That breath of respite lasted only a moment. Even beneath the Sunless Sea, the grim mundanity of cleaning up the aftermath of the attack remained: searching for survivors, providing triage and transport for the wounded, collecting the dead. The Exarch could not have guessed how many had survived the attack, let alone the number lost. There were always fewer graves than dead.

Those efforts would stretch out for days; to rebuild, if the villagers chose to rebuild at all, might take years. He would have to speak to the master of the Pendants about emergency accommodations for the survivors displaced by the attack. And still there remained the task of hunting down whatever stray eaters still lurked in the wilds…

But those tasks would not be his to shoulder – at least for the night. Lyna had threatened to drag him back to the Tower herself if he did not swear to leave the relief efforts to the guard and get some rest. As loath as the Exarch was to admit it, she was not wrong: he seldom had occasion to so heavily exert himself or his connection with the tower, and the strain had taken its toll.

However weary his footsteps, it was a beautiful night for a stroll. The Crystarium hummed with jubilation as her people celebrated a myth made reality. He knew full well that Lyna would give him the scolding of a century should he linger amidst the revelers, but it was tempting all the same. The Exarch could have spent the whole night watching the children’s astonished faces as they counted the stars for the first time.

Perhaps he could dally a few minutes… not breaking his promise to Lyna, only bending it. It was only a trifle to conjure a veil of invisibility to ensure his presence went unnoticed, after all, and neither did it require any great effort to lean over one of the wrought iron walkways above the Wandering Stairs and to watch as his people rejoiced in the miracle of the dark night.

When he nearly dozed off on his feet despite the roar of celebration in the city below, the Exarch had to concede his exhaustion. However special this night was, he reminded himself, there would be more to come. He still wore a weary smile at the thought when he reached the footsteps of the Dossal Gates and let the vanishing spell slip free.

The tower guard did not see him until he had nearly reached the top of the stairs, at which point the man’s gaze snapped down from the sky in surprise. “Ah, my Lord,” the guard greeted him sheepishly. “My apologies. Your guest is waiting inside.”

The Exarch stopped between one step and the next. “I beg your pardon?”

“Er… Lady… Szet?” The guard seemed uncertain of his chosen term of address, but went on. “She insisted she had business with you.”

“Ah.” Of all the possibilities the night might hold, the Exarch had not foreseen this one. Had their heroine changed her mind about beating him senseless? Few alternatives came quickly to mind. An apology was out of the question – and, in his opinion, rather unwarranted; he was hardly thrilled to be manhandled and threatened, but he could not begrudge her frustration with the situation.

“Of course,” he replied, cutting off his own thoughts before they could spin too far afield. “And how long ago did she arrive?”

“Nigh an hour past now.”

“Thank you, Wulfric. As a matter of fact, why don’t you go join the celebrations? I think I can manage my own houseguests for the evening.”

“My Lord, I couldn’t –”

“I insist. Consider it an order, if you’d like.” The Exarch smiled warmly. “Good night.”

“I – very well, then. And you as well.”

As the Dossal Gate’s guard departed, with an unsurprising spring in his step, the Exarch turned once again to the familiar tower door and his swirling thoughts. Despite his weary body’s protests, he was terribly curious what business Szet had with him.

He did not need to look far for her, as he kept most of the Tower locked to minimize the risk of lost children or inadvertently unleashed Allagan constructs. Without the permission granted by his royal blood, the lift would only take a visitor as far as his Ocular, where the rest of his chambers were in turn sealed off. He was thus unsurprised to find her leaning against the wall outside the Ocular, arms folded over her chest as she awaited his arrival.

“Ah, Master Szet,” the Exarch greeted lightly. “I had not expected your company so soon.”

She did not answer except with a glare. It took him a moment to realize what seemed so odd about her appearance: she was noticeably damp, as if she’d recently come in from the rain, despite the clear night sky outside. As he grew closer, he caught the distinctive botanical scent of the lake’s violet algae. Had she washed off the grime of battle in the lake? Whatever for…? He was certain that her chambers were more than adequately equipped.

