Chapter 90: Brief Intermission

Existence, as I’ve come to learn, is little more than a poorly rehearsed farce, one where everyone forgets their lines and trips over the scenery.

The cosmic stagehands keep dropping planets, the orchestra’s drunk, and somewhere backstage fate is smoking something suspicious and insisting it’s part of the act.

And me? I’m the understudy that keeps getting killed off before intermission, dragged back onstage for an encore I never auditioned for.

The tunnel around us breathed like a sleeping animal—slow, damp, and vaguely threatening. Each exhale came in the form of dripping water, each inhale the faint moan of shifting stone.

My cheek rested against Brutus’s shoulder, which was about as comfortable as sleeping on a rock carved by some disappointed god.

His stride didn’t falter, not once. Every step was measured, steady, a human metronome with biceps. I could feel the rhythm of it in my ribs, a constant thud-thud-thud that reminded me I was alive, though only barely qualified for the title.

Atticus’s torch flared ahead, that same makeshift club of rag and wire, its light stuttering over the wet walls in nervous spasms.

Victor, walking a few paces in front, consulted his map like a priest reading entrails—squinting, muttering, occasionally cursing under his breath in several languages I couldn’t quite pinpoint.

The air carried that flavor of tension you could practically chew. Nobody talked much; the silence was so thick I half-expected to see it clotting in the air.

Chains dangled from the ceiling like forgotten ornaments, and old wooden scaffolding leaned against the rock at drunken angles, relics from some excavation that had the good sense to quit before it became a horror story. Every few minutes, something dripped, the sound echoing far too long for comfort.

My imagination, which is always at least three drinks ahead of reason, began populating the darkness with claws and teeth. I pictured mangled creatures crawling out from cracks—pale figures with too many elbows, whispering about how tender I looked.

Then I remembered how ridiculous that was. This place didn’t need monsters; we brought enough of those with us already. Still, I kept my eyes open. Caution, after all, is just paranoia with better timing.

I shifted on Brutus’s back with a groan that sounded far more dramatic than I intended. “So,” I whispered near his ear, “at what point in this scenic underworld tour do we arrive at civilization? Or at least somewhere that doesn’t smell like wet despair?”

He grunted, which was his way of saying both “patience” and “shut up” in one efficient syllable. “Two days, maybe three,” he said finally, his voice vibrating through his spine and into my bones. “Yolmear’s men could be chasing after us now. We’re taking the backup route.”

“Ah, the backup route,” I echoed. “As in the path too stupid for the enemy to consider—or too suicidal?”

He didn’t answer immediately, which told me everything I needed to know. “It’ll be a diversion,” he said at last. “Victor’ll laid traps on the main path. When they find them, they’ll think we’re ash.”

“Lovely,” I murmured, letting my head loll against him again. “I do so adore being mistaken for burnt remains. Adds mystery.”

I tightened my arms around his shoulders, more from exhaustion than affection, though the warmth under my palms betrayed me.

Seconds blurred into minutes, minutes into hours. The tunnel wound on endlessly, a snake of stone curling through the earth. All conversation died somewhere around the second collapse site, leaving only the rhythm of boots and breath. Time stopped meaning much—just steps, drips, and the occasional grunt from someone stubbing a toe on fate.

Then, finally, Victor stopped so abruptly that Atticus nearly impaled him with the torch. “Here,” he said, voice hoarse but triumphant, gesturing toward a narrow opening veiled by stalactites and dust. “This is it.”

The sound of relief that followed could’ve powered a small city. Atticus turned, torchlight catching the sweat and soot streaking his face. “We rest here for tonight,” he announced. The words fell over the group like a blessing.

Brutus crouched, lowering me to the ground with the gentleness of a man handling something far more fragile than I’d ever admit to being. My legs protested the return to gravity, wobbling like a newborn fawn.

The air in the cavern was cooler, heavier. And yet it was still spacious, open and wide enough to pretend we weren’t buried alive. For the moment, that counted as luxury.

Renly was already scavenging for wood—splinters, broken crates, anything that would burn. Dregan collapsed near the center, muttering curses about his knees, his back, and, inexplicably, my hairstyle. I dropped beside him anyway. After all, misery loves an audience.

When the first spark caught, the fire bloomed in a sigh of orange and gold, painting our ragtag band in flickering warmth.

We gathered around it by instinct, like moths circling an unreliable god. Atticus and Victor sat opposite each other, eyes fixed on the flames as if trying to divine meaning from the smoke.

