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Warmth stings Ajax’s cold-bitten cheeks as he steps back into the hallway, snow flurrying around his boots and leaving white speckles against the dark marble floor.
It’ll never make sense to him why there are so many outdoor installations to Zapolyarny Palace, considering the weather. Winding corridors give way to garden walkways perpetually covered with ice, stone cornices dripping with dagger-like icicles. There’s no point in growing any greenery, not when the snow chokes everything out most days of the year. Occasionally, tougher sprouts will burst through the slush, but those only get buried with the nighttime snowfall. Regardless, they all look like weeds to Ajax.
He doesn’t bother to wipe his feet, instead tapping the steel toes of his boots against the floor to dislodge stubborn cakes of ice and mud from his soles. When he tears his gloves off with his teeth, they taste faintly of iron. He really should get around to washing them soon.
“You’re disgusting.”
A second pair of footsteps sounds from behind him, but he doesn’t bother turning his head. The familiar voice, perhaps grating to some or intimidating to others, does nothing but put a smug smile onto his face.
“Maybe they should try and limit how often we have to trek through the ice.”
A scoff. “You’re Snezhnayan, aren’t you? What happened to your incessant gloating about never getting cold?” Ajax’s refutation dies on his tongue as his companion—or perhaps just coworker would be a better word—comes into step beside him. “Besides. Whether or not you have to spend a few seconds outside has nothing to do with knocking your dirty shoes onto the clean floor. You lack decorum, Childe.”
“Since when are you such a stickler for the rules?”
“Since I’m having to step over your mess to make sure I don’t get my feet wet.”
To make a point, or maybe just to piss him off, Ajax runs a hand through the top layer of hair, sending leftover pieces of ice onto his shoulders and the floor below. Grinning in anticipation, he flicks his fingers, sending freezing droplets right into his face.
The Balladeer’s face could send the Abyss straight into Celestia. Archons, if looks could kill. The snarl, the eyebrow twitch, the whole ten yards. Maybe it’d be scary if Ajax wasn’t used to it, and if he didn’t just so happen to find it incredibly amusing. Yeah, maybe the Balladeer has smacked him across the face a couple times for this kind of thing, and yeah, maybe it’s not worth the nosebleed, but…
Something about getting a reaction out of that stone-cold expression of his. It makes Ajax a little crazy.
“Are you a masochist?” he spits out, “or just an idiot.”
“What’d you do if I said both?”
The roll of his eyes is so laborious that Ajax wouldn’t be surprised if one of those little enhancements of the Doctor’s made them to be a hundred pounds. “Don’t test me today. That meeting was already enough stupidity for a century. The last thing I need is you,” he makes a point to stop in front of him and jab his finger against his chest, “making me stupider.”
Ajax has to hold back a laugh. He just looks so furious, glaring up at him from where he stands at his full five and a half feet—What’s that feeling? Almost fondness? “You’re cute.”
The Balladeer removes his finger from Ajax’s chest and exasperatedly wipes speckles of melted snow from his face. Violet eyes glint with something indescribable before he turns on his heel with a huff, the tassels of his hat whirling behind him like wisps of smoke. “You should be careful with what you say.”
It’s clear that, after this, Scaramouche has no interest in small talk. It doesn’t matter. The exchange is satisfying enough for Ajax, and getting on Scara’s nerves just enough to render him uninterested in speaking is a worthy pastime.
It had been a stupid meeting. Foolishly, Ajax had hoped that he’d be given another assignment. After the Liyue debacle, he should be so lucky—though, according to Rosalyne and to the expected-friend-turned-out-Archon, he’d played his part of a pawn absolutely perfectly. Thinking about it too hard still makes him boil with anger. He has to be careful, or any conjured Hydro weapons will vanish into steam.
What a nightmare. Literally, seeing as lately he hasn’t been able to get a good night’s sleep without his mind swimming with visions of the Sea God rearing its heads against the crashing waves. He’s never minded stirring the pot, but this had been pushing hard at morality, even for him. He’d never wanted to involve innocents. There’s nothing Ajax hates more than an unfair fight.
But he’d done it, all for a Gnosis that he didn’t even get the credit of obtaining. He’d been proud of himself for making connections and exercising diplomacy, but they’d lied about the Exuvia, they’d lied about the Geo Archon, and they’d lied about everything else on top of that, too. What a rash of shit. What kind of God endangers their own nation anyways, or fakes their death? Seems like cheating, like taking the high road instead of just addressing the nation about his retirement himself.
