Tales Of Ash & Ivory
By T. Castrianni
Chapter One: Ash & IvoryRain whispered against the leaded windows, a steady pulse of sound that softened the murmur of the tavern. The fire burned low, spreading amber through smoke and the sour scent of mead gone stale. Beneath it, pipe ash and damp wool carried the smell of travel and weather.
Moss sat nearest the hearth. Their robe, deep green trimmed in silver runes, hung open at the chest, the fabric still damp from the road. The stitching shimmered faintly when it caught the firelight, shifting between letters and leaves — a charm for warmth, not dryness. Beneath, a loose linen shirt clung to ivory skin, and the cut of dark breeches disappeared into worn boots stained by mud and salt. Their hair, black streaked through with moss-green, fell across one sharp ear and over the curve of round glasses that sat low on their nose. The lenses were fogged, but the glint behind them was bright — that clever, faintly cruel spark that never really dimmed.
Their fingers — long, calloused from string and quill — moved with practiced laziness across the neck of a lute resting against one knee. Each pluck of string sounded unhurried, intimate, made for ears that were meant to listen.
Across from them stood Lavender. He filled the corner like a presence, too tall for the low ceiling beams, too broad for the chair that complained beneath him. His halberd leaned against the wall within easy reach, water still sliding down the dark steel head. His clothes were travel-worn but clean: a heavy sleeveless coat the colour of deep slate, fastened with leather straps across his chest; a short half-skirt of oiled hide over dark trousers; boots braced with metal studs at the ankle. His seafoam skin held the faint sheen of rain, and when he turned his head, the firelight caught on the scar carved along his jaw — a pale crescent that softened the hard line of his mouth without making it kind.
The elvish rune behind his ear glimmered faintly in the light, ink turned silver in the warmth. Moss's handiwork. The tattoos down his left arm — the heavy, black orcish runes — were older. Some faded, some fresh, the marks of vows no one else could read.
"Play that one again," Lavender said. His voice carried quiet weight, low and rough-edged, shaped by restraint more than anger.
Moss didn't look up immediately. Their thumb brushed the string once, twice, before they replied. "The one that makes the drunks cry, or the one that reminds you you're not so scary?"
Lavender's tusks showed when he almost smiled. "You know which."
Moss pushed their glasses higher with a knuckle, eyes flicking toward him. "Stand still and listen, my hound. Don't growl at shadows while I play."
That word — hound — changed the air. Lavender's hand shifted near his weapon, an instinct half-born, half-killed. Moss didn't move, only watched, and the tension eased like a leash tugged once and loosened.
Outside, thunder rolled far off through the hills. Inside, the tavern seemed to shrink to the sound of string and the weight of their silence.
The tune Moss played wasn't soft, though it began that way. It moved like water over steel, a song about loyalty and ruin, about a blade that guarded instead of killed, about a man who carried the storm in his lungs and would drown in it gladly if commanded.
When the last note fell, it left the air hollow.
Lavender didn't speak. He only watched Moss — watched the light trace their cheekbone, the way the rune-thread on their robe dimmed with the fire — and thought, as he always did, that if they asked, he'd burn the world to keep them warm.
Outside, the street had drowned itself quiet. Lanterns burned low behind wet panes, their reflections bending in the puddles that stretched like veins through the cobblestone. Inside, smoke curled from the hearth and clung to the rafters. The fire burned low, a breathing thing of amber and ash. The scent of damp wool, iron, and stale ale clung to everything.
Moss sat by the fire, cross-legged on the hearth's worn stone. His robe steamed faintly, dark cloth stitched with runes that pulsed each time the flames stirred. Green and black hair clung to his neck, loose strands catching the light like thread spun from sea glass. His glasses fogged again; he wiped them clean with his sleeve, squinting through the haze before plucking a few strings on his lute. The sound came soft at first, a single ripple through the room, then built slow and deliberate — the sort of song that spoke to warmth, to safety, to somewhere else entirely. It didn't belong in a place like this, but the quiet it drew meant it was needed.
The inn held its breath. Dice stopped rolling. A few heads turned. A barmaid lingered halfway to the counter, tray balanced in her hands. Even the rain seemed to hush against the glass.
