The fireplace crackled with steady, rhythmic persistence, each pop and hiss of burning wood trying desperately to fill the silence that stretched between us like an unwelcome third presence in the room.
Tora sat perched at the very edge of my bed with posture so timid, so carefully folded in on itself, that it made his already slight frame look half its actual size, as though he were trying to physically shrink himself out of existence through sheer force of anxiety.
His hands were folded in his lap with fingers knotted together in patterns that spoke of nervous energy seeking any outlet, like they were the only thing anchoring him to reality and keeping him from dissolving into the floorboards beneath his feet.
His crystal blue eyes kept darting around the room with the jittery attention of a startled bird, tracking over the crude drawings Felix had stuck up across every available surface with the dedicated obsession of someone who’d never learned the meaning of restraint.
Sketches of me in various states of undress, some anatomically ambitious in ways that suggested Felix had been working from memory and optimism rather than actual reference, others just enthusiastic scribbles of hearts and what I could only assume were meant to be flowers but looked more like exploded starfish caught in some kind of botanical apocalypse.
I cleared my throat, the sound cutting through the ambient crackling with deliberate sharpness, and watched with no small amount of amusement as Tora’s head snapped toward me so fast I swear I heard his neck crack.
"S-sorry," he stammered immediately, his face flushing that particular shade of pink that seemed to be his default emotional state whenever anything remotely unexpected happened in his vicinity. "I was just—these are very—Felix is quite—" He gestured helplessly at the wall of artwork surrounding us, words failing him in that adorable way they always seemed to when he got flustered.
"Obsessed?" I offered helpfully, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed and watching his blush deepen in real-time like watching paint dry except infinitely more entertaining. "Yeah, he’s got a whole shrine thing going. Multiple shrines now, actually, spread throughout the theater. I try not to think about it too hard because the implications get concerning when you examine them for too long."
Tora’s blush somehow intensified, spreading down his neck in splotchy patches that made his pale skin look as though someone had slapped him repeatedly with concentrated affection and embarrassment.
"They’re actually quite skilled," he said softly, his voice taking on that particular quality of someone desperately trying to find something positive to say about a situation they found deeply uncomfortable. "The proportions are—well, they’re not anatomically accurate by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s clear passion in the linework. Real dedication to the craft, even if the craft is... this
I snorted, the sound inelegant and genuine, because Tora defending Felix’s obsessive artwork with the same earnest sincerity he applied to everything else was so perfectly on-brand it almost hurt.
"You’re defending Felix’s pornographic fan art of me. That’s genuinely adorable, Tora. Like, weaponized adorable. You could kill someone with how sweet that is."
I pushed off from the doorframe and settled into the worn chair positioned near the fireplace, feeling the warmth seep through the wood grain into my palms as flames danced and threw shifting shadows across the walls.
The heat was pleasant, grounding, a physical anchor in a conversation that felt like it was hovering somewhere between casual and significant without quite committing to either.
Before I could say anything else, before I could steer us toward the actual business I needed to discuss with him, Tora cleared his throat with that soft, tentative sound that suggested he had something to say but wasn’t entirely confident about his right to say it.
"I’ve been hearing things," he said quietly, his voice steady despite the obvious nervousness threading through every syllable. "About you. About everything you’ve accomplished since leaving the tower behind and stepping out into the city proper."
I blinked, surprise cutting through my usual performance of casual confidence, and looked up at him properly instead of just observing him peripherally. His eyes were wide and earnest, reflecting the firelight in ways that made them look almost too bright, like someone had turned up the luminosity setting on his entire face and forgotten to dial it back down.
There was something in his expression—admiration mixed with genuine pride mixed with something else I couldn’t quite identify—that made my chest feel uncomfortably tight.
"How you took down Oberen," he continued, his hands knotting even tighter in his lap until I worried he might actually cut off circulation to his fingers. "The way you’ve somehow attracted the attention of the Ivory Gambit. How you’ve established yourself in this place, built this entire operation up from literally nothing except spite, determination, and whatever resources you could scrape together."
