05-26-2025, 04:07 PM
Quillon studied her smile. Not patronizing. That surprised him. Most who didn’t know the Brotherhood had one of two expressions: reverence or doubt. She had neither. His eyes narrowed slightly as she spoke. Not suspicious, just... watching her. Measuring.
“You picked well.” It came out without thought. That happened more often lately. Since the healing. Since the Brotherhood. He glanced down at his hand, now bandaged up properly, the skin still warm beneath the wrap. The contrast of tenderness over a scraped hand lingered with him longer than it should have.
When she told him not to hold it against the man, Quillon looked past her, toward the alley the aggressor had vanished into. He was silent for a moment before quietly responding. “I don’t.” He said it with a sense of certainty, though he wasn’t sure it was entirely true.
He accepted her outstretched hand only after another thoughtful moment. Not because he questioned her intention, but because instinct made him cautious about leaning on others. Still, he clasped her wrist, firm, grounded. As he rose, he gave her a small nod. Something almost like acknowledgment. Or perhaps respect.
“Most people don't show much. But I don’t do this for thanks.” He adjusted his coat, which flared from his shoulders more like a cape. His gaze lingered on her face, studying her again, more openly this time. She was calm. Clean. Kind.
“You’re not part of the Brotherhood.” Not a question. An observation. He looked away, back at the street, voice quiet but steady. “But you serve all the same. You're not being paid for this job?”
“You picked well.” It came out without thought. That happened more often lately. Since the healing. Since the Brotherhood. He glanced down at his hand, now bandaged up properly, the skin still warm beneath the wrap. The contrast of tenderness over a scraped hand lingered with him longer than it should have.
When she told him not to hold it against the man, Quillon looked past her, toward the alley the aggressor had vanished into. He was silent for a moment before quietly responding. “I don’t.” He said it with a sense of certainty, though he wasn’t sure it was entirely true.
He accepted her outstretched hand only after another thoughtful moment. Not because he questioned her intention, but because instinct made him cautious about leaning on others. Still, he clasped her wrist, firm, grounded. As he rose, he gave her a small nod. Something almost like acknowledgment. Or perhaps respect.
“Most people don't show much. But I don’t do this for thanks.” He adjusted his coat, which flared from his shoulders more like a cape. His gaze lingered on her face, studying her again, more openly this time. She was calm. Clean. Kind.
“You’re not part of the Brotherhood.” Not a question. An observation. He looked away, back at the street, voice quiet but steady. “But you serve all the same. You're not being paid for this job?”
![[Image: Quillon-signature.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/07/Quillon-signature.jpg)