As one passed from Lakeland into the Greatwood, the way forward quickly became a road in name only, narrowing to a footpath as it twisted between ancient roots nearly as wide as the Exarch was tall. Even the seldom-traveled roads of Lakeland seemed bustling commercial thoroughfares in comparison; there was simply no good reason for any sane trader to venture into the depths of the Greatwood in the hope of selling a few trinkets to the Night’s Blessed, a notoriously insular and self-sufficient people – if she could even find them.

The condition of the road made it as arduous as it was hazardous, adding countless obstacles in the form of roots, mud, ditches, and underbrush and nearly doubling the distance by foot due to the way the path snaked along the path of least resistance. Deeper within the forest, the path dwindled in some places to little more than an animal trail.

The Exarch was, to put it kindly, not a particularly skilled hiker. His light-footed days of dashing across ravines and scrambling between boughs were naught but warm memories now, and even those seemed more and more implausible the longer he followed this damned path. He knew the Scions could not be very far ahead of him – on occasion, he swore he could even hear a familiar voice echoed through the strange acoustics of the forest – but the longer it took to catch up with them, the more challenging the task of doing so became, as the terrain grew wilder and his stamina waned. (It was all too easy to imagine Szet simply hopping over a patch of bog that might take him minutes of maneuvering to traverse; in a few places, judging by the footprints in the mud, she had apparently done just that.)

Thus, when the Exarch finally caught sight of them through the trees, he could have laughed with joy. Szet’s head was already turned towards him, her ears perked up and alert – had he been making enough noise for her to hear him? He could sense the suspicious glare even from this distance.

“Ah – pray wait a moment!” he called out, almost too relieved to be embarrassed at how winded he sounded.

“Exarch?” Alisaie called back, the disbelief audible even where he stood. “What are you doing here?”

He had not the breath to answer as he hurried to catch up with the Scions. Mercifully, they were curious and impatient enough to double back to meet him halfway.

“Are you alright?” Minfilia asked, worried.

“Oh, yes,” he answered with a dismissive wave. “Perfectly fine. ‘Tis, ah, quite a long walk from Lakeland.”

“From Lakeland? But we left Lakeland hours ago…!”

“Alas, you make,” the Exarch answered, smiling as he tried to catch his breath, “excellent time.”

“That was you?” Thancred asked, raising his eyebrows. “We heard someone behind us on the road, but reckoned you for another traveler.”

“Told you,” Szet shrugged. She sounded even more dour than usual, although she seemed to have barely broken a sweat over the course of half a day’s journey or longer. (A pace their smaller companions could keep up must have been little more than a stroll for her, the Exarch supposed.) “Ought to’ve checked.”

“Perhaps you should sit for a while…” Minfilia wrung her hands fretfully; he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or embarrassed by a fifteen-year-old looking at him as if he might expire on the spot from the exercise. “You look a bit pale…”

“That doesn’t explain –”

“I daresay we could all use a rest,” Alphinaud suggested kindly, interrupting his sister. “We saw a spot ahead that should be comfortable enough to sit a while. Let us continue our discussion there.”

“Fine,” Alisaie sighed.

It took a few minutes to reach the place Alphinaud had suggested, a wide hollow formed by the vast gnarled roots of the old trees, sufficiently elevated so that the soil was only a little damp.

The Exarch took pains not to appear too eager to get off his feet as he settled onto one of the roots, although he doubted he was fooling anyone. Minfilia sat nearby, watching him nervously. Even after all these years, he still found the luminous blue of her eyes difficult to tolerate. He had only met this Minfilia a few times, but they were the same eyes as those who had come before her, an unbroken chain of innocent lives cut short. That blue was a melancholy reminder of all that had been lost and all that she stood to lose. He tried to reassure her with a smile that he hoped looked less tired than he felt.

Szet did not sit, instead standing towards the road, arms folded over her chest and facing away. He suspected she was listening, from the tilt of her ears, but otherwise she showed no outward sign of interest.