Across the room sat Lavender. The half-orc filled the corner booth like he'd been carved for it. One arm rested across the back of the bench, the other around a mug he hadn't touched. His halberd leaned against the wall beside him, its blade still beaded with rain. Steam drifted from his shoulders where the wet met heat. He didn't drink, didn't move — he watched.
To anyone else, the look might have seemed predatory. To Moss, it was protection made tangible. The half-orc's eyes were the colour of stormwater, calm until they weren't. The firelight flickered over the scar that split his jaw and caught on the faint lines of runes tattooed along his throat.
Moss shifted the melody, letting it stretch wider, brighter, until the tavern filled with something nearly peaceful. His voice, when it came, was a quiet thing — silver over smoke.
By the final note, every whisper had died.
A few claps. A scatter of coins across the nearest table. And from the bar, a laugh — heavy, soaked with ale.
"Pretty song, elf," a man said. "You sing that way for coin or for company?"
Moss tilted his head, polite smile curling at the edges. "Depends who's asking."
"Someone with both."
"I don't play requests," Moss said, adjusting his glasses with one finger. "And you couldn't pay the tune's worth."
Laughter rolled through the room, loose and mean. The drunk stood, his grin as uneven as his stance.
"You think you're clever?"
"Often enough to survive it."
He took a step closer, the scent of sour beer hitting the air. "You lot are soft. Bet you scream nice, pretty thing."
A chair creaked. Lavender's weight shifted — a single note of warning beneath the din.
Moss turned his head, met his gaze. A small shake of his head. Stay.
He looked back to the drunk, calm and precise. "If I screamed," he said, "it would be in key. Can you say the same?"
The shove came quick and clumsy, enough to knock the stool from under him. His lute slid away and hit stone with a hollow cry of string. Ale ran down his chest, cold and sticky.
The tavern froze.
The fire crackled once and fell quiet. Mugs hung halfway to mouths. Even the rain outside seemed to pause, listening.
Lavender rose.
The bench groaned under his weight, wood grinding against stone. No words, no warning — only the sound of boots crossing the boards, slow and heavy. The half-orc's shadow stretched long across the floor, swallowing the firelight as he moved.
The drunk turned, a smile still half-formed. It vanished when Lavender reached him.
The first hit wasn't a swing, it was a decision. Bone met bone with a crack that cut through the room. The man spun, crumpling into the wall. The second blow drove the air from his chest. The third dropped him to the floor like an emptied sack.
Chairs toppled. A woman gasped. Someone whispered a prayer that stopped halfway through.
Lavender followed him down.
He didn't roar. He didn't curse. His face was still, expressionless, as his fists came down again and again — each one a hammer striking the same fault line. Wood splintered beneath the man's back. The floorboards shook with each impact.
Moss pushed himself up slowly. His hand hovered near the bow slung at the edge of the hearth, but he didn't reach for it. He didn't need to.
Blood hit the floorboards. A dark bloom. Another.
Lavender's breathing thickened. The sound of it filled the room — not rage, not pleasure, but something deeper, like a forge working itself toward breaking point. His hands were slick, his knuckles split. Each punch slowed a little more, losing rhythm, turning from punishment into ritual.
The drunk dangled from his grip like a rag, breath bubbling through red foam.
Moss rose slowly, the scrape of his boots cutting through the stillness. The tavern waited, half-breath held, afraid to move.
"Barbaro."
The name fell low. Not a shout, not a plea. A word meant to reach where reason couldn't.
Lavender didn't stop. His chest heaved, rhythm tightening, knuckles slick with blood. The half-orc's face was calm, too calm, the kind that came after rage had burned clean.
Moss stepped closer, heat from the hearth meeting the cold pouring off the man. His hand reached for the arm that swung, fingers closing over scar and rune. The pulse beneath the skin thudded like a war drum.
"Barbaro," Moss said again, quieter, close enough for the breath to reach his ear.
Nothing.
So he leaned in, voice a whisper, hand firm against the inside of the half-orc's forearm. "Heel."
The word cut through like a bell struck underwater.
Every muscle in Lavender froze. The next punch never landed. He stood there trembling, half bent over the man he'd nearly broken. The silence that followed felt alive, a thing that breathed between them.
Moss didn't let go. His thumb traced once across a rune near Lavender's elbow, feeling it twitch like a living thing beneath his skin.
"That's enough," he murmured.
The tension broke. Lavender exhaled hard, long, shaking once like an animal coming out of the leash. The drunk slid from his hands and hit the floor in a wet heap.