Ajax hates cheaters.
And he’ll be fortunate if he can ever show his face in the Harbor again.
Ajax doesn’t want to process what that means for him, but there are layers to what he did nonetheless. Chess pieces sliding in diagonal lefts and rights; King takes pawn, and queen captures rook. He despises Rosalyne for that. That victory should’ve been his, and it should’ve been clean. Now, fresh off the boat from Liyue after a month of recovering from the use of his Foul Legacy form, and Rosalyne’s already off in Inazuma doing Archons know what in search of the Electro Gnosis. If he remembers right, he’d heard something about manufacturing Delusions, too.
Scaramouche has fresh orders, now, to follow after her by the end of the month. He’s going to start making travel arrangements by the end of tomorrow.
It’s a wonder Ajax is in any kind of good mood at all, after that meeting.
Continue assisting with tax collecting duties for Northland Bank until further notice: those are his orders. It’s clear that some kind of word got to his superiors about the reason behind his extended stay in Liyue. He’d love to brag about his special ability, his secret weapon, the art of the Foul Legacy that runs like tar alongside the blood in his veins… but he can’t, because every time he uses it, he’s put out for a week or more.
He just needs to get stronger. That’s the solution, he knows it. Multiple things hinge on that necessity, and whether it’s his ability to protect his little siblings or finally garner respect from his superiors, it’s indistinguishable to him in terms of importance.
But for now, Ajax is tagging along with Scara while he packs his things. He’d grumbled and griped enough at him for trailing him out of the meeting room, but their rendezvous are far too many in number to be marked as coincidental, or purely an annoyance. Lately, it's only a question of whose room. Scara’s lack of debate as Ajax leads the way speaks volumes.
To Ajax’s surprise, it’s the Balladeer who speaks up this time. “Is skulking around collecting blood money the only thing you’re going to be doing for the next few months?” The echo of his voice hums around the spacious hallway. The windows that line the hallways of Zapolyarny Palace are set high into the wall, close to the ceiling. Rather than being able to see out into the courtyards, the only thing Ajax can see is the flurrying rush of snowflakes against the dusky sky.
“I’d be coming with you if I could.” Ajax sniffs, narrowing his eyes. “Inazuma’s as far as you can get from Snezhnaya. I’m surprised they didn’t send me there just to get rid of me.”
“They don’t want you messing things up.” The noise that comes from Scara’s throat is a mix between incredulous and serious. “Doesn’t matter that it’s far away. That’s where the crux of our mission is right now. All eyes are on Inazuma, and they don’t want you to cause a scene just for the sake of the Tsaritsa.”
Childe’s mouth twists. “You know, I’d been doing a pretty good job at being a diplomat in Liyue if I do say so myself. They quite literally railroaded me into doing what I had to do to succeed.”
“Not everyone would be so easily swayed. There’s probably a reason you’re the one they picked to manipulate.”
He can feel the tips of his ears burn, even more so than the sting of the frost outside. “Glory to the Tsaritsa, unto death. I’m a Harbinger, and I need to exercise that to the best of my ability, to set a model for everybody else. You know that better than anyone.” He breathes out through his nose. “I was just following orders. That’s what we do.”
“What we do is think for ourselves. That’s what separates the Harbingers from the rest of those lowlife grunts. That’s what makes us a cut above. Following orders doesn’t make you anything but a lackey, and just a bit of critical thinking would’ve gotten you out of that situation.” The clinking of the golden hardware on the Balladeer’s uniform stops, and Ajax swivels around to see that he’s stopped in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed.
There’s an interesting look on his face, and Childe doesn’t even bother with schooling his expression into neutrality. “Well, I would like to see what you would’ve done in my situation!”
His lip curls. “Simple. I wouldn’t have been in that situation.” But there’s something else that crosses over his face, like a flock of winterbirds blotting out the sun. He can’t put his finger on it, and maybe he’s imagining things, but Scara almost looks sorry for him.
Ajax just shakes his head. “I have my own method of doing things, and you have yours. The mission was completed, and that’s what’s important.” He attempts to vent some of the anger rising up through a stilted exhale, but it doesn’t do much to abate the feeling. It’s almost like an itchiness, a burning discomfort settling in his shoulders, his biceps, demanding he move, hit something, do something. But he’s not a little kid anymore. He learned how to control his emotions a while ago—at least, to some extent. “Quit looking at me like that. Like I’m some kind of kicked puppy. I don’t need your pity.”
