Sam wasn’t much for conversation on the long walk back to The Brass Monkey. She knew her uncustomary quiet bothered Tristan — he kept twisting his neck to stare at her — but she was too troubled in thought to pay him any mind.

There were but a few basic truths in this world Sam held dear, and the righteousness of the Paladins was one of them. Even before her own life had been saved and irrevocably changed by the Paladins—gods, that seemed a lifetime ago now—Sam had well known the great deeds they performed. When she was a young girl, not yet a thorn in her father’s side, he’d sat her on his lap and told her the story of the Battle of Scarskeep. In what was the largest attack in recorded history, five thousand demons descended on the central city of Bainsreagh in deep winter, and five hundred Paladins rose to meet them. After three days of near-constant fighting, the Paladins triumphed, but at the cost of almost half their numbers. The people wept for the Paladins and buried the deceased with heroes’ honors, and then they went home and tucked their children into bed and kissed them goodnight. As for the Paladins, bruised and battered as they were, they built a great fortress atop the white of snow and the red of spilt blood, and the city of Bainsreagh became the Center.

Sam had made her father tell her the story a dozen times, until she could recite it by rote. But after she herself owed her life to the Paladins, the story of the Battle of Scarskeep ceased to be a story and became truth, one she desperately wanted to be a part of. For five years now, maybe longer, her goal to become a Paladin was her reason for breathing.

And so the very existence of the Uriel was an affront to her belief system. There were the Paladins, the knights who served them and the king, and the aristocracy and their subjects—where did the Uriel fit into this structure? There was no need or room for them. Adelard had said the Uriel weren’t at counter-purposes, but Sam failed to see a purpose to them at all. If they truly wanted to protect the people from demons, as they claimed, why hadn’t they simply joined the Paladins, like she had? If the rest of the Uriel were anything like Adelard and Donnelly, their mastery of their weapons would have more than qualified them.

Sam was so lost in thought that she hadn’t noticed they had arrived back at the inn. Tristan tugged on a loose lock of her hair. “Are you planning to come in sometime this century?” he asked.

Sam slapped his hand away. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That seems to be a running theme with you these days,” Tristan commented.

Sam opened her mouth to reply with a nasty retort, but Braeden spoke first. “Leave it alone already. You’ve been harping on Sam all day.”

Sam and Tristan both turned to gawp at him. That was twice, now, he’d spoken out unsolicited. “Are you alright?” Tristan asked. He must have been as taken aback by Braeden’s loose-lipped candor as she was; Tristan didn’t even sound angry.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Braeden rubbed at his shoulder unconsciously and then caught Sam staring at it. “I’m fine,” he reiterated. He narrowed his eyes at her and jerked his head slightly. She knew what that meant – don’t say anything about his shoulder. Why was Braeden allowed to worry about her, and not vice-versa? She turned her nose up at him.

“I don’t know about you two, but I’m famished,” Tristan said.

Sam was surprised to find she was hungry, too – after watching the surgeon amputate poor Master Evans’ leg, she’d been convinced she’d never want to eat again. But her rumbling stomach had other ideas, apparently. “I could eat,” she said. “But shouldn’t we freshen up first?” They had yet to change out of their torn, bloodstained clothing, and judging by Tristan and Braeden’s disheveled appearance, Sam was sure she looked a frightful mess. The three of them would scare away the rest of The Brass Monkey’s customers.

“No, Pirama needs to remember that the Paladins have their best interest at heart,” said Tristan. “Our clothes are a reminder that we haven’t forgotten our duty, and nor should they.”

They earned quite a few curious stares when they walked into the inn’s cavernous tavern bedecked in all their battle glory. Master Byrd, who was once again playing the role of barkeep, took one look at them and grunted in approval. “Find a free seat, and try not to get blood on the tablecloth if you can help it. The last laundress left town this morning.”

“Headed east?” Tristan asked.

The innkeeper shook his head. “Nay, West, to Luca. Said she’d rather place her bets with the Uriel. No offense meant, Paladin.”

“None taken,” said Tristan, frowning. He pulled out a seat at a table near the bar and plopped into it. “Three mugs of ale, and mutton, please.” Master Byrd ducked his head in acknowledgement and retreated into the kitchens.

“Sit,” Tristan instructed. Sam and Braeden obeyed, finding chairs on opposite sides of the table. Master Byrd returned with food and drink and placed it down carefully in front of them. Tristan reached into his coin pouch for payment, but the innkeeper stopped him. “It’s on the house,” he said.

“But you were so adamant that we pay you,” Sam blurted out.

The innkeeper cracked a smile, the first Sam had seen him wear that expression. “News spreads quickly in Pirama. You more than paid for your meals last night.”

“Thank you,” Tristan said. “I hope in time your faith in the Paladins will be restored.”

“Mayhap it will be. Will you be staying in Pirama much longer?” Master Byrd asked.

Tristan shook his head. “Just another day or two.”

“Ah, too bad. Well, tell your High Commander to send a few men like you our way.”

“I will,” Tristan promised. “Thank you again for the food.” The innkeeper bowed and left to attend to another patron.

“I still can’t believe those other Paladins never showed,” said Sam, cutting into her meat.

“Keep your voice down,” Tristan ordered. “But I agree, it’s inexcusable. I plan to mention it in my letter to the High Commander, if I don’t confront them myself.”

