Archive of Our Own ^beta

     Qibli has never been the type to get his hopes up.

     —or so he’d like to say, but unfortunately he was, is, and will always be a hopeless romantic. Especially when it comes to certain stupid IceWing princes.

     Said stupid IceWing prince seems to sense his gaze on him, because he looks up at Qibli, eyebrow raised judgmentally. Qibli shrugs back, a little grin tucked in the corners of his mouth.

     “Nothing,” Qibli tells him. “Just a thought.”

     Winter feigns shock. “You have those?”

     Qibli laughs and lunges at him in retaliation, throwing himself on top of the other boy so they both flop over in the damp grass, definitely staining Winter’s cloak. Winter wriggles for a bit in protest, muttering about rude SandWings with no manners, but eventually settles down, much to Qibli’s delight. He rolls over onto his stomach so he can prop his chin up on his hands and grin at Winter.

     Thank all the moons that Thorn can’t see him right now, because she’d laugh at him for a solid hour.

     “You don’t weigh very much,” Winter mutters, seemingly to himself.

     Qibli pouts and pokes him in the cheek. “Hey! Are you saying I’m stunted? Rude!”

     Winter makes a face that says he was, in fact, saying that, but what comes out of his mouth is, “No, I just thought you’d be heavier. Dense, like your head. Like one of those obnoxious rodents.”

     “There are so many things wrong with everything you just said,” Qibli protests. “But the most important: are you referring to a lemming or an ermine? I’ll accept ermine, they’re cute and soft. A lemming is just offensive though. I’m not that dumb!”

     “Sure,” Winter snorts, looking amused. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, and Qibli’s gaze catches on the sweep of his eyelashes, the little curve to his mouth. Abruptly, he realizes how close he and Winter are, and buries his head in his arms to hide his blush.

     This conveniently puts him even closer to Winter, a fact that he only realizes afterwards, all but plastered against the IceWing.

     Qibli makes a sound of despair that probably sounds like a yowling sand cat, and Winter lifts his head just enough to glance down at Qibli, that same eyebrow raised again.

     “Nothing,” Qibli says. “Absolutely nothing.”

     “Suuure,” Winter agrees. “How close are we?”

     For a single, heartstopping second, Qibli thinks he’s talking about them—as in, Qibli-and-Winter them—and then he realizes he’s being dumb again, and Winter’s just asking about the distance to the Scorpion Den.

     “Tomorrow we’ll hit the desert before noon,” Qibli says, propping himself up with one arm so he can point over Winter’s head. “We’ll arrange a ride so we’re not walking the entire time—there’s too much of a chance someone will report seeing you. Probably two days left?”

     “Okay,” Winter says, uncharacteristically soft, smiling faintly.

     Qibli imagines him smiling like that under the desert sun, golden sand surrounding him for miles, and nearly has a heart attack. Which is stupid, because obviously it’s not that big a deal to travel to the desert—except Winter kind of left behind his entire family and life to follow him there. So maybe it’s a bit of a big deal, even if Winter doesn’t seem to think so and Qibli doesn’t act like it.

     “Ugh,” Qibli mumbles. “Too many thoughts.”

     “Your poor brain probably can’t handle the stress,” Winter says, but his voice is still weirdly soft so it sounds less like his usual snippy attitude and more… well, if Qibli didn’t know better he’d probably describe it as sweet.

     Something lands on top of Qibli’s head, and he takes a moment to realize it’s Winter’s hand, his fingers running gently through his hair. Qibli’s brain kind of dies, rendering him a useless puddle of human.

     “Go to sleep, you idiot,” Winter says gently, barely a whisper. “The thoughts will still be there tomorrow morning.”

     “That’s the unfortunate bit,” Qibli whispers back.

     He closes his eyes and imagines the desert, the scorching heat and the little jeweled oases and the prickly plants and stucco cities. He thinks of Winter, the images in his mind filling in with icy blue and white. Before he knows it, he’s asleep.

     Qibli rises with the sun, and the first thing he sees is Winter still asleep, hair spread around him like a halo, unbearably soft under the light of the sunrise. Qibli rolls himself away and up, and goes to do normal Qibli-traveling-places things. He drinks some water, checks his belongings, checks his compass, and then spends a half-hour foraging for berries to eat.

