Rylan waited in the hallway just outside the little backroom—the same one Sloan had once carried him into after he'd fainted—and peered in through the thin slits in the bamboo door.

He didn't get much time to prepare himself mentally, as barely a minute had passed when the door to the taproom opened and a girl with dark-blond hair stepped through.

Rylan held his breath as he took a moment to study her as best he could through the door.

The girl—who appeared to be around his age—was wearing a dark green gown that looked more functional than pretty. Despite this, she seemed to move with a certain grace and refinement as she looked around hesitantly, then primly took a seat on one of the wicker chairs, her shoulders stiff and her back straight.

He wasn't sure which one of them was more nervous, so he gave himself a few more seconds to calm down before he opened his own door and walked in.

He'd decided not to cover his face, both to avoid spooking the girl who might very well be his sister, and to see her reaction.

The girl looked up, seeming startled by his abrupt entry, and their eyes met. Rylan's heart skipped a beat when he saw the violet of her irises, similar in colour—if not exact shade—to his own.

He thought there were other hints of a possibly familial connection in the curve of her brow, the shape of her nose, but he couldn't be certain.

Either way, his would-be sister showed no signs of recognition.

"Excuse me," she started politely. "I was told to wait here for Chef Ironbeard... do you know if he'll be much longer?"

Rylan blinked, then realised that that was actually the obvious reaction.

He didn't immediately reply, instead taking a seat in front of her. Spotting Fylsa peeking in through the side door that led behind the bar, he cleared his throat. "Fylsa, could we have some tea, please?"

And some privacy, his eyes added.

Fylsa smiled apologetically and nodded before closing the door.

Rylan turned back to his confused-looking guest. "There's no need to wait for Chef Ironbeard. Because you're looking at him."

Her brows rose. "Really? But... Ah, apologies, milord, I seem to have forgotten my manners." She got up from her seat, and performed a flawless curtsy. "If you say you are Chef Ironbeard, then I believe you. Only a reckless fool would dare offend the crown by impersonating a Quinthar, after all."

Though her words were honeyed and her voice smooth, it was clear she wasn't fully convinced he wasn't playing a joke on her yet.

At that moment, Fylsa entered the room. "Your tea, milord," she said, a subtle edge to her voice that made Rylan think she'd heard his visitor imply that he was a liar and taken offence.

He nodded at her as she deftly placed their cups down. "Thank you, Fylsa. That'll be all."

To his surprise, she actually curtsied as well. Though not quite with the same grace, and she did shoot him a wink in the process. Then she was out the door, and he turned back to his visitor, who looked a little sheepish. "Your, ehm, name belies your appearance, milord."

"I shaved," Rylan deadpanned. "Recently. Anyway, you may call me Thar, milord, or just... Rylan, whichever you prefer. Now, I didn't catch your name, miss...?"

Her spine straightened a little further, if that were possible. "Leahna, milord. Leahna Hawktalon. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Rylan froze. "Hawk... talon?"

Leahna's smile grew stiff, as she seemed to misinterpret his genuine bafflement for something else. "We're a very minor branch. Hardly worth mentioning, these days, so it's no surprise you haven't heard of us."

Rylan nodded along, only half listening to her. Hawktalon... She's part of a Talon branch family? Fog! Is that why the Talons are after me, am I some noble's bastard son?!

Vidric did have violet eyes, Rylan recalled with startling clarity—a much deeper shade than his own light purple, but still.

Why would the main branch get involved with the bastard of a side-branch, though? And offering one hundred gold marks for his capture? There had to be more to it than that...

"And you're the daughter of Red-Nosed Art?" he asked just to be sure.

Leahna's smile was more like a grimace at this point. "My father is Artoran Hawktalon, yes."

"My apologies," Rylan replied smoothly, doing his best to hide his nerves and excitement. "I never heard his full name. So, I understand the restorative porridge you wanted would be for him?"

