Hours never mattered to Cyrus Alder. Just sunrise and sunset. Consequently, he had no idea how many hours they ran. Only that the sun had long since set.

“I don’t understand,” he finally said, confusion outweighing his breathlessness. “Why? Why now?”

Luke had dropped to his knees a moment ago, now sweeping the ground with his bare hands. Cyrus could barely see him— only a sliver of moon lit the sky.

Erasing our tracks, Cyrus guessed. He knew a little of hunting— not much. It had a few hunters already, Castitas…

“My village,” Cyrus said hoarsely. “What will happen to my village?”

“I don’t know,” Luke said, sweeping. Emotionless.

He showed up the same day. The same clipping day!

“You!” Cyrus accused. “You brought them!”

Luke stopped, staring up at him. Cyrus squeezed the top of his paper bag of groceries, intending to use it like a club. He knew nothing of weapons, and little of the Empire. Only that the emperor burned that which he could not have. The emperor—

It clicked, and he blurted it out.

“Amon’s eyes,” Cyrus whispered. “You have—”

Luke decked him.

He landed hard. Dry leaves and twigs cracked underneath Cyrus as he tried to right himself. The youth traveler from Sirius stared down at him with the emperor’s own eyes, scarlet red irises that seemed to glow in the darkness.

“Say it again,” Luke said. “I dare you. This would be much easier on my own.”

Cyrus stared back, until Luke muttered something and stalked off.

He let himself sag onto the forest floor, limp with gloom. He felt frustrated. Frustrated at losing everything in the blink of an eye— at himself, unable to do anything about it.

Cyrus sat up, watching Luke’s back intently. His sky blue jacket was torn in places and stained with dirt. He all but watched the boy— younger than himself, even— jump out of a second floor window. He continued to watch in silence until Luke vanished beyond evergreen thickets into darkness.

Do you really think he’s with them? he asked himself. He saved me. Am I that stupid?

Cyrus scrambled after Luke for the second time.

———

“That was fast,” Luke said to the sound of snapping twigs and rustling underbrush.

Cyrus breathed hard. Already exhausted again. It’s a wonder this didn’t happen earlier, Luke thought. A village mayor’s son could be useful, but I have no time to deal with someone like this.

“Come to return the punch?” Luke asked, stopping in place.

“No…” Cyrus panted. “No… I’m coming with you.”

Luke glanced at the ginger-haired villager. Dirt had streaked his cheek from the fall and his light green eyes seemed different. Not angry, something else. But what?

Amon’s eyes…

“That was a flightless thing to say,” Luke said. “Orchard kid.”

“I know,” Cyrus said. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m—”

“I get it,” Luke interrupted. “Turn around.”

“You’re not going to… hit me or run off or something, right?”

“Just turn around,” he repeated. Hesitantly, Cyrus obeyed.

“What do you see?”

Cyrus paused. “Trees,” he finally said. “Home. Home is that way,” he added sadly.

“That’s right,” Luke said. “But there’s no light.”

Cyrus said nothing.

“They burn,” Luke explained. “The Empire. They burn what they can’t take. It’s not a good chance, but it’s a chance.”

Cyrus turned back and nodded slowly. That look, maybe it was resolution. He began to trot forward, passing Luke.

Then, he collapsed onto a bed of crusty leaves.

“Are you okay?” Luke asked, crouching down.

“I’m…” Cyrus mumbled.

“What?”

“I’m weak,” Cyrus said, louder. “All I have to do to save my family, my friends… is walk.” He sat up quickly— somehow— and pounded a leg, grunting. “Work, stupid!”

Luke caught the villager’s arm before he could strike twice.

“Hold on, hold on,” Luke said quietly. “Let’s take a break, all right?”

“We can’t. Go on ahead, Luke,” Cyrus said. “Please.”

“It’s thirty miles from your village to Ulciscor,” Luke said. “There’s no way I can make that without resting. I’m sorry.”

Cyrus let out a long sigh. “Okay,” he said, easing himself onto the leaves below. “A break.”

“I’ll get a fire going,” Luke said, standing. “Hopefully.”

“Won’t that draw attention?” Cyrus asked.

“You’d have to get pretty close to see it in this darkness if we set it up right. Big difference between your village and a couple of sticks.” For now. And a long time after that, I hope.

Luke squinted at their surroundings. He ignored the sound of Cyrus shuffling through his paper bag as he thought how to go about a task he never thought he’d actually use. Some of the old man’s lessons would come in handy, it seemed.

I’ll need to find a suitable piece of wood, Luke thought. Everything else is easy. I just have to—

A swiping sound and a flicker of light stopped him short, and he turned to see Cyrus Alder illuminated, waving a match with a smile.

———

“I’m not an orchard kid,” Cyrus said over the patch of dancing flames. “What does that even mean?”

Luke prodded the pile of pinewood with a spindly stick, then shrugged and tossed it in. The fire burned in a small hand-dug hole, and a second empty hole did something he was not entirely sure of. Luke had only said ‘it would help.’

“What else would a kid in a tiny village with an orchard do?”

“I’m a chef,” Cyrus corrected. In training.

“And your sweater is an abomination,” Luke said pointedly. He sighed in relief, as if he had just set down a heavy burden by saying that.