Alisaie seemed to have been burning in the three minutes it took them to walk here. Even as the others were still making themselves comfortable, she seemed ready to resume the interrogation. The Exarch lifted a hand to forestall her. “I wished to hear what tidings you bring from the Fairy Kingdom, and to share what news there is of developments elsewhere.”

“You could have sent word if you wanted us to return to the Crystarium,” Alisaie pointed out.”

“I did not think that necessary.” Although he was not quite recovered, he at least no longer needed to pause to catch his breath between sentences. “Nor can I fault your circumspection in avoiding the Crystarium so long as Eulmore’s scouts maintain a presence in the area. In fact, I took the liberty of fabricating a few ‘sightings’ of your group near Fort Jobb ere I departed, which should keep Eulmore’s eyes fixed on Lakeland, at least for the moment.”

Thancred snorted. “I’m sure none of the rank and file will be complaining of guard duty, so long as it isn’t in Il Mheg.”

“There was a battle, was there not? I spied airships landing near the southern border, but could not well tally their casualties.”

“Battle suggests both sides put up a fight,” Thancred replied dryly.

“Indeed,” Urianger agreed. “The Eulmorans gave no contest against the ire of the fairies – nor well could they, with only the mundane arts of war to call upon.”

“Their hand was forced,” the Exarch concurred. That had not been his intention, although he had anticipated just such an outcome: Ran’jit could not stand idly by as Szet slew a second Lightwarden and lifted the veil of Light from Il Mheg, however dire his odds of success might be. Squandering their enemy’s forces upon the wrath of the Fey folk was an undeniable strategic victory, but the Exarch took no pleasure in the thought of the Eulmoran losses there – nor were they so grievous that it would turn the tide of battle, he suspected. If he were Ran’jit, he would have deployed his most expendable forces to keep the fairies occupied while he dealt with Szet. An unpleasant thought. “You did not have too much trouble enlisting their aid, I hope?”

“Trouble? Oh, no. Mahiwa had them thoroughly charmed within a day or two.”

“Is that so?” the Exarch asked, too surprised by the response to pretend otherwise.

“A few of them were quite besotted. I’m no expert on pixie courtship, but I think there might have even been a few marriage proposals.” Thancred watched Szet out of the corner of his eye as he spoke, a small smile on his lips; it was difficult to tell whether he was serious, or merely trying to get a rise out of her. If she heard him, she gave no sign of it. “Feo Ul quickly put an end to that.”

The Exarch had to remind himself to keep his jaw from hanging open, lest one of the forest gnats lose its way. It took a few moments for him to recover enough from his disbelief to find his words. “Feo Ul? You were able to locate them, then?”

“In a manner of speaking. It was they who sought us out not long after we arrived — to find out what all the commotion was, I assume.”

“Their intervention was most felicitous,” Urianger added, “in conveying the gravity of our quest to the other pixies.”

“Mm. I fear we might still be playing hide and seek were it not for our mutual friend. The lot of them would have been thrilled to play house with Mahiwa and the twins for an eternity, no doubt.”

“In my acquaintance with Feo Ul, I have always found them to be open-minded, sometimes even practical by mortal standards, but I must confess, I had not anticipated that you would forge such an alliance so easily,” the Exarch said, choosing his words delicately. If they had informed him that she had caused only a handful of diplomatic disasters during their stay, he would have been pleasantly surprised. This was altogether unexpected. “How did you persuade them to lend their aid?”

Thancred snorted. “Mahiwa has a talent for playing hard to get. It’s not the first time she’s besotted an admirer by practically ignoring them.”

The Exarch could give no reply to that.

