Aidos lay propped upon a mound of embroidered cushions, his usually vibrant olive skin gone ashen, the hollows beneath his eyes dark as old bruises. Yet when he turned his head toward the sound of the door, his smile still carried its characteristic brightness—if somewhat dimmed, like a lantern veiled by thin parchment.
Hanno entered with a book cradled in the crook of his arm, its leather binding worn smooth by generations of seeking fingers. He settled into the chair beside the bed with the quiet familiarity of one who had kept this vigil many times before.
"Ah," Aidos said, his voice rasping but warm. "The philosopher returns to his reluctant student. Have you brought more of those delightfully depressing scriptures to cheer me up?"
Hanno's lips quirked as he opened the volume to a marked page. "I thought we might revisit Master Tulis's Meditations on Suffering. Since you found his metaphors so lacking last time."
Aidos shifted against the cushions, wincing only slightly as he found a more comfortable position. "I believe my exact critique was that philosophers write about pain like blind men describe sunsets."
"And yet," Hanno said, running a finger down the vellum, "here you remain, demanding I read to you."
"Because your voice is less grating than the physicians'," Aidos retorted, but the twinkle in his eye softened the barb. "Besides, someone must keep you from forgetting all your pretty words between ledger entries."
Hanno chuckled, the sound rich and warm in the quiet room. He began to read, his voice measured and clear:
"'As the silversmith knows the worth of his vessel by the heat it withstands, so too does the Divine test—'"
Aidos' breath hitched suddenly, his body tensing as an invisible wave of pain crested. His fingers twisted in the coverlet, the knuckles standing out white against his skin. Hanno's reading faltered, his free hand hovering uncertainly above Aidos' arm before settling lightly on the blanket instead.
The moment passed. Aidos exhaled through his nose, his shoulders relaxing by degrees. When he spoke again, his voice was thinner but no less spirited. "You see? Even your silversmith admits suffering is something done to us, not for us."
Hanno marked his place with a silk ribbon. "Is that what you hear?"
"Isn't it what's written?"
"Words are but vessels," Hanno said, tilting the book toward the candlelight. The gold leaf on the pages caught the flame, gleaming momentarily bright. "What they carry depends on who holds them."
Aidos studied his face, noting the way the shadows pooled in the creases around his eyes—new lines that hadn't been there when they'd first met. "And what do you carry in these particular words, oh wise merchant?"
Hanno was silent for a long moment. The brazier popped.
"I carry the knowledge," he said at last, "that the same fire which hardens clay melts wax. That the same chisel that shapes marble shatters glass." His fingers brushed the edge of the page, where generations of readers had left faint stains from their searching hands. "The question is not why the fire burns, but what we choose to be within it."
Aidos absorbed this, his dark eyes reflecting the candle's steady flame.
"You make it sound almost beautiful," he murmured.
Hanno smiled, the expression softening the weary lines of his face. "I make it sound like what it is—a mystery too large for any one answer." He reached for the carafe on the bedside table, pouring a measure of honeyed wine into a cup. "Now drink this before the physicians pester me for neglecting their orders."
Aidos accepted the cup, his fingers brushing Hanno's in the exchange. The warmth of the contact lingered after the cup had changed hands. "You're avoiding the real question," he said after a sip.
"Which is?"
"If suffering shapes us so wonderfully, why does it hurt so damnably much?"
The bluntness of the question startled a laugh from Hanno, rich and unexpected as sunlight breaking through storm clouds. "Perhaps," he said, recovering his composure, "so we don't forget the lesson once the shaping is done."
Aidos raised the cup in a mock toast. "To never being allowed to forget, then."
Hanno raised an imaginary cup of his own. "To the ongoing education of stubborn students."
"'And lo, the righteous shall walk through the furnace,'" he read again, "'but the flame shall not consume them.'"
"Did the author ever actually walk through fire?"
Hanno turned the page with deliberate care. The parchment crackled like dry skin. "It's metaphorical."
Aidos' laugh turned into a cough. A fleck of blood dotted his lower lip. "People don't write metaphors about pain unless they've never felt it."He dragged a shaking hand across his mouth. "When you quote these pretty verses, do you believe them?"
The scars on Hanno's back itched beneath his tunic. He remembered the lash—the way the leather had bitten deep, the way his grandfather had recited scripture through every stroke. For your own good. To shape your soul.
"I believe," he said slowly, "that suffering exists. The rest is just... framing."
Aidos' eyes glittered with fever-bright understanding. "So God either can't stop it, or won't." Another spasm wracked him. His nails tore through the sheet. "Which is worse?"
