Page 58 of Shadowfox

And holy shit.

The flyer . . .

The top-left corner was torn, a clean diagonal, not ragged—deliberate.

It felt like my breath released after hours underwater.

I stepped back, counted to seven, turned and walked toward the tram, then veered off into an alley and circled back toward the taxi stand.

The bell above the door jingled, and for a heartbeat I stood in the threshold, the cold trailing in behind me like a second shadow.

The warmth hit me first—not just physical, though the scent of roasting meat and wood smoke did their best to chase off the chill in my bones. No, it was the warmth of something quieter: familiar voices murmuring over shared plates, carefree laughter low and close, a fire crackling in a hearth that didn’t need to be lit but was anyway, just for the sake of comfort of the heart.

The restaurant was old, its walls stained through decades of survival. It soared with vaulted ceilings, dark wood beams, and light that softened everything. In the far corner, tucked beneath a lamp that cast their faces in amber, were Thomas and Will. They were watching the door—of course they were—but only Thomas gave the smallest nod when he saw me. Will grinned—not the wide American grin he wore for crowds, but the quiet one he saved for his closest friends, the one that said, “You’re safe. We’re here. Come sit down.”

I peeled off my coat and wove through the tables, careful not to walk too fast, careful not to look like someone who’d just spent ten hours waiting for a piece of torn paper to decide her fate.

“Good evening,mes ami,” I said, sliding into the chair across from them. “Still speaking to each other, I see? Miraculous.”

Will poured me a glass of wine without missing a beat. “Only because we took a vow of silence halfway through our first glass of wine.”

“Lies,” Thomas said, sipping his own. “He hasn’t stopped talking since we sat down.”

“Must’ve been agony for you,” I snarked.

“It always is,” Thomas replied.

The banter was easy and practiced. It was necessary.

It was also genuine and true.

I loved these boys in ways only those bonded through war and repeated near-disasters understood. Being with them filled my heart with purpose and longing—and something deeper—hope. Despite their best efforts to mask it, their love flowed so easily between them that I couldn’t help but find inspiration and joy in their eyes.

The wine was warm, dry, and rich with something like cloves. I let it sit on my tongue and then swallowed.

“I saw an interesting thing today,” I said, just above the hum of conversation. “Did you know there is a jazz concert in town?”

Thomas chuckled, his brows shooting up, as he lifted his wine glass. “You don’t say?”

I smiled. “Oh, yes. I hear it is all the rage. Hungary is such a capital of culture.”

Will coughed out a laugh.

“What have you heard about this . . . concert?” he asked.

“Oh, only that it is well advertised.” I waved a casual hand through the air. “Unfortunately, the Soviets have yet to rid this city of ruffians. Everywhere I looked were flyers for these players, but each was torn in such a reckless manner. It was disheartening to see.”

Will blew out a breath.

Thomas didn’t move.

I reached across, plucked Will’s wine glass from his hands, and tossed back the last of his drink, letting a playful grin part my lips.

“That’s one step,” Thomas said.

“When did you see this flyer?”

“Half past five. I came straight here.”

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