Mist

A/N: Many thanks to my awesome beta Ras for her badass betaing skills :)

Chapter Two

The altar was swathed in darkness. Flames flickered faintly from the candelabra that lined the outer walls of the temple, but they gave little relief to the ceremonial ring in the center. The men kneeling at the foot of the statues of the three gods were nothing more than shapeless figures cloaked in black. They were barely distinguishable from the shadows that bathed them. The magnificent forms of Varys the Wise, Lorelei the Lovely, and Sineryn the Brave loomed over them, carved in splendid detail, and older than any other likeness in the realm.

Arch brother Tristan stood above them, and recited the oath of the Order. His voice was a steady murmur that echoed in the stillness of the night.

Micah knelt at the front of the group with his silver eyes turned down to the marble floor. He echoed Tristan's words silently. But although his mouth moved, his mind was on other things. The silence was too widespread, and he found himself acutely aware of the absence of sound. In the six years since the White Spire had become his home, it had never seemed quite this still.

The Spire itself was a slender tower supported by delicately twined metals that sent it soaring into the sky. The structure that houses the Order of Varys was a thing of legend, and when he'd first laid eyes on it, Micah had climbed the twisting staircases every night to look out over Rune Landing from the highest point. On the higher floors where a glance out the windows was met with a vision of expanding blue sky, it was not strange to be bathed in quiet. But here in the temple at the base of the platform, the sounds of the forest had always been rich.

He had been consumed by training in those early days, and during that time the forest had become his second home. He'd grown to learn every tree, every cave, every rock, and every creature that roamed the area. Now, those creatures were gone.

Micah snapped to awareness when Tristan's gold staff touched the top of his head.

"Is it your desire to serve this realm as a sworn brother of the Order of Varys?"

"Yes."

"To denounce the raptures of mortal men, and to exist as a vessel of he who has transcended the plane?"

"Yes."

Tristan pressed the staff against him more firmly.

"Bound by iron you shall protect this realm, and enlighten those in it. You shall join the departed beyond the veil only when Varys calls from beyond. Rise, brother, and join us as one."

Micah's greaves clanked as he stood. He gazed into Tristan's lined face, his eyes adjusting slowly.

"We are one."

"We are one," Micah echoed, bowing his head. He looked at the floor again, uncertain about what to do next. Astrid had prepared him for everything up until this moment, and now he wasn't quite sure what was going to happen. He heard the din of the iron brothers praying behind him, and chanced a glance up at Tristan again.

The arch brother's pale blue eyes were focused on him intently. Micah blinked, shifting his weight from boot to boot. When his gaze met Tristan's again, the older man winked, and cracked a smile.

Relief spread through Micah, and he finally relaxed. The damned two hour ceremony was over. The kneeling hadn't bothered him so much as the lengthy retellings and prayers.

"Come lads," Tristan's voice boomed when the last of the prayers ended. "Let us feast."

There were murmurs of congratulations from the younger brothers, and more solemn oaths from the older. By the time they filed out of the temple, and were ready to join the serving sisters in the dining hall, Micah was ready to be through with the night, and retire somewhere quietly. As the brothers split between the twining staircases that led up from the temple, Micah edged to one of the arched doors.

The guards would see him leaving from the main doorways, but he'd shimmied down the silver and ivory shafts to the ground before.

"Are you going somewhere, then?"

Micah looked over his shoulder at Astrid. She was watching him from beneath the delicate cobweb of the chainmail veil serving sisters wore at ceremonies.

"Where would I be going?"

"Down into the forest so you could escape, perhaps?"

Micah adopted a skeptical stare and let his hand drop away from the door. The chain armor he wore beneath his tunic made a clanking sound that he wasn't quite used to yet. It was his first night as a sworn iron brother, and his first time in the black and silver armor that came with the right. He'd worn his oiled leathers for six years as a neophyte, and he couldn't say that he did not miss the freedom of their lighter weight.

"Why would I want to escape? The ceremony was so exciting, I could hardly contain myself."

Astrid tsk'd, and crossed the marble expanse of the floor. Her high boots clacked against it loudly, although she didn't look nearly as conscious of her ceremonial armor as he felt.

"The arch brother likes you, Micah. He cut the bloody ceremony in half because he knows you've got the attention span of a flea. That, and in the past there's been a lot more brothers being inducted instead of just the one. We're a dying order, we are."

"We're going to die a lot faster if some of the old ones have to sit through another ceremony like that."

Astrid laughed, and prodded him in the side as they started up one of the stairs. "You're a bastard."