His eyes narrow. “I don’t pity you. I don’t pity any of you. Honestly, I could care less about what kinds of idiotic things you get up to whenever you’re afield.” A tilt of his chin lends cover to his eyes, the brim of his hat blocking Ajax from telling exactly what expression’s on his face. “Long story short is that you’re a liability. None of us want the efficacy of our goals being hurt by that.”
Unspoken words hang in the air between them, a silent overtone to the sweeping rush of wind howling behind the windows. If Ajax didn’t know any better, he’d say there’s something else there, something between the lines of what the Balladeer is saying. The others would call him crazy for it, but he’s been the closest to Scara for a while now, whether anyone else knows it or not. Spend enough time speaking with somebody who never says exactly what they mean, and ‘none of us want the efficacy of our goals being hurt by that’ turns into ‘I don’t want you to be hurt by that’.
But, hey, maybe Ajax is delusional. He’s a little delusional anyways, has been since the earth decided to swallow him up and Tartaglia was born, long before he ever joined the Fatui.
The Balladeer keeps walking, and Ajax takes that as his cue that the conversation is over. Falling into step beside him, it’s hard not to smack him upside the head. Just because they have a unique connection when compared to the other Harbingers doesn’t mean that Ajax still isn’t pissed by the Balladeer’s choice words.
“You know,” Ajax finally says, growing tired of the silence, “there’s nothing wrong with following orders. Doesn’t mean I can’t think for myself.”
“...”
“It’s less about the orders and more about how we handle them. Right?”
“...”
“I mean, none of us have died yet. Clearly we’re doing something righ-,”
A hand grabs at his collar, and the air rushes out of Ajax in a whoosh as his back slams hard against the stone wall. Stunned, he stares down at Scara. His fist wraps a vise grip around the fabric of Ajax’s undershirt, and his other hand has come up to slam against his shoulder, holding him firm against the wall. Despite being slight in stature, he’s strong. It may be a little comical, considering the difference in height between the two of them, but there’s a dangerous look on Scara’s face that warns Ajax of moving an inch from where he’s pinned.
“Quit talking,” he growls out, fist gripping tighter. “You really think you’re so invincible? You’re human, just like nearly everyone else here. All it’d take is a blade in the wrong place to end your short, fragile life.”
Ajax just blinks.
“Do you want to die? Because you talk like you do. And trust me, the ones who talk as though the world will be forgiving to them are the first ones to go.”
“I never said the world would be forgiving!” He argues, more confused than anything. He’s largely unintimidated by the Balladeer—rather, there’s a flicker of something in the back of his mind, the spark that always lights up at the promise of conflict. That spark has set a track record for poorly received physical altercations in his youth, but serves him well now. What does it say about this?
“You act as though ‘just following orders’ is going to preserve you until the end. A system like that will eat you alive.”
“That’s the point of all of this! We fight for this nation. We fight for the Tsaritsa. We don’t fight for ourselves!”
A short quip of a laugh cuts like glass through Scara’s gritted teeth. “Ha! Coming from you? You’re far from selfless, Ajax.” Raising his hand in an attempt to emphasize his point only leads the Balladeer to grab at it, reaching for any better vantage to keep him pinned. His knuckles press against hewn stone as their interlocked fingers hold him in place. He can feel the ball joints on Scara’s hand pinching into the fabric of his glove; his breath catches in his throat, a hook stuck beneath a sheet of ice, refusing to surface no matter how hard he yanks on the line.
“Don’t act like you’re so unalike from everybody else here,” Scaramouche continues, eyes boring holes into Ajax’s. He’s always been told that his own eyes are off-putting, and he’s gotten used to people avoiding his gaze at any chance. Never Scara. The way he stares makes Ajax feel like a riled animal. It’s an effort to keep his claws retracted.
“Being promoted to the 11th was only another opportunity for you to get stronger, and you took it gladly. Just more chances for you to get into bigger and bigger fights. You have ulterior motives. We all do. So shut your mouth and quit it with all of the glory to the Tsaritsa bullshit. Her priorities are not yours. You know it, I know it. There’s no point in avoiding it.” He tugs against Ajax’s collar, pulling him closer. “Acting like it is going to get you killed.
