Chapter Text
The road north of Mor Dhona had never been particularly safe, but in the last few years it had grown worse. The Dragonsong war in the north had pushed refugees southward, Castrum Centri to the west further complicated the region and opportunists abounded everywhere in between, creating a concentration of uniquely dissimilar travelers – and not all of them with good intentions.
The small encampment Alphinaud had chosen for the night lay a little off the road, tucked between low stone outcroppings where the wind from Coerthas lost some of its bite.
He had settled on the place because it felt defensible. Hidden from casual passersby, but close enough to the road that travelers might still stop if they saw a reason.
Alphinaud crouched beside the small brazier he had assembled from loose stones, carefully grinding a mixture in a shallow mortar. The scent of Rocksalt and Red Landtrap Leaf drifted up unpleasantly but he’d long since learned to block smells when he was working. His hands moved quickly and confidently, although the rest of him remained aware if his surroundings, shoulders tight beneath his worn coat.
Alchemy had kept him alive for over a year now.
Simple medicines, unguents for burns, stimulants for tired caravan guards, salves for frostbite or sunburn…once or twice, a merchant with more coin than sense had paid well for something stronger. It was honest work, as far as Alphinaud was concerned.
More importantly, it required no explanation about where he had come from.
He finished the mixture, divided the crimson powder into small glass vials already containing Beastkin Blood, and set them aside to react. His supplies were running lower than he liked, but tomorrow he could probably reach Revenant’s Toll before sundown, if his calculations were correct, and if he walked briskly. There would be buyers and sellers there.
A sound carried faintly through the night and he froze.
Footsteps.
Those didn’t sound like the careless stride of a lone traveler, or the regular one of a caravan. He could definitely make out several sets of feet moving deliberately.
His gaze flickered towards the road, where shadows moved between the trees.
Bandits.
Of course.
He exhaled slowly and set the mortar down. Panic would not help him now. He had always been prepared for this possibility since the moment he started traveling alone. Calmly, he grabbed one of the small vials from his belt and tucked it into his sleeve.
By the time the men stepped into the firelight, he was already standing.
There were four of them. Poorly armored, but armed well enough, and clearly confident about the outcome of this little encounter.
“Well now,” the one in front said, glancing around the makeshift camp. “What’ve we got here?”
His eyes settled on Alphinaud, lingering a moment with a familiar reaction.
Elezen often looked younger than they were, and Alphinaud’s slender build did him no favors. To most strangers he looked barely past boyhood. Sometimes that meant slipping past without being paid any mind. Other times, it meant he was an easy target.
The man smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “Lost your caravan, lad?”
“I travel alone,” Alphinaud said calmly.
“Do you now?” The man’s smile widened. “Well that’s unfortunate.”
Alphinaud did not reach for the vial yet. He preferred to exhaust diplomacy first. “I have nothing of significant value,” he said evenly. “If you’re after coin, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”
One of the others snorted.
“Got that fancy glassware though,” another said, nudging a boot towards the small makeshift table – a little plank between two stones – where Alphinaud’s alchemical tools sat.
The leader stepped closer, gaze sharpening. “Expensive make, that.”
Alphinaud’s stomach tightened. He had filed off the markings, very carefully. But Garlean craftsmanship still had a look to it. “Got them from a trader in Ul’dah,” he said smoothly.
The man did not look convinced. “Well now,” he said slowly, “ain’t that interesting?” he drawled as he reached for the table.
Alphinaud moved first.
The vial shattered against the man’s chest in a burst of pale powder. The effect was immediate. He staggered back coughing violently, clutching at his throat as the irritant burned through his lungs.
The others shouted in surprise.
Alphinaud was already moving for his belt, searching for another, when a spear drove through the leg of the man closest to him.
The force of the impact nailed the bandit to the ground and everything stopped for a moment.
The remaining two barely had time to turn before a stranger stepped fully into the light.
Tall. Armored in travel-worn leathers and steel. Casually, he reached for a long spear he twisted free from the man’s leg with barely a look with a wet, efficient motion. “I suggest grabbing your friends and running,” he said in a tone that made it clear he wouldn’t repeat that offer.
The bandits were clearly not so stupid as to ignore the mercy they were being given and scrambled to grab the two incapacitated ones before running off into the night, greatly slowed down by the two wounded. It was perfectly reasonable to think they would not survive a fight with the local fauna, if they were unlucky enough to make such an encounter. Alphinaud found he wouldn’t care.