A half smile formed on Micah's face, and he winced automatically. Despite Astrid's ministrations and chants, his face was still aching and slightly swollen from where that thrice-damned Kierna had knocked him. She noticed his expression, and shook her head, sending golden threads of hair spilling from beneath the chain veil.

"I've tried every healing spell that I'm allowed on a brother," she said apologetically.

"It's fine," he said.

"You shouldn't have been such a twat to him. Then you wouldn't have been sworn in with a great shining badge of humiliation on your face."

Micah shot her a withering glare. "Shut it."

Astrid grinned impishly, and threaded her arm through his. "He was rather attractive, wasn't he?"

"Astrid."

"Yes?" she said guilelessly.

"I said shut it."

He felt her shoulders shaking with silent laughter as they continued the climb. A rush of anger blew through Micah, and his finger guards formed a fist.

It was several minutes before they reached the dining hall, as it was on the upper levels of the spire. When they finally entered, a chorus of cheers erupted, and Astrid detached herself discreetly, dropping to the default position at his back. Serving sisters were traditionally meant to support the iron brothers in battle, but lack of war had allowed the honor to slowly degrade into that of an actual manner of servant. By rules of propriety, she should not have been clinging to his arm like a sibling.

Nodding at the black and silver clad brothers curtly, Micah strode down the middle of the hall, and did not stop until he reached his place of honor at Tristan's side. The arch brother looked at him with raised brows, and smiled. He looked less severe under the lit braziers of the dining hall. The reddish gold in his hair stood out, and his blue eyes twinkled in a youthful manner.

"I confess, I'm surprised you made it through. At times I thought you'd dozed."

Astrid filled Micah's goblet before taking her place at the table with the other serving sisters. In the past she had lingered at his table and gossiped about the other brothers and what they got up to with their serving sisters, but that wouldn't be allowed anymore.

"A jest, surely. Your voice was like singing nymphs and Celestine song spells enchanting me all at once," he said dryly.

"It must have some power of sorcery if it managed to keep you awake. I have never met a neophyte less interested in the lore of our land."

Micah sipped the watered-down wine, and swished it around in his mouth. Iron brothers were not allowed anything stronger, but it was more than he had tasted in many years. Since his last night in the Fall.

"I'm more interested in the present."

"Fair enough," Tristan said, and reached up to adjust the thick sable-lined cloak that hung from his shoulders. It was caught up on his pauldrons again, and a hiss of irritation escaped the arch brother as he tried to get it back in order. "These damnable things."

Micah smiled faintly, and let his attention wander down the length of the table. Many of the brothers were conversing hotly about proper guardianship. The smile faded, and Micah's mouth drew down into a frown. He drained his goblet and reached for the flagon again, but Tristan grasped his wrist.

"Don't be so excessive on your first night, Micah."

Micah dropped his hand. "What does it matter?"

"It doesn't matter to me, but it does to others."

Mouth sinking further, Micah stared down at his food. Rosemary rubbed hen, baby potatoes, and a thick, grainy bread. It was simple fare, but on another day he would have devoured it with ardor. Now, he just looked at it with flattened lips and narrowed eyes.

"You're still angry about the small tourney."

"Why would I be angry?"

Tristan reclined slightly in his chair, plate gauntlets shining beneath the candle light. "You allowed a rogue Celestine to shame you in front of every representative from the territories. I dare say it would put me in an ill mood myself. I might even feel fit to get revenge."

"I don't want to discuss that," Micah said in the same dull tone.

"You should not take it so harshly, son. That Kierna has seen more battles than I have, and has lived a life most men don't live to their middle years to boast of."

Micah's eyes lifted, and he stared at Tristan. "You know him?"

"I know of him," Tristan corrected. He took a small, measured sip of his wine before setting it down again. "Before I was called to take the place of arch brother Darryl, I'd been the sworn brother and protector of a family of travelling merchants. On the high roads, rogue Kierna are known to everyone. They are cunning, and they're known for their trickery. Their sweet young faces allow them falsehoods that common men dare not attempt."

"But how old could he be?" Micah protested, leaning forward as his brows drew together. "He didn't look much older than me."

"It is so," Tristan agreed with a nod. "But I would guess he's closer to my age than yours."

"That is...." Micah trailed off, astonished.

Tristan tore a chunk of Micah's untouched bread off his plate, and dragged it through the gravy that covered his potatoes.

"It matters not. Nor does it matter what he did at the tourney. The Kierna is in the dungeons of Auren as we speak. In the next few days, he'll be branded a thief and have his hands chopped at the wrists."

