The door closed behind Feyla, and with it, another chapter of her life. She stumbled across her room to a plush chair. Kicking off her sandals, she crawled up in it and curled her legs to her chest.

I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry.

Despite her attempt at mental fortitude, tears rolled down her cheeks. Feyla bit her lip to hold back a heaving sob as her heartbreak mixed with anger. He didn't deserve to be cried over. Arrogant, cruel, heartless excuse for a man.

The memory of their kiss stabbed at her heart. How could he hurt her like this after reacting to it the way he had?

Feyla's arms tightened around her legs as the reality of her situation sunk in. He didn't love her. The man that she'd cared for and worked with for over half a century, the man she would have done almost anything for, didn't love her. Or if he did, it was obviously too weak an affection to shove past whatever reason he had for pushing her away.

Stop fooling yourself. He couldn't care less about you.

Pain wracked through her once again, sending shuddering sobs throughout her body. Her heart ached as if he'd ripped half of it out, and she felt as if she was bleeding out, much like the hope that had fueled her crushed wishes and dreams. She'd been a fool to fall so hard for someone who didn't love her back.

It was almost funny, in a soul-crushing kind of way. The man who'd pulled her out of the pits of despair was also the one who'd cast her back into them.

Tears blurred her vision but the memory of that night was crystal clear.

"I'm a murderer," she'd whispered to him.

"If what you did makes you a murderer then I shudder to think of what I am. You didn't have a choice, Miss...Feyla," he'd answered.

"But I killed him!" she had cried out. "I failed! I broke my oath and I killed him!"

They hadn't been close. She wouldn't even say they'd been friendly. Yet in spite of that, he'd held her as she sobbed, pouring out her guilt over the life she'd taken. If only she'd been more prepared or better trained or had more time. Surely she could have found a way to stop him without breaking her oath and resorting to violence.

Sedgewick could have left once everything was all over, but instead, he'd offered her a job. Something to keep her mind off the man she had...killed. And when her work had been sub-par and inexperienced, he'd brushed it off in a manner that she now knew must have been difficult. When her guilt had threatened to overtake her, he'd been there to shake her out of it, whether that was with a scolding, a quick, reassuring word, or just sitting quietly beside her. He never told her why he did it, and she'd never been brave enough to ask.

It had changed her whole perspective of him.

She'd seen flickers of that side of him before, but it wasn't until those few short months following their mission that she became utterly convinced Sedgewick Alverdyne wasn't nearly as stony and heartless as he made himself out to be.

Feyla rested her head against her knees. It throbbed from crying, aching even more as she attempted to reconcile her memories of the past with her experiences of the present.

Sedgewick could care. Master Alverdyne couldn't care less.

And Miss Feyla Everbloom was done with both of them.

A knock sounded against her door. It cracked open just as Feyla realized she'd forgotten to lock it. Anger temporally overwhelmed her sorrow as she grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at the head emerging through the door.

"GO AWAY, Sedgewick! I'm not talking to you and nothing you can say will change my mind!"

The pillow slammed into Beryn's face. He caught it in his hands, dusting it off as he entered the room. "Funnily enough, that's pretty much the welcome I was expecting."

Feyla wiped her eyes, her cheeks now warm from both crying and embarrassment. "Sorry, Beryn. I thought you were...someone else."

"So I heard," he said, tossing the pillow onto the nearby bed. It hit the elaborate wooden headboard before flopping down dejectedly.

"You left pretty abruptly. Am I really that poor a host?

She sat back down and attempted a smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "No, it wasn't really about earlier."

Beryn knelt down beside her chair. "I take my parties pretty seriously. To have someone as lovely as yourself depart early is hardly a good sign," he said, quietly teasing her as he brushed some of the wetness from her cheek. "Would you mind telling me why?"

Feyla's vision swam as fresh tears emerged. "Please don't say 'I told you so'," she whimpered.

He hugged her close as she cried against his shoulder. Her chest heaved as she struggled to get in enough air between sobs. She bit her lip until sparks of pain stopped her short of drawing blood.

"It's all right, Feylie Belle. You're going to be fine," Beryn said while stroking her hair softly.

He continued to whisper various comforting platitudes as she shook from weeping. They sat together quietly until her hiccups began to subside.

