Boreal

Chapter Three

Their apartment was cold, and silent and still. He couldn't help the relieved sigh as it escaped his lips. Ptarmigan shrugged off his cloak, hanging it over the rack as Shyam swept in behind him, down the hallway into the main room.

A second passed, and then she was back, confirming his suspicions.

"We're back before them." She hesitated, the added, do you think Ciarran actually saw us?"

"Probably not," he said, trying to reassure her, "for a creature with four eyes, he's blinder than a bat."

"He was looking right at us, though."

"He would've called us up on it, Ciarran doesn't let things like that be," he pressed as they made their way into the main room.

It was tall, and narrow, and simple. The wooden floor was coated in a thin layer of dirt, the frayed carpet far too wide, to the point where it had been folded up at the edges. The room backed directly onto a narrow balcony, the city twinkling, reflected like the memory of another world entirely in the glass doors.

Two beds had been pushed up against the far wall, both made up and untouched, a chest tucked away beneath each. A low couch sat in the opposite corner, almost blocking the hallway so he had to jump over the arm, flopping into the cushions. Shyam settled on the back of the couch, whistling softly as she began the task of preening her feathers.

The ceiling plaster was cracked and faded, and he found himself tracing each of the fractures, listening to the dull thud of footsteps drifting through the floorboards as the other racers returned home for the night.

He'd barely managed to get his breath back, debating lighting a lantern and pretending he'd been there for gongs and gongs, when there was a thud from the balcony. Ptarmigan's heart leapt into his throat, and Shyam stilled, but he kept his composure, turning his head lazily to face the doors.

He was a monster, a veiled nightmare perched like a bird on the balcony railings, his clawed hands curled around the rusting metal, feet braced against the stone. Ciarran leant forwards, breath fogging the glass before he caught the boy's gaze. His lips parted, muttering something to the man on his back as Ptarmigan forced himself to his feet.

He was quick to open the door, darting back as the great dragon ducked inside. Ciarran paid the boy little attention as he lowered himself just enough for the figure perched on his back to ease himself to the ground.

Siskin was still in his riding suit, with the addition of a racing mask – fashioned into a beetle's head – to keep the wind out of his eyes when flying. Siskin reached back to unhook the clasps around his ears and pulled the mask off, dropping it onto the crumpled sheets. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his eyes were hard.

"What are you playing at, Tarm?"

Ptarmigan balked, feigning ignorance.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Tarm, please." His instructor sighed, pulling the gloves from his numb hands. "I got notice you weren't in class in the middle of a meeting- "

"-the Paters are boring-"

"-and then you sneak up onto a sarding roof to earwig! That was a sanctioned meeting, if you'd have been caught, by the Triumvirate, I don't even want to think about what would've happened."

"You weren't talking about anything important, anyway," he grumbled.

Siskin's expression softened as he passed his cloak up to Ciarran, the dragon picking his way past the three of them, heading down the hallway to the coatrack. Ptarmigan turned his gaze away, focusing instead on the necklace dangling around his instructor's neck – a silver triangle he'd taken to wearing since they'd arrived in the city – anything to avoid his gaze.