The stranger produced a dirty cloth to wipe the blade of his spear before planting the butt of the weapon against the ground, and only then looked at Alphinaud.
Up close, the man was even more imposing. Silver hair, sharp eyes, the bearing of someone who had spent most of his life in armor. Elezen, which meant Alphinaud had to look up quite a bit as he barely reached to his chest – although given his unfairly short stature, that was unfortunately common to him. (He should’ve been a head taller by now. He blamed the Hyuran blood on his mother’s side for his delayed growth.)
His opportune savior was not a common mercenary. That much was immediately obvious in the way he carried himself.
Alphinaud straightened slowly, not entirely off his guard yet. “You have my thanks,” he said.
The man studied him for a moment. Then his gaze shifted briefly to the grimoire at his back, the shattered vial on the ground, the alchemical tools on the table, and the careful arrangement of supplies. “You were handling that well enough,” the stranger said, his voice low and rough with disuse.
Visibly allergic to gratitude, Alphinaud thought, holding back a chuckle. He watched him carefully now as he stepped towards the fire. The way he held his spear. The economy of his movements. The sheer efficiency of his spearwork moments earlier.
“You don’t look like a common adventurer,” Alphinaud said carefully.
The man gave a short, humorless huff. “Don’t I?” He crouched near the table, inspecting the vials that had been laid out earlier. “You made these?”
“Yes.”
The man picked one up, turning it slightly in the firelight. “Medicine?”
“Among other things. I adapt to my clients’ needs. A man’s got to eat…” he replied with a shrug.
The man’s eyes returned to him, holding one of the components in his hand. “Garlean?”
The question landed like a thrown knife.
Alphinaud did not hesitate. “I fled a border region recently annexed by the Empire,” he said calmly. “Acquiring these was not difficult over there.”
Not a lie. Just not the whole truth.
In a corner of his mind, he added ‘knowledgeable’ and ‘observant’ to the list of traits his rescuer seemed to have, because not everyone would recognize Garlean make so easily. Perhaps he really ought to try and alter them or just sell them and get Eorzean alternatives, even if they would arguably be of lower quality (or at least what he could currently afford would be).
Another pause, then the man set the vial down, visibly willing to move on. “You’re traveling alone?”
“For the moment.”
The man looked at him again, long enough that Alphinaud felt the weight of the scrutiny. Then he said simply, “You won’t last.”
Blunt. But not inaccurate, at least for this region.
Alphinaud folded his arms, feeling compelled to defend his aptitude. “I’ve been doing fine so far! I just…didn’t expect the road to Mor Dhona to be so…challenging.” That admission clearly cost him.
The corner of the man’s mouth twitched faintly. Not quite a smile, but definitely not so severe anymore. After a moment, he shrugged his head towards the direction the bandits had scampered off. “You’ll see plenty more of them if you keep traveling like this.”
Alphinaud considered him for a moment. Then he said quietly, “You appear to be in need of medical attention.”
The man blinked, having not expected such a blatant change of subject.
Alphinaud gestured towards his side.
Only then did the stranger glance down. There was a tear in the armor there, dark with dried blood where a wound had clearly been ignored. “…It’s nothing,” he responded gruffly.
“It will become something if left untreated,” Alphinaud retorted calmly as silence stretched between them.
Then, after a moment, the Lancer relented. “Fine,” he sighed as he stepped closer to him and removed the damaged section of armor.
The wound beneath was neither deep nor shallow, and thankfully nowhere near immediately fatal. But it wouldn’t have been wise to keep ignoring it much longer.
Alphinaud knelt beside his supplies, already selecting tools and unguents. When a wound was fresh, magic worked best, but with a dry one, alchemy first always yielded the best results long-term. “Sit,” he said.
The man surprisingly obeyed.
For several minutes there was only the quiet sound of gentle rubbing and careful bandaging and the crackle of the fire as the man watched him work. “You’re young,” he eventually said, not exactly conversationally, just continuing to assess him.
“I’m twenty,” Alphinaud muttered without looking up. He was used to having to defend his adultness.
“Young and adult aren’t mutually exclusive,” the Elezen said with mock amusement that made the Alchemist snort. Another pause, and then he asked, “You got a name?”
Alphinaud tied the final bandage carefully. “Alphinaud.”
The man considered that before reciprocating. “Estinien.”
Despite what Alphinaud expected, Estinien didn’t move to leave. He just settled more comfortably around the fire.