The candle spat. Somewhere in the temple precincts, a bell began to toll.
Hanno closed the book. "The answer changes," he said, "depending on whether you're the one holding the whip. And eventually, we realise we rained it down upon ourselves,"
He reached for the basin of water, wringing out a cloth with hands that no longer shook. When he pressed it to Aidos' forehead, the boy flinched—not from the touch, but from the gentleness of it.
"You're a terrible priest," Aidos muttered.
"Good thing I'm a merchant."
Aidos' smile was a fleeting, fragile thing. "Liar. You teach too well."
Hanno said nothing. With only the sound of the distant gun echoing in the halls, he couldnt bring himself to say anything. The two glanced at each, the frail boy spasming occasionally and the other having nothing to protect himself with but a book with inspiring words.
The sound split the night like a rib cracking.
Hanno was moving before the echo faded, his chair scraping against the floorboards. Aidos caught his wrist—his grip fever-hot, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
"Don't." The word came out strangled. "You don't even have a weapon."
Hanno pried his hand free gently. "Stay quiet. Don't give away your location."
He locked the infirmary door behind him, the key turning with a soft, final click. The hallway stretched before him, shadows pooling between the flickering sconces. Somewhere ahead—his father's study.
The study door stood ajar.
Hanno pressed his back against the wall, listening. No voices. No footsteps. Just the distant drip of a leaking pipe and the too-loud hammer of his own pulse.
He stepped inside.
Empty.
The desk lay pristine, the ledger open to yesterday's entries. A half-drunk cup of tea had gone cold beside it.
The attack came from behind.
A arm hooked around his throat, dragging him back. Hanno drove his elbow into his gut, heard the grunt of pain as his assailant's grip loosened. He twisted free, slamming the man's head against the desk edge. The body crumpled with a wet thud.
Hanno didn't wait to see if he stirred.
The second shot grazed his bicep as he ran—a hot kiss of pain followed by the coppery tang of blood. He ducked behind a pillar, pressing his sleeve to the wound. The fabric came away black in the dim light.
Footsteps approached. Slow. Deliberate.
Hanno counted the rhythm—three paces, a pause, two more. He exhaled through his nose and stepped out.
The gun gleamed in the moonlight. Hanno grabbed the wrist holding it, slamming it against the wall once, twice, until the fingers spasmed open. The pistol clattered to the floor.
His fist connected with the man's jaw with a satisfying crunch. The body hit the ground and stayed there.
Hanno flexed his bleeding arm. The wound burned.
Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed the hour.
He picked up the gun.
The night wasn't done with him yet.
The moan slithered through the night air—wet, animal, wrong.
Hanno's boots crunched on gravel as he followed the sound. Moonlight painted the garden in shades of bone and tarnished silver. There, against the sundial's weathered face, a shape slumped like a discarded coat.
Pitkin Galloway's fingers curled around his own blood.
Hanno didn't run. His feet carried him forward with terrible precision, each step measured against the drumbeat in his skull. The scent hit him first—iron and something darker, the stomach-turning sweetness of perforated bowel.
"Father."
Pitkin's head lolled toward the sound. His waistcoat hung open, the linen beneath gone black and glistening. A single shot, close range. Professional.
"You..." Pitkin's lips peeled back from pink-stained teeth. "...took your time."
Hanno knelt. Gravel bit through fabric, anchoring him to the moment. His hands hovered over the wound, hesitating.
"Who?"
Pitkin coughed. A bubble of blood burst at the corner of his mouth. His right hand twitched toward his breast pocket, came away clutching a crumpled slip of parchment. "Ledger," he rasped. "Burn it."
Hanno reached for the wound instead. His fingers sank into warmth. "Pressure first. Then—"
A wheezing laugh. Pitkin's free hand shot out, fingers like talons around Hanno's wrist. The strength in that grip shouldn't have existed. Not with so much blood on the ground.
"Listen." Pitkin's breath smelled of copper and expensive brandy. "Duke's seal...on the warrant. They'll hang you...with your own accounts."
Movement at the tree line. A shadow among shadows. Hanno's muscles coiled—
Pitkin's nails dug into his pulse point. "The numbers, boy. Remember the numbers."
His pupils dilated, swallowing the moonlight whole.
A floorboard creaked. The wind carried the scent of gunpowder and trampled rosemary.
Hanno's fingers closed around the parchment. It stuck to his palm, damp with more than sweat.
Pitkin's hand fell away.
Hanno staggered to his feet. The world tilted. His father's blood painted his palms, his sleeves, the crumpled ledger page clutched in his fist.
Somewhere in the house, glass shattered.