Fallen Eagle-Chapter 34: Memories of Melodies

Fallen Eagle-Chapter 34: Memories of Melodies

“And when will they arrive?” Theodorus asked. His mind ran a thousand miles a minute while his body sat perfectly still on the hard wooden stool, the edge biting into his thighs.
“On the f-first of the coming month, C-Captain.” The blubbering steward’s fingers rubbed worriedly at his wrists - a nervous tic Theodorus had catalogued over their many dealings.
“And the unit’s structure?” Theodorus pressed. “Will I have sergeants assigned? What, precisely, falls to me?”
The steward’s chamber was a windowless closet that smelled of lamp oil and damp vellum. Shelves had been hammered into every scrap of wall, crammed with rolls of parchment and wax-splotched ledgers that sagged under their own disorder, exposed to air, humidity, and neglect. It was a monument to the tireless, misdirected labor of an overburdened administration. Everything here had been done the hard way, and then done again..
“C-certainly.” Theophylact rifled through a stack, lips moving as he counted. “We usually r-receive over two hundred r-recruits each season. They will be split between yourself and the other present aides. Of c-course, some s-sergeants and veterans will be at your disposal.” His eyes hurriedly scanned a column of figures - today’s foodstuffs for the lord’s table - and snagged on a few of the rows, scratching and editing the requested numbers with a pinch of weary despair in his face. In a city barely holding on, the daily challenge of catering to his Lord’s whims was a logistical nightmare. Theodorus did not envy the man.“But the c-core of the troops r-remains under Lord Adanis. The aides are mainly responsible for coordinating patrols, morale, and g-general weapons training.”
“Of course, Theophylact.” Theodorus allowed a small, confident smile. Names were levers, and courtesy was grease. Men like this were forever overlooked, a weak point that could be pressed, and Theodorus made sure to take advantage of that. “For weapons and equipment, I’ll speak with the Hypostrategos, I assume?”
“Yes. M-more details will be shared with the aides,” Theophylact thrust across a set of heavily amended requisitions, the ink layered like scar tissue where numbers had been pared down, then took the next sheet from his hapless red-haired assistant, Iadeus. “Do not f-fret, Captain. N-no need to worry.” The steward muttered in between a string of exasperated half-words as he scanned another parchment, a fresh problem to solve.
“Thank you, Master Theophylact.” Theodorus dipped a shallow bow and turned to go, then paused, as if reconsidering. “Forgive me for asking - did the negotiations with the reeves go poorly?”
Theophylact looked up, wary.
“I apologize,” Theodorus said, face arranged into a mild, apologetic smile. “I couldn’t help but notice what seems to be a signed letter of intent from the nearby villages.”
The Steward practically threw the offending document to the far edge of his desk in disgust. “Aye, Captain-”
“-Theodorus, please, Master Theophylact.” Theodorus interrupted with a kind smile even as he scanned the letter. “We know each other well enough by now.”
It was true. Of all the rooms in Suyren, this cramped den of shelves and oil-smoke was the one he had frequented most since his arrival. Bearing orders, collecting assignments, and, most importantly, learning the shape of the man who barely kept afloat from the ledgers seeking to drown him.
“Ah- of course, Th-Theodorus.” The steward still balked at the given name, but the corners of his mouth had softened. “Th-the situation with the villages is dire. The latest tax is too heavy for many, and they are delaying p-payment. Dangerous roads, b-bad weather, there is always a reason.”
Theophylact sagged into his stool, completely deflated and exhausted, pinching the bridge of his round nose until the flesh blanched. Over the past weeks, Theodorus had prodded and listened, and the steward had slowly bled out his latest crisis: to fund the privateer initiative, the Crown had raised a flat levy across the realm, and the northern, poorer tracts - with rocky, thin soil, and short summers - could least afford it. “The tithe… I… I do not know how we will p-pay it,” he admitted, the fight gone from his voice. He sounded utterly defeated.
“Even Nomikos House had begun to buckle under the Crown’s appetite. Despite the economic upsurge heralded by the young Nomikos Hypostrategos, who had wrung growth from fallow fields and stubborn merchants alike, Lord Adanis had barely kept pace with the obscene taxes being levied, the new exactions devouring each gain. The privateer initiative was the latest blow. The hostage negotiations from Theodorus’s victory were supposed to lessen the blow, but God knew what on earth was happening in the capital for them to have stalled as long as they did. The capital’s silence dragged on without explanation.