He could not help but glance over to her, expecting her to finally turn and take the bait, but she remained motionless as she stared out into the forest. Her expression was hidden by the turn of her head, with only the prominent line of her cheekbone in view. Thancred was still watching her, too; something about it left him with an uneasy feeling. The Exarch was familiar enough with the man to know that his wry manners derived from guardedness rather than simple good humor, and this teasing did not feel like only play. Although the Exarch did not know her well, even her stonewalling had not led her to ignore him completely, let alone a friend.

A few moments of silence went by before Urianger spoke. “Thus hath our comrade forged a pact with Feo Ul and secured their not inconsiderable resources in service of our plight. Only through their guidance did we at last convince the Fey folk to relinquish the relics that would grant us admittance to the court of the Fairy King.”

“Titania,” the Exarch said, softly. “Nigh since the Flood itself has the King suffered within their prison after they vanquished the Lightwarden of that land in defense of their people. ‘Tis a relief to know that the Fey folk can at last mourn their passing, rather than their torment.”

“Indeed,” Urianger agreed. “Yet thou shouldst know that, by their tradition, whosoever may defeat the reigning Monarch shall be the inheritor of their throne. Thence was Mahiwa obliged.”

The Exarch’s mouth fell open in outright shock for the second time in this short conversation. He had no doubt that Urianger spoke true, yet the import of his words could scarcely be comprehended. The consequences of his own ignorance in sending her to release the former King could be catastrophic; would that not necessitate her becoming fey herself…?

“When the erstwhile King was slain,” Urianger went on, “‘twas Feo Ul who ascended the throne in our champion’s stead and who claimed the mantle of Titania.”

“Oh.” The Exarch’s heart slowly eased back out of his throat. He took a breath to steady himself before he went on. “That is… most fortunate. Had I known of such an eventuality, I would have warned you, or turned you away entirely. You have my deepest apologies.”

“Well, we’d have had to kill the Lightwarden eventually, one way or another,” Thancred pointed out. “But ‘twould have been most inconvenient, had we been obliged to go about the rest of this little quest with our hero flitting to and fro.”

“Indeed,” the Exarch murmured. In truth, he was unsure how he could have obtained a secret as obscure as the law regarding fairy coronation, much less when the last such ceremony must have been many centuries before even the Flood. Nonetheless –

“See? I told you I’d keep her in one piece for you.”

The Exarch’s stomach dropped at the easy sound of the voice over his shoulder. Half the group was on their feet in an instant; he himself was not sure he could bear the embarrassment if his legs gave out from standing too quickly, so he could only rub the bridge of his nose and try not to sigh.

“Relax. I mean you no harm.” The Exarch did not need to turn and look to imagine the sight of the Ascian strolling lazily into view from between the trees he must have been lurking behind. “If I did, I’d have done it already. There was ample opportunity while you were picking flowers and entertaining frogs.”

This was of little comfort, judging by Thancred and Szet’s drawn blades. As if driven by the same instinct, they had both quickly positioned themselves between the stranger and the remainder of the group – leaving the Exarch sitting between those blades and their enemy. The experience was unsettling enough to motivate him to stand, trying not to lean too heavily on his staff as he backed away from the conflict. The lack of hurry must have been noticeable, for it earned a moment’s glance of disbelief from Thancred before his attention shifted back to the threat at hand.

“Who are you?” Thancred demanded.

“One who ought to rest cold in his grave.” Urianger’s tone was even more portentous than usual. “Solus zos Galvus, founder and Emperor of the Garlean Empire of yore.”

“How very astute of you.” The tall figure offered a dramatic bow. “But a proper introduction is in order.” With a slow, steady motion, he drew his hand across the air before his face, revealing a blood-red sigil that glowed even in the bright beams that shone between the boughs. “I am Emet-Selch. Ascian.”

Predictably, this announcement was not taken gracefully – although perhaps it was not a complete shock, considering the dearth of innocent explanations for why such an ominous figure might appear in their midst.

“Emet-Selch, is it?” Alphinaud asked coldly. “I do not believe we have crossed paths before. Why reveal yourself now?”

