Nyros was no longer smiling.
Tharion watched him for several seconds. The luminous cross deep within his irises flickered, casting brief, pale reflections across his eyelids, before his gaze drifted toward the shadow thickening beneath Nyros's boots.
The street still bore the scars of his anger. Fine dust hung between the cracked façades and grated beneath their soles. Somewhere nearby, a twisted gutter creaked with every gust of wind. The smell of shattered stone mingled with the sharper, more acrid scent of blood spilled across the cobblestones.
"Why are you provoking me when you can clearly see that I'm angry?"
His voice vibrated through the cracked windows of the surrounding houses.
Nyros turned his head slightly toward him.
"To calm you down."
Tharion's brows drew tighter.
"You're trying to calm me down by provoking me?"
"And by forcing you to think. Ever since I started talking to you, you've been answering me instead of crushing another street. So yes, I'd say it's working rather well."
The light of the cross suddenly intensified in Tharion's eyes.
"Do you want me to take my anger out on you?"
"If that's what it takes to stop you from acting out of rage, then why not?"
Tharion stared at him, unable to tell whether he was still joking. A vein pulsed against his temple. His fingers clenched around the thick fabric of his coat, making the seams crack, before he forced them to loosen.
"You're completely reckless."
"I've been told."
"And that never made you want to change?"
"Not often enough."
Tharion slowly exhaled through his nose. His breath stirred a thin cloud of dust between them. The cross in his eyes dimmed slightly, but his jaw remained clenched hard enough to make the muscles in his cheeks stand out.
"Do you always make a joke out of everything?"
This time, Nyros did not answer immediately.
The metallic taste lingering in the air reminded him of the one he had tasted years ago, when Arzyel had returned covered in blood that was not entirely his own. He saw the torn clothes again, the eyes that could not settle on anything, and the fingers gripping his own arm as though he were trying to keep his body from falling apart.
For years, Nyros had held himself back.
He had buried his questions beneath jokes, silence, and long absences. Even with his own brother, he had never dared to press him. Every time Arzyel looked away or his smile vanished at the mention of his childhood, Nyros changed the subject. He joked louder, filled the silence, and pretended not to notice the stiffness in his shoulders.
He had convinced himself that he was respecting his silence.
In truth, he had simply been afraid of the answer.
A painful tightness formed in his throat. His tongue felt dry, almost rough against the roof of his mouth.
The shadow beneath his feet stirred.
"Not everything," he murmured.
Something in his voice erased the last trace of mockery lingering between them. Tharion said nothing. Perched atop the stone post, Thalen stopped moving. His claws froze against the rough surface with a faint scraping sound. Even the knights momentarily turned their attention away from Tharion to look at Nyros.
Nyros turned fully toward the captain.
"But that isn't the point."
The captain held his gaze, though nearly all his weight rested against the knight keeping him upright. Blood had soaked through one side of his uniform. With every breath, the damp fabric clung to his skin before peeling away with a faint sound. Cold sweat covered his face, carving pale trails through the dust.
"I already told you that I can't speak about Arzyel."
"No. You tried to avoid saying his name."
"This does not concern you."
Nyros tilted his head slightly.
"Arzyel is my brother."
The captain opened his mouth, but no words came out. Only a ragged breath slipped between his lips.
"So yes. It concerns me."
A current of air swept through the street, lifting dust and sheets of paper scattered among the debris. One of them spiralled through the air before sticking to the captain's bloodied boot. A few words written in black ink remained visible on the crumpled page, until another gust carried it away between the cobblestones.
Nyros took a step toward him.
The heel of his boot struck a fractured stone. The sharp sound echoed between the façades with unnatural clarity.
The young knight immediately tightened his grip around his sword. The damp leather of the hilt creaked beneath his fingers.
"Stay where you are."
Nyros did not even look at him.
"Take your hand off that weapon."
"You are threatening my captain."
"No. If I were threatening him, you would know."
Nyros's shadow slowly stretched across the cobblestones. It seeped into the cracks like black water, cold and silent. It did not move toward the young knight, yet he instinctively stepped back. His sole slipped across a dust-covered stone, and his breath caught in his chest.