"You guard me," Moss said. "You don't rebuild taverns."
Lavender's voice came rough, barely formed. "He touched you."
"I noticed." Moss wiped blood from his jaw with the back of his sleeve. "He won't again."
He turned to the innkeeper, eyes sharp, tone steady. "For the damages."
Coins hit the counter. No one moved until the door closed behind them.
ilence. The fire popped once and went still. Rain tapped against the panes.
Moss's hand remained on him, steadying. He could feel the tremor fade beneath his touch, the monstrous energy folding back into the shape of a man. Lavender's eyes flicked to him—still wild, still bright, but seeing again.
"You guard me," Moss said softly. "You don't rebuild taverns."
Lavender's voice came low and frayed. "He touched you."
"I noticed." Moss's thumb traced the old scar along his jaw, wiping away a smear of blood. "He won't again."
For a heartbeat the air between them burned—breath against breath, the space too narrow, the world too small. Lavender's chest rose and fell once, a slow exhale that carried all the violence out of him. Moss let his hand fall.
Coins clinked on the counter. "For the wall," Moss said.
The innkeeper nodded without a word.
When they stepped outside, the rain hit hard and cold. Steam lifted from Lavender's skin where the water touched him. Moss walked beside him, his sleeve brushing the back of the half-orc's hand.
"You burn too easily, Barbaro," Moss said.
Lavender's mouth curved, faint and rough. "Wouldn't be yours if I didn't."
The rain swallowed them, the street shining black under the lanterns. Behind them, the tavern exhaled—broken tables, wet blood, and the story already being born in whispers.
The rain came harder, hammering on slate and gutter, washing the blood from Lavender's knuckles in thin red threads. The tavern's roar faded behind them, swallowed by the hiss of water and the clatter of their boots on cobblestone.
Moss led them down a narrow lane toward the forge's overhang, the only dry stretch in sight. Steam rose from the half-orc's shoulders, curling white in the lamplight. His halberd hung at his back again, heavy and silent. He hadn't spoken since they left the door.
"You're going to catch cold," Moss said softly.
Lavender didn't answer. He stood in the rain's edge, eyes fixed on the mouth of the alley, shoulders set. His chest still moved like he was half in the fight.
Moss stepped closer, cloak trailing through puddles. "Show me your hands."
Lavender hesitated, then turned his palms out. The skin across the knuckles was torn open, blood dark against the green of his skin. Rain traced the cuts, beading at the edges.
Moss caught one wrist and tilted it toward the weak light. His touch was steady, the kind that asked no permission and needed none. "You'll scar if I don't fix this," he murmured.
From his pocket he pulled a thin silver ring etched with runes, slipped it to his thumb, and began to hum under his breath. The sound was barely there, a vibration that lived more in the bones than the ears. A faint green light bloomed where his fingers met Lavender's skin. The blood slowed, the torn edges closed to clean, dark lines.
The half-orc's breath came rough. "You shouldn't waste magic on me."
"It's mine to spend," Moss said. "And you're bleeding on my shoes."
That earned the smallest sound—half laugh, half sigh.
He drew his hand away to test the work, wiping away the last of the blood with a handkerchief. The cloth came away pink. "He pushed you," Lavender said at last, voice low, rough from the cold.
"Yes." Moss's thumb brushed another smear from his palm. "And now he won't."
Lavender's shoulders stiffened. "I should've stopped sooner."
Moss looked up. Their faces were close, breath mingling, rain still falling in the small gap between them. "You stopped when I told you to."
He said it like it mattered more than forgiveness. Lavender exhaled, a long, shuddering sound that carried the weight of everything he'd burned through. Moss still held his wrist, thumb resting in the hollow between vein and bone. The pulse there was steady again.
He reached into his coat, pulled another strip of cloth, and wound it carefully around Lavender's hand. The touch was gentle, precise at first, then slower, almost lingering. The rain softened everything—sound, distance, anger. Lavender watched him, saying nothing, eyes tracing the line of Moss's jaw, the hair plastered to his cheek, the soft reflection of the streetlight in his glasses.
"You shouldn't touch me when I'm like that," he said.
Moss's mouth curved. "If I didn't, you wouldn't come back."
Thunder rolled over the rooftops. Moss tied the cloth tight and smoothed it with his thumb, his voice a murmur. "I don't leash you, Barbaro. You choose to stay."