Brutus draped a blanket over Freya’s shoulders, already half-dozed against his arm, her face slack with the exhaustion that follows heartbreak and near-death. Mia sat across from them, her gaze heavy on Victor, though whether with suspicion or longing, I couldn’t tell. Possibly both—people are complicated like that.

Dunny rose suddenly, boots scraping stone, as he slung a pack over one shoulder. “Gonna scout ahead,” he muttered, already edging toward the cavern’s mouth.

Atticus lifted his head with vague amusement. “That would hardly be wise,” he called, crisp and scholarly even through the haze of tension, “the tunnels branch like a—”

But Dunny was already moving, quick, purposeful strides swallowing the distance, his silhouette shrinking into the dark before the last syllable left Atticus’s lips.

For a long time, nobody spoke. The fire crackled, the tunnel whispered, and we breathed in the same rhythm, a temporary truce between past and panic.

The silence was awkward but strangely peaceful, like sharing a grave and pretending it’s a picnic. I felt it too—that hollow after-battle calm when survival feels less like victory and more like a receipt.

Deep down, I knew this stillness wouldn’t last. You can’t drag a crew through hell and expect them to come out humming. Morale was bleeding out quietly somewhere between guilt and exhaustion, and unless someone patched it soon, we’d start turning on each other before Yolmear even caught up.

I considered saying something inspirational—something about unity, resilience, maybe the power of friendship—but even in my head it sounded like a lie wrapped in cheap theater.

And then, as if the universe heard my plea for distraction and decided to answer with its usual sense of humor, Dregan reached behind him into one of the supply sacks.

He rummaged with the subtlety of a raccoon in a pantry, cursing under his breath until he fished out something that looked like a flattened canteen crossed with a bad decision. It was a Luke.

He held it up triumphantly, grin splitting the soot on his face. “How about a little tune to lighten the mood, eh?” he said, already thumbing the strings like they owed him money.

I squinted at him, dragging in a slow breath for dramatic effect. “Wait, you can actually play that thing?” I asked, incredulous, tilting my head just enough for my skepticism to gleam like polished sarcasm. “Because I was under the impression your fingers were strictly for violence.”

Dregan chuckled, a deep, smoky sound that rumbled through the circle like an approaching storm. “Course I can. Used to be a traveling bard before being sent here, you know.”

For a second, I just stared at him. The mental image didn’t compute—Dregan, bard extraordinaire, serenading nobles in some velvet tavern while maidens swooned and drunks wept into their ale. It was like imagining Brutus as a ballerina.

My lips parted for a reply that refused to form, and before I could decide between disbelief and mockery, he started to play.

And Saints save me, he actually could.

The first few notes came out rough, hesitant, like the instrument was testing whether it still trusted him. But then his fingers found rhythm, and the sound blossomed—simple, sweet, cheerful in a way that almost hurt to hear.

It wasn’t complicated; it didn’t need to be. It was a tune that reminded you of sunlight on tin roofs, of laughter too stubborn to die.

The men stirred. Heads lifted, shoulders relaxed, the lines of tension easing as though the music itself were drawing them out one by one. Even Victor, ever the marble statue of stoicism and irritation, stopped glaring at the wall long enough to listen. The fire flickered in time with the rhythm, like the whole cavern was breathing with us.

Dregan began to sing then, voice rough, worn, but steady all the same. It wasn’t the best voice in the world—not by a long stretch—but there was something real in it, a kind of battered sincerity that made the melody stick to your ribs.

You could tell he’d sung this song before—maybe in his better days, maybe over better drinks. The words were simple, mostly nonsense about freedom and the sky, but Saints, did it feel good to hear them.

And for a fleeting, ridiculous moment, I forgot where we were. The stone walls, the blood still drying on our clothes, the ghosts we’d left behind—they all blurred into the background. It was just us, a fire, a song, and a heartbeat that didn’t ache for once.

When the final chord faded, the silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was soft, almost reverent. The kind of silence people make when they remember they’re still alive. Dregan leaned back, grinning like a man half his age. “Told you I could play.”

I sniffed dramatically, hiding the lump in my throat behind a smirk. “I’ll admit, I was expecting more of a dying cat sort of thing. But you managed to keep it to mild strangulation. Bravo.”

He barked a laugh. “High praise, coming from someone who screams like a kettle when startled.”