"I am. My father got into an accident a while ago, and now he has difficulties walking... among other things."

Difficulty walking, that certainly explained why he hadn't shown up at the Knackered Hag. Was it really an accident, however? The timing seemed suspicious, and Rylan hadn't exactly forgotten about that drop of blood on his letter either...

But that obviously wasn't something a stranger could ask about.

"I'm very sorry to hear that." Rylan paused for a moment, pretending to hesitate. "I have to be honest, I'm not sure the restorative effect of my Skill will make an appreciable difference to someone who's badly hurt."

"Please, he really needs your help," Leahna said, her voice breaking a little. "I saved up for this, and I—"

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Rylan held up a hand, forestalling her. "I wasn't trying to rebuff you, I was just thinking... the effects of my Skill are strongest right after I've applied them, so bringing it home might not be the best way."

This was technically true, though half an hour probably wouldn't make too much of a difference. Rylan felt a bit bad about the ruse, but he simply had to meet the man who might be his father.

She bit her lip. "I could try to get him out here. He doesn't like using his crutches, but—"

"Tell you what," Rylan interrupted smoothly. "Ehm, do you live nearby?"

"Ah, yes, we do—we live in South Harbour."

Perfect. For a second there, Rylan had been worried they would live in the middle ring and his bounty was about to fog him over. "Then I'll come by after my shift, and whip something up right in your kitchen. I'll bring the ingredients and everything."

Her eyes widened. "You'd really do that? I-I'm afraid I can't offer you anything extra... we've been going through a bit of a rough patch, ever since my father lost his job."

"Don't worry about it," he replied, waving her concerns away. "We can discuss my remuneration once we see whether my Skill actually has any effect or not—and I definitely won't charge extra. Just give me the address, and I'll be there shortly after ninth bell."

Rylan wasn't sure how exactly he got through his shift in the kitchen. His hands worked, but his mind drifted.

If not for Edil's vigilance, he probably would've burned more than just a single meal.

Somehow, time passed, and before he knew it, he was walking down a small street near the outer wall, a basket of ingredients on his arm and a cowl pulled protectively over his face.

It wasn't the grey one he'd originally shown up with at the Knackered Hag. He'd gotten rid of that one the first chance he'd gotten, and had asked Fylsa to buy him a new one—on his dime, of course. She'd come back with a dark blue one made from spun bamboo that she claimed complemented his eyes.

The soft cloth rubbed over his chin and mouth, catching his exhales as he stopped in front of a modest, two-story house.

There were cracks in the soft yellow plaster where he could see the grey limestone beneath. Shutters covered the windows, some of the bright red and dark green paint flaking off. However, the flaws didn't detract from the building's charm.

This wasn't just a house. It was a home.

Rylan stood there for a long moment, imagining growing up in a place like this.

While he couldn't see inside, flickers of light leaked past the edges of the shutters. More importantly, however, there was one bright light that passed right through them—at least for Rylan.

A bright blue light. There was a Sapphire-Grade Quinthar in the house.

The thought of this being a trap had crossed Rylan's mind. But, no, he was being paranoid. He had basically invited himself, after all.

'How many people are there in the house?' he asked Arphin, just to be safe.

[Just two, Boss! The girl you met today, and a man.]

'What are they doing?'

[Ooh! I know this one: they're playing a card game! And I don't think either of them is cheating. Though the girl does seem to be doing most of the card-handling...]

Rylan's brows drew together. It sounded like Artoran was hurt perhaps more badly than he'd realised. Still, that meant this was unlikely to be a trap and therefore... he had no excuse to keep stalling.

He swallowed and wiped his hands on his britches, his palms sweaty despite the relative chill in the nightly air.

This was it. He was about to meet a man who'd sent him a rather mysterious letter and, for better or worse, find out a little more about his own past.

Gathering himself, he walked up to the door and knocked.

Muted footsteps came towards the door, so he lowered his cowl.

