked up. Above, ivy leaves rustled where they climbed along the half-built rafters.

"There's nowhere I'd rather be." He wasn't sure if he wanted her to know just how much he meant it, but he did want her to know. He raised his glass, pausing to speak before drinking. "Are you sure you don't regret not spending your time with someone else?" He hoped the question sounded innocuous. When she cocked her head in confusion he realized it may have been too vague. "The man you were talking to earlier. He seemed quite enraptured with you."

"Oh," she laughed, "him. I suppose, but not for the reasons you seem to think. Apparently, he grew up hearing all sorts of stories about me and was quite taken to meet me face-to-face." She shook her head.

"Ah, an adoring fan."

"Numair," she leaned forward, "he started reciting a ballad."

"Please tell me you remember the words."

"Thankfully, no. Gods, it was embarrassing. He was looking at me like I was some sort of legend."

"Well—"

"Oh, please."

"What do you want me to say, Daine? You're a demigod with an unrivaled magical ability and have saved the realm on multiple occasions. The world at least once. You keep the company of a dragon. You keep the company of me." He bowed at the waist, grinning at her.

"You know, I do remember the words to some ballads about you ."

"And if you ever repeat any of them, I will share every deeply embarrassing story I know about you with the court bards."

"Bold to think anything could be as embarrassing as That Old Thaky Mage."

"There is no proof that's about me." He bristled.

"The details are awfully coincidental then."

"I hope that boy's ballad haunts you."

"It was quite flattering, actually."

"Of course it was," he grumbled. "I have attacks on my character put to verse, and you get adoration. Lovely."

"He was adoring, though. That's part of what was so strange. He doesn't even know me."

"Oh, I don't find that part strange at all." He took another sip, shrugging. "Adoring you, I mean. It's quite easy to do."

"Flatterer." She shook her head again, running her finger along the rim of her goblet. "Liar."

"Not at all." A wise part of his mind was telling him he was at an excellent point to stop talking.

"Well, you know me a bit more than he does." She was pleased, he could tell.

"Yes, so imagine how much more I must adore you." Yes, it was an excellent time to stop talking.

"Or how well you know my faults."

"All quite negligible, in my opinion. Much like my own."

"And vanity not one among them," she laughed and shifted to lean back, propping herself up on one hand.

"Was it the one about the Kraken?"

"Hm?"

"The ballad. I'm quite fond of that one, though a little disappointed I don't make an appearance."

"Oh, it was. Good guess. It did gloss over some key details. I've heard one that has us both, though."

"Really? I've not been privy to that one yet."

She grinned, "And I doubt you will be if the bard in question has any sense. It makes some," she paused, choosing her words carefully, "insinuations that you'd be none too fond of."

He sat straighter, tension pulling his body upright. "Oh?" Rumors of the two of them had persisted over the years despite his attempts to quiet them—a difficult balance considering his feelings. If he was too gentle, people got the idea that he didn't mind the slight against her but if he reacted too strongly, well, protesting too much was dangerous.

"I can give you the details if you'd like a laugh." She rolled her eyes at his reaction.

"I hardly find the idea of someone singing bawdy songs about you amusing."

"You always find it laughable when someone makes an innuendo to your face."

"I don't find it laughable; I," he gestured lamely, searching for the right explanation, "dismiss them politely. I don't find the insult of our fictive affair towards you amusing in the slightest."

"The insult to me?" She seemed genuinely surprised.

"Of course."

"Why would it be an insult to me?"

"That's obvious, I would think." He swirled the wine in his goblet, considering how the conversation could be steered in a different direction.

"I mean, the notion that I'm free with my body is hardly new. That's been an expectation from folk my whole life; I learned not to let people being stupid bother me a long time ago." She waved it off as if it was a physical thing. "But I hardly see how it being you would make it any more an insult to me. If anything, it's the opposite."

"You think I should be offended for myself ?"

"Aren't you?"