With a wave of his staff, the enormous Ocular doors easily swung open for them. A mild reminder that he was not entirely helpless would not go amiss, even if they had fought side by side only hours before. He gestured for her to accompany him as he stepped inside, then closed them once more with another gesture. “Was there aught you wished to discuss?”

As Szet followed him into the chamber, her glare had turned away from him and toward the door. “Does it lock?”

The Exarch’s eyes turned sharply back towards her, hidden beneath his cowl.

When he spoke, his voice had cooled, its superficial pleasantry all but lost. “What is this about?”

In the silence that answered him, he looked more carefully at the woman occupying his study. She was tired, damp, and probably cold – her thick hair was freshly-braided and evidently still soaked through with lake water. It seemed his chambers had been her first stop upon her return to the Crystarium, eschewing the dizzy revelry and the privacy of her own quarters in the Pendants alike. That also meant she had probably spent the intervening hours wandering Lakeland, after slaying more sin eaters than he could count, including the Lightwarden itself. She had to be exhausted. Judging by her scowl, he suspected she would rather be anywhere but here.

And despite all that, here she stood. Whatever her reasons, they were clearly important enough to outweigh her dislike of him.

After a long pause, the Exarch sighed, letting his shoulders sink back down from where they had been drawn tense. There was a quiet hum from the door as the inlaid veins of gold lit up, then slowly dimmed once more. It was much like the sight she had once beheld when the Dossal Gate was first opened, either a few short years or a lifetime ago, depending on one’s perspective.

“I alone can break that seal. You need only say the word and I will lift it.” He lowered his staff, taking care not to let it drop too loudly against the crystalline floor, given how tense she already was. Yet, oddly enough, that agitation seemed to ebb at his words. She unfolded her tightly-crossed arms to place a palm against the door’s smooth surface, as if to reassure herself that it was as solid as it appeared.

With some of her unspoken concerns allayed, Szet sank comfortably back into glowering at him from across the room.

The Exarch considered this state of affairs for some seconds. As much as he had been looking forward to an opportunity to rest – to savor the first true night he had known in so, so very long, even if his prison’s walls stood between him and the darkness outside – that now seemed out of the question. As strained as their relationship was, he could not very well throw her out, never mind the fact that it was probably all but impossible to accomplish without outright conflict. He hadn’t the heart for it, anyway; however difficult she chose to be, he had no great desire to exasperate her further.

Yet she seemed – to put it lightly – unlikely to cooperate.

“Well,” the Exarch said, in what felt like a concession of defeat, “you are welcome to remain in the Tower if you wish. But I would prefer not to spend what remains of the evening standing here, if you do not mind.”

With another gesture, a less obtrusive door opened on the other side of the room. Indicating for her to follow him, the Exarch stepped into the chambers beyond that had served as his residence for the past century. In all that time, he had only invited Lyna and Urianger within; strange that Szet of all people should be the next – and perhaps the last. (Well, that wasn’t quite true. There had been one other, but the Exarch would not deign to consider him a guest.)

Would that he’d had the chance to tidy up first; there was something uncomfortably intimate about the idea of her seeing into the more mundane side of his existence, after all the trouble he’d gone through to present a stately face.

The door opened into a curved hallway that ran along part of the circumference of the Ocular, bisected by another hallway running to the outer wall. A number of classically Allagan-wrought doors were set into the walls. Like the rest of the tower, the passage felt much too large for either of them. He was well-used to the sensation by now, but perhaps a doorway that didn’t require her to duck was still a novelty for Szet.

After a few moments, he heard her footsteps echoing through the hallway behind him. He hadn’t been sure whether she would follow, truthfully, or if she would prefer to sulk in the Ocular until morning. He hesitated a moment at the juncture between hallways, considering which section of his chambers would be most suitable for a guest – or least un-suitable. His library, he supposed; it offered the most comfortable seating, and the mess was at least less personal than some of the other rooms. He would prefer to stand in the Ocular all night rather than let her see his laundry strewn about.

