Part I: The Cold Calculus of Coin and Stone
Faelan's first stop in Oakhaven was not a tavern or a guild, but the cold, marble hall of the Banker's Guild in the administrative square. Business before bloodlust.
He moved with the quiet efficiency of a soldier, initiating the complex, bureaucratic process of transferring his life's savings from a Magellan Empire account.
The clerk, a man with a face as impassive as a vault door, informed him the verification would take fifteen to twenty days. Faelan nodded, having expected as much. Money was a patient man's game.
His second stop required a different kind of currency: old friendship.
He made his way to the grand estate of the Noble House of Greyoak, its stone walls a stark declaration of power and wealth.
The guards at the gate, however, were less than impressed by his travel-worn clothes and the grim set of his jaw.
"State your business," one of them said, his tone dripping with bored disdain.
"I am Faelan, an old friend of your Lord, Alistair Greyoak," Faelan replied, his voice calm. "Please, pass on the message that I am here to see him."
The guard shared a smirk with his companion. "And I'm the Earl of Aberdeen, friend. Lord Greyoak doesn't entertain hedge knights with sob stories. The gutter's that way."
Faelan's jaw tightened. "Tell your lord you turned me away. See how he rewards your diligence then."
The guard chuckled, leaning on his spear. "And how would he know? The Lord hasn't left the grounds in six months. His appointments are set a season in advance. Now, move along before you become a nuisance."
Faelan knew a brick wall when he saw one. He gave a slight, ironic bow and walked away, melting back into the city's crowds.
Part II: The Ghost in the Garden
If the front gate was closed to a soldier, a soldier would find another way.
Faelan circled the vast estate, his eyes scanning for weaknesses. He found one at the rear—a long stretch of wall shadowed by ancient oak trees.
With a whispered word, a rush of air magic cushioned his ascent, a simple Zephyr Lift, and he was atop the wall. A lone guard, startled by his sudden appearance, opened his mouth to shout.
Faelan was faster, the pommel of his sword connecting with the man's temple in a dull, precise thud. The guard crumpled without a sound.
Another cushioned jump and he was inside, a ghost in a meticulously manicured garden.
He wreathed the soles of his boots in a whisper of Aura, and the gravel path fell silent beneath his feet.
He moved from rose bush to sculpted hedge, a shadow flitting between the patrols, his senses honed by years of warfare. He soon found what he was looking for: the balcony of Alistair's private chambers.
One final, controlled leap, and he landed silently on the stone balustrade. The glass doors to the room were, blessedly, ajar.
Part III: An Unceremonious Reunion
Inside, a figure lay asleep on the grand bed, completely covered by a thick blanket. Faelan grinned, the first genuine smile to touch his lips in days.
He strode into the room, his heart light with the joy of a long-awaited reunion.
"Wake up, you lazy old friend!" he boomed, yanking the blanket away with a flourish.
A beautiful, blonde woman shot up with a piercing scream, clutching her hands to her naked chest.
From an adjoining office, a man burst into the room, a letter opener clutched like a dagger. Two armored guards stormed in from the hallway, their swords drawn. Faelan froze, the blanket still in his hand, his face a perfect mask of "I have made a terrible mistake."
The man from the office—Alistair—took in the scene: his screaming, naked wife, the dumbfounded intruder on his balcony, the armed guards. And then, a slow, disbelieving grin spread across his fine-boned features.
"Faelan," he breathed, as if seeing a ghost. "By the gods. Only you could break into one of the most fortified manors in the city just to disgrace my wife and interrupt my paperwork."
The guards, utterly confused, looked to their lord. Alistair, now chuckling, waved them away. "It's alright. Stand down. This is... an old friend with a poor sense of timing."
The wife, Helena, her face a delightful shade of crimson, snatched a silk robe. "Alistair, I swear..." she began, but Alistair was already crossing the room, his eyes locked on Faelan.
Part IV: Wine and Wounds
After a scolding from Helena that was more exasperated affection than genuine anger, Faelan found himself seated in Alistair's comfortable office, a goblet of fine wine in his hand.
Alistair, a man whose slender build and poet's grace seemed at odds with the grim reputation of his House, poured a second for himself, his own joy palpable.
"So," Alistair began, his smile radiant, "what storm brings my favorite old adventurer crashing back into my life?"
Faelan's own smile faltered. The warmth of the moment receded, replaced by the cold memory of the last few weeks.
"Ali," he started, his voice breaking for a second. "I need your help."
The story poured out of him—the massacre at Frostpine's End, the pike in the square, his mother's dead eyes. He spoke of leaving the army, of the girl named Ingrid, and of the burning, all-consuming need for vengeance that had led him here.
As he spoke, the nostalgic joy drained from Alistair's face, replaced by a deep, empathetic sorrow and a growing, cold anger on his friend's behalf. When Faelan finished, Alistair placed his goblet down, his expression grim.
"What do you need?" he asked, his voice now stripped of all levity.
"The adventurer's guild. A bounty. I want to commission a hunt for my mother's killer," Faelan said. "I don't have the funds yet. I need you to finance it. I'll repay you."
Alistair scoffed, a flash of genuine anger in his eyes. "Repay me? Don't be an idiot. It is my duty, and my honor, to help you seek justice for Sybill. Consider it done."
Faelan's eyes welled with tears, though none fell. He simply nodded, a universe of gratitude passing between them in that silent gesture.
Part V: The More That Was
With the grim business concluded, the mood slowly, carefully, began to lift.