     Winter wakes up just as Qibli returns, humming some tune he picked up from one of the older Outclaws, teeth stained with wild blueberry juice.

     “Morning, beautiful,” Qibli’s dumb mouth says, without his input.

     Either Winter is too polite to mention it—extremely unlikely, considering his everything—or he’s so tired that he doesn’t notice. He yawns when he sits up, and Qibli was totally right about the grass stains but he gets kind of distracted by the way Winter’s hair slips over his shoulder, soft and whiter than snow, miraculously smooth after a night spent on the forest floor.

     “Breakfast,” Qibli says, putting the berries in front of Winter. Before he can stop himself, he asks, “Want me to do your hair?”

     “Thanks,” Winter says, and then squints at him. “Hair? Why?”

     “No reason,” Qibli answers. “Just felt like it.”

     “I don’t think I trust you anywhere near my head,” Winter sniffs. This is so blatantly untrue that Qibli grins, prepared to list all the times Winter has, in fact, trusted Qibli somewhere near his head. Perhaps sensing the impending recital, Winter gives in.

     “Nothing ridiculous.”

     “Why, I’m the least ridiculous person you’ll ever meet,” Qibli assures him. “The most seriousest.”

     Winter huffs, and maybe he thinks that he can hide his smile by stuffing his mouth with berries but Qibli sees it anyway.

     As Winter eats, Qibli gently combs his fingers through Winter’s hair, sectioning it and twisting it, remembering how Thorn or Six-Claws used to do his own, on days when they had extra time. He pulls some parts back and leaves others loose, pinning them in place with the little gold clips he always carries—normally for himself or Ostrich, or Sunny on one of her rare visits.

     When he puts the last clip in place, he steps back to admire his work. Winter turns around with his usual judgemental eyebrow raised, and Qibli beams at him.

     “So, how do you like it?”

     “Qibli,” Winter says, exasperated. “I can’t see the back of my head.”

     “Oh,” Qibli frowns. “Darn. Let me see if I have a mirror.”

     “Why on earth would you carry a mirror?” Winter asks, rolling his eyes. He busies himself with picking up the remains of their little campsite, while Qibli riffles through his bag.

     Because Qibli is a gracious and wonderful person, he doesn’t say anything to that. He does in fact carry a mirror—three, actually, and he hands two to Winter so he can check his hair.

     “Why do you have these?” Winter asks, incredulous. He still takes them, but not without a weird look.

     “They’re useful,” Qibli protests. He chatters at Winter while he tries to move the mirrors into a place he can see easily. “Rudimentary telescopes, starting fires, looking at things around corners, misdirections—”

     He cuts himself off when he looks at Winter’s expression. The IceWing is grinning, a bright, happy thing that Qibli has never seen before. Winter looks up at him and the smile doesn’t fade, even as he hands the mirrors back to Qibli.

     “Thanks, Qibli,” Winter says. And because he’s still Winter, he only admits grudgingly, “It’s pretty.”

     “Well of course,” Qibli agrees. He manages to stop himself from saying everything about you is pretty, but only barely.

     With nothing left to do, Qibli links his arm through Winter’s and pulls him in the correct direction, weaving through trees he knows by heart. He’s made the journey back and forth between the Scorpion Den and IceWing palace more times than he can count (a lie, it’s been exactly eleven), and he’s memorized all the paths and quirks of the landscape between them, the shortcuts and dangers and everything else.

     Winter keeps reaching up to touch his hair with a hand though, and it’s distracting Qibli. Enough that he almost walks into a tree.

     “Idiot,” Winter says, pulling him out of the way.

     “Aw,” Qibli pretends to swoon. “My hero! How cool and uh…heroic!”

     Winter rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t pull away, so Qibli counts that as a win. Just a few hours until they’re back in the desert. He can totally do this.

     Qibli was wrong. He cannot, in fact, do this.

     Even in his plainest clothes, Winter looks too sparkly, too pretty, too IceWing to go unnoticed. So like the genius he is, he makes Winter switch out his cloak to one of Qibli’s, a large swath of beige fabric that drapes his shoulders, with a hood to hide some of his distinctive hair. And Qibli’s brain keeps thinking Winter and my clothes and then Winter mine which is just. SO not helpful.