And when morning came, they were still sharing the remains of that same fire.
Morning arrived cold and frost-bitten over the broken landscape of Mor Dhona, the jagged silhouettes of shattered Allagan towers and downed Magitek airships catching the first light of dawn.
Alphinaud woke before the sun fully broke the horizon, as he had trained himself to do over the past year of travel. Habits had long since replaced comfort. He lay still for a moment beneath his cloak, listening to the quiet sounds of the land around him, the faint cry of something winged circling above the crystal-strewn plains.
Across the dying embers of the fire, Estinien was already awake.
The Lancer sat on a low stone, finishing the last of the dried provisions Alphinaud had offered the night before. In the clear light of morning, his appearance was easier to take in properly. The armor he wore had clearly seen extensive use and repair, yet the quality of its construction remained evident even beneath the wear and tear.
Alphinaud noticed things like that automatically. Craftsmanship told stories, and how a person cared for their belongings spoke volumes.
Estinien moved like a man who neither expected nor needed anything from anyone. Alphinaud recognized that at once, because he’d spent the past year trying to become the same.
People, he had irremediably learned, often wanted something when they were kind. Estinien by contract seemed to want remarkably little – or he just hadn’t made it know yet. The bandage he had wrapped around the Lancer’s side the night before had not been disturbed. That, at least, was encouraging. Perhaps that had been accepted as payment for the unbidden rescue.
Estinien finished chewing and glanced across the fire towards him. “You’re awake.”
“I rarely sleep late while traveling,” Alphinaud replied as he pushed himself upright.
The Lancer’s gaze lingered briefly on the carefully organized set of vials and instruments Alphinaud had already begun packing back into his satchel. Everything had its place. Even in a makeshift camp beside a roadside fire, Alphinaud’s tools were laid out with the neat precision of a laboratory bench and packed away with equal dedication.
“You keep those well,” Estinien commented, nodding towards the glassware.
“They’re difficult to replace, not to mention costly,” Alphinaud said mildly. “And rather essential to my livelihood.”
Estinien gave a quiet grunt that might have been acknowledgment. His eyes moved once more over the equipment before returning to Alphinaud himself, studying him with the same measured scrutiny as the night before. “Headed to Revenant’s Toll?”
“Yes.” Alphinaud tightened the straps on his satchel and rose to his feet. “It looks like the most practical destination for me – the market for Alchemists is saturated in Ul’dah.”
And he had hated the city and its false air of stability, of security, when all that it took for the veneer to vanish was a turn into the wrong alley, mere steps away from the main arteries. His hand absently rubbed his left shoulder at that, where he still carried the scar of a last-minute escape in that setting.
Estinien pushed himself up from the stone. The movement was smooth despite the injury, though Alphinaud noticed the brief tightening of his jaw as the motion pulled at the bandaged wound. “Bandits’ll be more daring closer to the road,” he said. “They prey on refugees.”
He then slung his spear across his shoulder and began walking without further comment, angling down the narrow trail that wound towards the main trade route leading to the town.
For a moment Alphinaud simply watched him go.
The man didn’t look back, and didn’t gesture for Alphinaud to follow, but neither had he explicitly said they would part ways. He simply continued down the path with the unhurried confidence of someone accustomed to traveling alone.
Alphinaud allowed himself the smallest breath of amusement at the silent invitation. He gathered the last of his supplies, extinguished the remnants of the fire, and fell into steps behind him.
The morning road was quiet. A thin layer of frost clung to the grass along the edges of the trail, crunching faintly beneath their boots as they walked. The distant ramparts of Revenant’s Toll and its towers grew slowly larger with every yalm covered.
For a time they walked in silence.
Alphinaud didn’t mind the quiet. It gave him time to observe.
Estinien’s stride was long but steady, the rhythm of a soldier used to covering distance quickly without wasting energy – yet he adapted that pace unthinking now that he wasn’t walking alone. His posture never fully relaxed, even in the absence of immediate danger, the spear in his hand remaining angled in such a way that it could be brought into motion instantly if needed.
It wasn’t merely skill: it was training, formal and deadly.
The realization had settled firmly in Alphinaud’s mind the previous evening and had only strengthened after witnessing the man’s movements in daylight. Whoever Estinien had once been before becoming a wandering mercenary, he had belonged to something disciplined and structured. Something elite.
The rare beasts that attacked them were dispatched almost faster than Alphinaud could keep up with, Estinien jumping down on them with lethal precision.