“I must confess, I seldom entertain guests,” he said, turning the corner to reach the appropriate door. “I apologize for the disarray.”

The library was perhaps the coziest part of his quarters; the majority of the Exarch’s residence in the Tower had been spent here, gradually collecting various comforts and personal touches throughout the years like so much accumulated dust. It was almost passable as an ordinary room now, the over-abundance of blue crystal notwithstanding. The walls were lined with bookshelves that housed several hundred tomes. Most were practically ancient by now, having been imported from the Source when he first departed, with the most youthful among them being a mere century old. To one side of the room stood a broad white oak desk, nearly covered with sheathes of notes written in his overly-flowing hand and a small heap of books. One was still open, his pen still lying atop its densely-annotated pages. A sturdy upholstered couch stood across from the desk, along with a blanket and a few pillows rumpled from his last nap that he had forgotten about until just now.

Szet wordlessly followed him inside. He let the door close silently behind her, unnoticed. (Unlike the doors to the Ocular and other reception areas, which had been designed to impose and intimidate and thus deliberately reminded one of their enormous weight, the inner chambers were engineered to minimize disturbances – one of the few architectural choices of the Allagans that he had some appreciation for.) From the way she examined the room’s contents, one might think she expected a monster to jump out from beneath one of the haphazard stacks of books or a poacher’s net to fall from the ceiling.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” He took a moment to sweep up some of the papers littering his desk, forming a slightly neater stack that he placed beneath the now-closed book. The risk that she would comprehend any part of his frenetic research notes on Allagan astral projection methods or the arcane geometries of soul vessels was effectively nonexistent, but it was at least a bit less embarrassing. A quick survey of the room reassured him that there were no documents labeled ‘master plan’ or ‘my diary’ lying about that he had forgotten.

It was reasonably safe to leave her alone here, he concluded, barring the possibility that she meant to crush his skull with a book when he wasn’t looking – or, perhaps worse, set his library on fire. The other rooms were locked, after all, and there was no harm in her roaming the hallway if she felt the need.

He did his best to ignore the uncomfortable sense that she was trying to glare a hole through him as he tidied up, then started back towards the door.

“If you’ll excuse me –”

“Where are you going?” Szet asked sharply.

The Exarch stopped. “To wash up. I would prefer not to be covered in blood and sweat longer than necessary, if it’s all the same to you.”

After a pause, she huffed and turned away once more; he supposed that must be assent. Without waiting for her to change her mind, he slipped out and hurried to his bedchamber.

When the door closed behind him, it was tempting to simply barricade himself inside for the evening. The sudden lack of tension in the air was palpable, and he was all too aware of the proximity of his soft bed. But the thought of her alone out there made him uneasy – and something in the way she had looked at him when he started to leave was difficult to put out of his mind.

The Exarch found himself hurrying to bathe and don a fresh set of robes, despite the pleasantness of the hot water and the solitude. A growl of his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since well before their departure for Holminster Switch – and in all likelihood neither had she, he realized. He was in no position to prepare a proper meal, but he did keep an assortment of foodstuffs on hand at Lyna’s insistence, given his tendency to lose himself in his work and forget to eat for the better part of the day. Those were simple enough to assemble – a few unbroken rinds of various cheeses, a loaf of bread that had been fresh that morning, and a few peaches and lavender pears.

He wasn’t sure such sparse fare would be enough to satiate her appetite – never mind her size, she had certainly spent much more strength today than he – but then again, she was the one who had elected to invade for the night, so his sympathy had its limits.

Upon his return, the Exarch found his guest standing on the far side of the library, examining one of the many tomes scattered across the room. He had scarcely opened the door before her suspicious eyes were on him once more. “I thought you might be hungry,” he explained, proffering one of the food-laden bowls as the door closed behind him. The look Szet gave him would have been more fitting for her first encounter with a talking amaro; after a few long seconds, she glanced doubtfully down to the bowl, then back up at him.