     Winter glances over at him, eyes even sharper than usual with the rest of his face shadowed by the hood. Not many SandWings have blue eyes, but then again, they’re not really trying to make Winter look like a SandWing, just anything but an IceWing.

     “Ready to go?” Winter asks.

     “Always,” Qibli winks at him. He glances down at his compass one more time, just to double check, and then they’re off again.

     Winter keeps making faces, unused to the feeling of walking over sand. Qibli can’t relate, honestly—even as a baby, he knew how to walk over the dunes, how to shift his weight so he didn’t sink too far. Still, Winter doesn’t complain at all. A year ago, he would have been sure that the IceWing prince was too used to palace life to walk for days on end.

     “The city is up there,” Qibli says, pointing to a little blur on the horizon. They’d stopped out of sight of even the sky scouts when they swapped cloaks, so as not to alert them of anything, and the city had only just become visible. If someone were to look out of the watchtowers now, they’d see just two pinpricks of shadow against the endless sand.

     “How large is it?” Winter asks, squinting.

     “Pretty small,” Qibli wiggles a hand back and forth. “Like… a thousand or so people live there. It's mostly a rotating cast of guards, but there’s a good night market there, and a few year round residents.”

     “Night market?”

     “It’s not actually only at night,” Qibli answers. “But that’s the best time, so I’ll have to take you there another time.”

     He immediately wonders if he should have said that at all—who’s to say there will even be a next time?—but it’s too late to take it back, and anyway Winter doesn’t seem bothered.

     The rest of the walk up to the city is spent in relative silence, Qibli lost in thought and Winter apparently still entranced by the scenery. The dark shadow of the city walls looms over them, and Winter stops abruptly, blinking rapidly to adjust to the sudden lack of light. Qibli waits for him patiently, pulling out a gold coin and rolling it through his fingers, watching the barely-there glint of the metal disappear in the gloom.

     When Winter looks like he can see again, Qibli links his arm through the IceWing’s and drags them over to a gate in the wall. He gives the guard a cheeky salute and a grin, and the guard frowns.

     “Good afternoon, sir,” Qibli chirps. He hands the coin to the guard. “When does the soonest caravan for the Scorpion Den leave?”

     “Tomorrow at dawn,” the guard says. “Scorpion Den, are you sure?”

     “Course,” Qibli answers. “I’m long-overdue a visit home.”

     The guard pales and quickly allows them to pass, without even chancing a peek at Winter. Whether it’s because he thinks Qibli is just a regular thug from the Sand Kingdom’s den of thieves or an Outclaw, it works like a charm.

     “Huh,” Winter says softly, as soon as they’ve rounded a corner and vanished into the crowd of moving people. He’s watching Qibli with a look he’s never seen before, and it makes him a little nervous.

     “What?”

     “Nothing,” Winter answers. “I’ve just never seen you… like that. People respect you a lot here.”

     “Did you get too used to me being a scruffy little trespasser in your palace?” Qibli teases him.

     “Sure,” Winter lifts his nose into the air. “You have too little dignity, it’s your own fault.”

     “It’s not my fault, you’re just too pretty to focus around,” Qibli’s mouth answers, before his brain can tell it to shut up.

     Winter whirls around, and Qibli thinks he’s blushing, but he’s too busy avoiding eye contact to be sure. Instead he uses the arm still linked with Winter’s to pull them quickly down the main street.

     “I smell food,” Qibli says quickly. “What are you allergic to? Maybe rattlesnake, sometimes they use trace amounts of venom in the sauce. Turtles? Cactus?”

     “I’m allergic to kiwis,” Winter answers after a slightly awkward pause. “That’s it, I think.”

     “Great!” Qibli says. He’s genuinely excited, to the point he forgets about being embarrassed and turns to face Winter. “There’s a stall that sells imported salted squid from the SeaWings, but with local seasonings. Tortoise has been expensive the last few months but it’s really quite worth it, and some cactus flowers are delicious when roasted.”

     “Sure,” Winter says, looking amused. “Why not.”