After nearly an hour, the Lancer finally spoke again. “You’re not from a frontier province.”
The statement was delivered without accusation, merely observation.
Alphinaud glanced up from the road ahead. “What?”
“You said you fled a region recently annexed by the Empire.” Estinien’s gaze remained fixed forward. “But you don’t behave like someone raised in a border territory.”
Alphinaud considered that carefully before answering. “In what way?”
“You’re educated.”
The bluntness of the assessment almost drew a smile from him. “That’s hardly uncommon.”
“Among refugees it is.”
Alphinaud inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the point. “My parents placed a great deal of importance on education.”
That, too, was true enough.
Estinien gave a quiet hum of acceptance, though the Alchemist suspected the man had not been entirely convinced.
After another stretch of silence, Alphinaud spoke in turn. “You were trained as an elite soldier.”
Estinien’s gaze shifted towards him briefly, sharp and assessing. “Was I?”
“The technique you demonstrated so far suggests formal instruction. Quite extensive instruction, I might add.” He wasn’t sure what his aim was in bringing this up. Perhaps all he wanted was to prove that he too could be observant.
Estinien snorted softly. “You watch too much.”
“I’d be dead otherwise.”
“Hm.” Estinien did not elaborate further, though Alphinaud noticed the faint tightening of his grip on the spear haft.
The exchange settled into a quiet stalemate.
Each had raised a point.
Each had received an answer that was technically truthful and yet wholly incomplete.
As the iconic towers of Revenant’s Toll rose fully into view and the distant murmur of activity from the town began to carry across the plains, Alphinaud found himself oddly relieved that neither of them seemed inclined to press further.
Revenant’s Toll was not a charitable place.
The settlement had grown from little more than a collection of scavengers’ tents into something approaching a town, but its rules remained brutally simple. No one cared where you had come from, or what had driven you there.
The only question that mattered was whether you could be useful.
Refugees with empty hands did not last long. The Toll had no interest in feeding mouths that gave nothing in return.
But if you possessed a skill, something the town could use, you would at least earn food and a roof over your head. If that skill proved particularly valuable, the town might even grant you something rarer still: protection.
Alphinaud had secured that protection quickly.
Within a week of arriving, he had set up a small stall along the edge of the market square. It was little more than a sturdy crate serving as a workbench and a narrow awning to keep the weather off his equipment, but the glassware and reagents arranged upon it were enough to draw attention.
Healers were always welcome in a place like the Toll. Alchemists even more so because their healing could be bottled and carried away for later.
Someone who could do both became indispensable almost overnight.
Caravan guards came for salves and stimulants. Hunters brought venom sacs and herbs in exchange for potions. Occasionally someone arrived half-carried by friends, bleeding or feverish, and Alphinaud’s steady hands and unflinching focus turned away death often enough that word spread quickly.
Within a month, he had a cot in one of the sturdier buildings near the market and more customers than he could easily manage, as well as comfortably pay the fee for having a spot at the market in the first place.
Estinien noticed all of this without ever commenting on it. He passed through the market often enough, usually returning from some mercenary job beyond the walls and leaving again before dawn with another contract in hand.
It became routine to find the Alchemist behind his stall, sleeves rolled back neatly as he worked over bubbling mixtures or stitched or magically healed wounds with precise, economical movements.
Estinien always cut the line.
Partly because no one in the market would dare tell him otherwise, and partly because Alphinaud allowed it without hesitation.
Whenever he approached, Alphinaud would glance up from his work and greet him with the same quiet expression: a soft, genuine smile that suggested he was actually pleased to see him.
Estinien found the reaction baffling. The boy was either foolish or dangerously trusting.
Perhaps both.
Still, the arrangement suited him.
Alphinaud always noticed when he was injured, even when Estinien tried to conceal it. Whether it was a cut hidden beneath armor, a bruise darkening the line of his ribs, or a shallow puncture wound from some creature’s claw, Alphinaud’s sharp eyes inevitably found it.
Sometimes he would simply cast a quick healing spell, his voice murmuring the incantation while Estinien stood there enduring it with mild impatience. Other times he would press a small vial into his hand and instruct him to drink it later.
Estinien never refused. It was practical, nothing more.
The tavern near the center of the Toll was louder than usual that evening.
Mercenaries and adventurers crowded the tables, the air thick with the smell of cheap ale. Estinien had claimed his usual place along the wall where he could watch the room without being bothered. His spear leaned against the table beside him, its presence alone discouraging most people from testing his patience or attempting conversation (the two not being mutually exclusive).