“Correction,” I said, raising a finger. “I yelp like a dignified kettle.”

“Same thing,” he said, and the bastard winked.

Before I could lob something witty and potentially illegal in his direction, Victor appeared from behind a pile of packs, clutching several dented flasks like a man retrieving relics from an ancient tomb.

His expression was unreadable as he handed them out. “If the world insists on ending every other week,” he said, “we might as well be drunk for the encore.”

The first flask went to Dregan, who accepted it like a knight receiving his holy grail. The next few made the rounds to the others. Atticus declined with his usual restraint, his jaw tight and eyes sharp. “Need my head clear,” he muttered. “Someone has to keep you degenerates alive.”

Mia waved hers off too, muttering something about trust being a limited resource. She stared into the fire instead, and for once I didn’t push it. We all had our walls; hers just came with sharper edges.

When the flask came to me, I hesitated—only for show, of course—then uncorked it and took a whiff. It smelled like paint thinner with ambitions.

I smiled. “Liquid courage,” I said, and before anyone could warn me otherwise, I took a generous gulp.

Correction: half the bottle.

It hit like a fist wrapped in velvet and honey—smooth for a second, then a burning slap down the throat that made my eyes water and my soul briefly consider evacuating my body. I exhaled a cough that felt like it might qualify as a small explosion.

“Saints above,” I wheezed, clutching my chest, “who brewed this—Satan’s wet nurse?”

The laughter that rippled through the group was the real kind, the unguarded kind that makes even misery flinch. Dregan snorted and plucked another lazy chord. “Careful, lad. We’ve lost stronger men to weaker drink.”

“Strong men don’t have taste buds,” I muttered, handing him back the flask. “You take it. I think my stomach just declared mutiny.”

He didn’t hesitate, just tipped the flask back for a long swallow, then sighed in satisfaction like a man reunited with a lover. “Ah, that’s the stuff,” he said, voice thick with contentment. Then he grinned at the circle. “Any of you boys fancy a go?”

The challenge hung in the air, playful and sharp. A few of the men laughed, a few groaned. Someone from the back shouted, “Play another, old man!” while another piped up, “I can play better than that!”

Dregan raised an eyebrow. “Oh, can you now?”

Before the bravado could escalate into a full-blown pissing contest, someone moved—a blur of motion and swagger stepping forward to snatch the lute right out of Dregan’s hands.

It was Renly.

I blinked, mouth half-open. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said under my breath.

Renly just shot me that smirk—the one that could sell lies to angels—and sat down cross-legged near the fire. “Watch and weep, sweetheart,” he said in the first bout of wit I’d ever heard cross his lips.

Then he played.

Saints, he played.

The first sound was clean, effortless, bright as sunlight breaking through smoke. His fingers danced across the strings like they were born there, coaxing out something wild and graceful all at once.

No lyrics, no showy theatrics—just motion and sound, a pure, wordless joy that filled the cavern like color bleeding into a black-and-white world.

A few men started clapping in rhythm, hesitant at first, then louder, bolder. Soon half the camp was joining in, stomping boots or snapping fingers, the air alive with beat and warmth.

The fire crackled higher as if drawn to the pulse of it, throwing gold light on faces that hadn’t looked this human in days.

I leaned back, the sound washing over me, sinking into the cracks of my skull where all the fear used to live. For the first time in what felt like forever, my chest didn’t ache. My mind—usually a carnival of chaos—went quiet. The music took it all: the screams, the blood, the betrayal, the weight of everything.

For a few perfect minutes, I was just a person again, not a symbol, not a survivor—just Loona, drunk, warm, and painfully alive.

Dregan nudged me, grinning as I sagged my head against his shoulder. “Careful there, lad,” he said, “you’re melting.”

I gave a soft little hiccup, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded. “Mmm. Maybe I’m evolving.”

He chuckled, eyes glinting with mischief. “Drunk, more like.”

“I’m not drunk!” I said, though my words came out with the conviction of a man trying to bribe gravity. “I’m… emotionally lubricated.”

“Sure you are.” He laughed, resting an arm around my shoulders like we were old friends instead of two idiots who’d almost died three times this week.

The warmth, the laughter, the fire—it was too much. Too good. My brain, which doesn’t know how to handle joy without self-sabotage, decided to implode. The world tilted pleasantly sideways, and my tongue moved before my sense of shame could intervene.

“Dregan,” I whispered, my voice slurring. “Fuck me.”

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