     Soon enough, they reach the stand Qibli was talking about, run by a shrewd old woman who definitely deals snake venom and Qibli is absolutely convinced once tried to kill his mother. The fact that she survived through Cobra’s pursuit is already worthy of respect, in his opinion, but she also makes the best grilled squid outside of the Scorpion Den.

     Qibli buys two skewers, pays with a glass vial of clear liquid he refuses to explain to Winter, and drags them off to the next place, also refusing to acknowledge the lady’s comments about settling down and new interesting friends.

     “One bag,” Qibli says at the next stand they stop at, gesturing with his half-finished squid. “How much?”

     He makes a face at the price and wastes several minutes bargaining it down, while Winter slowly finishes eating behind them. In the end, Qibli makes a sound of triumph and takes his purchase, stuffing the rest of his skewer inside his mouth.

     “Liked it?” Qibli asks.

     “Chew with your mouth shut,” Winter scolds him. “It was good.”

     Qibli shuts his mouth obediently and gives Winter a thumbs up. When he finishes, he tosses his and Winter’s skewers into the next trash can they pass, somewhere in someone else’s yard.

     “I think that’s illegal,” Winter says idly.

     “Laws,” Qibli scoffs at him. “They’re optional if you don’t get caught.”

     Winter rolls his eyes, and Qibli grins back at him, opening the paper bag, the bottom already soaked with oil. He pulls out a sunset-pink flower covered in crispy flakes of honey and sliced dates, mouth watering.

     Winter makes a face. “It looks messy.”

     “It’s so worth it,” Qibli insists. “Open your mouth.”

     “Huh?”

     “So you don’t get your fingers sticky, obviously,” Qibli answers. “Open.”

     Winter gives him a look that Qibli finds quite cute, vaguely flustered and definitely offended, but eventually grudgingly opens his mouth for Qibli to feed him. He chews the flower carefully, his expression slowly melting into a sticky-sweet kind of satisfaction. Qibli kind of wants to kiss him, in an absolutely normal way.

     “You were right,” Winter admits. His tongue darts out to lick sugar off his lips, and Qibli wants to sink into the floor. “It’s good.”

     “I’m always right,” Qibli declares. He stuffs a flower into his own mouth. “Not as good as Scorpion Den specialties though.”

     Winter looks like he wants to say something to that, probably snarky and with an insult or two for Qibli somewhere in there, but he’s interrupted by a yawn. Qibli does his best to muffle his laugh, but Winter sends a glare in his direction anyway.

     “We’ll get a room at an inn,” Qibli says. “You can get your beauty sleep, and I can plan how to explain myself to Thorn.”

     Winter’s eyebrows furrow in concern. “Are you going to be in trouble for bringing me along?”

     “No,” Qibli answers, although his mind mutters, Yes, just not for the reason you think. “I just left without a warning last time.”

     Winter rolls his eyes, and Qibli wonders if he’s imagining the faint look of relief. “Of course you would.”

     They stop in front of a narrow alley, and Qibli tugs Winter’s hood further over his hair and face before leading him through. At the end is a tall, narrow door, which Qibli ignores in favor of a little window to the side, where an eye blinks back at them, bright in the gloom.

     “Room for one night,” Qibli says, smiling.

     “Window?” a creaky voice rasps back.

     “Of course,” Qibli agrees. He can feel Winter’s suspicious gaze on the back of his head. “Upper floor.”

     “Two gold, room 2-3,” the voice says, and then with a little click, the door swings open.

     “Thank you!” Qibli says brightly. “Expect it within ten minutes.”

     He hears a grumble that sounds vaguely like Outclaws and their paranoia, but nobody stops him and Winter from entering the shadowy building. He leads Winter through a corridor, up a set of stairs, and down another corridor, until they stop in front of a door labeled ‘Floor 2, Room 3’.

     “Wait here a sec,” Qibli says under his breath, so only Winter can hear, and opens the door. It’s dazzlingly bright compared to the hallways, thanks to a window flooding the room with the light of the setting sun. He makes a quick sweep of the room to check for traps or poisons, and then lets Winter in.

     “Make yourself comfortable,” Qibli says, still keeping his voice quiet. “I’m going to pay.”

