Page 67 of Hearts Lost

ALOSERIN

SHOTS

Last night was miserable.

I mean, sure, maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why I’d teleported to the abandoned town of Fringe, of all the disappointing, dilapidated, dead-end places in the Outer Ring, and maybe that’s why I’d decided to spend a night huddled on the floor of a falling-down shack trying not to think about all the bad decisions I’d made in my long, miserable life as ice drifted through cracks in the ceiling to settle around my cloak like a shield.

But there’s miserable, and then there’s miserable. And if I’m going to spend my leave or, hells, the rest of my life in the Outer Ring, I’m not going to stay in Fringe. Even the dumpy little World’s End pub with its stink of stale beer and desperation would be better than this.

I pull my hood over my head and kick open the door of the abandoned shack where I’d spent the night. It’s stopped snowing, although there’s still an occasional fleck of ice drifting down from the ceiling of the world, and the glowsoft orbs overhead cast their faint, weak light on the dead forest and decaying shacks of this abandoned town.

Depressing as fuck. Also cold as fuck. With a shiver, I look over my shoulder at Fringe’s teleportation hub. The stones still work, for all that they probably haven’t been maintained in ages. But something about teleporting to the World’s End seems too easy. My muscles are stiff and aching after a night spent on the hard floor of an abandoned building. They could probably use some exercise.

I turn my back on the teleportation hub and pull my cloak tight against the biting cold. Because I’m walking.

By the time I finally spot the standing stones of the World’s End teleportation hub, and the flickering golden lights of the pub behind them, my fingers and toes have gone numb and my cock has pulled so far up inside my body that it might never come out. No great loss there, of course. I rub my mittened hands together and stomp across the snow toward the dubious beacon of the World’s End pub.

Music drifts through the frozen air as I approach, a chorus of off-key voices accompanied by the sound of someone plunking miserably on something that probably started life as a piano. It sounds rowdy in there, which must mean the glowsoft orbs are about to go out. I shiver despite myself. The World’s End was farther from Fringe than I’d remembered, and I’d spent the last half of today’s horrendous slog through the snow and ice wondering what would happen if I was still trudging across this frozen wasteland when the orbs went out.

Have fun out there, Orryen had said. Maybe it will be easier than talking to the woman who’s betraying her entire kingdom in exchange for your safety.

And, yes. Thank you, Orryen. Yes, this is easier. Trudging across this frozen wasteland is as easy as putting death before dishonor. I shiver again, then raise my frozen hand and push open the door to the World’s End pub. Warmth and light wash over me as the piano goes silent. I step over the threshold, pulling the door closed behind me and trying to hide the fact that I’m shivering so violently my teeth are clattering.

“Holy hells,” a voice calls, and I roll my eyes. Because of course, Rowan Sans Evenworth is at the World’s End pub. I think he practically lives here.

“If it isn’t former Acting Captain of the Royal Guard Aloserin Ravadithas,” Rowan finishes, like he’s announcing my presence at a formal gathering.

I turn around to see Rowan sitting at a table with his brother Phaedron and Arryn, the woman from the Worlds Above that I still think of as insane. She traded life in the Royal Court of the Kingdom of the Summer for this, after all. For Rowan and this shitty pub.

“What in the voids are you doing out here?” Rowan asks, grinning at me. “You come all this way to do shots with us?”

Rowan waves his hand at the table, where there’s a half-empty bottle of something murky and brown standing guard behind three empty shot glasses. As I watch, Rowan fills them all, one after the other.

Voids, that looks good. I pull my mittens off my frozen fingers and force my stiff, aching legs across the room. There’s an open chair at another table, and I tug it over to Rowan’s, ignoring the way every set of eyes in the room is watching me. Because I’m on leave. So fuck it.

I settle into the chair, grab the first shot, and slam it down. Fire burns my throat and my eyes water. I flip the glass over, set it down on the table, and grab the second shot. My empty stomach rolls over itself when this one hits; I ignore it, flip the glass over, and take the third shot. Then I look over at Rowan, savoring every bit of the violently surprised expression on his smug face.

“Yes,” I say, and my voice sounds exactly like I just took three shots of some vile rotgut booze. “I came here to do shots.”

Arryn and Phaedron stare at me with open mouths. Rowan recovers his composure first, grins like he’s the cat who just caught the rat, and pours another three shots.

“Fuck yeah,” Rowan declares.

He picks up a shot glass and tilts it toward me. The liquid inside has an oily gleam in the flickering lamplight.

“To the Lands Below,” Rowan says.

I grab another shot, click it against his, and then down it, and the part of my mind that says this might be a very, very bad idea is very quickly too drunk to voice any further objections.

* * *

I think I’m dying.

Every single part of my body hurts, and my brain feels like it’s trying to hammer a hole in my skull and make a run for it. I squint open one of my eyes, immediately regret it, and slam it shut. Wherever I am, it’s too damn bright.

And someone’s banging sheets of metal together behind me. I groan. Something smells good, like smoke and salt and bacon, but do they have to be so damn loud? I try to turn away from the noise.

And I smash my nose against something hard. My eye flickers open again and finds dark, polished wood. A table. Apparently, I spent the night with my head flat on a table. I blink as a slurry of incoherent memories tumbles through my aching brain. The World’s End pub. Rowan. Shots. A lot of shots.