“Just as you said,” Emet-Selch answered, “we have not been acquainted. I have heard a great deal from my… colleagues, but I’ve been quite curious to meet the hero for whom our dear Exarch has waited so long. I have to say…” His eyes turned to Szet, sweeping over her with a frown. “I’m a bit underwhelmed. Warrior of Light, was it?”

If the intended effect was to antagonize, it accomplished that easily. Alisaie took a furious half-step forward, although she was blocked by Thancred and Szet. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Emet-Selch shrugged. “Only that I had hoped that the myth herself would be more than a half-wild dog.”

Unseen, the Exarch winced. He had entertained similar thoughts in passing, had he not? To hear them spoken aloud and with such contempt felt far worse than he might have expected, enough to leave a knot of shame in his stomach. He glanced toward Szet, but if she took umbrage from the insult, it was lost in the cold anger that dominated her expression.

“But I suppose brute force alone can accomplish a great deal. It seems you’ve made the best of it, anyway. How many Lightwardens does that make now? Two?”

“Leave,” Szet growled, advancing a step.

“Or what? You’ll run me through as you did van Baelsar? Cut me into pieces like my grandson’s corpse?”

“Yes,” she agreed darkly, and with scarcely a stride had already closed half the distance between them. Emet-Selch appeared unperturbed by her approach, not bothering even to move from the tree he had leaned a broad shoulder against.

“You need not bother,” the Exarch began, knowing the words were futile even as he spoke them. “‘Tis only a shade.”

Perhaps Szet suspected as much; the weight of her swing seemed different as her sword cleaved the air where Emet-Selch should have been, only to bury itself several ilms into the wood of the tree with a heavy thunk and a spray of splintered bark.

The Ascian, quite unharmed, stood along the other side of the clearing. He shrugged once again, apparently at once conceding the charge and dismissing it. “It would be rather difficult to chat with your war-hound at my throat, would it not? Now, if you will permit me to cut short the pleasantries,” he went on, “this visit is not meant for you.” As he spoke, his apathetic glance turned from Szet, and instead settled on the Exarch himself.

“”Tis a pity you came all this way,” the Exarch said coldly, “when you knew full well I have no intention of suffering your company.”

“All this way? You need not worry yourself on my account. I was surprised to find you so far from your throne. Are you certain this little jaunt is wise, Exarch?”

He felt his tail bristle where it was tucked against his waist. “It is none of your concern.”

“Consider it a cordial reminder, then. I rather doubt it would behoove those plans of yours for you to expire from over-exertion in the course of your adventures.”

The Exarch did not reply, save to strain to glare hard enough that it might be felt even past his cowl.

“Very well,” Emet-Selch sighed, after several moments of silence. “We shall speak later, then, when you need not worry about your audience. A pleasure, as always.”

If he’d been a bit closer, the Exarch might have taken a swing at the Ascian himself, shade be damned. Alas, before he could fathom a retort, Emet-Selch had vanished, leaving the stunned and uncertain group in his wake.

“What the hells was that about?” Alisaie demanded, storming forward to investigate the spot where their unwelcome guest had stood. Nearby, Szet yanked her sword free of the tree, careful that it would not swing too close to her young charge.

The Exarch knew perfectly well what that was about. He let out a tight breath through his nose as he fought to regain his composure.

“It’s the first page of their playbook, isn’t it?” Thancred let his gunblade come to rest against his shoulder; although he was no longer scouring the tree line for gaunt silhouettes, he was not quite prepared to sheathe his weapon entirely. “Right after ‘always make a good entrance.’”

“Thancred hath the right of it,” Urianger concurred. “Our enemy labors now, as always, to sow doubt and dissent amongst our ranks, that we may question the path before us. Heed not his poisoned words.”

“Be that as it may,” Alphinaud said slowly, choosing his words like steps across an icy pond, “you are acquainted with this ‘Emet-Selch’, are you not, Exarch?”