“Can the Lord not ask for a delay on the payment? Surely the Crown would understand if he petitioned.” Theodorus asked, though he knew the answer; he was laying his pieces on the board, setting the stage for the conversation.
“The lord…” Theophylact’s gaze slid toward the young Nomikos scribe, whose tuft of auburn hair was rarely spotted above anything but a mountain of papers. They shared the same pinched look. “He does not concern himself with the means. He w-would sooner think the peasants are hiding their coin.”
“Or worse…” Theodorus said, with a heavy expression, playing the part of the sympathetic shoulder to lean on. “He might suspect you of holding back. He asks for results, but does not question the means with which to achieve them.”
“P-precisely.” Theodorus thought he understood why the steward shaved his head fastidiously. He was in an unenviable position, and had likely lost half his hair to stress already. “I am without means to r-resolve the situation.”
Theodorus let the silence spread until it settled into the steward’s hunched shoulders before he spoke. “Might I suggest an idea?” He asked innocently.
“Y-yes, please, Captain!” Theophylact jerked upright. “If you have any suggestion, I’d be b-blessed to hear it.” Relief and desperation warred in his face. If not anchored by his desk and its drifting shoals of parchment, he might have fallen to his knees. In Suyren’s labyrinth of ledgers and lists, Theodorus had become something like an avenging patron saint - scouring backlogs, straightening the muster, taming the armory…he had been the answer to the Steward’s many late-night prayers. Night after night, Theophylact had prayed for those small miracles, only for them to all suddenly come true. Now he dared hope for one more.
“The villages’ chief concerns - or excuses, in this case - are banditry and the rough roads between their hamlets and the castle. They’re expected to carry the tax themselves, as I understand it.” Theodorus began to explain, his posture straight and confident, commanding the room as he once did as a history professor in front of dozens of students. “As you recall, one of the first tasks you gave me was the drafting of the patrol routes to account for the upcoming recruits for the coming month of November. Do you still have the document with you?” He asked.
“Iadeus!” The Steward practically yelled, sensing that Theodorus was building up to something, his one hope rising with each second Theodorus spoke. The skinny teenager plucked a small stack of papers from the monstrous pile that sat upon his lap with unerring instinct. Theodorus had yet to see the young man pull the wrong paper.
Theodorus leaned over the cramped desk as he spread the schedules flat, creating an island of order besieged by inkpots, quills, and a chipped abacus.
“These new routes don’t just touch the main crossroads; they rotate through the territory and plug the blind spots in the old arrangement.” This had been a task Theodorus had also made quick work of, being intimately familiar with the northern edge of the terrain from his Coalition surveys. It had also helped immensely with his ‘Threat Analysis’ map. After locating the probable bandit outpost, he had once again refined the patrols to press hardest where the bandits were known to prowl.
“They also pass near most of the villages in Suyren’s orbit.” He tapped a line of ink that snaked along the northern edge. “We could fold the tithe collection into the patrols, co-opting them to serve as escorts for the goods.” His finger veered off through meandering goat trails and sidepaths. “A slight adjustment puts the patrols directly through the villages. We send a cart along. Collection and loading happen under our eye. The peasants won’t waste days slogging to Suyren and back, nor brave bad roads alone. It centralizes our collection and ensures we have the necessary enforcement to see it through.” Theodorus’s eyes had a calculating gleam to them. “I doubt the reeves will be so recalcitrant when soldiers arrive to take what’s due.”
Theophylact’s face lit, caught by the ingenuity of the proposal. “T-that is brilliant!” But then his smile faltered. “But it is very unorthodox, Captain. It is not how dues are usually collected.” Habit - set like mortar - pulled at his features. Deep-seated inertia and outdated traditions played a crucial role in medieval people’s rationales, and the Steward was no exception. “The peasants might not cooperate…”
Theodorus’s proposal wasn’t a stroke of genius; it only seemed like so to a stubborn society whose old, inflexible traditions bound it together. Reforms and bold measures weren’t universally accepted and were prone to backlash. Which is why Theodorus was ready with an answer to the steward’s argument.
“I will go myself to ensure compliance, my good Steward.” He stated.
“Y-Yourself? O-On the Winter patrols?! You are an aide!” Theophylact gaped. He had never seen Theodorus at the Probatoufrorio and knew nothing of his unorthodox approach to leadership. To Theodorus, leading the rounds was a given: it would set a demanding standard by example and create a bond with his men he thought vital. But here there was an opportunity to frame it as a concession.
