Page 24 of Turncloak

Do I recall that you slew a Whitewing during a hellsdamned threesome?

“It rings a bell.”

“The raised black shoulder pads on his cloak were not, in fact, a fashion statement. It was the Whitewing leader.”

Cold prickled over Levan’s scalp. “You murdered their leader?”

Saffron, for whatever absurd reason, burst out laughing. “I can’t tell whether it was an extraordinary stroke of good fortune, or hilariously bad luck. The latter would be in keeping with the general trajectory of my existence.”

“Did you happen to glean this leader’s name?”

“Avar Martou?”

Everything in Levan froze.

His ribs became brittle ice, heart throbbing against them like a pickaxe. For several moments, he could not speak, could not process.

“Levan? Did you hear—”

“Yes,” he choked out, recovering enough to add, “I heard” with a little more dignity.

“What is it?” Saffron picked up on his rattled tone even through the faint hum of the wand connection. “Why is Avar Martou significant?”

A memory lit up behind his eyes, bright enough to make him flinch.

Riding atop an axelmare through the Wolfwoods one late spring, spores drifting on the golden light, the canopy trilling with dawndoves. The feel of her back pressed against his chest, long black hair tickling his cheek. She was telling him that though Lost Dragonborn had never appealed to her, Avar lived for the books—modeled himself on the protagonist, even. Levan thought, with a mundane and childlike excitement, that he looked forward to meeting Avar one day. They could share theories, discuss their favorite chapters.

“Alucia’s brother,” he muttered, digging the quill tip so deeply into his thigh that warm blood seeped through his black wool trousers.

Saffron blew air through her lips. “Saints. I retract my churlish laughter.”

Levan forced himself to treat this like any other piece of intel on a rival organization. “How long had he been in command? And who has replaced him?”

“I didn’t discern much more. The Whitewing disappeared out of earshot. I think he—”

There was the sound of a scuffle, a clashing of bodies, a low grunt from Saffron, a panting huff from her—assailant? Boots dragged into an alley, heels kicking and bucking against cobbles. Levan stood abruptly, though to what end, he did not know. He was powerless only to listen.

“Why are you following me, scarlet scum?” came a snarling male voice, consonants slightly blurred.

“How long was Avar Martou in command?” Saffron’s tone was stupidly chipper. Levan imagined she’d been grabbed from behind, a forearm pressed over her throat, a wand to her temple. His blood flared hot and bright.

“Sen ammorten.”

Levan’s stomach lurched at the sound of the man’s curse, but there was another scuffle, overlapping gasps and footsteps, as though they were now circling each other.

“Who replaced Avar Martou?” she asked calmly, that absurd, nihilistic fearlessness.

“Sen ammorten,” the male mage hissed.

“My, what a temper. Can’t we have a civil conversation?”

“Die, cunt. Sen ammorten.”

More tussling fracas, more heavy breathing, more grunts of—pain? Was that pain? Was she hurt?

Levan’s mind wheeled as he wondered how full her well was, how long she could defend herself. Some dark, helpless part of him wanted her to fire her own killing curses, to flee unscathed.

Moments later, she’d either cast something or been killed. The wand connection dropped, and Levan was left with the sound of his own uneven breathing.