     Winter nods, pushing the hood back so Qibli can finally see his face again. He goes to inspect the room himself, poking at the furniture, so Qibli slips out the door quietly to deliver the payment.

     “About time,” the voice from before says. After so many years, Qibli doesn’t jump anymore, merely handing his payment over to the owner of the inn. “First time you’ve come with someone. Anything special going on?”

     “Not particularly,” Qibli says cheerfully. “I expect you know who to talk to and who to stay silent around. Delivering a package.”

     “Keep an eye on your belongings,” the owner scoffs in return. “Shiny things get stolen fast, particularly when they have royal lineage.”

     “Whatever you’re implying, don’t,” Qibli answers with a winning smile.

     An eye roll is his only answer, but the owner subsides and vanishes back into the little cubby hole that serves as a lookout, office, and probably a bedroom at the same time. Qibli turns and heads back up the stairs to Winter. He can’t wait until they reach the safety of the Scorpion Den.

     An hour before dawn finds the two of them out of the inn—via the window, Qibli insisted, and he got to watch Winter’s skeptical face as he reluctantly followed him around the building’s trim and down the sketchy staircase that wraps a corner. They approach the edge of the city quickly, through the sluggish crowd that never disperses even in the depth of night.

     Over by a herd of camels, a familiar girl is packing and loading bags.

     “Moon!” Qibli waves. “You’re alive!”

     Moon nearly drops the bag she was holding and whirls around, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “You! Stop disappearing like that! I had to deal with the kids alone! For a month!”

     “Sorry,” Qibli smiles at her. He pulls Winter in front of him to show Moon, drapes himself over his shoulders. “But look what I brought! Isn’t he pretty?”

     “Get off me,” Winter hisses.

     “He loves me, really,” Qibli promises Moon, ignoring him.

     “Very nice,” Moon says, just shy of sarcasm, and turns to Winter. “My name is Moonwatcher, but Moon is just fine. How was your trip? I hope Qibli was nice to you.”

     Winter dips into a little half-bow as he answers, “It’s been well. I’m sorry you have to deal with him when he’s not breaking into IceWing palaces.”

     Moon, because she’s an angel, has the decency to muffle her laugh. Winter, because Qibli has terrible taste, is grinning openly.

     “Any luggage?” Moon asks them, going back to her work. She lashes bags together smoothly and balances them over the backs of the camels, carefully weaving through the herd.

     “Nope,” Qibli answers. “Who else is traveling?”

     “No one today, just goods. Ah, but—Deathbringer’s on loan to us from Queen Glory.”

     Qibli laughs, and Winter looks up, eyes narrowed. “The NightWings?”

     “Deathbringer, assassin extraordinaire,” Qibli agrees. “But he’s basically a deserter at this point. There’s no chance of any plot, so don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

     “Sure,” Winter says skeptically, but he doesn’t push it any further. Qibli knows he would have a few months ago, so he counts it as a win. Winter tips his head at Qibli, “Moonwatcher mentioned kids earlier, but you’re both too young to have children.”

     “Oh, yeah no,” Qibli makes a face. “Not mine. The Outclaw kids. Either their parents are members or Thorn picked them up from the streets. Crazy bunch.”

     “It’s his own fault,” Moon adds, appearing next to them. “He keeps encouraging them.”

     “It’s not my fault,” Qibli complains.

     “Yes it is,” Moon retorts. She places a gentle hand on Winter’s arm, the other on Qibli’s shoulder, and steers them forward. “You go find a camel that won’t bite you. Winter, I’ll show you how to ride one.”

     It isn’t long before they’re all settled in and the caravan is ready to depart. Deathbringer had arrived with his usual dramatic flair and taken up position in the back, with a surprisingly lack of commentary on Winter’s presence but a definite smug look on his face. Moon travels up front to navigate, leaving Qibli to take the left flank out of habit, Winter by his side.

     They go through the city gates on foot, Moon waving her travel papers and a sweet smile at the guards before they can stop them. Once they’re out in the wide expanse of the desert, sun hot over their heads, Qibli allows himself to smile.

     “So,” Deathbringer begins, turning to Qibli. “Care to catch us up on all your fun adventures?”

     “Not particularly,” Qibli answers. As much as he likes Deathbringer, he really doesn’t feel like spilling all the details on where he’s been and what he’s been doing.