“I recognize your troubles, friend. And I sympathize with the common folk.” He arranged his features into sincerity’s careful mask. “I do not mind the cold if it serves the principality. The high taxes have their purpose; our duty is to see that purpose done. I would not have you bear more weight than you must. My presence will ease collection, and there is another benefit I have not yet mentioned.”
There were actually several in fact. He’d be able to speak directly to the reeves and villages, making himself known and getting the lay of the land. Additionally, by tying the tithe collection to his own team, he’d effectively control that particular revenue stream, lending his squad prestige and importance. He’d be solving an issue central in Lord Adanis’s mind, once again showcasing his usefulness. But most of all, it set the steward’s hook firm, and drew the line closer.
Instead of sharing any of his inner thoughts, he leaned in, voice low as if letting the Steward in on an important secret. “While on patrol, I can take the measure of each village. Survey the true size of the plots, their yields, their revenue. I can learn who is hiding coin, and who is in genuinely dire straits. We maximize our collection and avoid villages from starving. Or worse.
Fleeing.
” That was the Steward’s biggest fear. If a populace grew sufficiently disenfranchised, it was not uncommon for it to flee to greener pastures, away from Nomikos land in this case. An unmitigated disaster for the Lord. And, consequently, for the Steward.
The calculations raced across the Steward's face in comical fashion. “They won’t be able to steal!” he burst out, almost laughing. The problem would be fixed, and he wouldn’t even have to deal with the reeves. “Y-You’ll do this? T-truly?” He almost couldn’t believe that he could have his greatest worry potentially solved by the most competent man he’d ever seen
“Of course, Theophylact.” Theodorus smiled, genial as a hearth. “I too have learned what it is to live beneath our good lord’s yoke. I’d be happy to help.”
Theodorus left the steward’s chambers in rare spirits. Demetrios caught it at once.
“Good news, my lord?” he asked, hopeful despite himself.
“No, Demetrios. Great ones.” Theodorus could hardly keep his voice level. “I’ve finally been given something worthy. I’m to command fifty of the coming new recruits, and to have at my disposal five veterans. Finally, I will have my own command.”
Demetrios blinked. “Truly, the lord granted you authority? Why now?”
“A vote of confidence, I’d say. We’ve cracked our man.” Theodorus’s smile bared a hint of fang. “The wait and tedious tasks must have been to tide us over until the arrival of the fresh militia. It makes sense when you think about it. Placing me early into the already established platoons would have interfered with the existing hierarchy. From Adanis’s point of view, better to just wait until the season changed to establish a fresh command hierarchy.”
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“And you’re sure of this?” Demetrios was, as always, the more cautious of the two, but even he found himself swayed by the reasoning. “It is best not to presume much. I do not trust the new Hypostrategos. He pulls the Lord’s strings; we must be wary that his hand might be behind this as well.” Demetrios’s task was to bank his lord’s fire, to ensure it would last the night.
“We must allow for that,” Theodorus conceded. “But what matters most is that we have been given a significant command. And a significant opportunity.” Theodorus’s grin turned downright feral. “At last.”
“My Lord?” Demetrios prodded. Stefanos, standing off to the side, looked inquisitively at his suspiciously excited liege.
“I’ve managed to wedge my foot into the door, my friends,” Theodorus stated. “And hacked out a chance to finally curry favour with someone important in this blasted castle.” Theodorus went on to explain the favour he’d curried with the Steward.
Demetrios’s face smoothed into understanding even before Theodorus finished. “He lives below the gaze of great men,” he murmured. “A fly they allow to buzz. They will not imagine he hears anything that matters, much less that he can carry it. A man like that sits near the truth and is never seen.”
“And that is precisely why he’ll serve,” Theodorus replied. Their steps carried them onto one of the outer parapets, where wind shivered across the stone and brought with it the mixed scents of ash, tallow, and distant pine. “Our good steward hasn’t a treacherous bone in him, not by design. He would never choose betrayal. Which is why we won’t ask him to. We’ll simply arrange for circumstances in which he empties himself without realizing.”
Below, the castle town sprawled in a tired patchwork of shingles and soot; beyond, the mountains lifted like a wall of iron and snow. “He is incapable of keeping a secret, and this very ingenuity is his shield. No one will suspect he is feeding us information, because he would be genuinely terrified if he were actually doing so. It is the perfect cover.”