Micah stared. "Why?"

"He and his companions foolishly attempted to steal from the tourney masters. Even Sineryn the Brave would't have attempted such a thing, and he was said to have balls large enough to float him across the twin rivers. The realm knows the tourney masters never forgive a debt, or a thief."

"But why would he steal? He seemed quite pleased with his winnings, and he lingered after the fights had ended. Why wouldn't he have made off as soon as possible?"

Tristan gave him a sideways look. "You're an interesting person, Micah Magnar. There are times when you appear to detest the Order, but then there are other times when I think you couldn't make a better fit. It takes a noble soul to defend one who wronged him."

Micah reached up and ran a hand through his short, white hair. He replayed the scene at the tourney. Copper eyes and bronze hair swam to the surface of his mind, followed by the memory of a blindingly white, arrogant smile. The irritation burned again, mingled with shame.

"I am not defending him, and I'm not as pious as you think."

"Mmm." Tristan's smile dissolved, and his gaze tracked the brothers sitting nearest to them. "You would do well to guard your tongue."

"What does--"

"It matters," Tristan interrupted sharply. The pleased smile lines transformed into a grim scowl, and he pinned Micah with a glare. "Great things await you, lad. Don't muck them up because you cannot reign in your tongue."

"I doubt that."

"They do, and you should be honored," was the harsh reply. "You are the first sworn brother in three years, and the first sworn fallen man in over twenty. You are the last of your people, and you've been honored with the title of iron brother. Not many--"


"With all due respect, arch brother," Micah interrupted sharply. "It's not as though this title was gifted to me. I trained for six years, and I passed your final test. An unarmored man with daggers against knights in plate and cutthroats in chain-- it was folly, and I was lucky to survive."

Tristan's weathered face remained etched into a frown. "Not lucky, lad. You've been trained well."

Micah could not deny that, and he turned his gaze away from Tristan to glimpse the window. The sky had darkened to a deep amethyst, and the moon loomed above the Silverwood. He wondered if the calls of the night hawks would return tonight, or if they too had joined the other creatures in silence.

Clearing his throat, Micah pushed his plate away.

"I've thought on it," he said after finally refilling his goblet. "And instead of finding work as a guardian, I want to travel and continue my training."

"Your training is--"

"It's good, yes," Micah interrupted with a shake of his head. "But against a spellsinger, or a necromancer? I wouldn't be prepared. I want to know more, to train more. If I'm to be prepared for what's coming, I need to be well-versed in all manner of battle. I intend to train first at Freeport, and then to the Celestine Valley."

His intention had been to say more. To express his desire to cross the twin rivers to Radyel and Yorn, to absorb their skills as well, but the look on the arch brother's face halted further talk. His lips had tightened into a line, his eyes narrowed and distrustful. It was the same look that Micah had received his first night in the White Spire; the first and last time he'd approached an elder brother about the windswept village, and the mist.

"What is coming, Micah?"

"I...." Micah wet his lips, and paused. His eyes flitted around, automatically searching out the comforting figure of Astrid. She was closer than he had thought, and appeared at his side to tend to his drink and give him fresh bread.

Her eyes met his briefly, and she smiled. She was the only person who had ever believed him, and she was the only one who shared his concern about the silence. Together, they had researched Aeron and the signs of the mist, though they still had not been through everything in the library. But they had found enough to know that the fleeing of the creatures was an ominous sign.

"I misspoke."

Tristan leaned forward until his armor thudded against the scarred wooden table.

"You must stop this, Micah. Don't think I am unaware of your obsessions."

"It's not an obs--"

"It is. You were traumatized by the tempest that took your village, and you've been scarred with guilt that you are one of a few who survived. But what you've allowed to happen in your mind with these false memories.... You seem mad. And do not think the others are unaware."

"I don't care about the others," Micah snapped, gray eyes hardening into chips of flint. "And my memories. Are not false. I don't care if you believe me. I've sworn my oaths, and I will defend the realm, and it will not be by following a band of merchants like you did."

Astrid gasped, and the flagon slipped from her hand. The thin, golden wine spilled onto the table, pooling down into Micah's lap. A few bursts of laughter erupted from the others at the long table, but the arch brother was not one of them. Any trace of humor or cheer had fled his expression, and Micah knew that he had gone too far.

"Perhaps you should retire for the night."

"Perhaps I should."

Any traces of pleasant familiarity were vacant from the arch brother, and his pale blue eyes sent a shiver of unease through Micah.