And there was the trap’s cunning spring. Had Emet-Selch simply lied, his words could be easily cast aside. But a carefully arranged truth, once revealed, was not so easily forgotten.

“Regrettably, yes,” the Exarch said, managing to restrain the outright annoyance in his tone. “I first encountered him some years ago. As you saw, he comes and goes as he pleases, which makes it rather hard to rid myself of his company if he sees fit to inflict it upon me.”

“What do you know of him?”

“Little more than what you know now.” This was more or less true. Years ago, the Exarch had been more willing to entertain the enigmatic stranger’s visits for the sake of gleaning what knowledge he could of his nature and motives; in retrospect, it might have been safer to play a game of cards with Nald’thal. He had quickly come to the conclusion that, whoever or whatever Emet-Selch was, he too was seeking information, and had far more of it at his disposal already. Only a fool would bet on a game whose rules or purpose he did not know, and without knowing what answers Emet-Selch hoped to tease loose of him, it was far too dangerous to engage at all.

No doubt it was for the same reason that the Exarch wished to extricate himself that Emet-Selch was reluctant to let him get away – or perhaps Emet-Selch had simply acquired a taste for vexing him. No doubt he enjoyed the irony of using the implication of a relationship between them as today’s method. (As always, he turned his mind away from the troubling thought that Emet-Selch might know him better than almost anyone in the First.)

“He is an Ascian – one of the ‘Unsundered’, he calls himself. He is responsible for the formation of the Garlean and Allagan empires and for shaping their despicable legacies. From what I understand, he has been less involved in the affairs of the Source of late. I assume he has been occupied here, orchestrating the Rejoining of the First.”

“Bit more than a little,” Alisaie pointed out with a humorless snort.

“You’re certain he isn’t simply lying?”

The Exarch inclined his head toward Thancred at the question. “I have considered it, of course, but I know not what end such a lie would serve. I do possess some… passing familiarity with the history of the Allagan Empire, and his claims align closely with the records I have reviewed.”

“You’re not going to tell us you’re an Allagan next, are you?” Alisaie deadpanned – a joke, certainly. Almost certainly.

The Exarch cleared his throat with a slightly uncomfortable laugh. “Aha – no. I should think I would be a bit taller, if I were.”

As they spoke, Szet had been slowly circling the perimeter of the hollow where they stood. Was she unsatisfied that the threat had truly departed, or merely restless? It was difficult to tell if she was even listening. When she finally turned towards them again, she remained unsettled. She spent a few moments surveying the spot before deciding, “Stop here until tomorrow.”

Then, with only a moment’s pause: “You.” Even had her eyes not been fixed on him, the Exarch would have known who she meant by her tone alone. “Follow me.”

Szet awaited neither reply nor argument before she turned and walked off into the forest. He could only try to quell the unease in his stomach – and the aches in his bones – as he hurried to catch up with her.

They walked for a few minutes in silence. She seemed to be headed nowhere in particular, simply following the most navigable path that led away. Her only aim, as far as he could discern, was distance. The further they walked, the stronger his sense of foreboding grew.

Finally, Szet stopped. Her destination was unremarkable, practically indifferentiable from a dozen spots they had passed on their way to this one. The branches were still and windless, as motes of pollen drifted slowly through the beams of light that pierced the canopy. The sound of voices had long since faded, leaving them with only the hush of the forest. They were truly – and uncomfortably – alone.

The Exarch took a moment to catch his breath, waiting for whatever came next: an explanation, a tirade, a blow to the head – something. When there was only silence, his frown deepened.

“What is this about?” he asked, cautiously.

Szet did not reply, instead staring back along the half-path they had followed through the underbrush. When she was finally satisfied that they had not been followed, she only let out a terse sigh through gritted teeth and turned away from him once more.

“I assure you,” he ventured, “Emet-Selch’s involvement is not my doing.”

Her fingers were pressed to her temples, as if trying to dislodge a headache that had roosted there. When, at last, she spoke, she did not turn to face him.

