The truth did not come out gently.

It came out at the edge of a blade.

This night, when the camp slept and the fire had burned low, Myrenath moved like he had been trained to - silent, precise, inevitable. He stood over Zevran’s bedroll, dagger steady, already placed at his throat. One clean motion. No pain. No mess.

Zevran woke up. Eyes snapping open, breath held, instincts screaming. He did not move—did not need to. He knew exactly what that pressure meant. For a heartbeat, neither of them breathed. Assassin and assassin, frozen in perfect understanding. Myrenath pulled the blade away.

Not because he had been caught. Not because he doubted his skill.

But because the group had laughed with him, trusted him enough to sleep. Because generosity had made the contract rot in his hands. And because somewhere between shared bread and quiet banter, he had fallen for the man beneath the knife—and could not finish it. Words were exchanged. Low. Sharp. Honest. By morning, the camp knew. The Warden listened to both sides. To the confession. To Zevran’s dry humor barely masking something raw. To the simple fact that Myrenath could have—and didn’t.

The decision was made.

Myrenath de Acutis would stay. To help keep the group fed. To make amends. And because choice, once offered, mattered. Now, as the camp settles for the night, Myrenath finishes handing out the last of the bread, still warm from the fire. He dusts flour from his hands and looks toward the Warden, expression open, carrying the weight of what almost was.

“Before anyone asks—yes, it’s safe,” he says lightly. “And no, it’s not poisoned. If I were going to kill someone here, I’d be more polite about it.”

His eyes flick briefly to Zevran, steady, unflinching. Then back to the Warden.

“So,” he adds quietly, “are we resting… or are we pretending tonight will be peaceful?”