“This is a dog-eat-dog world, and you have to act for yourself. Fighting for anybody’s agenda but your own won’t end well, and I think you know that. All of this? It’s just a means to an end. A chance to further our own goals along the way.”
So much talk, and all Ajax can think about is how close Scara is pressed up against him. Maybe it’s an attempt to hammer down his point, but now he’s just distracted. Without thinking about it, a smirk curls up on the corner of his mouth and the words are already forming. “Careful, comrade. The more and more you say, the more you’re toeing the line of treason.”
His voice is only met with a calculated look.
And the Balladeer is so easy to look at…
It’s been acknowledged by everyone, aloud or not, that Scara is the prettiest chess piece in this game. He’s vicious, but it’s clear that he wasn’t necessarily built to kill. The slope of his shoulders, the gentle curve of his waist, and the shape of his arms all suggest purity and nobility. He’s built like the lithe, arching branches of a sakura tree, created to be a watcher, an observer. Something to be guarded, or perhaps to be the guardian, stationery in a garden.
As he glares up at Ajax, all he can focus on is the smoothness of his skin, almost unnatural. His eyelashes flutter as he blinks. He’s breathing heavily, too, after that speech of his. It’s a habit he’s only picked up after hanging around Ajax so much. He never noticed the Balladeer breathing before that.
The crease of a joint encircles his neck, barely hidden underneath the high neckline of his uniform. Inhuman, he thinks, and also, beautiful. Word is that the Balladeer was carved specifically in the image of the Electro Archon. Ajax himself knows that this is true, something that few—if nobody else—has seen, regardless of accident or circumstance. He’s a piece of artwork, divinely carved to be the mirror image of a beautiful lady. Left to his own devices, Ajax would’ve vouched that he’s an even prettier man, even before their entanglement.
Scara must notice that he’s staring, because his gaze falters. His eyes dart away before he locks into a stare once more. “What.” A demand, not a question. His hand loosens, the fist he’d been using to grip at Ajax’s collar relaxing, but Ajax is quick to lift his free hand and rest it there on top of what had once held him.
Maybe a little too fast.
Ajax swallows down a lump in his throat, stomach flipping at the sudden predicament he’s found himself in. Wasn’t Scara just telling him off a few moments beforehand?
Somehow, oddly enough, his hand is warm. It always surprises him to realize this. His blood runs warm, despite a heart to pump it. The humanity he finds there is no different than the tender touch of his mother, the chapped and callused hands of the fisherman crowding the markets back home, or the grasping fingers of his enemies that seek only to make him bleed.
He can’t help but wonder what’s going through Scara’s mind right now. Looking up at him, what exactly is he thinking about?
He thinks, maybe, he’ll ask. His heart leaps into his throat as he desperately reaches for this one moment of connection spiraling between them, trying to catch hold before the Balladeer pulls away—
Scara kisses him.
A short, surprised gasp floods into his lungs, but it’s not enough shock to break him from the touch. Scara squeezes their intertwined fingers, the gesture taking a sudden turn away from malice, and heat rushes into Ajax’s face as he can feel a warm and shaky exhale escape Scara’s nose. His lips are soft. Ajax knows this, because this isn’t the first time that he’s kissed him. Unfortunately, his own are cracked and dry from a bad habit at biting at the skin there. Scara doesn’t ever let that go, but Ajax has a feeling he doesn’t think it’s as disgusting as he claims it to be.
The hall becomes silent. Scara doesn’t break away, and Ajax takes this as an opportunity to lose himself. In the feeling. In danger. How risky this is.
It feels like he has a stomach full of firewater, like he’d just taken several shots of liquor that he may regret in the morning. Intoxicating, dizzying. He lets go of the hand still resting on his collar and lifts it, running his fingers through indigo-colored hair to cradle Scara’s head. Instinct leads him to tilt his chin, and the wetness of their lips as the kiss deepens makes his head spin.
Archons. Why can’t it be like this all the time?
Neither of them are experts. When else would they have practiced? Scara’s kissing is clumsy, in stark opposition to the pointed edges of his words. It’s a flaw he can’t avoid, but Ajax doesn’t mind. If anything, the uncoordinated movements make it all the better. He’s so used to seeing Scara rejecting all aspects of humanity, form-fitted into what he expects a pathway to divinity to look like. This is… particularly ungraceful.