     “Aw, come on,” Deathbringer needles. “Not even where you got your new, shiny toy from?”

     “I’m no one’s toy, NightWing,” Winter snaps.

     Qibli pouts to himself. He liked having Winter be all weirdly nice to him, but he’s back to his usual prickly self around other people. Although, he supposes he wouldn’t be Winter if he wasn’t prickly, so Qibli doesn’t mind. Much.

     “Of course,” Deathbringer says, amused. He opens his mouth to say something, but someone must have instilled manners in him since the last time Qibli saw him because he closes it all on his own. They lapse into silence as the caravan moves steadily onwards.

     Just after midday, when the sun is at its highest, they approach an oasis. Moon directs them towards it, and Qibli charms (and bribes) the guards into forgetting they were ever there, letting them pass to the small spring hidden in the shadow of a prickly bush.

     “Winter,” Qibli calls, hopping off his camel and pulling off a long bundle of cloth. “Help me set this up. Deathbringer, refill the water. Moon, can you send a hawk?”

     “Sure,” Moon nods. She wanders off a little aways from their group, whistling one of the hawk calls. Deathbringer waggles his eyebrows a bit at Qibli but obediently leaves to do his task—out in the middle of the desert, energy is wasted on petty arguments.

     Qibli and Winter set up a flimsy canopy of thin cloth, just enough to shade the four of them from the sun, and then Qibli makes Winter sit in the shade while he secures the camels. Deathbringer arrives with the water and helps him finish it up, and then the three of them sit under the canopy and rest in silence.

     As much as the desert is home, it never gets less exhausting to traverse it.

     “I’m so hungry,” Deathbringer complains suddenly. He looks more honest than usual, contemplative instead of smug as he squints into the distance. “That never used to be an issue for me. I think I’ve been spoiled in the rainforest.”

     “Good,” Qibli says, returning Deathbringer’s uncharacteristic admission with a genuine sentiment. “Kinda could use that I think, after everything.”

     Winter snorts. “I’ll say. Why were your ancestors so dumb?”

     “Why were yours?” Deathbringer shoots back, a wry smile twisting the corners of his mouth. “It’s all a big mess, little IceWing.”

     “Yeah,” Winter admits, and he only sounds a little reluctant. “It really is, isn’t it?”

     Moon finds them in that companionable—if a bit melancholy—silence, and smiles gently before sitting down next to Deathbringer. The older NightWing procures a small scroll and begins scribbling something complicated on it, and Winter eyes it with mild interest while Qibli simply gives up and flops back against the sand, closing his eyes.

     He feels quite safe here, and it’s a nice realization. Moon has felt safe for a while, Deathbringer an unexpected and relatively new addition. Winter has always been exciting, been fascinating and brilliant and every fancy word Qibli could pull from his brain, but he’s never been safe before. He thinks he could get used to this.

     It’s too soon when he hears shuffling around him, Moon and Deathbringer packing up their canopy while Winter kicks him lightly to get his attention, apparently lacking the energy to get up and reach him otherwise.

     “Off we go?” Qibli asks. He receives a nod in response, and very quickly they’re back in the unforgiving reach of the desert.

     “So not to be that person,” Deathbringer begins, and Moon turns back enough that Qibli can see her make a face. “But are we there yet?”

     Winter snorts, Moon sighs, and Qibli wiggles a hand back and forth in a deliberately unhelpful answer.

     “So mean,” Deathbringer pouts.

     Likely in an attempt to quell Deathbringer’s complaints, Moon stops them briefly to take out some more substantial food. They’ve been drinking enough water and eating enough salt throughout the day that it’s not quite necessary, but no one complains about more to eat—outside of the oasis-centered cities and travel stops, their options for food are either the goods they’re transporting, or whatever rations they’ve packed.

     Qibli chews through some kind of dried meat that tastes bizarrely like strawberries, and keeps an eye on the horizon. He’s getting more anxious the closer they get to the Scorpion Den, and he’s well aware it has everything to do with the IceWing by his side, grumpily picking at his own meal.