Lavender's reply came low. "Does it make a difference?"
"It makes all the difference." Moss let go.
For a moment neither moved. Rain filled the silence, drumming against stone and skin. Then Moss turned toward the road. "There's an inn across the square. Come on. Before you drown where you stand."
Lavender took one last look at the street behind them, then fell into step beside him. He walked slightly ahead, eyes sweeping the alleys, halberd ready though his hands still trembled under the bandage. Moss followed close, his bow slung across his back, the faint glow of his ring dimming to nothing.
The tavern behind them flickered once through the rain, a dull red glow against the night. Then it was gone, and only the sound of their boots and the rain remained—two figures crossing the dark, one built to destroy, the other built to bring him back.
Chapter 2 The Ashmark Inn
The rain chased them through the door. The hearth inside glowed low, more ember than flame, throwing smoke into the corners. The innkeeper looked up, took one glance at the pair — one half-orc built like a storm, one elf dressed in wet silver and sarcasm — and decided not to ask questions.
"One room left," he said. "One bed."
Moss sighed, pushing a strand of green-black hair from his face. "Fate does love a cliché."
He turned to Lavender with that lopsided grin. "I suppose we'll manage."
"I'll take the floor."
"You'll take the bed," Moss corrected. "You're already half-dead from exhaustion. If I find you frozen by dawn, I'll never hear the end of it."
The innkeeper handed over the key, then vanished, wisely deaf to whatever this was.
Upstairs, the air was close and warm. Moss coaxed the fire alive again with a murmur; runes along his robe flickered green, giving the illusion of leaves trembling in wind. The spell warmed his skin but left the cloth sodden, clinging to every line of him. Steam rose where he passed.
Lavender set his halberd by the door and watched, silent.
"Your magic's dramatic," he said.
"It's called flair," Moss answered, tugging at the clasp at his throat. "Some of us have to compensate for travelling with you."
The clasp resisted. "Damn thing," he muttered.
Lavender crossed the floor. "Hold still."
"I was planning to," Moss said, eyes glinting.
Lavender stopped close enough for the fire to catch on the wet edge of his scarf. He reached up, fingers brushing chilled metal, then skin. The clasp gave with a soft click. The robe loosened. He caught it before it fell, one hand at the back of Moss's neck, the other gathering the heavy fabric from his shoulders.
Heat bloomed in the small distance between them. Moss breathed out, steady, almost a laugh.
"Show-off."
"Someone had to."
The robe slid from Lavender's grip onto the chair by the fire. Moss's shirt clung thin and pale, tracing every angle of collarbone and rib. The bone-white rune pendant at his throat glowed faintly, reacting to Lavender's proximity.
"You wear it backward," Lavender said.
"I know," Moss replied. "It isn't meant to protect me."
"What then?"
"To remind me what you are."
Lavender's gaze lifted to his face. "And what's that?"
"Something that listens when I speak."
For a moment the air felt heavy enough to cut. Then Lavender turned away, hung the robe by the fire. The runes along its hem pulsed in protest, throwing green light across his tattooed arm.
Moss moved closer. "You're staring again."
"You're talking again."
"I multitask."
Lavender almost smiled. "You still want to learn the runes?"
"Always," Moss said. "Especially the ones you shouldn't teach me."
They sat by the small table, knees brushing. Lavender took a stub of chalk and drew a shape into the woodgrain — clean lines, deliberate.
"This means strength," he said. "The kind that shields, not strikes."
Moss leaned in, shoulder pressing lightly against his arm. "And that one?"
"Loyalty."
"It looks like a bowstring drawn back."
"It should. It means to hold without breaking."
The fire popped. Moss's eyes followed the curve of black ink along Lavender's forearm. "And the one near your shoulder?"
Lavender hesitated, then turned his arm. The rune caught the light, black against bronze. "To bind yourself to what you'd die for."
Moss's voice dropped. "You shouldn't have told me that."
"Why?"
"Because now I'll remember it."
"Good."
He reached for the chalk, their fingers brushing — brief, electric. Moss drew a mark beside Lavender's, smaller, less certain. "This one's mine."
"What does it mean?"
"Return."
Lavender's tone softened. "Then I suppose I will."
Silence settled. The fire dimmed to a low hum; rain sighed against the glass.