It’s absolutely perfect.
He can’t stop his free hand from roving. It slides down from Scara’s hair to rest against the side of his neck, to then cup his cheek. It’s all without thinking, and something tells him that Scara’s moving the same way. Peeking from his closed eyes, Ajax can see his eyebrows drawn together, almost melancholy. He leans against Ajax’s palm, seeking the warmth there.
Ajax hums softly at Scara, whose tongue grazes his bottom lip before nipping it with his teeth. The sound must draw him back to reality to some extent, because there’s a shocking flare of pain as Scaramouche bites down harder. It doesn’t break the skin, but Ajax flinches.
Something about it almost urges him on. Part of him craves the slick, metallic taste of iron. Oh, how he wishes to feel the sweetness of that pain, given to him, for once, far from the battlefield.
Funnily enough, Scaramouche has never made Ajax bleed outside of their sparring matches. It doesn’t stop him from hoping for it, yearning for it. Maybe it’s a foolish kind of trust, but knowing that Scara can appease both sides of himself is deeply thrilling. Tender enough to kiss the blade before sliding it between his ribs, and know that he’s the only one he’d ever do that for. Loving him is the best kind of heartache. Ajax would never admit it, but he’s too shy to ask.
Scara frees Ajax’s lip from between his teeth and lists forward, pressing against him with an open-mouthed kiss. It makes his knees weak. With each of his frenzied heartbeats, he can feel a throbbing, burning sensation mounting at the base of his stomach, lit up inside like a torch drenched in kerosene. It’s only ever moments with Scara that have made him feel like this.
Again, he moves his hand down, this time wrapping it around Scara’s waist. His waist... His palm curls around it perfectly, fit together snugly like a blade into its sheath. He marvels all the time at how small he is. Ajax is taller, stockier, and next to him, Scara is delicate in comparison. Somehow it only makes his ruthlessness sharper. He’d pull him closer if they weren’t already flush together.
There’s a faint sound from somewhere further down the hallway.
The two of them freeze.
A silvery, lilting voice echoes from far too close for comfort, considering their compromising position. It sends a chill down Ajax’s spine, a completely different kind than the pleasure-stricken shivers he’d had mere moments before. The sound reminds him of Snezhnayan hymns he’d heard as a child, the calm and haunting melodies that drift into his nightmares every so often. An outlander would never guess that the sweet-sounding words in their foreign tongue were actually telling the violent tales of martyred saints.
Scara doesn’t seem to think twice—or even once. It’s an instinctual movement, the way he rips back from Ajax and wraps a hand around his throat. All he can do is choke out a startled noise, shocked at the vice-grip from his once-tender fingers.
“Wh—?!”
“Shut it, idiot,” he hisses through a clenched jaw, grip tightening onto Ajax’s jugular as if to warn him not to disobey.
And it’s a good thing he doesn’t—the voice isn’t so distant at all, and a flash of white at the corner of his vision lends Ajax to fixate his attention on the flow of robes that is the Damselette, slowly gliding down the hallway. She seems uninterested, not skipping a beat in her eerie lullaby as she passes the shameless display that is Childe and the Balladeer up against the wall together. Childe swallows, throat bobbing against Scara’s clenched hand.
He has no clue if Scara’s quick thinking is convincing or not, though it isn’t unusual for the Balladeer to resort to violence to get his point across. She walks so painfully slowly; he’s absolutely certain that the moment is never going to end. Maybe Scara should’ve picked a better distraction—Childe is unfortunately blessed with a pale face full of freckles that couldn’t hide a blush for his life.
And just as he thinks she’s going to turn the corner—
She stops, and so does her song. Somehow its silence is even creepier than the echo of her voice. The absence of sound makes his skin crawl.
“Ah…” she breathes, a listless sigh. “Childe. Balladeer. You two seem,” she ponders for a second before deciding on “...busy.”
“Very busy,” Scaramouche growls, staring daggers at the Damselette in white, who appears to be none the wiser. She’s always seemed spacey, at least to Childe. For some reason, it makes him edgy. She appears unnaturally calm, like a perched bird that’s about to take off but never does. Who knows if, when she does, she’ll swoop in on attack. If her status as the third says anything, he’s sure she’d have the strength for it. “I would suggest you mind your business unless you’d like to be next.”
She raises a hand and taps the edge of her bottom lip with her index finger, thinking. “Has he aggravated you?”