“‘Tis not poisoned,” the Exarch added lightly, not quite sure whether or not to be amused by the reaction. Her brows furrowed back into a sour look at that. Undeterred, he set both bowls on the far side of his desk. As with luring out a wary animal, he doubted she would accept the meal directly from his hand. “Take what you will of either bowl – or do not, if that suits you better. It shall not go to waste regardless.”

With that, he set about picking up a few of the more egregiously scattered books and returning them to the shelves – almost entirely a pretext for preoccupying himself and keeping his back turned to Szet and thus avoid awkwardly watching and waiting for her to concede that she was hungry. Alas, his cowl made it impossible to watch her out of the corner of his eye. When at last he turned around, he found her sitting on the couch with the bowl she had claimed, studying one of the pears intently. Her eyes, still darkened with a frown, shifted to him when he sat down at his desk, but this time they lingered only moments before she went back to contemplating the pale violet fruit in her hand.

The Exarch pointedly lowered his eyes to avoid staring at her, instead considering the remaining bowl as he slid it towards his chair.

“Drinks?”

Beneath his cowl, he raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sound of her voice. She didn’t seem to be looking at him, still gazing at the pear. “...Tea?” he suggested.

Szet shook her head without looking up. “Spirits.”

“No, I’m afraid not.” His hospitality had its limits, and he had no intention of corralling a belligerent drunk in the heart of the Crystal Tower. The past century of Norvrandtine vintages had been unsurprisingly poor, anyway. She did not protest that, at least, nor indeed reply at all.

After the strained non-conversation the Exarch had endured thus far, her lack of response was almost a relief, inasmuch as it allowed him to try to pretend she wasn’t there. The heavy tome he had been working through the prior evening creaked as he opened it, conveniently allowing him to make a point of shifting his attention away from her as he settled in to read and eat a peach. (Not long after, he heard her take a bite of her pear; he had been joking, but perhaps she was worried the food had been tainted, after all.)

Truthfully, his ability to focus on the faded words on the page was all but nonexistent; he could feel the grains of exhaustion in his eyes every time he blinked, and each time it was a bit harder to open them again. They spent some time eating in less-than-amicable silence. Eventually, Szet grew so still in his peripheral vision that he could almost forget she was there at all. As the minutes crept by, it became harder and harder to remember to turn the page once in a while to keep up the pretense of reading, until eventually his attention slipped entirely.

The next thing the Exarch registered was the sensation of silken cloth against his cheek, his head resting in the crook of his elbow upon the desk. The room lights were dimmed; he must not have moved in quite a while. Had he dozed off?

Szet. Szet was here. The recollection was enough for him to stir, blinking as he lifted his head to look for her in the half-darkness. It took a few moments for his eyes to clear enough to make out the dark, motionless shape curled up on his couch. She had pulled the blanket up to her chin and folded her limbs beneath it, except for one hand that had slipped free and dangled over the couch edge. Her long ears were tucked back, nestled between her hair and his borrowed pillow.

A gentle furrow lingered in her brow, but her face was otherwise tranquil as she dreamed. She looked quite pretty, he thought vaguely, before his waking mind could intervene. Oh, knock it off.

The Exarch watched her for a while longer without any real thought in mind, until ere long his eyes grew too heavy and he drifted back to sleep.

The Exarch awoke with a start to a sudden thud against the desk. He jerked upright to find himself overshadowed by an unmistakable silhouette, staring down at him with her arms folded over her chest. Szet didn’t wait for him to get his bearings or rub the sleep from his eyes before she spoke. “The door.”

Of course. She was locked inside, just as she had insisted. Had she already tried to leave, or had she taken him at his word?

“Right, of course,” the Exarch replied, striving not to mumble as he rubbed the back of his hand across his face. It only took a few moments for him to recover his wits, although his poise remained slightly rumpled. The thought of her watching him sleep for some unknown length of time was disconcerting enough to drive out any thought of dozing off again. “You are prepared to leave, then…?”