"You should sleep," Lavender said.
"So should you."
"I'll keep watch."
"Over what?" Moss smiled. "The door? The floor?"
"You."
The word landed heavy. Moss's reply came quieter. "How noble of you, Barbaro."
Lavender rose, meaning to end the moment, but Moss caught his wrist. The touch stopped him. His fingers rested against the edge of a rune, feeling the pulse beneath the ink.
"Careful," Lavender said, voice gone low.
"I am," Moss answered, his thumb tracing the mark once, slow. "You burn hotter than your temper suggests."
Lavender didn't pull away. "You shouldn't touch me when I'm like this."
"If I didn't," Moss said, "you wouldn't come back."
Their eyes met, close now, the space between them barely a breath. Lavender's restraint held, visible in the set of his jaw, in the tremor that ran down his arm.
Finally, he moved — not far, just enough to set his palm over Moss's hand, stilling it. The contact was small, deliberate, and felt like a confession.
Moss's voice came out softer than he meant. "You always listen."
"I have to," Lavender said. "You never stop talking."
Moss smiled, slow and dangerous. "Goodnight, Barbaro."
Lavender's thumb brushed once against his wrist before he let go. "Sleep, Moss."
The fire dropped to embers. Outside, the rain softened. Inside, neither of them slept quickly.
The storm had gone quiet. Only the smell of wet timber and smoke lingered. Light crept through the shutters, soft and gold over the rough floorboards. The hearth still breathed, its embers pulsing under a thin layer of ash.
Moss stirred first. The blanket slid down his shoulder, the air cool against bare skin. He rubbed his eyes, blinked at the blur of colour that was the room, then reached for the table beside the bed. His fingers met empty space. He frowned, squinted harder, and tried again.
"You're searching for something."
The voice came from near the door. Low, quiet, calm.
Moss turned toward it, still half-blind. "You're watching me."
Lavender sat on the floor, back against the wall, halberd beside him. His seafoam skin looked pale in the morning light, his jaw shadowed, his eyes dark and steady. "You move enough to wake the dead," he said.
"I'd have an easier time if I could see them."
Lavender lifted a hand. Round frames caught the light between his fingers. "You left them on the table," he said.
Moss frowned. "You let me fumble around for them?"
"I wanted to see how long it would take."
"You're cruel."
"Efficient."
Moss sat up, dragging the blanket with him. "Give them here."
Lavender rose. His steps were quiet, heavy but measured. He stopped in front of Moss and didn't hand them over. Instead, he leaned in, the movement unhurried, deliberate. One hand came up behind Moss's neck, guiding his chin higher. The other lifted the glasses, setting them on the bridge of his nose with the kind of care most people reserved for weaponry or wounds. His fingers brushed the edge of an ear, tucked a stray strand of hair behind it, and lingered a heartbeat too long.
The world snapped into focus. Moss's eyes met his, bright and sharp through the new clarity.
"Better?" Lavender asked.
"Almost perfect," Moss murmured.
He stretched, the blanket falling away. The robe still hung over the chair, runes faint in the morning light. Moss swung his legs out, bare skin catching the chill.
Lavender turned abruptly. "Put something on."
Moss grinned, slow and wicked. "You didn't seem to mind helping me undress last night."
Lavender's shoulders stiffened. "That was different."
"Was it?"
His voice carried that lazy amusement that made even silence blush. Lavender said nothing. Moss stood, loose-limbed, finding his robe and slipping it on with unhurried grace. He tied the belt and watched Lavender out of the corner of his eye.
"You always sleep sitting up?" he asked.
"Habit."
"Or fear I'll wander off?"
"You would."
Moss smirked. "Only if someone better looking offered breakfast."
Lavender turned halfway toward him, expression unreadable. "You'd starve."
Moss blinked, mouth half-open, then laughed. "You've been practising."
"I listen."
"That's dangerous."
Lavender glanced toward the hearth. "Not as dangerous as you without trousers."
Moss stepped closer, voice softer. "You were staring."
"You noticed."
"I always do."
For a moment, neither moved. The air between them carried the weight of too many unsaid things. Lavender finally looked down, busying himself with his coat. The movement drew Moss's eyes — the way the half-orc's muscles shifted beneath the fabric, the small scar over his shoulder blade, the faded lines of old wounds cutting pale through green.
Moss spoke quieter now. "You should let me write a song about those."