“Can you kill me?”

The Exarch blinked, then blinked again. “What?”

“Can you kill me,” Szet repeated, frustrated. She began to pace, as if something had broken loose with the question. “Can you. Are you able. Are you capable of killing me?”

Met only by his stunned silence, she went on, the words tumbling out in a steady rush, like water from a leaking dam: “It’s inside me. The Light. Growing. Sooner or later, I’ll turn. You know that. You planned this.” Every syllable was like lead. Her tone was flat, but he had never seen her so agitated before. Her eyes bored into him as she paced, almost unblinking. “What if you’re wrong. What if I break before it’s finished. You couldn’t kill one Lightwarden before.” She let out a huff. “You’d make me all of them.”

She was still not finished. “There’s time yet. I’ll know, before, I think. Enough time to warn you. I won’t fight you, as long as I’m still me. However long that is. But they won’t – they can’t, they aren’t strong enough. And they won’t. You.”

Szet stopped pacing to stare down at him. Her arms were folded over her chest, her fingertips pale from how hard they dug into her skin as she gripped her forearms.

“You have to kill me, if it goes wrong. Can you kill me?”

That question had opened a sinkhole in his stomach as soon as he grasped her meaning, and more of the edge crumbled away with every word she spoke. By the time she stopped to demand an answer, the dark pit in his gut yawned so wide he thought it might swallow him.

How long had she known? Had it all gone wrong already, if she could sense the cracks so soon? The implications were too grave to contemplate so briefly.

And this was her response – not murderous fury or outrage or betrayal, but resignation? Passive despair? No, it was something more than that. The desperation straining in her voice was not the growling of a trapped animal.

The Exarch felt dizzy, as if he’d been holding his breath too long. Perhaps he had.

“Yes,” he answered, at last. His mouth was dry, and his voice came unwillingly. “I can.”

That answer was not consolation enough. “Swear to me. Swear you won’t let me – ” The words died in her throat, leaving behind an awful silence as her gaze broke away and turned back toward the way they had come. When her eyes found him again, they were jagged like broken glass, glimmering in the light. Tears, he realized suddenly, and felt something wrench inside his chest. There were tears in her eyes. Her words were half-choked. “Swear that they won’t be hurt.”

The lock, the Exarch thought, with a sickening wave of realization. Had she sensed it even then, that first dark night in Lakeland? What she had sought from him that night in the Tower was a locked door and a cage – the meager comfort of knowing that the beast would be contained, should it claim her. She asked no less of him now.

All at once, he understood, and knew he was a damned fool for not understanding sooner.

She was waiting for an answer. He did not want to lie to her again, but it nonetheless pained him to choose his words so carefully.

“If that moment comes – and I pray it does not – I shall stop at nothing to ensure no harm comes to them. To finish this.” He could not bring himself to say it. “You have my word.”

She – Mahiwa – glared at him in ragged silence for what felt like an eternity. He could not bear to hold her gaze – to witness the flood of emotion churning there, deeper than he had ever dreamt her capable of – but neither could he look away.

Finally, she turned her back on him, turning her bottomless gaze out into the trees instead.

“You will not speak a word of this.” Her voice was tight and ragged, as if only her iron will held her tears in check. “No matter what, they must not know how this might end. They’ll know something is wrong. Y’shtola will know. But they must not know you promised me this. They must trust you. If they suspect...”

That, at least, was a gentler promise, but it made his throat ache all the same. “I shall not speak of it,” he agreed. “Nor do I intend to allow that to come to pass.”

She let out another huff, in a mirthless, voiceless laugh. She did not believe him. Nor did she have any reason to, he supposed.