Szet, with no further need to menace him from above like an Amdapori gargoyle, turned toward the door without a word. Gods, she was impossible. It was difficult to gauge whether she had slept off her reasons for coming to him in the first place, but if she was prepared to leave, then he supposed that was answer enough.

That said, there was no need to hurry, was there? Twelve forfend she be inconvenienced in the course of her intrusion into his privacy. “Very well,” he said lightly. “One moment.”

Instead of standing to lead her back to the vestibule of the Ocular, the Exarch turned to the small mirror that stood atop his desk. It was similar in appearance to the enormous pane of crystal that gave the Ocular its name, albeit more rudimentary in its construction; he had fashioned it himself, rather ineptly, for the convenience of spying without having to interrupt his work by leaving the study. The device was only an extension of the larger mirror, but it served his purposes well enough.

A flick of his fingertips sent a ripple through the glassy blue surface and brought the image of the Crystarium’s spire into view. Regardless of his inclination to waste a few minutes of her time, his first task after her departure would nonetheless have been a survey of the Crystarium’s environs. After the banishment of the Light from Lakeland, he had no doubt that they were – or soon would be – the sole object of Vauthry’s attention. What form that hostility might take, however, was unclear. Vauthry’s petulance and erratic temper made him difficult to predict, and Alphinaud’s description of a menagerie of tame sin eaters in the Eulmoran court cast many of the Exarch’s assumptions into doubt.

That was to say, the Exarch was not in the mood for surprises.

With another touch, the jagged outline of the tower dissolved, before resolving once more into the glittering arch of the Crystarium gates, then the old stone of Fort Jobb, then the Thirstless Shore… At such a distance, the world seen through the mirror was veiled in fog, soft-edged and shifting like wet watercolors. That level of clarity was sufficient for a glance around the region to reassure himself that naught was amiss – or, indeed, to do the opposite.

The dreamlike tour of Lakeland came to an abrupt stop at Laxan Loft. He recognized the dark, ominous shapes blotting the clear skies instantly, even from afar: airships.

“We have guests,” he said darkly. The mirror’s angle allowed Szet a full view from where she stood, if she cared to turn and look. “Eulmoran airships. Two of them.”

“Only two,” Szet repeated. “Why?” Perhaps she, too, was reckoning the numbers in her head: two airships could not bear the number of soldiers needed for a proper assault on the Crystarium, were they impatient for blind retribution.

“Why indeed. A diplomatic visit seems more likely than an outright attack, but a diversion is not out of the question. Eulmore’s general is, unlike his sovereign, a careful man. It would be unlike him to rush blindly into conflict without ensuring he has the advantage.” The Exarch steepled his fingers as he gazed thoughtfully at the image of the airships, now clearly defined. “In any case, I expect we shall find out shortly.”

The silence lasted only a few moments, before a soft chime rang out from the linkpearl in his pocket. That would be Lyna. He slipped it free and activated it with a touch. “Yes, Captain?”

“My lord, Eulmoran forces have arrived. There are reports of two airships at Laxan Loft, with a few dozen soldiers on the ground. There has been no fighting – yet – but our scouts say they are searching for something. Furthermore, General Ran’jit is at the city gate and has requested an audience with you.”

It seemed the first morning in a century would be busier than he had hoped.

“I see.” The Exarch paused, considering her report. He could think of only a few things the Eulmorans might want badly enough to risk an invasion, none of them good. Then again, perhaps invasion was a foregone conclusion, and thus the diplomatic disaster of Eulmoran boots on Lakeland soil seemed a moot point to their leadership. “Please see General Ran’jit, and he alone, to the Ocular. I shall await him there.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The quiet hiss of the linkpearl went silent. Szet shifted her weight to her other hip, raising her eyebrows skeptically. “You trust him?”

“No,” the Exarch answered frankly. “But he would be a fool to assault the Crystarium alone and at the Tower’s doorstep, and that he is not. This will be a civil conversation, at least nominally.”

“I’m staying,” she warned, as if anticipating argument.