He’d nearly finished his drink when he noticed Alphinaud entering. The young Elezen stood out immediately.
Not because of his appearance – travel-worn and practical enough – but because of the simple fact that he looked like someone who did not belong in a place like this. His posture remained straight even among the rough crowd, his expression calm and composed in a way that drew attention whether he wished it or not.
Two men at a nearby table noticed him as well. Estinien watched without moving as they approached. Their expressions made their intentions plain enough. The kind of leer men adopted when they believed themselves larger, stronger, and entitled to whatever they saw.
Alphinaud turned towards them as they spoke. From where Estinien sat, he couldn’t hear the words, but the healer’s response remained polite, measured, and carefully neutral. He didn’t look frightened, but he was cautious.
Estinien set his cup down and rose. He didn’t hurry, there was no real need (yet) that he could see. By the time he reached them, one of the men had leaned slightly too close, clearly expecting intimidation to do the rest of the work, but Alphinaud was still holding his ground with calm.
Estinien simply stopped beside him and rested two fingers lightly against the haft of his spear.
The gesture itself was lazy.
Its effect was immediate.
Both men looked up, took in the towering figure, the cool stare, the unmistakable presence of someone who knew exactly how to use the weapon at his side, and neither argued. They stepped back with muttered apologies and disappeared into the crowd.
Estinien returned to his table without a word, Alphinaud following a second later.
“You shouldn’t come to places like this with your face,” the Lancer remarked easily, lifting his drink for another gulp.
Alphinaud rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “Seeing as my face is attached to my body, I fail to see how I could avoid it if I’m looking for you!” he replied smartly.
The corner of Estinien’s mouth lifted into a quiet chuckle before he tilted his head slightly. “You’re looking for me?”
“I need an escort,” Alphinaud said, before adding quickly, “I can pay you.”
Everything in the Toll was transactional. Alphinaud understood that well enough.
Estinien studied him for a moment before nodding once. “Fine.”
It wasn’t until he closed his eyes to sleep, much later, that it occurred to Alphinaud that Estinien hadn’t even asked any questions about the work nor the price before accepting.
They left the gates shortly after dawn.
The western road beyond the Toll wound towards the ruins scattered near the edge of the old Garlean encampment. Broken magitek machinery still littered the landscape there, remnants of past battles slowly being overtaken by vegetation and rapid-growing crystals.
Estinien quickly realized this was not the aimless scavenging most refugees attempted. Alphinaud moved with purpose.
He examined particular fragments of machinery while ignoring others entirely, occasionally crouching to dismantle a component with careful precision before slipping it into the satchel slung across his shoulder.
Estinien watched silently from a short distance away, spear resting against his shoulder as he kept an eye on the surrounding terrain for bandits, beastkin and Garlean soldiers alike.
The young man clearly knew what he was looking for.
The Lancer suppressed a faint scoff. He had suspected as much already.
But he would not comment.
Asking questions about someone else’s life tended to invite questions about your own, and Estinien had no desire to explain why a former Dragoon of Ishgard now wandered the wilds as a mercenary.
The local fauna proved less inclined to respect their privacy. A pack of warped wolves emerged from behind a cluster of broken magitek plating near midday, drawn perhaps by the scent of metal and blood lingering in the air.
Estinien dispatched them quickly, in a fight that was both brutal and efficient.
Alphinaud didn’t even look up from the device he had been dismantling until the last creature fell, fulling trusting the other man’s capabilities.
When Estinien returned to him, a shallow gash ran across his forearm where one of the wolves had caught him before dying.
Alphinaud glanced at the wound with quiet irritation. “You might have mentioned that earlier.”
“It’s nothing.”
“No wound is ‘nothing’.”
The familiar spell settled over the injury a moment later, Alphinaud’s aether knitting torn flesh back together with practiced ease.
Estinien flexed his hand experimentally. “Healed cleanly.”
“Of course it is.”
By the time they returned to Revenant’s Toll, the sun had begun to sink behind the rough peaks of Mor Dhona.
Alphinaud’s satchel hung noticeably heavier at his side, filled with components Estinien could not name. They walked through the gates without speaking.
For now, the arrangement between them remained unchanged. Estinien provided the protection Alphinaud required beyond the walls, and Alphinaud provided the skills that kept Estinien alive when his work inevitably left him bleeding.
