“I’ll whip up something for dinner, and then we hit the road,” Batur suggested. “It’s a two-hour ride to the border…”

“The Arabiya have patrols stationed at the Serpent River now,” Ardashir corrected him. “Took me at least three hours to get here.”

“Three hours to the border, then… And after that, Lady Apama, you’ll be transported by magic to the outskirts of Marakand, where our people will be waiting. From there, just a little more riding…”

Lyn glanced at Ardashir. His face betrayed exactly zero enthusiasm about spending all night on horseback, bouncing in the saddle like a sack of grain, bruising his ass and thighs. Lyn shared the sentiment. Well, maybe not the whole night — half of it, at least. Neither of them needed to ride all the way to Marakand. Their journey would be cut short midway — once they crossed out of the Arabiya’s territory, Silverback would find Lyn, and Ardashir, after dropping off Apama wherever she needed to go, would vanish off to deal with whatever mysterious business he had next.

But at least Ardashir had come prepared — when he pulled off his cloak, it turned out he was wearing thigh-high, laced leather boots that did wonders for his legs. And considering he wasn’t wearing a tunic or even a long shirt over his fitted trousers, the whole look was bordering on obscene. Lyn tore his gaze away, cursing himself for getting distracted by something so ridiculous.

Neither of them had ever dared — nor, in Lyn’s case, had the guts — to shift their relationship to fit neatly into some box. Sure, there had been that conversation a few years back when Ardashir, in response to Lyn’s clumsy half-confession, had kind of implied that Lyn wasn’t entirely hopeless and that maybe, one day, something could happen between them — but since then, neither of them had given even a hint of romantic interest.

Well… except for that one time when Narseh had talked them both into a threesome. But that had only made things more confusing and awkward, and in the end, it wasn’t really about them at all — they had both just been indulging Narseh.

Lyn told himself he was fine with things the way they were. After all, half of Bizanth had probably fantasized about getting Archon into bed. A genuine, deep fondness — from someone Lyn admired far more than he was willing to admit — was worth a hell of a lot more than that.

While Batur cooked and Melissa, along with the others, explained the travel details to Apama, Lyn and Ardashir found a quiet table in the corner. Lyn sliced some bread and a chunk of local cheese while Ardashir brewed some kind of herbal infusion.

"Is it normal for doing the right thing to feel this fucking awful?" Lyn muttered, forcing a grin. "Remember when we used to dream about making the world a better place?"

God, how much they had talked about that back in the day. Both of them had always known — you can't fix the world through brute force. Sudden, violent change just meant piles of corpses and grief. Killing the people you don’t like and forcing your own order upon the world? Easy. Everyone with half a sword and a God complex tries that. But preserving what deserved to survive? Strengthening it? That took work.

In every country, in every culture Lyn had seen, the true force of progress wasn’t kings or generals, but scholars — doctors, writers, philosophers, teachers, inventors. The more of them a society had, the better off it was. The less room for superstition and dogma. The more freedom for people to think, to speak, to make choices. Imagine a world where instead of being dragged straight from birth into a church, or a mesque, or whatever other temple of indoctrination, kids were taught to believe in education and human rights.

That had been the dream.

And the reality? The reality was that the Arabiya had arrived, and instead of creating a world where reason and conscience could thrive, the Organization was left scrambling to smuggle out the last few people worth saving.

"It’s always been like this," Ardashir said distantly. "You have to run just to keep the world from getting a hundred times worse."

"Why are you here today?" Lyn asked. "It’s a huge risk. Surely someone else among your subordi… er, like-minded associates could’ve handled Apama’s extraction?"

Normally, it wasn’t Ardashir himself who helped with evacuations.

"I wanted to see you," Ardashir said, unexpectedly.

Lyn blinked. Well, shit. He scrambled for a reaction — acted like this was completely normal — then immediately reconsidered, realizing Ardashir was probably here on some business rather than, you know, personal sentiment.

"Something happened?"

"No. But I have a feeling..."

"A storm brewing?"

"More like I’m missing something."