Childe coughs out a strangled laugh. “Ha—when do I not...?”
“Perhaps a stern talking to would do the job.” Columbina tilts her head, raven hair drifting languidly and slow, as if she’s underwater. Another reason that Childe doesn’t trust her. No human looks like that. She’s clearly something other, but she never talks about it and never makes a point to showcase what exactly she’s capable of. Who knows just how powerful she is? “Though this is only a suggestion.”
“I don’t need suggestions.” Scara’s irritation shows in just how tightly his hand is starting to squeeze. Childe attempts to kick him in the shin, but if Scara notices—or cares—he doesn’t show it. “Move. Along.”
“Sandrone often plays this game. I didn’t know you were partial to it, too.”
He spits his response. “Game?”
“Nasty words for the sake of it. Though she never goes as far as to resort to anything physical…”
Childe bets that if Scara could blush, he’d be bright red with anger, even more so than earlier when he’d had they’d started their little altercation. “You dare to compare me to that rustbucket? Have you lost your mind with your eyesight, Damselette?”
Unbothered, she claps her hands together lightly. “You’re so good at it. How amusing… I wonder what it would be like to witness a conversation between you and her.”
Spots start to swim in Childe’s vision, and he can’t help but thrash against Scara’s inhuman grip. At least he doesn’t hesitate to showcase just how strong he is. Still, he won’t be smothered in front of another Harbinger. What a joke! “Quit—it—”
“I think you’re losing him,” She offers, and Scara scoffs and drops his arm, leaving Childe to slump against the wall and gasp in the lovely, lovely freezing cold air of the hallway. “You two must be bonding. Instead of bitter tea and stale cookies, you simply push each other around. How interesting.”
“Usually, it’s the other way around-!” Childe is quick to rasp, desperate to save face. “Don’t think I’d be incapacitated so easily!”
“Oh, shut it, Childe.” Before he can so much as remark anything, the Balladeer’s hand presses against his forehead, gripping at his hair and pushing him onto the ground. He topples over gracelessly onto his back.
The Damselette giggles. “So fun. You two certainly have a unique way of spending your time together.”
The Balladeer doesn’t grace her with his response. Looking up at him, he’s staring down at Childe with something like disgust on his face. Childe doesn’t dare to break his gaze. Whether or not The Damselette can tell, that look is laced with the same dangerous energy he’d seethed with back up against the wall.
She must leave at some point. Ajax doesn’t hear it, but when he turns his head around after what feels like an eternity trapped under Scaramouche’s stare, she’s gone. He hadn’t even had a chance to save face!
He scrambles upright, brushing dust from the starched fabric of his uniform. He’s lucky he has subordinates, because Ajax has a bad habit of forgetting the necessary upkeep for the appearance of a high-ranking official. He doesn’t think he looks all that bad! But he can still hear Scara griping in his ear last month about how shaggy he looked, scarily snipping scissors just a bit too close to his ears.
“Is it really too hard to schedule a trim? You look a mess.” Scara’s breath had tickled the back of Ajax’s neck, making the baby hairs there prickle. Warm, ghosting over his skin. The Balladeer was speaking with such exasperation that an exhale was unavoidable.
Ajax had huffed. “It’s not that bad! The only issue is it getting into my eyes…”
“What is this!”
He’d jumped at a sudden painful tug on the back of his scalp. “Ow!”
“You have dried blood in your hair!”
“Well—I haven’t had a chance to shower since before yesterday—quit pulling!”
“You better hope that this isn’t yours, or you’ll have a lot more blood than just this to wash out.”
“Hey, let me see the mirror. Just how much are you cutting off?”
But reality washes over memory when Scara’s sandal prods against his boot. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t tell me you’ve got brain damage now.”
Ajax swallows. It unfortunately takes quite a few moments for his mind to catch up to his mouth, because before he can think too hard about it, he’s saying, “Choking me out in the open? Didn’t realize that was something that got you excited, comrade.”
Silence, again, in the now near-empty hallway.
Then, Scara grabs at Ajax’s collar, and he’s suddenly being dragged along the not-so unfamiliar path they’d been taking before. Ajax isn’t dumb—he knows the way to The Balladeer’s room by now.
“Unfortunately for me, it looks like that little stunt didn’t leave any marks on your neck.” His violet eyes flash. “We’ll change that.”