“Very good, my Lord,” Demetrios stated with a smile as he watched a flock of doves take flight, shooed away by a scullery maid. “I had begun to think I was the only one trying to pry away something useful from these stony fortress.”
Theodorus glanced sideways. “Oh?”
“You are not the only one casting lines into the water,” Demetrios stated mysteriously. “I will share more when the time is right. If I can bring my quarry to shore.” Demetrios’s smile was downright sinister.
Theodorus laughed, a full sound that bounced once off the stone and disappeared into the cold air. “I’ve no doubt you will. Learn what you can from this old fox, Stefanos. He’s more dangerous than he looks.”
“I will strive to, my Lord.” The young servant bowed crisply in response. “Though I fear I may be learning the wrong things.”
Demetrios arched an eyebrow, drawing out the pose with theatrical disdain. “And what is that supposed to mean, boy?”
“Nothing.” Stefanos muttered quietly, a mischievous smile escaping through his lips.
“I swear,” Demetrios looked to his two young charges. “You will both be the death of me.”
His statement drew a hearty laugh from the group, at odds with the misty coldness of the morning air.
“They are past the point of polite blindness,” said Sir Kostis - the only credentialed diplomat worth the name who hadn’t fled or been stationed on a doomed foreign mission. “The banner is undeniable proof they cannot refute. They are demanding the immediate turnover of all the hostages. they will waive the increase on the annual tribute.” His voice carried the clipped fatigue of a man who had ridden hard from the Crimean capital and then argued harder.
Lustinianos Makris, an utter oaf of a man, scoffed into his cheese. He chewed while others spoke, and did not stop when he himself did. He had been sent from the Makris estate to sit with the council and “assist” with the Crimean negotiation. That he could secure a chair merely by insisting on it said more about the Crown’s limp grip on power than any proclamation. Philemon Makris bankrolled a quarter of the city’s public institutions. The prince could not risk offending his most lavish patron, and so they all endured the tub of lard.
“They should be halving the tribute at the very least!” Lustinianos boomed, sending flecks of lamb fat and bread crumbs across the table, a great spine of old, planed smooth pine that stretched the entire length of the room.
His light-haired attendant glided forward on reflex, dabbing away at the debris from both the wood and his master with surprisingly elegant grace. Zeno’s mouth thinned at the gluttonous spectacle.
“Demanding too much could backfire on us.” The Prince intoned from his carved throne at the head of the table. “We must be cautious not to exacerbate this incident into a full-scale conflict.” He was a pragmatic, cautious voice in these discussions, acutely aware of the weak position of the Principality.
“But, my prince,” Lustinianos persisted, swelling with borrowed righteousness. “They mock us! If we suffer them to raid our lands and walk away unpunished, what message do we send to our subjects? To our people?” The weight of his words a laughable joke when coming from the man. Zeno knew full well how much Lustinianos cared for the common people.
“Our people do not know the raid was sanctioned, and I am keen to keep it that way for as long as possible.” Prince John replied, voice pitched low, as though speaking to the wood rather than the men. “For all they need to know, it was a band of rogue nomads who went against their Khan.”
“That my own father would utter such blasphemy…” The voice came soft from the farthest chair, placed opposite the prince as though distance could cool blood. The council meetings had grown increasingly tense over the last few weeks and Zeno privately marveled at how something as small as the seat disposition now served as a weapon in subtle political maneuvering. No one braved the midpoint. Everyone had chosen a shore and burned the boats between.
“These Islamic blasphemers spit upon our benevolence,” The Principe said, louder now. He wore the severe black of Orthodoxy, matching pale-faced Father Damianus who sat by his side, his hands stowed away in the drapes of his long, flowing robes. “They demand after theft, command after murder. And we are to pat their cheek and call it even? Ridiculous.”
“We are currently drained by your highly important privateer initiative, my son. Do you not remember?” The Prince intoned, his quiet tone dripping with sarcasm. “We cannot afford to be drawn into a prolonged engagement. Small concessions are sometimes the toll one pays to keep our vaunted ‘bastion of faith’ standing.”
“We should kill them all and cast their bodies into the Black Sea. It would be a proper grave for their dark, sinful hearts.” The Principe spat with soft venom, his blue eyes hard as chilled steel.