It was a practical exchange.
Nothing more.
Estinien returned to Revenant’s Toll three days later with enough coin in his purse to leave Mor Dhona entirely if he wished.
The contract had paid well. Better than expected, considering the work itself had been simple enough: escorting a merchant caravan through the northern passes and dealing with the occasional overconfident beast or bandit foolish enough to approach armed travelers.
Ordinarily, that would have signaled time for Estinien to move on. A final warm meal, a few supplies replenished, then the road again. That had been his life for years now: Temporary places, temporary work, temporary people. It was easier that way.
The late afternoon crowd thickened as he entered the market square, voices carrying through the cold Mor Dhonan air while merchants shouted prices across rows of salvaged goods and rough-built stalls. Estinien moved through it automatically, spear held casually in his hand as his eyes scanned the familiar paths between the market tables.
He realized where he was heading only when Alphinaud’s stall came fully into view and slowed slightly.
The Alchemist sat bent over his cluttered workbench, sleeves rolled as he’d abandoned a mortar filled with crushed herbs. Several vials rested nearby, arranged with the same precise order Estinien had come to associate with him. A wounded caravan guard occupied the stool opposite him, wincing as Alphinaud secured a fresh bandage around his forearm.
The sight should not have settled something warm and quiet in Estinien’s chest.
Yet it did.
As though some part of him had been waiting to confirm this scene remained exactly where he had left it.
Alphinaud glanced up at the sound of approaching footsteps and the transformation in his expression happened instantly as he recognized him. Not dramatically enough for most people to notice. The smile itself was small, restrained by habit and composure. But the relief beneath it struck Estinien with unsettling force all the same. “You’re back,” he said, sounding almost relieved.
As though he’d genuinely been waiting for him to return.
Estinien felt suddenly, irrationally aware of the dust on his armor and the stiffness in his shoulders from days on the road. “Hm,” he answered, because anything more complicated felt unexpectedly difficult. “Looks like you survived without me.”
The corners of Alphinaud’s mouth lifted slightly. “Barely. Revenant’s Toll descended into chaos.”
The wounded guard snorted softly at that before rising carefully from the stool once Alphinaud finished tying the bandage. “My thanks,” the man said, tossing a few coins onto the workbench.
Alphinaud inclined his head politely. “Try not to reopen it.”
“No promises.” The guard moved off into the crowd, leaving the stall briefly quiet.
Estinien should have left then as well.
He had no injury requiring treatment. No business lingering beside the stall. He could have gone to the tavern, found a room, planned his next route south before nightfall.
Instead he remained standing there while Alphinaud returned to sorting crushed herbs into small glass jars. “You’re staring,” he observed after a moment.
Estinien stepped back lightly, resting one hand against his hip. “Oh my, how will you ever survive observation?” he asked deadpan.
“Oh my,” Alphinaud repeated with suspicious politeness. “A mercenary with a sense of humor, how novel!”
That earned a quiet snort from Estinien despite himself.
Silence settled comfortably after that. Not awkward. Never awkward anymore, somehow.
Alphinaud resumed working, measuring dried leaves into paper packets with quick efficient motions while Estinien remained nearby watching the crowd drift through the square.
Occasionally Alphinaud handed him something without looking – such as a jar needing resealing or on the contrary to be opened – and after a few minutes Estinien found himself helping almost unconsciously.
This felt…easy. Too easy.
Standing beside Alphinaud while the younger man worked. Listening to the soft rhythm of his voice as he spoke with customers. Existing quietly in the same space without expectation or performance.
Estinien had spent years alone. Years believing solitude simpler than attachment. Yet now, after only months of knowing him, and currently three days away, returning here felt less like stopping at a market stall and more like coming back to something waiting for him.
The thought lodged itself somewhere dangerously deep.
As twilight slowly settled over Revenant’s Toll, Alphinaud finally finished arranging the last of the supplies and straightened with a soft sigh. “You’ve been standing there for nearly an hour,” he observed.
Estinien frowned faintly. Had it truly been that long? “Hm.”
Alphinaud studied him for a moment, something thoughtful flickering briefly across his expression before he asked lightly, “You’ll at least let me make sure you eat dinner before disappearing into the wilderness again, right?”
The question should have been simple. Instead Estinien felt that same quiet warmth settle heavily in his chest once more.
Not because of the offer itself, not exactly.
But because Alphinaud had already assumed he would stay.
TBC