     An hour or so passes before Qibli can make out a blur on the horizon, the familiar silhouette of the boundary wall and towers he knows by heart. It’s a surprisingly pretty wall, maintained meticulously by the Outclaws, even though it hides sinister and unmapped alleys, graffiti and sprawling murals scrawled along the insides.

     “Happy to be home?” Deathbringer calls up to him.

     “Obviously,” Qibli answers.

     Winter lifts his head to study the shape in the distance, blue eyes bright even when he narrows them against the sun’s glare. He’s still wearing Qibli’s cloak, the tassels swaying in a hot gust of air that blows in from the west.

     That’s finally enough to distract Qibli from his thoughts, and he looks sharply at the sky. It’s still clear for now, but he meets Moon’s eyes with a grimace regardless. Wind in the desert is fairly common, but his years of living here—and the more recent years of intensive education under the Outclaws—have given him almost a sixth sense for when a sandstorm is about to start.

     “We need to get a move on,” he says, more for Winter and Deathbringer’s benefit. Raised as a prince and assassin’s heir, respectively, both of them are quick to understand.

     The caravan speeds up, none of them talking any longer as the camels race across the sands. Qibli keeps half his gaze on the sky, and the other half on Winter and the rest of their group. They should be fine, probably.

     In the end, they reach the gates just as the wind begins to pick up sand particles, the air cloudy and harsh against their faces. They pass through a small gate in the wall, the Outclaws on duty warned by the message Moon sent earlier in the day, and then they’re racing to get the camels barricaded safely in the stables. Practically the second they fling themselves behind secure doors, Qibli hears the wind start up in earnest.

     “Three moons, that was close,” Deathbringer mutters, shaking sand out of his hair with a grimace.

     Qibli doesn’t have the breath to answer, just waves a hand in acknowledgement and squints forward into the room they’ve found themselves in.

     “Lucky,” he manages. “It’s got a tunnel—”

     Before he breaks off coughing, as a few stray grains of sand get stuck in his throat.

     “Lead the way, oh great Qibli,” Winter snarks.

     “Shut it, you,” Qibli answers, when he can breathe again. He walks over to the back wall and pokes around until he finds the stone with the keyhole. The matching key dangles on a chain around his neck, and he fits it into the lock, sending the wall sliding down with a truly terrible grinding noise.

     “You need to fix that soon,” Deathbringer complains. “Ugh, my ears.”

     “Not to agree with him,” Winter says. “But that was horrible.”

     Qibli sniffs, beginning the descent down a set of stone steps into the shadowy gloom. “You try fixing two-century-old faulty engineering. We’d have to refit the entire mechanism.

     “Get a tribe from the other continent,” Moon suggests, her voice half-teasing, half-considering. She’s the last one in, and the door slides closed behind her with the same horrible noise. They all cringe.

     “As if,” Qibli sighs, once his ears have recovered. “Ocean travel is so troublesome I’m not sure it’s worth it, unless you have SeaWing technology, and I’m not about to take a walk through the Poison Jungle.”

     “It’s not spectacularly hard,” Winter muses. “The LeafWings send a messenger by the IceWing kingdom often enough you could request a guide.”

     “Well I can’t go there anytime soon,” Qibli points out. “I’m not about to leave you in the middle of a criminal den alone, and you can hardly show up in the kingdom again without someone catching you.”

     “Ah,” Winter makes some sort of face at that.

     Deathbringer keeps tapping at the walls as they walk, doing whatever it is that tamed ex-assassins do, so they leave him to it and walk in silence the rest of the way. The tunnels are lit by a set of well-hidden mirrors that bring in sunlight from the outside, normally bright enough to see easily, but now blocked out by the sandstorm over their heads. Qibli spares a thought to thank whoever dug this tunnel in a straight path, with fewer corners to bump into than some of the others that twist and turn more than a pile of snakelings.

     Eventually they reach the end, climbing up another set of stairs and exiting through a—thankfully much quieter—door. They emerge into a storage room, rugs and pillows layered over the floor and boxes stacked against the far wall.

     Immediately, the sounds of pattering feet reach them, and a girl a few years younger than them bursts into the room.

     “Qibli!” Ostrich cries, flinging herself at them.

     Qibli catches her, grinning, and feels her wriggle around to peek at Winter.

     “Ooh, who’s that?”