“That would just give the infidels a reason to press more demands, my Principe. We must be patient.” Sir Kostis intoned, weariness pulling at each syllable. The councils had grown blood-hot as of late, and he’d almost single-handedly labored to cool it where he could, mostly in vain.
“We must reap concessions of our own,” the Principe insisted, bullheaded and immovable. “I will accept nothing less.”
“I may be able to help with that.” It was the first time the Doux had spoken in the meeting, letting the storm spend itself. For a man who scorned theater, he had learned to time his entrances.
The Doux sat at the prince’s right hand, and Zeno, as his attendant, over his right shoulder, perfectly placed to be at his beck and call. Zeno’s presence among the councillors had not gone unnoticed - least of all by the Makris. The elevation was a reward for the delay he’d engineered on the privateer scheme. He’d procured a competent crew of sea captains poached from half of Europe, which inevitably meant a long trek from the other side of the Mediterranean Sea, neatly delaying initial hostile action by months. It was pricy, yes, but it staffed the mission with professionals, stalled the Principe’s schemes, and allowed for a careful reconnaissance of the water routes and targets.
As much as he appreciated the rise in station the Doux bestowed upon him, he despised the subtle political messaging he no doubt had in mind. Still, he would endure it. He had to.
“I suggest we could eschew on the lowered tribute and hold to the current fealty tax,” the Doux began, lifting a hand to forestall the Principe’s first crackle of objection. He flicked two fingers without looking, and Zeno handed him the pre-prepared document. “But I agree we must wring out additional concessions.”
He set the document outlining his proposal on the dark wood, letting the Prince read over it as he spoke. “We can release their common soldiers back to their ranks, contingent upon a renewed peace between our realms, drafted in good faith and signed by both sovereigns. To renew on the old one that has seemingly lost its luster in the Crimeans' eyes.”
He let the idea settle, then drove on. “As for the officers: their liberty must carry a price - one hundred hyperpera per man.” The number loosened a stir around the table. “An opening bid we can descend to seventy-five if pressed.”
He steepled his hands and got to the crux of the issue. “To ensure compliance of the treaty and civil dealings henceforth, we can ‘invite’ one of the captured beys to remain as a house guest. In turn, we dispatch a formal envoy of our own to Chufut-Kale. An envoy who would work to regularize relations.”
This was the masterstroke that the Doux, Zeno, and every other aide had honed over the weeks. It ensured continued compliance and relations between the two parties, and it wrung additional concessions from the Khanate they could easily spin to save face and were, thus, more likely to accept.
“This will also secured the funds the state needs to honor its promise to the bereaved along the northern frontier.” The Doux inclined his head toward the prince. Silence settled over the table in a thoughtful hush as everyone weighed the costs and benefits of the proposal.
All save Lustinianos. “To send one of our own into the wolf’s den. Is this really the best course of action you can come up with?” He looked pleadingly to the Principe. “How would we even know they would honor their agreement? They are savages. Infidels.” The fat bastard hardly waited for Zeno’s carefully crafted proposal to breathe before trying to smother it. The Makris’s discontentment with the crown did not explain their reluctance to negotiate a sensible deal with the Crimeans. Was he angling to undercut Zeno’s work? Was the main household really so petty?
“Because,” It was Zeno who spoke up, unwilling to suffer the indignity. “We have learned something precious from the captives.” He let the room’s attention gather. “The Kalga Sultan himself led the incursion.” The statement struck the council into a heavy silence. The Doux flicked him a sidewise glance, but did not intervene. Zeno chose to take that as permission. “The highest-ranking bey is a blood brother to the heir of the Khanate and a high-ranking bey in his own right. A man of singular interest.”
It was the fulcrum to their entire plan. Not weighty enough to force the khan’s immediate ransom, but enough to make the Crimeans second-guess a full-scale invasion.
“Nur Devlet…” Sir Kostis breathed, his composure fraying. “If the heir to the Khanate is dead by our hand-” He did not finish the thought; the consequences were too large to name.
“That is unlikely,” Zeno answered with an orator’s poise. “Or they would have come already. It has been nearly a month since their defeat. If the Kalga had perished here, they would not be bartering banners and tribute. They would be burning our borders.”
“And? Let them come,” The Principe dared, his eyes bright and zealously clear. “We will not send a faithful Christian into their waiting arms.”
“How foolish can you be?” the prince asked, giving voice to the thought that hung upon everyone on his side of the table. “Would you drag this principality, and those same faithful, into a meaningless slaughter for your pride?”