Lavender buckled his harness. "Don't romanticise them."
"Who said I would?"
"You would."
Moss smirked. "You make me sound predictable."
"You are."
He laughed again, this time lighter. "You wound me, Barbaro."
"Not yet."
The name hung between them, sharper than it should have been. Moss's smirk faltered for half a breath before returning. "Breakfast?"
Lavender nodded once. "You'll eat something cooked?"
"I'd prefer yours," Moss said, "but the innkeeper's swill will do."
Lavender looked over his shoulder. "You think I'm cooking for you again?"
"You're good at it. It's one of the few pleasures of travelling with you."
Lavender grunted, almost a laugh. "And the others?"
Moss smiled without answering. He pushed past him, brushing his shoulder as he moved toward the door. "You'll figure them out eventually."
They went downstairs together. The room smelled of smoke and stale ale. Moss tuned his lute at the table while Lavender ordered food. When the first plate hit the wood, Moss strummed a chord that cut through the quiet.
By the second verse, the inn had gone still. Lavender leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes scanning the crowd but always drifting back to him. Moss caught the glance and played into it — fingers slowing, voice dropping, that half-smile tugging at his mouth.
When the song ended, a few coins clinked on the table. Moss bowed shallowly. "Breakfast and applause. A good morning."
Lavender stepped closer, lowering his voice. "One out of two."
Moss leaned back in his chair, grin returning. "You don't clap."
"I'm busy watching."
"Careful," Moss said. "You'll make me think you like me."
Lavender's gaze didn't waver. "Who says I don't?"
The bard froze for half a breath, caught off guard again. "You're getting dangerous, Barbaro."
"Efficient," Lavender said, echoing his earlier word.
And Moss — smiling, pink creeping across his cheekbones — had no answer.
The inn was stirring awake. A few locals sat hunched over mugs, heads low. Moss tuned his lute, voice carrying easily through the low hum of the room. Lavender moved to the counter, ordering food with quiet efficiency.
Plates scraped. Cutlery clinked. Heat from the hearth worked through damp timber and into bone. Moss sat with one ankle hooked over the other, lute on his knee, fingers idling through a run so soft it could have been a thought. Lavender stayed opposite, forearms on the table, posture easy, eyes never still.
"You keep staring," Moss murmured without raising his head.
"I keep watch."
"Over me, or over men who do not tip."
"Both."
"Efficient," Moss said, mouth curving.
The door thudded open. Three city guards stepped in with that tidy stride men learn from drills. Cloaks still damp. Faces scrubbed grey with early light. Conversation sank to a hush.
The oldest guard scanned the room, picked them in a breath. "Half-orc. Scar on the jaw. Come with us."
Lavender did not move.
Moss set a hand on the lute's neck, strings dead under his palm. "Good morning. We have names. You may try using them."
The captain's gaze moved to Moss. "Later. You, big one."
Lavender stood. Wood groaned under his weight. He said nothing.
"We are happy to answer questions," Moss said. "We prefer to do it without iron in our ribs."
"No steel, if he behaves," the captain replied. "Two men injured in the tavern. One lost teeth. You were seen."
Moss tilted his head. "Seen pouring ale on a bard's chest. Seen grabbing a throat. Seen earning what came next."
The youngest guard's hand slid toward his hilt. "You think this is a game."
"I think memory is short when drink is involved," Moss said, gentler now. "Ask the barmaid. She saw the start."
The middle guard jerked his chin toward the door. "Hall. Now."
Lavender's jaw worked. Moss reached for his sleeve, barely a touch. "Barbaro."
The word cooled the air. Lavender let out a slow breath. "We will walk."
They stepped out into a square washed clean. Puddles lay thin as glass. Smoke lifted from low chimneys. Market folk rolled canvas and set out bread, onions, old knives. The guards took the lead. Lavender fell in beside Moss, half a pace ahead, enough to take wind and trouble first.
"You should have eaten more," Lavender said quietly.
"You sound like my grandmother."
"I sound like a man who cooks for you."
"Which I miss already," Moss said, eyes bright behind wet lenses. "After this, you are making eggs."
"You are impossible."
"You say that with affection."
A cart rattled past. Children trailed it, counting spokes, hands out for crumbs. Lavender watched them until the turn, then returned to the rhythm of boot on stone.