“Please do,” the Exarch agreed instead, surprising even himself. “I have little doubt you and he will cross blades ‘ere long, regardless of the tidings he brings us today. This is an excellent opportunity to take his measure.”

As he spoke, Szet had reached out to claim a peach left from the previous night and taken a bite. “What’s he like?” she asked, past a mouthful of fruit.

“Exceedingly capable. He is a fearsome opponent in battle and a cunning tactician. It has been generations since Norvrandt saw his like as a general.”

Another bite from her peach, as Szet continued to stare at him. “You think he’d beat me?”

“I did not say that. But I must caution you not to underestimate him.”

“Experienced?”

“Indeed. He has led Eulmore’s military for decades.”

“Against you?”

“Not always.” The Exarch sighed. “Until Vauthry’s ascension to the throne, Eulmore was an ally, at least in resistance against the sin eaters. General Ran’jit and his army fought by our side time and again. But with each year since Vauthry’s coronation, Eulmore has grown more isolationist and complacent, leading to the rift you see today. Whether Ran’jit acts out of loyalty to his master or sincere belief, I cannot say. I find it difficult to reconcile his actions with the ideals of the man I once knew.”

Szet chewed as she listened, her thoughts unreadable from her face as she considered this. “He knows who I am?”

“I doubt it. Regardless of his poor judgment in infiltrating Eulmore itself, it was wise for Alphinaud to send you back from Kholusia. The less they know of your, ah, capabilities, the more of an advantage you will have – especially with regard to your role in the return of night to Lakeland. Obviously, your appearance is quite…”

“Spots,” Szet supplied, matter-of-factly.

“Distinctive was the word I had in mind, but yes.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Aught else?”

“Nothing of immediate import.” A lesson on the minutiae of Eulmoran foreign policy over the past century would be of little use to her, as intriguing as it might be as a thesis. The Exarch dismissed the image from the mirror’s surface with a flick of his fingers and then stood. “If you have no other questions, then let us prepare to receive them.”

They did not have long to wait after returning to the Ocular before the muffled sound of Lyna’s knock at the door interrupted the quiet.

“Enter,” the Exarch called out.

The door swung open. Lyna stepped inside, followed by the general himself, and gave a crisp salute. Her eyebrows shot up at the sight of Szet, but she made no comment. “I shall await your word outside.”

“General Ran’jit,” the Exarch greeted as the door shut once more, his tone light but cool. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Exarch,” Ran’jit inclined his head slightly, in the barest hint of courtesy, but his eyes were fixed on Szet. “Who is this?”

“My trusted aide,” the Exarch lied, still wearing a polite smile. “Please, speak freely.”

“Is that so,” Ran’jit replied; the Exarch could almost hear the clash of steel as his piercing gaze met Szet’s. She stared back in silence, seemingly impervious to the crushing pressure. Size alone conferred little advantage when dealing with a man of Ran’jit’s unflinching charisma – he had seen countless Drahn and Galdjent blanch before the general – but that only made it clearer that Szet’s build was only a small part of her intense presence.

Eventually, the general turned his eyes back to him. “The Lightwarden is dead, Exarch. Were your people responsible?”

“You are clearly in some haste, my lord,” the Exarch replied. “But before I address your question, you must allow me one of my own. What is Eulmore's interest in this?”

Ran’jit gave a terse sigh. “His Benevolence Lord Vauthry is gravely concerned that the actions of an ignorant few may jeopardize relations between man and sin eater. Should it transpire that the Crystarium is guilty of abetting the villains responsible for this outrage…” He allowed the threat to hang heavy in the air for a moment, as his eyes shifted between the Exarch and Szet. “My lord has decreed that it suffer the same… retribution.”

“I see.” This much the Exarch had surmised, but to hear the words spoken aloud sent chills of anger through him nonetheless. Of the sincerity of that threat, he had no doubt; whether or not Ran’jit would take any satisfaction in it, the man would not hesitate to put every soul in the Crystarium to the sword. And what purpose would their deaths serve? Naught, save to purchase a few more moments of blissful ignorance for the most privileged of this world, before Vauthry’s delusion collapsed, too. The pointlessness of it all was sickening.

