The parade and the subsequent festivities had set Skia alight with joy. It was unlike anything Regan had ever seen and had she been a young footsoldier like Ber or Zarha, she would have allowed herself to be caught up in it. She’d be at the taverns, drinking and singing and carrying on throughout the night.

But the calculus had changed since then. Regan had recently reclaimed her title as the King’s Huntsman. She was a wolf, close to the full moon, ready to break out of her skin given the right—or wrong—set of circumstances. Drinking at a tavern was the last place she needed to be. One little brawl might be enough to put her over the edge (and given her history, Regan always seemed to find them).

So instead, Regan had decided to go reclaim a little dignity. Or at least, that’s what she told herself as she mozied down the hall toward Warren’s office with a tin of polish and a rag in one hand and a bottle of fine whiskey in the other. A deal was a deal, and Regan intended to make good on it. She also intended to prove she was capable of being a normal person, capable of normal human interaction. That she wasn’t always stripping down and trying to jump men in the woods.

This is what she intended to prove, anyway.

Regan, who had also shed her armor down to her tunic and leggings, wrapped on the door with her knuckles. This is where she’d been told Warren would be. Seemed the younger recruits had gotten pretty good at tracking his whereabouts—surely so that they could avoid punishment for any of thier mischevious exploits, lest he discover them.

Regan stood there, equally stunned by Warren in the flesh. She swallowed, managing with some difficulty to keep her eyes on his face and keep her cheeks from turning red. Just a perfectly normal social call. That’s all this was going to be. Regan, so help her goddess, was going to keep her little hellfire hands to herself.

Regan stepped inside and looked around. It was spartan but neat, as she would have expected from a man like Warren. His joke pulled her attention back to him and solicited a single bark of laughter. “Practice makes perfect, isn’t that what they say?” Regan followed him and, when the desk was clear, plunked the tin down on the desk before turning and offering Warren the bottle with a smirk.

“A deal’s a deal. Let’s see those boots.”

It was expensive, which is about all that Regan knew when it came to whiskey. She assumed that meant it was good. All Regan really cared about was that it did its job.

She followed Warren’s gaze to his boots. Yes, with the parade, Regan should have known that a man like Warren would have the leather glistening. But still, it had slipped Regan’s mind. Because it wasn’t about the boots, was it? It was about something else entirely. Something that made Regan sad to have the task stolen from her.

At least there was whiskey.

“As you wish,” Regan responded with a small sigh. With a dearth of setting in the room, after a moment’s hesitation, she went to the sofa which she sank into as if to be swallowed.

"I suppose congratulations are in order, Captain." She grinned, waiting for her whiskey.

“No, it’s…cozy,” Regan said, searching momentarily for a word that wasn’t a synonym for dilapidated. Besides, she was going to have trouble getting out of it, and wanted to delay the struggle as long as possible. Warren sat and Regan relaxed back, crossing her legs in an unladylike fashion.

She chuckled at the mention of Othello, taking a long sip from her glass. It was good stuff. Smoky with a hint of sweetness. Appropriate somehow.

“He did his training justice, that’s for sure. A true Nevermeran soldier, despite all evidence to the contrary. I’ve taken him as far as I can. Now, on to the next thing,” Regan sighed, “For both of us, I guess.” Her dark eyes flickered up to Warren from where they’d been staring into her glass.

Regan grinned—a broad, toothy, mischievous grin.

“If I told you,” she whispered dramatically, “I’d have to kill you.” She took a sip of her whiskey as she chuckled. The truth was she already knew where she was off to next: Cambria, to arrest whatever disgruntled native had started to brand her own kind. But that would be a brief mission—one that hopefully would lturn out better than her escapade in Coheed.

There are worse ways to die.

The wolf rustled beneath her skin. In the silence, Regan’s cheeks burned pink as her eyes involuntarily wandered across Warren with a hungry sort of longing. After a moment, she buried herself in her whiskey glass, trying to relieve the itch in her fingers to reach for what she shouldn’t.

It took her a moment to register what he was saying, but eventually, Regan blinked and responded. “Yeah, uh, Coheed. I’d been there before though, for whatever that, uh, fuckin’ fest—” Regan cleared her throat. Don’t swear. “The festival was. It’s a lawless place; I don’t envy you one bit.”

Both of Regan’s trips to Coheed had ended in disaster; first with the Eldouirs, the second with her own incompetence.

Regan stared at him dumbly for a moment, not sure that she understood. Once Warren’s words finally broke through the fog around her brain, the witch’s face turned beet red. Her assumption was that Warren was trying to kick her out. Because of their last encounter, being alone with her was not a place he wanted to be. And what made things worse was that Regan couldn’t blame him.

“Oh, I—” Regan took another stiff toss of her drink before setting it with a hasty clink on the table, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, uh, intrude…” She pulled herself up off the sofa, struggling for a moment to free herself from its sunken clutches before managing to stand upright.

“I’ll just, uh, be going then.”