The leather hilt stopped creaking beneath his fingers.
The captain struggled to raise his head.
"Nyros…"
"You. Be quiet."
The coldness in his voice cut sharply against his usual tone. There was no trace of humour left on his face. Even his breathing seemed to have vanished.
Nyros stopped a few paces away from the captain.
The smell of blood was stronger at this distance. Warm, thick, almost nauseating. A dark drop fell from the captain's uniform and burst between the stones.
"Listen carefully, so-called captain. I am going to make this perfectly clear."
The knight supporting him stiffened. Nyros heard the scrape of his armour plates and the brief chattering of his teeth. The captain did not move.
Nyros gestured toward Tharion with a tilt of his head.
"That man will probably kill you."
Tharion narrowed his eyes.
"Probably?"
"I'm still giving you the benefit of the doubt."
"I didn't ask you to."
"I know."
Nyros returned his attention to the captain.
"And when Tharion decides to do it, I will not lift a finger to stop him."
An anxious murmur spread through the group of knights. The rings of their armour clashed together as several hands lowered toward sword hilts. One man inhaled sharply behind them. Another swallowed with difficulty.
The captain raised his uninjured hand to stop them, but the movement pulled at his wound. His breath caught, and a grimace twisted his face. Fresh red warmth spread beneath the fabric of his uniform.
"No one moves," he ordered.
His voice was short of breath.
"Finally, an intelligent decision," Nyros whispered.
He stepped closer.
The silence tightened around them. The sounds of the city seemed to recede, smothered behind an invisible veil. Nothing remained but the wind brushing against their coats, the captain's uneven breathing, and the slow patter of his blood against the stone.
"So I intend to make use of what little time you have left to get an answer."
"An answer to what?"
The question came too quickly.
The captain realised it at the exact same moment. His lips remained parted, and a flicker of panic passed through his eyes.
Nyros stopped.
From atop the stone post, Thalen tilted his head slightly. Tharion finally looked away from the captain and turned his attention toward Nyros.
Something had changed.
The air had not grown heavier, as it had when Tharion lost control.
It had grown colder.
Drier.
Every breath now stung the back of their throats. A thin, dark film seemed to spread across the cobblestones, gradually swallowing the daylight reflected upon them.
The shadows surrounding Nyros's boots stopped trembling.
They became perfectly still.
"About Arzyel."
The captain pressed his lips together.
"I don't know what you think you've discovered."
"I haven't discovered anything yet."
Nyros lowered his voice.
"That is precisely the problem."
The captain tried to avert his eyes, but Nyros took one final step forward. He was now close enough to see the tiny beads of sweat forming along the man's temple, just above the trail of dried blood. He could hear his breathing quicken and smell the sourness of his fear mingling with the scent of iron.
"I'm talking about what happened several years ago," Nyros continued. "Long before the War of Broken Oaths. Before the prophecies. Before anyone knew our names."
The captain's breath stopped.
A spasm moved through his throat, but no air entered his lungs.
Nyros saw it.
His expression emptied of all emotion.
A dull pressure formed in his chest. Memories without images rose within him: Arzyel's voice becoming unnaturally calm, the way he flinched at the slightest sound behind him, the way he locked every door twice before sleeping. Nyros felt his nails dig into his palms, but the pain could not pierce the cold already numbing his fingers.
"You know exactly which time I'm talking about."
"Nyros…"
"The night Arzyel was only eight years old."
The captain turned deathly pale.
It was not the pallor of a man weakened by his wound. The colour vanished from his face in an instant, draining even from his lips. His pupils contracted. His uninjured hand slipped from his shoulder and fell limply against his side.
His knees gave way.
Without the knight supporting him, he would have collapsed onto the cobblestones. The man caught him beneath the arms, his armour plates crashing together with a brutal clang.
No one spoke.
A bead of sweat slipped from the captain's chin. It struck the ground with an almost imperceptible sound.
Nyros lowered his eyes toward the captain's uninjured hand.
His fingers trembled against his uniform.
Not because of the pain.
Not because of Tharion.
When Nyros raised his gaze again, the coldness in his eyes seemed to devour what little light remained in the street.
His voice was no more than an icy whisper.
"Then you know."