“When the devil knocks at your door, you do not negotiate with him.” The Principe leaned forward, the words a hiss. “Pride is all we have left, Father. You have seen to that.” The word was spat with such venom the council’s air seemed to crystallize.
“Enough, my foolish son.” The prince rose, purple robes falling in a severe cascade even as he fixed an imperious, hate-filled glare upon his heir. “We proceed with the Doux’s plan. My word is final.” He turned and left the council without another glance, the Principe’s dismissal as absolute as the closing of a book.
The Doux rose when the prince’s train had cleared the threshold. Chairs scraped, courtiers dipped and murmured whispers that meant little and promised less. The old pine table exhaled as bodies left its length. Zeno felt the hush that followed a storm settle in the beams.
As they passed the doorway, the Doux rumbled, the sound mixing with the faded stone. “They are growing bolder,”
“They’re pushing for a divide,” Zeno answered, equally low. “Daring the nobles to choose a side.”
They made a slow show of straightening sleeves and collecting parchments, letting the last of the officials file past. “But escalation doesn’t serve them,” Zeno went on, still watching the flow of robes and rings. “If this is about the tax rises, they should be squeezing toward a compromise, not hammering a wedge.”
“Then perhaps we must reconsider their aims altogether.” The Doux’s tone turned oblique, the look he gave Zeno unreadable. Zeno studied the Doux’s face like a weathered map, but found no trace of his thoughts in its deep contours.
They exchanged the formalities they owed each other in public and parted. The corridor beyond the council chamber swallowed Zeno in cool stone and the distant rasp of a broom. Mangup’s meandering passages held secrets the way a well holds water - quietly, and with a certain gravity.
He drifted along quietly, the soles of his boots whispering, until they suddenly stopped in a forgotten corridor on the outskirts of a secondary courtyard. Ivy feathered the surrounding walls, and the air smelled of crushed leaves and damp lime.
“Who are you?”
Only the wind answered him as he turned. “And why are you following me?”
A shape breathed itself out of shadow. The young man moved like silk. His steps soundless, with a dancer’s balance. Light curls, pale as wheat chaff, framed a face too composed for innocence. Zeno’s gaze sharpened. The Makris adjutant. Lustinianos’s boy.
“Your awareness is astounding, Master Zenos,” the youth said, bowing with an elegance that would have pleased a court in Constantinople. As he bent, his robe parted to show a chest polished to the soft gloss of oil and training. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Markos.” He lifted his head with a smile that held too many meanings for Zeno’s liking.
“What does Lustinianos’s plaything want with me?” Zeno’s voice cut cleanly, the edge honed sharp by old grievance.
“No need to be so defensive, my lord,” Markos said, letting the barb slide off like rain from silk. “I came only to return something.”
“Something?” Zeno’s brow tipped upward, the word flat with suspicion.
“I believe you left it at the main compound when you fled.” A ghost of a smile. “My master, Philemon, wished it returned to his dear nephew.”
Steel slid into Zeno’s gaze. “I left nothing at that estate. Of that I am certain.”
“Are you?” From a narrow leather satchel, Markos drew a leafy circlet and held it up to the courtyard light. A laurel wreath - worn, weather-browned, and brittle at the stems. The sight hollowed Zeno’s gut, and his eyes widened before he could master them.
“Where did you get that?” He stepped forward, anger quickening his stride.
“Careful.” Markos withdrew the wreath just beyond reach, the movement smooth as a dancer’s turn. “This is merely a reminder, nothing more. You wouldn’t want to look brutish. Trust me.” The smile stayed, but it never touched his eyes.
“What does Philemon want?” Zeno asked at last, loathing the question even as it left him.
“For now? Only an open mind. Details and conditions will wait for a civil conversation, if you so desire.” Markos set the wreath on a nearby stone bench, where a blade of sun caught on the dulled leaves and made them glimmer a treacherous gold. “Think on it, Zeno Makris. And when you’ve decided, come find me.”
He slipped back into the bend of the corridor like he was never there, his voice trailing like a ribbon through the stone. “You won’t outrun your past, even if you abandon your blood.”
Silence settled with the dust as Zeno stood in the dim. The air was filled with the lingering scent of lilies where Markos had been, and memories of melodies he thought he’d never hear again.

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Chapter 34: Memories of Melodies