Cyrus said nothing, but he pulled at his sweater and eyed it. It wasn’t that bad. He frowned. Was it?

They— Luke, mostly— had spent the last hour or so arranging a small cluster of pinewood inside a copse of particularly close-knit trees. The location would obscure them, something he hadn’t even thought about until Luke brought it up. Soldiers could still be following them. Flocks, he wished he worked on an orchard. Luke looked as tired as Cyrus felt. He should have gathered more wood.

Discarded orange peels laid nearby, hidden underneath a stack of leaves weighed down by a thick branch. Bitter things, but the grocery bag— torn and abandoned, now— had contained nothing else. Incredibly, Luke had eaten his peels. Despite everything that happened, that had to be the strangest thing he had seen all day.

The rest of the matches were kept by Cyrus. He had offered them to Luke, but was refused for some reason. Something about the flames, maybe. It was easy to guess, from the vacant expression the Sirius traveler had whenever he glanced at their little fire. It was not uncommon to meet someone with such a fear or reluctance, these days. Cyrus felt it too, remembering earlier years. He could remember it, just barely. Castitas burning. Most people had memories like that, now.

Cyrus prayed fervently to the Phaethon that history not be allowed to repeat itself, right until the moment Luke spoke again suddenly.

“How is a mayor’s son a chef?”

“A chef’s son,” Cyrus said.

“You mentioned that before,” Luke said. “He started a restaurant.”

“Yes,” Cyrus said. He closed his eyes. Why not? “It’s a bit of a story.”

“I’ve got time,” he said. The corners of his mouth twitched, and Cyrus got the distinct impression that Luke did not smile very much.

“My mother,” Cyrus began. “She fell ill, you see…”

And so he told it, from start to finish, interrupted only by the occasional quip. Luke seemed to enjoy good-natured banter, a contrast that only made the lack of joy in his expressions all the more stark.

Doctors. That was the key, the one thing above all else that Castitas lacked. An herbalist—Fey, her name was— but no doctors. Hopefully, the scrappy older woman was not making trouble for the Empire soldiers.

Mary Alder had a sickness that could not be quelled or eased by the herbalist Fey, Cyrus and Orcus found. At the time, Ulciscor had not grown into the massive city it is now, and wolves roamed the southern Pines far more then than they do these days. The war had not only ravaged the lives of men. It was a very different and very dangerous place, Castitas. Cyrus was certainly too young for the journey.

Orcus tried to study medicine, but passing peddlers only knew so much, had so much, and such men were already few and far between. Not many made the trip to Altair to begin with, after the emperor’s armies engulfed it in blood and fire. They knew they would fail her.

So, Orcus worked— Cyrus, his little assistant— to make her final months as pleasant as possible, with the little light left to her as she became bedridden— hot meals and warm smiles.

It was fulfilling work, and the father-son pair became friendly with many more villagers than they would have otherwise. New herbs, new produce, recipes, tips. Each day, something new. Those who could not help found other ways— the stingy librarian offered Mary free, unrestricted access to his prized collection, a trio of women who visited often, sewing and chatting beside her to keep her up to date on the village gossip, even the Altair nobleman who owned the land of Castitas stopped by a time or two— the list went on.

The people of Castitas ate what Mary could not. Orcus worked himself to the bone honing his craft, and people were eager to try everything he made. He had a real talent, and learned quickly.

It was a storm that decided it. A member of the newly raised village council visited in the evening to find their shoddy thatched roof leaking. The Razing of Altair was recent, repairs more, and repairmen even yet more. The very next day, the council generously offered the Alder family a new space, the bottom floor of the nobleman’s estate— may his soul ride the sky with the Flocks— which Orcus accepted gratefully.

In spite of their new stone housing, Mary’s condition worsened. But her husband continued to cook, and they continued to have visitors. He fed them his dishes, experimental as they sometimes were. He fed the people of Castitas, and matured into a true chef even travelers praised. The place they had been given transformed as months passed. A restaurant, blooming with pots and pans, ingredients and ideas as if it were nature itself blooming.

It seemed only natural to the people of Castitas that the man who brought them together— and fed them as they undid the damage of the Razing— should lead them. Truly lead them. The village council offered him the position of mayor. Orcus, humble as he was, had prepared to decline. In private, Mary requested he accept, to consider it payment for all he had done. It was her last request, in fact.

She went peacefully, that very night. Mary was cremated, same as anyone else in Altair, her ashes windswept to the Flocks Above.

“Being a mayor,” Cyrus finished, “is busy stuff. Important stuff. Securing connections with the outside world. Making sure everything’s running properly. It surprised me, at first. But I get it now. And I want to continue the one thing he couldn’t keep doing. Running that restaurant.”

Luke was silent for a time, staring across the flames with scarlet red eyes. “Old man Snare would like you,” he finally said.

“Who’s that?”

“Just someone I live with,” Luke said. He leaned back, arms folded against a pine tree. “Lived, I guess. I left.”

“Snare, is he your grandfather or something?”

“Of sorts,” Luke said.

“Why’d you leave?”

“We had a… disagreement.”

“Meaning?”

Cyrus prodded for more, but Luke did not speak on it further, and he left him to his privacy. Their conversations grew more mundane, and the firelight dimmed.

And, finally, they fell asleep.