“I…” she began, but trailed off into an uncertain silence. It took some seconds for her to continue. “I need you. To stay close. To watch me. Can you do that?” Mahiwa turned to look at him again, her eyes still glimmering beneath a heavy frown. “The Ascian said…”

“I, ah –” He had to pause to clear his throat, which still felt uncomfortably thick. “I had meant to discuss that with you, in fact. I, too, thought ‘twould be wise for me to accompany you, but it is true that I am… tied to the Crystal Tower. The further I travel from it, and the longer I linger, the more my strength wanes. I believe I have found a way to circumvent this limitation, at least for a time.”

He had spent hours contemplating how to explain this to her, in anticipation of argument; he had been certain she would refuse his accompaniment. The words felt surreal now – awkward, even inappropriate, in the midst of the conversation at hand. They were, however, necessary.

“The spell you saw Emet-Selch employ earlier, allowing him to appear before us separate from his physical form, is one with which I am quite familiar. Were I to accompany you using a similar shade, I would expend far less of my strength in the process.”

“You wouldn’t be here,” she observed. “You would be there.”

“Indeed. But were I able to bridge that distance swiftly enough, there would be little practical difference. With that quandary in mind, I made this.”

From a pocket of his robes, he withdrew the crystal that had been the focus of years of study, failure, and eventually refinement. He could take little credit for it, having cobbled together the disparate research of Allagan scholars, each of whom had made some facet of the technology their life’s work. Even so, it had required countless experiments to replicate that research and turn it to his own purposes. It was only recently, in fact, that he had completed the final refinements – spurred by a sense of urgency as he awaited her return from Il Mheg, like as not.

The core of the crystal was a brilliant blue, cut through with splinters of blood red. It was small enough to fit in the heart of his palm, where it was warm against his skin. It was difficult to believe that it truly housed a piece of his living soul.

But that much she did not need to know.

“‘Tis something between an aetheryte and a beacon,” he went on, “attuned to my essence alone. I can explain in greater detail, if you wish – later, perhaps – but suffice to say it will allow me to return to your side within moments, should you need me.”

After a pause, she held out her hand. He found himself avoiding brushing against her skin as he let her take it – although that felt a bit foolish, considering how much more intimate a piece of his soul was, compared to mere skin.

She studied the crystal in her palm without a word. Eventually, she tucked it inside her coat without any further acknowledgment or question, and her gaze drifted back out into the forest.

For a while, there was only the horrible silence between them. An end to the conversation might have been merciful for them both, but to turn his back on her now felt tantamount to abandonment, however little she enjoyed his presence.

Finally, he could not bear the quiet any longer, nor the words left unspoken.

“Mahiwa,” he said, little more than a whisper. His words were unsteady, unrehearsed. “I’m sorry. This is… a burden you should never have been asked to bear. If there is aught I can do to make that easier – ”

Her head snapped back towards him, but the expression there wasn’t anger, it was… something else.

“Why?” For once, the word wasn’t an accusation. She sounded… unsure. “Why would you care if it’s easy?”

He struggled to find an answer that could be put into words. “You deserve better than this,” he said softly. “Better than what has been done to you. What I have done to you.”

Her face showed only incomprehension, as if he were speaking to her in children’s rhymes. “Does a knife deserve better than to cut? What does it matter to you, so long as it doesn’t dull?”

Oh, the Exarch thought, as understanding welled up in his throat – a nauseous rush of shame and disgust. Oh, gods.

Out of all of this – the fear and horror she must feel, the godsforsaken oaths he had sworn to her, the uncertainty of what came next – what Mahiwa could not fathom was that he might care about her at all. That she could be more than a tool to him, to be disposed of when he was finished with her. The realization that his words, his actions, had brought her to that conclusion…

If he looked her in the eyes, could he truly deny it? He wasn’t sure.

The Exarch had not yet found the words to explain – to tell her that she was wrong, to justify her life mattering to him, to find a way to refute that shameful truth – when Mahiwa once again turned away. Without another word, she disappeared into the trees alone, leaving him with only the memory of the way confusion and tears had blurred in her eyes.

For the first time, he wished she hadn’t gone.