When the Exarch spoke, his voice was calm, as light as ash fluttering on the breeze. “Since you have been so candid, I too shall speak my mind. Regardless of who is responsible, the Crystarium rejoices in the Lightwarden’s death, and welcomes the return of the night sky. If Eulmore considers this tantamount to aiding those you term ‘villains’, then by all means carry out your retribution. Know, however, that even should every innocent soul in the Crystarium perish, nothing can stop that which has been set in motion.”

Once more, Ran’jit sighed. “Folly. The death of one or a thousand thousand sin eaters changes nothing. The world is dead, and writhe as we might, like maggots in its rotting corpse, it will not be reborn. Only by my master’s grace may we live out our days in peace.”

The Exarch’s jaw tightened. No doubt despair and resignation offered a seductive comfort for those fortunate enough to receive that ‘grace’. Neither the survivors of Holminster switch nor her unburied dead had been afforded such peace; what of them? Even on its face, such a philosophy was as shallow as it was horrifying, and nigh as absurd as the notion of diplomacy between man and sin eater. It was difficult to believe that an intelligent man could espouse any such claims without embarrassment. Yet, as unbelievable as it was, the Exarch could discern no hint of doubt or irony as Ran’jit stood before him.

That raised questions he had not the time to dwell upon today, with more pressing matters at hand.

“But I waste my breath,” Ran’jit concluded. “You have made your stance clear. I shall relay your words to Lord Vauthry. In the meantime, you would do well to counsel any here who have done more than merely ‘rejoice’ in recent events to throw themselves upon Eulmore's mercy. Promptly.”

After a moment’s pause, he went on. “One other matter. We are searching for a young artist – a white-haired elfin boy. Know you of whom I speak?”

The Exarch’s head was angled such that he could glance at Szet’s face without turning and betraying his interest in the matter. He was relieved to see her stony expression unchanged, despite the pointed description of Alphinaud. He would not have been entirely surprised if she decided to wring Ran’jit’s neck, although he doubted even she would have been successful.

“An artist…? No, I cannot say I do.”

“What a pity,” the general replied. “Should he cross your path, I bid you hand him over to Eulmore at once. My master is most eager to see him again.”

Ran’jit turned toward the door. His gaze shifted to Szet, once again matching her silent glare for several seconds. The sight reminded the Exarch of two predators sizing one another up, each reluctant to be the first to break away. Szet was destined to win this contest, however, and Ran’jit lingered only a few moments before departing.

As he left, Lyna held the door open for a moment. “My lord – the Leveilleurs requested a word with you as well. I will send them up.”

The Exarch was quite sure Lyna had never called the twins that before. A bit of subterfuge owing to their guest, no doubt; as the general had just made clear, a face to face introduction would be most unwise. “Thank you, Captain, please do.”

Before Ran’jit could gain too much distance, Lyna saluted and followed him out. The Exarch stared thoughtfully at the door as their footsteps faded away beyond it.

Szet’s voice surprised him when she broke the long silence.

“I will.”

Torn from his thoughts, he glanced toward her, but was surprised to find her eyes staring into the distance rather than boring into him. “What?”

“Help.” Her voice was quiet and flat – almost begrudging, he thought. “Tell me what needs done and I’ll do it.”

Szet turned her head to look down at him, brow furrowed. Her eyes were as sharp as ever, as if her absent gaze a moment prior had been only a trick of the light.

“You understand?” she asked, her eyes searching his face in a way that made him once again nervous of his skill with glamour charms. “You don’t need to play me.”

Something in her tone caught the Exarch off-guard. It was not, he realized, a rhetorical question, nor as resentful as he might have expected.

Before he could think of a reply, the door to the Ocular swung open once more.

“Oh, good, you’re still –” Alisaie was quite out of breath as she burst into the room, but it did not stop her from taking a sharp breath of surprise to see Szet standing in the middle of it. “Mahiwa?”

