Page 28 of Vasmora

The other concern was Dravien.

Zevander didn't trust the shifty bastard from his past who seemed to have shown up out of nowhere. Where had he come from? Did he still have ties to Loyce and the Solassions? While the mere thought of the Elvyniran traveling with Maevyth burned his blood, he hadn't forgotten Dravien’s determination to pull him out of that chasm.

Like his own life had depended on it.

"Unless your fellow assassin is an idiot, and I'm not convinced he isn't, it seems he would keep her far away from here," Branimir said, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Zevander pushed to the edge of the bed, in spite of the intense ache at his side and cranked up the firelamp on the nightstand. “In that case, too much time has been wasted. Maevyth and Kazhimyr are probably halfway to Calyxar by now.”

“To be fair, you didn’t have much of a pulse when you arrived.” His brother spoke in a long, proper drawl that didn’t match his monstrous appearance. “But yes, I suppose the brink of death does make for lazy days spent in bed.”

Zevander cast a frown over his shoulder. “Since when did you develop a sense of humor?”

Branimir raised a brow and shrugged.

Shouts from outside snagged his attention, and as he shot forward, pain bit into his ribs. He growled and pressed his hand there, rising slowly from the bed to peer through the window.

Below, Torryn strode in the direction of the stable, the fyredrakes prowling closely behind him.

“What is he doing here?”

“They. He and the others arrived late in the night, while you slept. Pity. For the briefest moment, things were quiet.”

“Dolion and Rykaia are here, as well?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I kept them away as best I could.”

“Dolion was supposed to take her to Calyxar.” Zevander shook his head, eyes lost to the memory of when he’d last spoken to the old mage, back during the princess’s Becoming Ceremony. “I imagined Kazhimyr and Maevyth catching up with them at some point.”

“I’m sure they’ll be as disappointed as I am to know they’re here instead of there.”

Zevander snorted at the snarky comment and shook his head, hobbling his way toward a black chest, where his armor and weapons were stored. “You’ve grown vicious, as well, it seems.” He cracked the trunk open, found his black, caligosian leather and multitude of blades, then peeled off the tattered tunic he wore. As he held the bloodied garment up, he gave a sniff and crinkled his nose. A bath would’ve been nice, but he didn’t have time for such luxuries. He had to hurry if he was going to catch up to Kazhimyr and Maevyth.

Atop Zevander’s black trousers sat a hard, leather mask, with silver filagree and a small scorpion at the corner. He fastened it to his face, taking some comfort in the familiarity of a covering.

“As you are bustling about just fine, I’ll be retreating back to my chambers,” Branimir said, joints crackling as he pushed to his feet.

Zevander caught a glimpse of his deceivingly frail form. He’d only seen his brother outside of his little nest a few times in his life, but his presence had always felt painfully out of place, like a splinter buried in the skin. “Thank you.”

“I quite enjoyed the task of reassembling your bones.”

Zevander did grimace that time, catching the slightest smirk on his brother’s ruined lips as his long slinking strides carried him across the room.

To the wall?

He curled his bony fingers around the base of the sconce there and gave it a sharp twist.

The scrape of stone echoed through his room as the entire wall shifted, opening for a narrow passage Zevander had never seen before.

Frowning, he stepped around the chest across the room, watching Branimir slip inside. The wall scraped again, shutting out the passage, until it appeared as before.

“What in the gods,” he muttered, running his palm over the stony surface in search of a crease, or hinge. He felt nothing to indicate the wall was capable of moving. How had he lived a century in Eidolon without any awareness of it?

“Zevander!” Rykaia called from the other side of his bedroom door, and without so much as a knock, it swung open, fluttering the emerald dress she wore. Her shoulders sagged on seeing him. “Oh, good, you’re up and touching walls. That’s a good sign.”

Zevander sighed and turned back to studying the mortar between the stones, but it didn’t bear so much as a fissure.

“Although … Lady Crowlin touched walls just before she was sent to the asylum for losing her senses.”