He paused, ducking his head slightly in that gesture of combined deference and sincerity that was so uniquely Tora it made something in my chest ache. "I expected nothing less from you, honestly. You always had that ability—that gift, really—to turn absolute chaos into opportunity. To take situations that would destroy most people and somehow leverage them into advantages."
Heat crawled up my neck in a way that felt entirely too vulnerable, entirely too exposed, unexpected and uncomfortable in equal measure because compliments from Tora carried weight that compliments from most people didn’t.
"That’s—" I started, then stopped myself before the words could fully form, clearing my throat with more force than strictly necessary. "I mean, it wasn’t exactly planned. None of it was some grand design I’d plotted out in advance. Most of it was just survival with theatrical flair, you know? Staying alive and looking good while doing it."
"But you did it," Tora insisted with a firmness I rarely heard from him, and there was something almost reverent in his tone that made my chest tighten further, like someone was physically squeezing my lungs and demanding I acknowledge the weight of his words. "You survived when most people would have died in the first week. You thrived when survival alone would’ve been considered success. You made yourself matter in a city that systematically destroys most people who try to carve out their own space, who dare to think they can be more than what they’re assigned to be."
I turned away slightly, using the excuse of examining one of Felix’s more ambitious drawings—this one featuring me with wings I definitely didn’t have and a halo that was objectively blasphemous on multiple theological levels—to avoid looking directly at Tora’s face while he said things that made me feel simultaneously proud and like I wanted to crawl into the fireplace and become one with the flames.
"Yeah, well," I muttered, my voice coming out rougher than intended, "still here. Still breathing. Still causing problems. That counts for something, I guess."
"It counts for everything," he said softly, with such absolute conviction that it hit me like a physical blow.
The silence that followed stretched between us like taffy being pulled to its breaking point, thick and heavy with implications I wasn’t ready to examine.
I could hear the fire crackling in its steady rhythm, could smell the faint scent of Tora’s nervousness mixing with wood smoke and the lingering traces of incense someone had burned earlier, could feel the weight of his approval settling over my shoulders like a cloak I wasn’t entirely sure I deserved to wear but found myself clutching anyway.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity compressed into maybe thirty seconds, I forced myself to look back at him properly, meeting those impossibly earnest eyes with something approaching genuine emotion rather than my usual performance.
"Thanks," I said, the word simple and blunt and entirely insufficient for what I was actually feeling. "That means something. Coming from you specifically. More than you probably realize."
His smile was small but genuine, transforming his entire face from anxious to almost radiant, and something in my chest did an uncomfortable flip that I absolutely refused to analyze because that way lay complications I wasn’t equipped to handle.
"How are things?" I asked quickly, pivoting the conversation before emotions could get any messier than they already were, keeping my tone deliberately light and casual. "In the tower, I mean. With all the everything that’s been happening. The political tensions, the faction divisions, the general atmosphere of impending doom."
The shift in his expression was immediate and dramatic, like watching a curtain drop over a window to block out sunlight and plunge everything into shadow. His smile faded completely, shoulders curling inward in that defensive posture I’d seen him adopt countless times when discussing things that made him uncomfortable, and when he spoke his voice had gone flat and careful in the way that suggested he was choosing each word with deliberate precision.
"Tense," he said, the single word carrying more weight than entire paragraphs could have conveyed. "The factions—the two sides controlling the Pantheon’s power structure—tensions are rising more than they have in years. Higher than I’ve ever seen them, actually. The Director is planning to suppress any violence that occurs before it can escalate into full conflict, but..." He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "There’s only so much he can do if both sides are determined to push things to the breaking point."
I nodded slowly, processing this information and slotting it into the mental framework I’d been building of the city’s political landscape.
That matched what I’d been hearing through other channels, what Lord Erwin had carefully hinted at during our encounter and what Lord Aldric had basically confirmed outright when he’d made his deal with me to investigate the Ivory Gambit faction.