“What are you doing here?” Alphinaud was only a few steps behind his sister and just as winded. Had they avoided crossing Ran’jit’s path by taking the stairs? A grim thought.

“We were looking for you for half the night!” Alisaie complained. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Szet shrugged. In fairness to her sincerity, she had calmed noticeably since the previous evening, after whatever unrest had led her to the Ocular in the first place. He had yet to spot any real wounds on her. “What?”

Alisaie did not like that answer, but managed to bite back her argument.

“We heard that Eulmore had sent an emissary,” Alphinaud chimed in. “Was that who the Captain was accompanying?”

“Indeed it was. General Ran’jit himself honored us with a visit. Unsurprisingly, it seems Eulmore did not take kindly to our efforts in Holminster. Ran’jit stopped short of declaring war outright, but not by far.”

Alisaie shook her head, in disbelief rather than argument. “That’s insane.”

“I can believe it,” Alphinaud replied darkly, still trying to catch his breath. “What I saw in Eulmore was nothing less than lunacy. But that’s not why we’re here.”

“Minfilia is in Lakeland,” Alisaie announced without a pause for suspense.

“Minfilia–?” The Exarch took a half step forward.

“So the reports say. The captain bade us bring you the news.”

“Minfilia?” Szet asked.

“Ah – my apologies, an explanation is in order.” In his surprise at the news, he had quite forgotten that she was still unaware of the ‘Minfilia’ situation. “We do not speak of the woman you knew – not directly, that is. ‘Twas the Minfilia of the Source who, drawing upon her connection with Hydaelyn as the Oracle of Light, staved off the Flood and spared what remains of Norvrandt from the doom that consumed the rest of the First. If our understanding of that event is vague, then the popular conception of the Oracle of Light is all but myth.”

“Minfilia?” Szet once again prompted him, raising her eyebrows pointedly.

He paused a moment, eyelashes fluttering in irritation beneath his cowl, and then went on. “Some time after the Flood, it seems that the spirit of the original Minfilia claimed a vessel – a young woman to whom Minfilia’s power as the Oracle of Light was bestowed, that she might resist the forces that threatened to overwhelm Norvrandt. Each time Minfilia’s champion fell, a new vessel would inherit the mantle of Oracle and the title of ‘Minfilia’. Thus, while the truth of her relationship to the Minfilia of the Source is unclear, for present purposes you may consider the Minfilia we speak of to be another person entirely.”

Szet had folded her arms over her chest as she listened. Her eyes shifted to Alphinaud and Alisaie, perhaps taking note of their lack of argument with his account, before she looked back to the Exarch. “Alright,” she conceded, somewhat anticlimactically.

The Exarch could ill afford to linger on his relief at her lack of argument, and thus went on immediately. “The current Minfilia has been Thancred’s ward since he liberated her from her captivity in Eulmore several years past. Their return is quite unexpected, truthfully.”

Alphinaud shook his head. “Apparently Minfilia was seen alone. Thancred could easily remain hidden out of sight, but–”

“–but why would he?” Alisaie finished his rhetorical question. “Particularly without sending even a word of his plans.” She shook her head. “I think Minfilia must have come alone.”

Why in the name of the Twelve would she do that? “I see,” the Exarch replied. “Then that makes it all the more imperative that we locate her before the Eulmoran army does.”

“You’ll start a war,” Szet said – no, asked. She was once again staring at him. “For one girl?”

The question took him aback. “If I must, yes.”

“Why?”

Why…? What concern was it of hers? “The Oracle of Light shall no doubt have a significant role to play in events to come. Should she once again fall into Eulmoran hands, we cannot know what the consequences may be. If that should transpire, I fear she may be lost to us entirely.”

Szet’s eyes narrowed. Somehow, he sensed that had been the wrong answer, although he had no idea what her objection might be. “Now what?” she asked.

“Now,” the Exarch said, tightening his grip on his staff, “we prepare for war.”