Elandra's twilight skies painted the cobblestones in hues of amber and rose. Lanterns flickered one by one as lamplighters made their evening rounds, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the cooler breeze from the nearby hills. The city was winding down, its pulse slowing with the setting sun.
Inigo walked alongside Lyra, hands in his coat pockets, his steps matching hers as if they'd done this a hundred times before. The sound of their boots echoed softly across the plaza stones, a rhythm that felt oddly… peaceful.
It wasn't a mission. It wasn't an ambush. It wasn't survival.
It was dinner.
"This way," Inigo said with a small nod, motioning toward a warmly lit building just past the plaza fountain. Vines clung to its brickwork façade, and the iron-wrought sign swayed gently above the door: La Ferrine's.
The same place he had brought Elise. But tonight felt different. Tonight wasn't about politics or reports.
Lyra stopped just outside, eyes scanning the stained-glass windows, the glow from within reflecting on her pale silver hair. "This place looks… expensive."
"It's not cheap," Inigo admitted, holding the door open for her. "But after what we just went through, I figured you deserve more than dry rations and reheated stew."
She gave him a look—part amused, part reluctant—and stepped inside.
The interior was just as he remembered. Candlelit chandeliers dangled from arched ceilings, soft violin music played in the background, and the air was thick with the aroma of roasted game, buttered root vegetables, and aged wine. A hostess led them to a private table near the corner, tucked beside a window draped in deep crimson curtains.
They sat down, menus opening between them. Lyra took a moment to soak it all in—her gaze lingering on the polished wood, the velvet seat, the silver cutlery. Her hands looked out of place here, more used to gripping a bowstring than holding a wine glass.
"You've been here before," she said finally.
Inigo nodded. "Had dinner here a few nights ago. Figured you'd appreciate the quiet."
She tilted her head. "With who?"
"Elise," he said simply. "Guild paperwork."
"Ah."
When the waiter arrived, Inigo ordered his usual—herb-crusted venison with forest glaze and a bottle of dry red. Lyra settled on the mushroom stew and freshly baked bread, her usual sharp edge dulled somewhat in the candlelight.
As their glasses were filled, Inigo lifted his drink.
"To survival," he said.
Lyra raised hers gently. "And to strange weapons and stranger men."
They clinked with a soft chime.
The first few minutes passed with small talk—what they thought of the city, the difference in food between here and the borderlands, how strange it was to sit at a real table after wading through a mine filled with blood and shattered stone.
But eventually, Lyra's gaze drifted. Out the window. Into memory.
"I thought it would feel better," she said softly.
Inigo lowered his fork. "The quest?"
She nodded. "Finishing it. Killing them. I thought it would give me something. Closure. Peace." Her voice trailed off. "It didn't."
He said nothing. Just waited.
"I let myself believe she'd be there," Lyra continued, her voice low. "Somewhere in that mine. Caged. Shackled. Alive."
Her fingers curled slightly around the stem of her glass. "But there was nothing. No signs. No remains. Not even her pendant."
Inigo leaned forward slightly, brows furrowing. "I noticed that too. The mine was blood and bones, but none of them were recent. They'd been living in that place for a while—but your cousin wasn't there."
Lyra inhaled sharply. "Which means she's dead."
Inigo held her gaze. "Yeah."
She blinked.
"No talk of slave trades or secret prisoners," he said firmly. "Those things—kobolds—they don't trade. They don't barter. They kill, and they feed. That mine was a den of monsters, not a camp."
She nodded slowly. "I know."
"But you needed to see it for yourself."
A long silence followed.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. "She was always stronger than me, you know. Faster. Braver. I thought… I thought maybe if I could do what she couldn't—slay the ones who took her—maybe I'd understand why she didn't make it."
Inigo studied her face. For once, she wasn't guarded. She wasn't cold or tactical. She was just a young woman with grief buried beneath her composure.
"She would've been proud," he said. "That you faced them. That you made it out."
Lyra looked away. "Maybe."
Another quiet moment passed, broken only by the soft clatter of plates as the waiter returned with their food.
They ate in silence for a while—small bites, slow movements. The wine helped dull the edge, but the heaviness still lingered.
Eventually, Lyra changed the subject. "You know, your weapons… I still don't fully understand them. That rifle you used in the cavern—it didn't just fire. It hunted."
Inigo gave a half-smile. "That's one way to describe it."
"I've never seen anyone move like that. Not a knight. Not a hunter. You didn't hesitate. You didn't aim. You just knew."
"Training," he said simply. "Lots of it. From where I came from, wars are fought at range. You learn to shoot before you learn to march."
She tilted her head. "So you were a soldier?"
He swirled the wine in his glass. "Something like that."
"You still haven't said where you're from."
"No," he agreed.
She arched a brow, clearly waiting.
"Let's just say it's not a place you can find on any map."
Lyra rolled her eyes. "Mysterious. Of course."
Inigo chuckled. "Would you believe me if I said I used to be a student?"
"…No."
"That's fair."
Their plates were cleared, and dessert was offered—berry tart and sweet wine. They stayed longer than either expected.
When they finally stepped outside, the city had grown quieter still. Only the faint murmur of passing guards and distant laughter broke the silence.
Lyra exhaled slowly. "Thank you."
"For the dinner?"
"For letting me pretend for a little while," she said, "that I wasn't just chasing ghosts."
Inigo didn't reply immediately. He simply offered her his arm.
She hesitated—then took it.