He swung his leg over the bench and stood. His lips parted as he started to say more, but then he shook his head and turned away. Both his hands curled into fists as he stalked out of the dining hall. There was silence except for the sound of his boots striding to the door, and Astrid's hurried footsteps behind him.

He didn't look at her, but she stayed a few spans behind him like a shadow. They reached his nook of a room in the brother's quarters, and he kicked the door shut behind them. For a long moment he just stood in the middle of the room, fuming, as he glared around. While still small, it was larger than the closet-like space he'd lived in previously. There was a window that overlooked Auren Hall in the not too distant south, and also the white-capped mountains to the east. The bed was larger, stuffed with feathers, and he had a writing desk that sat beside a hearth. It was nicer than anywhere he had ever lived, even in the village. But at the moment, he didn't want any of it.

"Why did you say that? Are you mad?"

"Yes, I'm bloody mad. Didn't you hear him? Everyone knows," he said icily, ripping his scabbard from his back and tossing it on the bed.

"Micah--"

"Fuck him, and fuck them all."

"You're being ridicul--"

"Maybe they won't think me so mad when Aeron and his bloody mist demons give them a good, hard raping."

"Micah!"

Seething, he began unbuckling his armor. He tossed it on the floor in a heap with his gambeson, stripping down until he was in nothing more than the thin leather pants that he had worn beneath his greaves, and the slim iron band that hugged his throat.

"I did not come here to follow some rich lord or fat merchant around, and act as a glorified bodyguard. That is not what the Order was meant for!"

"And serving sisters were not meant to be chamber maids, but this is what the Order has become," Astrid said sharply. She raised a hand and pulled the chain veil from her head and face. Her hair spilled down past her shoulders, and glinted like spun gold in the firelight. "I understand what you want, but they don't, and they never will. If the arch brother thinks you're using them for a crazed quest, he will exile you from the Order completely."

"Let him," Micah said darkly. He grabbed his leather brigandine from where it had been carelessly dropped to the floor in his earlier haste to get to the ceremony. "I thought he would take me seriously after I was sworn, but it's always the same. They train, and they pray, and they retell their bloody legends, but none of them see the signs in their damned faces. What good are the legends if they don't even remember that they come from truth?"

He fastened the straps across his chest. "To hell with their Order."

"Don't be an idiot," Astrid snapped, and slapped his hands away. She tossed him a tunic, and cocked her head to the side. "And you forgot something."

Micah reddened, and shrugged out of the brig. The tunic's rough fabric scraped at his arms, but it and his faded leather brigandine were still more welcome than the shining chainmail.

"I know how I sound," he said when he'd finally righted his clothing. "But try to understand. I didn't come here for this."

Astrid grabbed his arms, and pulled him over until he was standing directly in front of her. Her petite mouth was stretched down into an unhappy frown. "I understand, Mic. I do. But you knew from the first year that it was this way, and you stayed because you have access to the library, and the best training guilds in the realm. Don't ruin it now."

He shrugged, sullen and glaring. "I didn't know that they all thought me insane."

"And I didn't know that you were so concerned with how they perceive you."

"I didn't either." Micah dropped his eyes, and stared at the matted rug that lay against the stone floor. His shoulders drooped, and he exhaled slowly as the fire of his anger cooled into disappointed exhaustion.

"Why don't you go out for a while?" Astrid said after a stretch. She began gathering his armor, and setting it to rights in his trunk. "Ivy would love to see you, I bet. The other girls will be jealous that she knows the tourney winner."

"I thought sworn brothers aren't allowed on Penny Row."

"Pull up the hood to your cape and you don't look any different than any other whore seeking scoundrel. The girls know how to keep silent. The gods know more than half of these ogres don't keep to their vows, but the whores know how to keep secrets. Just don't let anyone outside the Row spare a glance of that white hair of yours, or the collar."

There was only a slight hesitation before Micah picked up his cloak and fastened it at his throat. The hood fell nearly to his nose, and the cinch hid his collar perfectly.

"Thank you, Astrid."

She gave him a smile. "It's nothing. Now go, before they clear out of the dining hall."

Micah took another moment to rearm himself with his twin daggers, and was slipping out of the door before Astrid had finished stowing his armor away. He moved swiftly down the gleaming white staircase, his steps quieter without the jingling of the greaves and armguards. He preferred this kind of stealth, for all that iron brothers were meant to wield swords and chainmail in the tradition of Varys. A sword could slice a man in two if its wielder had the strength, but daggers were just as dangerous if one was agile enough.