"Last time I was in Eranshahr, Soraya said the borders were quiet," Lyn mused. "Seems like the Arabiya are focused on Sughd right now… Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve been sneaking off to visit the Thread Weavers and peeking through the keyhole of fate again?" he joked.

"No. Though I’ve considered it." Ardashir hesitated, as if on the verge of saying something else.

For a second, Lyn thought he would. But instead, Ardashir just gave one of his easy, unfazed smiles — the kind that concealed far more than it revealed.

"No, it’s probably just nerves."

Lyn had the sudden, violent urge to shake him. Or kiss him. Or yell at him. Something to crack open that composed exterior, to make him admit why he was so on edge about Aryan affairs. To tell him — you are not a solitary, goddamn ice-capped peak of responsibility, burdened with problems too grand to share with the rest of us mere mortals.

The more Lyn knew him, the more he realized just how deeply Ardashir had buried himself in duty. Lyn still remembered their first meeting—in that prison, where Ardashir had personally wring a guard’s neck rather than let Soraya or Soroush take that burden on themselves. Back then, Lyn had thought he was just an arrogant asshole. But no — he chose to carry the weight others couldn’t. He could be sarcastic and superior all he wanted, but at his core, he’d rather cut off his own arm than trouble the people he cared about with his own struggles. Which now, obviously, were not even his, but the problems of the whole country... And that was just — so fucking wrong.

Did he even want anything for himself? He cared about Aryan, about his family, about Narseh, even about Lyn... but not about himself.

Maybe that was why — Lyn was startled by the thought — it wasn’t just the absurdly good legs in those riding boots, or the infuriatingly attractive smirk, that made him wish sometimes that they were fucking. It wasn’t about that at all. It was about wanting the right to ask what the hell was going on in his head. As an equal. To help, if he could. And if he couldn’t — at least to hold him and tell him that, somehow, it would be okay.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

But he didn’t have that right.

Narseh had spent years closing that distance, carefully, patiently. And from what Lyn had seen, he had done it — being very caring and delicate himself, he successfully prevented these impulses, in his gentle but persistent manner, and he’d found a way to pull Ardashir out of that lonely, self-sacrificing spiral.

And yet.

"And… what does Narseh think?" Lyn asked, a little too carefully. It came out all wrong, like he was prying into both Ardashir’s soul and his bedroom at the same time.

"He has his own troubles right now."

"Troubles…?" Lyn echoed, frowning.

Ardashir looked surprised. "He hasn’t told you? All his thoughts are occupied with memories of his past."

Lyn hesitated. "He mentioned something, yeah," he said vaguely. "I always try to come up with something fun to cheer him up when we talk."

So maybe — maybe Narseh hadn’t completely closed that distance after all. Because this time, Ardashir had chosen not to burden him.

Lyn exhaled. "So. Why did you want to see me?" he asked bluntly.

Ardashir raised an eyebrow. "Why is it so hard to believe I just wanted to talk to you?"

Oh, this game again.

"Because I know you," Lyn said flatly. "And you always have at least two motives."

Ardashir smiled — just a little.

"Well… I need one of your secrets."

Lyn mentally flipped through all the magical formulas he knew — none of them required anything like this. This had to be some rare kind of magic, and he had no idea what the hell it was for. The request was sudden and, frankly, a little embarrassing.

"A secret, huh… Well… Sometimes I mix up my right and left boots, and if no one notices, I just roll with it."

Ardashir raised a skeptical brow.

"Do you really need me to explain what a secret is?"

"Alright, alright… When I was about four, I pissed the bed, and to avoid getting my ass whooped, I blamed it on the dog."

Now that was truly mortifying. Lyn had never told anyone that before.

(And the lie hadn’t helped one damn bit. Well — except maybe teaching him that he should learn to lie better.)

Ardashir, utterly unbothered, just said:

"That'll do."

"Wow. So much sympathy. I might actually cry from such a vivid display of emotions." Lyn shot back, before adding sourly, "Your turn. Fair’s fair."

This seemed like a perfect moment for Ardashir to finally tell him what was really bothering him — if he actually wanted to confess something, as Lyn had briefly imagined. Maybe even ask for help…

But Ardashir was a conniving bastard and played dirty.