     “My future husband, obviously,” Qibli answers. Winter chokes behind him.

     “Really?” Ostrich’s head whips around to stare at him. “How did you trick someone that pretty into marrying you?”

     “Ouch,” Qibli protests. Deathbringer snickers, and Moon sighs at all of them, moving past their little huddle to the door.

     “I like you,” Winter decides, pointing at Ostrich. “And don’t listen to Qibli’s lies.”

     “Qibli!” another voice calls, much sharper and a lot less enthusiastic, and Qibli winces.

     “Hi!” he calls back, as Moon opens the door for their newcomer. “Hey Thorn… I’m alive?”

     Thorn raises a very skeptical eyebrow at him, and then Winter at his side, and then turns her look to Ostrich, who squeaks.

     “Sorry Thorn I’m-going-now-bye!”

     “She skipped out on her classes,” Thorn informs them, with a wry quirk of her lips. Her gaze softens when she looks back at them. “Welcome back.”

     “Thanks,” Qibli grins. “I brought someone.”

     “I can tell,” Thorn says, dry as the desert around them. “Welcome to the Scorpion Den, Second Prince Winter.”

     Winter dips into a little graceful bow that makes Qibli smile, before saying, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

     “Oh he’s polite,” Thorn sounds absolutely delighted, which spells very bad things for Qibli in the foreseeable future. “Qibli, wherever did you find him?”

     “Why do people keep being surprised?” Qibli demands, throwing his hands up. “I’m not that bad.”

     “Yes, you are,” Winter and Moon say at the same time. Winter glances at her, she grins back, and they high five. Qibli despairs.

     Thorn cackles at all of them and herds them towards the door, into a familiar hallway lined with tapestries. She loops her arm through Deathbringer’s on the way out, dragging him away from his investigation of the tunnel mechanisms.

     “Qibli, you go report back to Six-Claws, I’m taking these three to get settled in. The sandstorm just cleared up, and I want to hear from this one,” she shakes Deathbringer lightly, “what’s been up around the continent lately.”

     “Yes ma’am,” Qibli says cheekily. He darts off when Thorn makes a mock-threatening gesture, his laughter carrying him down the corridors of the Scorpion Den headquarters.

     His reunion with Six-Claws is a very simple, practiced routine at this point, but the older man still smiles warmly at him and ruffles his hair before he leaves. Qibli takes the paperwork with the reluctant acceptance that it’s his punishment for running off to the Ice Kingdom unannounced, and makes his way to the roof.

     From here, not only does he have a brilliant view of the desert, the compound, and the wider city, but he can walk the Outclaw patrol pathways to get back to his room faster. He leaves behind a trail of footprints in the newly stirred up sand, smiling to himself at the familiar scents and sounds. The clashing of weapons drifts over from a courtyard near the younger initiates, the sound of trickling water faintly in the direction of the Scorpion Den’s oasis, and the air is laced with spices and smoke.

     There’s the sound of laughter somewhere close by, and his grin grows wider when he looks down and to the side and spots Thorn, Winter, and Moon, trailed closely by Deathbringer. Winter’s hood is down in the relative safety of the Outclaws’ center of power, so the sunlight catches on his shock of white hair and the little gold clips still scattered in it. If he squints, it almost looks like a halo.

     “Winter!”

     The four all glance over when he shouts, but his eyes are fixed on Winter. When he sees Qibli, he smiles, just a little bit, and Qibli feels almost like he could fly.

     “Took you long enough!” Thorn calls back. “Get down here, you scoundrel!”

     “Gotta put these away first,” Qibli waves his stack of paperwork, and Thorn laughs loudly at him.

     “Hurry up!” Moon adds. “Or I’ll steal your so-called future husband away from you. He’s much more well behaved!”

     “Don’t you dare!” Qibli gasps, affronted. “Winter, be a darling and wait for me.”

     He pauses just long enough for Winter to give him a sarcastic salute before dashing towards his room. Somehow he knows, despite all the snappy remarks and eye rolls, despite their odd first meeting and strange dynamic, that whenever he returns the IceWing will be right where he left him. Shiny and pretty as always, oddly comforting, so very Winter in the middle of the desert, beneath the scorching sun.