"Thank you," she said, sniffling as she pulled away. She brushed her hand across his shoulder in an attempt to wipe some of her tears off his doubtlessly expensive blue over-shirt . "I hope I didn't ruin this."

Beryn shrugged in a decidedly unlord-like manner. "I have a dozen just like it. Feeling any better? Do you want me to go make a certain mage's visit miserable?"

Feyla snorted. "He's already miserable. I'm starting to think he likes it that way."

Beryn chuckled. "Well, anyone who would turn down you is an idiot who's not worth wasting any more words on." He stood and held out his hand to help her up.

Feyla took his hand and gave him a very small smile. "Then what does that say about you?"

"Oh, but you see, I was fully aware what I was turning down. He obviously needs a whack on the head and a stronger pair of glasses. Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?"

She glanced up at him, a more genuine smile playing at her lips. "Do you know anyone with a position opening?"

Beryn grinned. "I could probably pull a few strings."

Agitation was not conducive to finding someone.

Sedgewick growled with frustration over how long this was taking. He had attempted to follow Feyla after she'd bolted during their discussion but had lost sight of her in the crowd. He'd made his way back inside the villa only to realize that he wasn't quite certain which part she was staying in or even if she'd retreated there. After running into half the Meridian embassy, and getting a tongue lashing from a rather irritable old gardener (it had something to do with keeping to the paths but he'd spotted a flash of blonde hair and hadn't really cared), Sedgewick finally found his way to what he was fairly certain was the right section.

Trudging along the hallway of the third wing's second floor, he shoved his hands in his pockets and scuffed his foot against the floor tile. This was ridiculous. Spending all this time hunting down his former--

His fists clenched. No. Not former. She wasn't serious and he hadn't just driven off one of the few people who put up with him.

Sedgewick plodded forward until he reached the next intersection of hallways. The path he was on continued straight, but to his left and right, the hall curved to match the round shape of the villa as it led into another layer of the building. The left was empty, but the right... Yes! Finally! A familiar pink-dressed figure was walking away alongside...Beryn. Who had his arm around her waist again.

"Feyla!" he called out, barely stifling his relief at seeing her.

The two of them turned around. He caught her gaze, and his chest ached at the pain and panic he saw there. Her eyes flickered to Beryn nervously. He pushed on her back as if gesturing her further down the hall. She glanced back at Sedgewick briefly before turning and walking away without responding.

Sedgewick's jaw clenched as he sped up his pace.

Until Beryn blocked his path.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"That's none of your concern," he growled as he attempted to push past him.

The stronger man shoved him, sending Sedgewick stumbling back several steps. "Everything that happens in my house is my concern. Especially when it involves a friend of mine."

Sedgewick snorted. "Please. You're a spoilt, noncommittal scoundrel whose father died before you could act your age. Don't act like you know anything of loyalty. Or Feyla."

Beryn's ears slicked back. His face paled with rage as he rose himself to his full height, and his voice became as cold and hard as stone. "Do you know what you are, Master Alverdyne? You're nothing but a goat-skinning, border-skipping charity case. And I don't care how often my father said you were a powerful asset, all you've managed to do is kiss up to the royal family just enough to stick around."

Sedgewick turned red with anger over the reference to his origins. He was seconds away from letting loose a string of profanities when Beryn shoved him again. Hard.

Pain laced its way up his spine as he stumbled back, barely catching himself in time. "Do not touch me, you bloody--"

"And how are you planning to stop me? That curse is 'limiting' your magic, you're almost as short as Feyla and you have the built of a kid before his quickening. You're useless, Alverdyne. Feyla was the only other one who put up with you and now she never wants to see you again. Someone as pathetic as you should have jumped at a chance with a girl like her, but I guess you're just too much of an idiot to see that."

If Beryn's words had been knives, then the one about Feyla would have been serrated and twisted inside him.

"She...she never wants to see me again?" he asked as his malice faded into a soul-crushed whisper.

Beryn laughed. "Can you blame her?" He pulled a document from his pocket and held it out. "Here's your pass. I want you out of here by dawn. Do us all a favor and don't bother coming back."

Sedgewick barely registered the last thing Beryn said. The young lord's words echoed hollowly in his ears as even the pain in his back faded into a dizzy numbness. It was joined by a sick feeling that crawled its way into his stomach. The world around him seemed to blur, and the next thing he registered was that he was sitting on the floor with the pass in his hands.

Utterly alone.