"I read some of the Blind Bakhshi’s works, and I liked them. Does that count?"

Lyn’s palms instantly went clammy, but he tried to keep his voice as casual as possible.

"Oh? Really? And? What did you think?"

"The one about the shoemaker Anil was quite well done, I’d say."

"Well, that one's short, nothing special… But did you read the one about the Sughdian girl and the Turkic boy? Now that one was a challenge to write."

"I did. But… I had mixed feelings about it."

"Why?"

This — this — was the exact reason Lyn hadn’t dared to show his writing to Narseh yet. He knew full well how utterly crushed he’d be if the reaction wasn’t good. And when it came to Ardashir… that went double. Maybe triple.

And of course, Ardashir wasn’t about to spare his fragile writer’s ego:

"It’s well-written, but — two kids, not even fifteen, offing themselves over their impossible love? Seriously? At that age, everything feels like love."

For some reason, at that moment, Lyn thought not about the book, but about something else entirely.

And it pissed him off.

"Why do people, once they get older, love to dismiss or belittle what they felt when they were young? Maybe those feelings stayed in the past," —Or maybe not, his mind whispered— "but does that make them any less real?"

"Sometimes, yes. Sometimes they turn out to be illusions — things you just projected onto someone."

Lyn had the sudden, childish urge to snap, For the record, I’m twenty-five now, not fifteen. Just in case anyone here was still working off the assumption that he was some dumb lovesick boy who didn’t know what he wanted.

"And anyway," he pressed on, "the story isn’t about a couple of stupid kids killing themselves over their own idiocy! It’s about how the world is so fucked up that some people can’t see any way out except death. Sometimes that’s the only way you can say no — the only way to not break, to not turn into just another piece of shit like everyone else. And that takes a kind of courage most adults don’t have."

Ardashir considered this.

"But if they’d been older, they might have had more power, more creativity — to either find a way out or, if not change the world, at least carve out a space for themselves."

"True," Lyn admitted. "But that’s not just about age."

"Fair point. Still, think about it — if your characters were older, would their decision still feel as convincing? Maybe show that they at least tried more before giving up?"

As much as Lyn hated to admit it, Ardashir was right.

"Also, it’s a little ridiculous that they made that decision after knowing each other for, what, a few days?" Ardashir added.

"Oh, come on — are you saying you can’t really know someone that fast? I think you can usually tell right away."

"Can you, now?"

And once again, Lyn had the sneaking suspicion that they weren’t talking about the book anymore.

But yes. Of course you could.

People who seemed like assholes or idiots usually were assholes or idiots. (Which was most of them, honestly — so you didn’t even need to be some kind of prophet to get that right.)

But Justin, for example — he had seemed like a genuinely good, loyal guy, and he had turned out to be exactly that, becoming Lyn’s first friend. And Narseh… Lyn had known from the very beginning that Narseh was something special.

Had he known right away about Ardashir?

Actually — yes.

His brain had forced him to doubt, but his heart had known, from the first moment, that he was someone Lyn could trust.

So he said simply:

"Yeah."

Ardashir studied him for a few moments, then said,

"Well… Literature has to be more realistic than life itself."

"Sure, but—"

They kept debating — then moved on to critiquing other people’s works. They ended up talking the whole time, while the refugees ate and prepared for the journey.

But Ardashir hadn’t said a single word about the erotic scenes.

And honestly? Lyn would have loved to discuss those, too.

Yeah, fine — Ardashir’s affection was probably something familial, or friendly, or whatever the hell you called it when it involved your boyfriend’s boyfriend.

But still, sometimes Lyn let himself indulge in a little delusion — the pleasant idea that maybe, just maybe, there was something there. That they were locked in some strange, tense dance, just waiting to see which one of them would cave first and finally admit it.

When Batur finally announced it was time to saddle the horses, Lyn let his gaze flick down to Ardashir’s boots — then disappeared for five minutes and came back wearing leather riding stockings.

Sure, he could have just worn his usual loose trousers.

But two could play this game.