The thought brought to mind the man earlier, the Fellwood boy that he'd killed. Bart, his name had been. Bart, who was now burning in the pyre unless the Fellwood lords had decided to cart his body south.

Micah had thought he would feel more moved by his first blooding, but there was nothing. The excessive slaughter of the Celestine spellsinger had crushed any remorse he might have had. It had not been necessary to kill every man in the matches, but Bart had reveled in the carnage.

He stopped descending on the third floor of the Spire, and approached one of the diamond-shaped windows. They were nothing more than thin slits in the sides of the tower, but it was still possible to squeeze through. A ledge circled the tower, less than a span wide, and he balanced on it precariously. He moved carefully, pacing the edge in steady measured steps until a gust of wind howled past, ripping his hood off, and causing his white hair to glint in the moonlight.

Micah froze, and looked down at the ground that was still hundreds of feet beneath him. The sentries were pacing the land but none of them appeared to be looking up. He pulled the hood back on anyway, and grit his teeth as another gale swept in. He didn't think he would have been able to keep his balance had it not been for his time spent scaling the Fall so many years ago.

It wasn't far until he reached one of the bowed expanses of metal that extended from the side of the tower to the ground. Without a second thought, Micah wrapped himself around the thin arch and began the long descent down. He had done it scores of times over the past six years, as soon as he'd realized that sworn brothers and neophytes alike were followed once they left the sanctuary of the White Spire. The Order spies were a major reason why brothers had begun forsaking their oaths with their serving sisters instead of the Penny Row whores.

Micah's feet thudded to the soft forest floor after he slid the rest of the way down. He knelt behind one of the looming trees, and peered around at one of the sentries. The man was pacing the perimeter leisurely which was not much of a surprise. Since the Timmet had disappeared, many of them had let their guard down considerably.

Micah stood, and wrapped his cloak around himself. With his hair concealed and all traces of metal covered, it was not difficult to disappear into the darkness.

It was less than a league to Auren from the White Spire, and Micah kept to his usual route. He ignored the road, and instead followed the river to a cave that was all but hidden by overgrown moss and shrubbery. It was buried in the wall of the mountain range, and concealed an underground passageway that led directly into the dregs of Auren. He didn't know why it was there, and could find no record of it in the stacks. However, the relics he'd found through the years told him that it was near as old as the legends of the three gods and the dark lord Aeron.

The tunnel was black as pitch, but Micah had grown confident enough to make his way quickly through the twists and turns. His feet echoed eerily in the darkness, accompanied only by the scuttling of insects, or whatever else lived below. He had brought Astrid with him once, but the experience had inexplicably frightened her, and she had never come again.

The journey took a little under an hour to complete, and Micah was relieved to see the crescent of moonlight shining down through the thatched covering of the tunnel's entrance. He scaled the wall, using his legs to push off so that he could grasp the rusted metal cover. He waited for a breath to determine that there was no one above before sliding up through the narrow space.

It led directly into a dank alley in the heart of the poor quarter. It was only a sliver of what it would be in a city like Freeport or Meridian, and consisted mainly of the brothels, gambling houses, and the vaults. The mouth of the alley led directly to the junction of the dungeon, and the execution site. Once, Micah had wondered whether the tunnel had been used by long dead prisoners who were escaping the axe. Over the years much of that curiosity had dwindled, and now, as Micah approached the great stone block where so many had lost their heads, he remembered that this was also where thieves lost their hands.

Penny Row was only paces away, but Micah found himself walking instead to the vaults.

"What be your business here?" one of the guards asked, looking Micah up and down suspiciously. "The magistrate been gone since sun down if you come to beg a pardon."

Micah hesitated briefly before he pushed his hood down. "I'm here to see a prisoner."

The guard took one glance at the iron collar, and bowed his head once in respect. "Begging your pardon, brother. I din't see your irons."

"No worries." Micah glanced past the man and into the vaults. "I want to see the Kierna they brought in earlier this night."

The guard spat on the ground at their feet. "Why d'ya want to see that one for? He's a right nasty bastard, he is. If the magistrate hadn'ta said no, I'd have gagged him."

Micah's mouth quirked slightly. "All the same."

"If it suits ya, he's on the second level. The last cell to yer left."

Muttering a gratitude, Micah made his way into the vaults. The structure was made of old stones, and the air felt damp and smelled sour. The wind whistled through the walls quietly, and the draft that slithered in caused it to feel chillier than it actually was. Despite this, the vaults were not what he had imagined. There were groups of guards talking in their quarters to his left, but other than that it was silent.