Sam paused with a bite of meat halfway to her mouth. “You’re writing to the High Commander? It won’t be about me and Braeden, will it?” Tristan had been yelling at her all day—gods knew what he’d put into a letter.

Tristan rolled his eyes. “After everything that has happened over the past week, you think I’d waste words on you? I need to update him on the Uriel, and the less-than-favorable behavior of some of our brethren. You might warrant a passing mention, if you’re lucky.”

“I wonder how they got the idea,” Braeden mused. He didn’t seem to be addressing anyone in particular.

Sam squinted at him. “Who got what idea?”

His eyes focused as his gaze met Sam’s. “Hmm? Oh, the Uriel. I think their civilian training program is brilliant.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Did I? How funny.” Braeden offered her a loopy grin.

Sam and Tristan traded glances. “Did he hit his head during the battle last night?” Tristan asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Sam.

“I’m not deaf,” Braeden said, loud enough to draw outside attention. “My hearing is fine, as is the rest of me.”

Sam pinched her lips tightly. Something was definitely not right with Braeden. His behavior was erratic and his usually muted voice was several decibels higher than it should be. As her concern grew and bubbled over, Sam started to say as much, but Tristan interrupted her. “We believe you,” he placated. “Isn’t that right, Sam?”

“But--”

“Right, Sam?”

She sighed. “Right, Tristan.” She didn’t understand why she couldn’t point out the plainly obvious—Braeden was not ‘fine’, no matter what he insisted.

“Let’s finish our food, and then I think we would all benefit from a midday repose,” Tristan said. Braeden nodded distractedly and picked at his mutton. Juice dribbled down his chin as he chewed slowly on the meat.

“Watch him,” Tristan mouthed while Braeden’s head was ducked. So Tristan wasn’t entirely oblivious, then.

They finished their meal quickly, none of them enjoying it. Braeden clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut each time a piece of meat traveled down his throat. Sam alternated between sneaking worried glances at him and glaring at Tristan. She and Tristan seemed to be in sync on that front.

Braeden pushed away from the table hard, sending his chair tottering on its back legs. He lurched upwards “I’m done,” he announced, swaying slightly on his feet. “I think I’ll to bed, now.” He staggered towards the tavern’s exit.

“Braeden,” Tristan called after him, “you need a key!” Tristan grabbed Sam’s wrist from across the table. “Follow him upstairs, and don’t let him leave your sight for a second. Something’s wrong.”

Sam yanked her hand away. “You think I didn’t notice?”

Tristan didn’t rise to the bait. “Sam,” he said softly. “Braeden is not the sort to ask for help, or complain about his aches and pains. If he’s hurt or sick, you’ll need to tread carefully. He won’t want you to interfere, even if he’s seriously ill.”

“He’s a fool, then.”

“Men are fools all, Sam, ourselves included. Follow him, and fetch me if it’s serious.” Tristan held out the room key to her. Sam grabbed it and bolted out of the tavern after Braeden.

Sam took the stairs two steps at a time. When she made it to the third floor of the inn, Braeden was already sprawled out against the wall next to their shared room, panting as though he’d just run for miles. Sam stepped over his legs and unlocked the door. She extended her hand to him, but Braeden batted it away. “I told you, I’m fine,” he said, struggling to his feet.

Sam folded her arms over her chest, watching Braeden stumble into the room and then pitch face-forward into his pallet. “You’re fine,” she said flatly.

Braeden’s head moved up and down against his pallet. “Fine,” he said, his voice muffled. “Just ti--” He gasped as his body spasmed and jerked. “Tired,” he finished lamely.

“You’re being an arse,” Sam informed him. She kneeled on the pallet beside him. “Turn over.”

“Pushy,” he mumbled, but did as she bade, flipping onto his back. His face was chalky white and his slit eyes were glassy, shifting from clear to pink to red and back to clear again.

Sam brushed sweat-dampened hair from his temples. Braeden’s eyes went wide at the physical contact and he tried to lift his head from the pallet. “Be still,” she said, pressing him back down. She rested the back of her hand against his forehead and drew it away sharply. She rubbed her scorched hand. “You’re burning up.”

“I don’t get sick.”

“Braeden, if you’re not sick, then I’m a man.”

“That’s not so farfetched,” Braeden said. “I’ve never been sick in my life. Another rare gift from my father.”

“Well, your humanity is showing. You’re sick.” Sam pointed a finger at him. “Untie your robes.” Braeden’s silver eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, and Sam blushed. “I want to see your shoulder, you idiot!”

Braeden hugged his injured shoulder protectively. “No.”

Sam glowered at him. “If you’re concerned about offending my delicate sensibilities, don’t be.”

Braeden’s watery eyes found hers. “Don’t worry, I get it. You’re neither delicate nor sensible.”

“Apparently a side effect of your illness is an unfortunate sense of humor.”

“I’m not ill, and I’ve always had an unfortunate sense of humor.”

“So show me your shoulder, then. What’s the harm?”

“No,” Braeden repeated stubbornly.

Sam sighed. “I didn’t want to have to resort to this.” She leaned over his torso and grasped the tattered black cloth by his shoulder. She tugged at the frayed fabric until it ripped at the seams, revealing Braeden’s skin from elbow to collarbone. Sam shot back onto her heels and covered her mouth with both hands.

“Shite, Braeden.”