Leahna opened the door, a big smile breaking out on her face when she spotted him. She looked a little less put together than she had in the afternoon. She had on the same dress, but her hair was pulled back with a white hairband, some strands sticking out, appearing matted to her forehead with sweat. "Milord! Come in, come in, please—don't mind the mess, I haven't had much time to tidy..."

Rylan stepped onto the bamboo mat in the spotless, clutter-free hallway, hesitating a moment before he handed Leahna the basket and started taking off his leather boots and coat.

Leahna glanced at the container curiously. "Shall I set this up in the kitchen for you, milord?"

"Please."

Rylan's heart pounded, his throat dry as he followed her into a cosy kitchen. The central piece of the room was a round dining table made of polished grey limestone. And sitting at it in a big leather chair, was a man who looked to be in his thirties, with shaggy, dark-brown hair and deep violet eyes, wearing a dark-brown blazer with a bowtie over a neatly pressed white blouse.

The main thing that surprised Rylan was the man's apparent youthfulness. In his head, he'd pictured someone like Bryce Thistlethorn, Soren's greying, dignified father. Then again, Soren had been a rather late addition to the family...

Either way, Rylan once again felt there were definite similarities to be found in their facial features, from the crook of the man's nose to his cleft chin, but nothing conclusive.

And thankfully, the man's nose was a perfectly normal shade, without a hint of redness, suggesting the nickname had more to do with his shenanigans in the Knackered Hag than anything else.

Rylan tried not to be too obvious about how thoroughly he was studying the man, especially when his eyes flicked down to the man's legs, which were covered with a blanket.

"Thar Ironbeard," Artoran spoke with an easy-going smile, as he raised his hand in the traditional Quinthar salute. "Well met."

Rylan reciprocated the gesture. The blue glow coming from Artoran's chest brightened a little as Ethereon showed them a glimpse of each other's spirits.

Artoran lowered his hand again, but not before Rylan saw a sudden twitch in the man's fingers. "You'll have to forgive me for not getting up to greet you. My legs seem to be a bit tired today."

Rylan resisted the urge to glance down at the man's unmoving lower limbs again. Instead, he took a deep breath. "That's all right. I won't stand on ceremony with family."

The man blinked. "Oh? Are we related, Thar Ironbeard?"

"I was hoping you could tell me, actually," Rylan replied, licking his dry lips. "And feel free to drop the title. You can just call me... Rylan."

The man's smile dropped, his eyes widened. "R-Rylan?!" he breathed. "Rylan Thistlethorn?!"

It was Rylan's turn to be shocked, and he stared at the man in surprise.

Leahna turned around from where she was unpacking the basket onto a kitchen counter, looking confused. If Rylan had to guess though, she seemed to be reacting more to the shaking in her father's voice than the name he'd just uttered.

"Well... Rylan Cloudgift, actually," he corrected. "But yes, I was raised by the Thistlethorns. I guess it's safe to say then that you're the one who wrote me this letter?"

Rylan pulled the small bamboo tube from his hip pocket, and placed it on the table.

The man didn't even glance at it, his eyes glued to Rylan. "Great Spirits... I can't believe you're here—Helen wrote you'd gone missing in the cloudsea!"

So the Thistlethorns do know him!

"I did get lost in the cloudsea," Rylan admitted. "It's a long story, but... I'm here now. And if you don't mind, I have some questions." As he spoke, Rylan pulled the little cork from the tube, shook out the rolled-up letter, and carefully unfurled it, fighting to keep his fingers and voice from trembling. "Starting with... what word did you write here, and why did you cross it out?"

Artoran glanced down at the letter, then back up, his mouth falling slack. "They... She never told you?"

"Dad?" Leahna asked hesitantly, coming closer. "What's going on? Do you... know each other?"

Artoran's red-rimmed eyes flicked back and forth between them. "Leah, sweetie... This young man is someone I've been wanting to introduce you to for a very long time. This... is Rylan. He is my son, and your half-brother."

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