The hall sat low and square, shutters open to the pale day. Inside, the air held wax, wood smoke, damp wool. A clerk froze mid-stroke, quill held above paper. The captain waved them into a side room with a table scarred by years of elbows and coins.
"Sit," he said.
Moss stayed standing. Lavender stayed with him.
"Names," the captain tried again.
"Moss," the elf said. "He is Lavender."
"No house marks," the captain said. "No guild. Strays?"
"Travellers."
"You call him Barbaro," the man said. "You think that will tame him."
"I do not tame him," Moss replied. "He lets me be obeyed."
The room went a fraction quieter. The younger guard shifted, eyes on Lavender's hands.
The captain opened a ledger. "State your part. Keep it plain."
Moss told it plain. Stool. Ale. Hands where they did not belong. One warning. None taken. Violence cut short when a single word hit iron. No boast in it. No flourish. He finished, and the room breathed again.
The captain looked to Lavender. "Anything to add."
"He touched him. He will not touch him again."
The man wrote a line. "You hit him too many times."
"I stopped," Lavender said.
"Because he said one word."
"Yes."
The captain studied him, chin tipped, eyes narrowing a shade. "You listen quick."
Lavender's mouth twitched. "He speaks for both of us."
A knock at the frame. The barmaid peered in, apron twisted in her hands. "You sent for me."
The captain waved her closer. "Tell it."
She did, voice flat with fatigue. Her eyes never went near Lavender's size, only his restraint. She described the shove, the hand at a throat, the punch that ended the talk. She described Moss standing with his bow and choosing not to reach for it. When she finished, the clerk's quill scratched a little faster.
The captain closed the ledger. "You will not leave until sundown. I will speak to the men with broken mouths. If their stories match hers, you walk."
Moss lifted two fingers. "A request."
"No."
"It concerns lodging."
"Fine."
"Do not send us to a cell. Send word to the Ashmark. We will be in plain sight."
The captain weighed it, then nodded once. "You step out of sight and we come looking. I find you in an alley and I will not be polite."
Moss met his eyes. "We do our best work in plain rooms."
They turned to go. The youngest guard scraped his chair, stood too close. "One more thing. The man you broke has friends. He is a scribe for a magistrate. You cross him again, we cannot help you."
Lavender said nothing. He stood very still.
Moss slid a half step nearer, voice steady. "We heard you. We do not hunt trouble."
The captain spoke over his shoulder. "See that you do not."
They stepped into the square. Sun pressed through thinning cloud. A bell rang somewhere up the hill. For a span, they walked without words.
"You kept it simple," Lavender said at last.
"I can, when it matters."
"It always matters."
Moss huffed a small laugh. "From you, that passes for romance."
A messenger cut across their path and shoved a folded notice into Lavender's palm. Red wax. City seal. Lavender handed it to Moss. He broke the seal with a thumb.
He read once, twice, mouth flattening. "He lodged a claim for assault with intent. He wants coin. A lot of coin."
"How much."
"Enough to buy this inn. Or buy a magistrate."
Lavender's shoulders hardened.
Moss lowered the page. "We stay visible. We sing for our bread. We make friends before noon."
"You make friends. I scare them."
"You scare only men who should be scared," Moss said, sliding the notice into his robe. "We will handle the rest."
Lavender glanced at the hall doors. A shadow moved behind the old glass. "We have eyes on us."
"Good," Moss said. "Let them see what we are."
They crossed to the Ashmark and the smell of pan grease and coffee. Moss touched Lavender's wrist once in passing, a light press where ink met pulse.
"Eggs," Moss said.
Lavender's mouth softened, the scar along his jaw pulling in a way Moss liked. "As you command."
A voice rose from the lane behind them. The captain, calling across the square. "Elf."
Moss paused on the step, head turned, glasses bright with sun.
"The scribe is not the worst of it," the captain called. "Word from the tavern door. A man outside wore a signet. Not from here. He watched the fight and left in a hurry."
Moss's smile cooled. "House mark."
"A serpent in ivy. You travel, you may know it."
"I do," Moss said. "And I wish I did not."
"Then you will want to move before nightfall," the captain said.
The door to the Ashmark swung open on heat and noise. Moss stepped in without another word. Lavender followed, eyes on the street, hand near steel. The calm morning thinned around them, thin as a skin on milk, ready to tear.
Chapter Two: The Road