They spoke of old battles and forgotten shenanigans, the wine flowing freely. Laughter, a sound Faelan had thought lost to him, began to return, loud and unrestrained.
After a while, Alistair topped off their goblets, his fingers brushing against Faelan's. The air shifted, charged with a different kind of energy.
"But tell me, old friend," Alistair murmured, his gaze soft and intimate. "Did you come all this way just for a loan?"
Faelan took a slow sip of wine, meeting his friend's gaze over the rim of the goblet. "I came for an ally," he replied, his voice low. "In all things."
Alistair leaned closer, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "And... more?"
Faelan smiled, a genuine, knowing smile. "Always... more."
Alistair closed the small gap between them. "Oh, I always wish for more," he whispered, before their lips met in a kiss that was both a reunion and a remembrance.
Part VI: The Triumvirate
Faelan lifted Alistair into his arms, carrying him to the bedroom as if no time had passed at all. He kicked the door shut behind them, the sound of their shared laughter soft in the sunlit room. They fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and whispered words, a rediscovery of a bond that a decade of war and duty had not managed to break.
Just as they began to explore the lost wonders of each other's bodies, the bedroom door opened.
Leaning against the doorframe with a tray of food and juice was Helena, a vision of blonde, statuesque beauty. She had donned a silk robe, an afterthought against a figure of opulent curves. The neckline did little to conceal the generous swell of her bosom, a feature of such breathtaking beauty it could make a man forget his sorrows, or perhaps start a war. A pout, a masterclass in playful indignation, graced her lips.
"Honestly, my loves," she said, her voice a theatrical sigh. "I leave you two alone for an hour, and you start the party without me? And before dinner, too. For shame."
The two men on the bed simply grinned at her.
They rose as one and walked to the door. Alistair took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, a long, lingering embrace. Faelan followed, his own kiss more hungry, a rediscovery of a taste he had long missed.
"You are both forgiven," Helena murmured against Faelan's lips, "but you will have to make it up to me."
The silk of her robe whispered as they untied it, letting it fall to the floor in a shimmering pool at her feet. They led her to the bed, a willing goddess between two devout worshippers.
The afternoon dissolved into a haze of tangled limbs, soft sighs, and whispered names. It was a conversation spoken in the language of skin on skin, a rediscovery of old, familiar maps and the charting of new ones. This was not the frantic fumbling of strangers, but the slow, confident dance of three people who knew each other's rhythms, each other's desires, each other's souls.
Laughter mingled with the sound of their breathing as they moved together, a triumvirate of shared warmth and long-delayed reunion. It was in the small moments: Helena's fingers tracing the old scar on Faelan's side; Alistair's lips on the back of Faelan's neck; Faelan's gaze meeting Alistair's over Helena's shoulder—a silent affirmation of a bond that time and tragedy had not broken.
They lay in the warm afterglow, their breaths mingling in the quiet room, exhausted and utterly content. For Faelan, it was a peace he had thought he would never know again, a fleeting, perfect sanctuary from the rage that had consumed him. He was not just a grieving son or a vengeful soldier. Here, in this bed, with these two people, he was simply Fae. He was home.
Part VII: Unfinished Business
Lying exhausted and fulfilled in each other's arms, the world felt blessedly simple. But as the sky outside turned to shades of purple and orange, a cold thought intruded on Faelan's peace: Ingrid. The Guild.
He reluctantly untangled himself, a playful chorus of disappointed groans following him from the bed.
"Duty calls," he said, dressing quickly.
Alistair, propping himself up on one elbow, watched him. "Already? The night is young, Fae."
"My night has to be about business," Faelan replied, his voice grim as he buckled his sword belt.
Alistair sighed, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Then I won't keep you."
He went to a small writing desk and scribbled a name and address on a piece of paper. "Before you go. This is for your mission. The man's name is Elias, a sketch artist. The best in the city. Have your young companion describe the Beastfolk woman to him. I will give my patronage to the mission once we have a face for the bounty."
Faelan took the note. "Thank you, Ali. I'm heading to the Guild now to meet the girl and re-register."
"The Guild?" Alistair said, a knowing smirk on his face as he pulled his robe on. "You'll see Lyra, then. She's been holding court there like a queen."
Faelan simply chuckled, a low, familiar sound. "Of course she is. Causing trouble, I assume?"
From the bed, Helena's sleepy voice chimed in. "Our favorite kind of trouble. We had her over for dinner last week. You just missed her."
Alistair handed Faelan his coat, his eyes glinting with old memories. "It was a pale imitation of the old days without our fourth."
Faelan shook his head, a genuine smile touching his lips. "Some things never change."
"Let's hope not," Alistair said, his hand finding Faelan's for a final, warm squeeze. "My title is a cage in many ways, old friend. I cannot be the sword at your side as I once was. But I can be your shield and your purse. You will not want for anything."
Helena, now wrapped in a blanket at the edge of the bed, looked at him with warm, sincere eyes. "Don't be a stranger this time, Fae. We thoroughly enjoyed your company."
Faelan nodded, his heart full. He turned to leave via the balcony.
"Not from there, you idiot!" Helena and Alistair shouted in near-perfect unison, before bursting into fond laughter.
Alistair escorted Faelan to the main gate, where the guard who had denied him entry earlier was left scratching his head in disbelief. His Lord gave a final, warm clasp on his shoulder, and Faelan marched off into the twilight, his steps firm and full of renewed purpose. His next stop: the Adventurer's Guild.