He was not stopped again with his collar visible, and he made the rest of his way uninterrupted. When he reached the second level, it was not a surprise to see that many of the cells were empty. The dungeon was large enough to hold hundreds of men which was an excess given the fact that serious crime in Auren was relatively low.

Micah's footsteps were the only sound as he walked deeper into the block of cells, but as he got closer to his target, another sound joined in.

A deep voice was humming something quietly, the tune surprisingly cheerful for the environment.

Micah stopped in front of the cell and stared at the Kierna. He was sprawled on the black stones of the floor, his long legs spread in front of him as his back arched against the wall. One of his hands was gesturing idly in tune with his song as a draft stirred the outgrown strands of his copper hair. When his amber eyes slid open lazily, Micah could not help but think that the Kierna reminded him of a giant bronze colored feline.

"Come to gloat, have you?" the Kierna drawled, his eyes moving up and down Micah leisurely. When Micah failed to respond, he smirked. "Or maybe you've come to stare."

Micah scowled at that, and ripped his eyes away abruptly.

"Tell me," the Kierna called out, his accent lyrical and irritatingly pleasant to Micah's ear. "Is it you who's behind this farce?"

"What?"

"Ah, so it does speak."

The Kierna got to his feet with a lazy stretch, and he flashed his brilliant smile in an almost feral way. He moved to the bars, folding his fingers around them as he gazed at Micah steadily.

"Those stupid oxen you've got doubling as guards down below-- they tell me I roughed up the first fallen lad to join the Order in ages. That would be you, yes?"

Micah opened his mouth to say no, but realized how utterly fruitless that would have been so he shut it again. His gray eyes narrowed, as his broad shoulders rose in a shrug.

"What of it, Kierna?"

"Is that the reason for this excessive sentence, then? Your mummy, the arch brother is handing down a hard one because I've gone and embarrassed his pet fallen?"

"You cannot--" Micah stopped, incredulously, and shook his head. "That's ridiculous. I thought you folk were supposed to have a high degree of intellect, but you're turning out to be a simple-headed boy fucker."

The words had a similar effect to the ones he'd spoken back at the tourney, and before Micah was aware of the other man moving, a strong hand had closed around his brigandine and yanked him against the bars. Micah reared back, but the Kierna's grip did not loosen, and he rebounded against the cell violently until they were closer together than he would have liked.

"You are quite fixated on my desire to fuck men, aren't you?"

Micah's face darkened, and his lips curled in a sneer. "Let me go, or it will be your head that comes off and not your bloody hands."

"Mmmm." The Kierna's lips curled up into a filthy smile as his eyes once again made a slow journey over Micah's face and torso. "Do you know what you need, love?"

"Let go," Micah repeated darkly.

"You need a good stiff drink, and a long leisurely fuck."

Micah finally broke the other man's grip only to find himself once again pinned to the bars, but this time with both of the Kierna's deceptively strong hands. Copper strands of hair brushed against Micah's face, soft as silk and shining just as brilliantly. His angry breaths mixed with the Kierna's as the other man released an amused laugh.

"You poor, poor animal. All pent up and no one to fuck. Well love, I'd have bent over for you in a heartbeat if you weren't such a self righteous prick. I haven't had an iron brother's cock in my ass for years."

Micah ripped himself away, panting, and turned away from the cell. His heart was racing, and his entire body felt overheated. His fingers flexed idly, and he told himself that it was just anger, but the stiffening in his pants wouldn't let him believe that lie.

"You go to hell, Kierna."

"I'm already here, lad. Now be a good iron man, and tell your arch brother to retract his edict."

Micah scowled, looking over his shoulder. "You're wrong, Kierna. Thieves lose a hand for stealing, same here as in every other kingdom."

The other man resumed his elegant sprawl on the hard floor. "Yes, it is so. But thieves lose one hand, not two, and I need something to tug my cock with, don't I?"

Micah's mouth dropped open, and he shook his head slowly, incredulous. "The guard was right. You are a filthy bastard."

The Kierna gave him another lazy smirk. "Get me out of this mess, lad, and I will show you how filthy I can be."

"Get out of your own mess," Micah snapped, and turned away without another word. He strode swiftly away from the cell, and ignored the laughter that bounced off the walls and followed him the entire way.

The encounter stirred something in him that had been easily quelled for years. He was so heated and agitated that he forgot about Ivy and Penny Row, and did not realize that one of his daggers was gone until he was back at the White Spire.