Relief, but not for long.

In the moment it took to turn his head to see the man, his heart had skipped a beat, almost frantic. But soon, it resumed its normal rhythm; the man was not who he feared. It was someone else; a traveller, like him and Miraye, perhaps. He was tall, dressed in dark greys, and a velvet hood clung to the sides of his face. Tic tore his glance from the man after a few seconds, as if making sure it wasn't the guardian in disguise, and brought his stare back into the golden liquid.

It seemed almost as if Miraye could read minds, and though he would rather keep his thoughts private, he was glad she brought them up instead of him. Images of being captured and brought back to the castle kept replaying in his head, but Miraye's words were assuring, and he tried not to think of it.

And he remembered the girl, Stelon, was that her name? She was the girl who danced with the Shrike, who screamed accusations at Miraye, who had come to rescue him. He wasn't sure who's side she stood by, but now she was with the Shrike, and Tic knew all too well the dangers of being in Larkin's care. It suddenly worried him, this young girl being with such a man. But would they rescue her and they had tried to rescue him?

And they would need to earn the money, of course; he hadn't thought of that. The idea didn't seem too unpleasant, but didn't seem too appealing either. He had worked before, when he was younger, and when he was in The Sink. But back then, he didn't have people after him. It would be dangerous, but if it was the only way to help him return to The Sink safely, he would do it.

His fingers rested around the warmth of the goblet, and he watched Miraye as she swallowed her sixth glass. He nodded.

"Yes," he said after the moments of silence. "We'll need to work."

"Good," muttered Miraye as she took the emptied glass from her lips. The bartender continued cleaning his mugs, but looked expectantly at him and Miraye, probably wondering the same thing as Tic had thought about their payment. He waited patiently, and when Miraye had signaled for another run, he stopped rubbing the cloth against the glass. He opened his mouth, about to ask to see some money first, but was suddenly cut off by the violent creak of the door.

The footsteps were heavy, and didn't fall with ease. An almost jangled noise came from him, the sounds of metal against metal, or perhaps chains or shackles. You could almost hear the breathing from under his bearded face, the rigidity of his stature as he walked. Tic didn't need to turn his head to see him; he could feel the man's presence, could see the solid black uniform out of the corner of his eye. He could feel the man's eyes roll over the tavern, searching, and then, the realization as they finally landed on him.

The Guardian had found the boy at last. Surely Larkin would be pleased.