Damien
oh, let's take a chance and roll the bones
try to forget all them enemies and debts
try to forget all them enemies and debts
Damien huffed a soft laugh at the jab, his mouth quirking as if the words slid right past him. “What can I say? Had to happen sometime, huh?” he said dryly, though the faint weight behind Thorn’s words lingered just long enough to echo. It was easy enough to shrug off, to let the good-natured tone smooth over whatever thought tried to surface.
He lifted his glass again, watching Thorn over the rim as the younger man lit his cigarette and explained himself. Damien’s brows ticked up a fraction at the shift from architecture to courtesan—though there was no judgment in his eyes, only the measured curiosity of someone turning a thought over in his head. “That’s… a change,” he admitted after a beat, the words slow, careful. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Guess you weren’t kidding about the rooms being magical if they can make you stay in one place.”
Still, he couldn’t help the flicker of concern, however well hidden. Halovian fathers were rarely forgiving, and Thorn’s had been harsher than most. Damien let that thought hang unspoken, letting Thorn choose whether to fill the silence with more detail.
The roar of the crowd spiked again, pulling Damien’s attention sideways. Another knife spun end-over-end toward the target, but the hulking newcomer had stepped up now, thick arms moving with surprising precision. Steel hit the board dead-center with a crack that carried over the music, drawing gasps and jeers from the crowd. Coins exchanged hands quick as gulls diving for scraps. One man shouted too loud, already drunk, and stumbled dangerously close to the line of competitors. Damien’s gaze narrowed slightly, a hunter’s instinct pricking at the back of his neck, but he leaned back again against the railing, glass loose in hand.
“You’ll have to tell me more about this House of Midnight,” he said at last, voice low, almost casual. “Sounds like the kind of place that’s never short on stories.”
He lifted his glass again, watching Thorn over the rim as the younger man lit his cigarette and explained himself. Damien’s brows ticked up a fraction at the shift from architecture to courtesan—though there was no judgment in his eyes, only the measured curiosity of someone turning a thought over in his head. “That’s… a change,” he admitted after a beat, the words slow, careful. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Guess you weren’t kidding about the rooms being magical if they can make you stay in one place.”
Still, he couldn’t help the flicker of concern, however well hidden. Halovian fathers were rarely forgiving, and Thorn’s had been harsher than most. Damien let that thought hang unspoken, letting Thorn choose whether to fill the silence with more detail.
The roar of the crowd spiked again, pulling Damien’s attention sideways. Another knife spun end-over-end toward the target, but the hulking newcomer had stepped up now, thick arms moving with surprising precision. Steel hit the board dead-center with a crack that carried over the music, drawing gasps and jeers from the crowd. Coins exchanged hands quick as gulls diving for scraps. One man shouted too loud, already drunk, and stumbled dangerously close to the line of competitors. Damien’s gaze narrowed slightly, a hunter’s instinct pricking at the back of his neck, but he leaned back again against the railing, glass loose in hand.
“You’ll have to tell me more about this House of Midnight,” he said at last, voice low, almost casual. “Sounds like the kind of place that’s never short on stories.”
