The mockingbird alit on the man’s shoulder one day and asked him of his tools, for the others in the forest had none. The man replied that he used the hoe to bring crops from the earth, the net to bring fish from the ocean, the hammer to build a house and the flint to light a fire in its hearth.

The mockingbird thanked the man for sharing his knowledge, but before flying away noticed one tool the man had not named. The mockingbird turned and asked what purpose the sword had, for there was no use for it in the field, at sea, at home or in the hearth.

The man replied that all with eyes could see that he had a field, a boat, a home and a hearth - and there lay the purpose of the sword.

- Pre-Gharic Ardan manuscript, vellum, c. 500 PE

Michael woke suddenly, his mind springing back to wakefulness with disorienting speed. He lay staring up at the dim ceiling of his room for a few moments. A few rapid heartbeats passed, and his mind latched onto the circumstances of his day one fragment at a time.

The gravity of his situation settled around him slowly. Normalcy had meant something different to him earlier in the year, when his days were filled with stifled, quiet moments in his father’s house. It had meant something different to him earlier in the month, when he was in the midst of preparations for their trip - and earlier in the week, when they were still fleeing north under Amira’s iron guidance.

Alien as it was to wake in Mendian, in the quiet luxury of Leire’s house, Michael was forced to contemplate that he might never again know anything else. This was to be his home in a few short years. His mind rebelled against it, then quieted as he reminded himself of the rest of Leire’s words. From here, he would work to save Daressa. To ensure that his friends lived.

Time passed, and he did not move. Quiet sounds from outside his door let him know that the others had returned to the common area. After some steadying breaths had returned his heart to a slower pace and stilled the acid urgency of stress, he rose to join them.

Charles, Sobriquet and Vernon were gathered around the table, talking in a low voice; they turned to look as he approached. Vernon and Charles examined him with interest, and some annoyance in the case of the latter. Sobriquet swirled with a baffling tempest of emotion, though, strong enough to give him pause. It was only when her face cracked into a smile that Michael realized why.

“You were listening,” he said.

She laughed, giddy and somewhat sheepish at being caught out. “It was hard to ignore,” she said. “Every time you and Leire talk it’s like a thunderstorm is rattling the windows.”

Charles blinked, then smiled. “Good news, then?” he said.

“There are nuances to it,” Michael sighed. “But yes. I’ve agreed to work with Leire.”

A crash drew Michael’s eyes to the suite’s small kitchen; Luc was standing there, pale-faced, the shards of a broken plate littering the countertop in front of him. Michael felt a dull pain in his chest at the betrayal in Luc’s eyes, the despair.

“Luc,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady. “It was the only good option.”

Luc pressed his lips together, then turned to gather the pieces of the broken plate. Charles snorted and shook his head, turning back to the others at the table.

“What option?” he muttered. “It wasn’t even a choice. They’re giving us more than we ever thought they would.”

Sobriquet gave the artifex an admonishing look. “It’s nothing but upsides for us,” she said. “They’re asking a significant price from Michael.”

Michael met Charles’s curious look with a shrug. “The soul is dangerous,” he said. “More than I anticipated. Accepting it will mean living here permanently, on the other side of the glass barrier.”

“Your souls are already dangerous,” Charles said, lifting an eyebrow. “You’ve managed so far. Besides, I think this place should meet even your exacting standards for lodging. It’s hardly a cot in the safehouse. I’ve half a mind to stay myself.”

Sobriquet sighed. “You don’t understand,” she said. “But there will be time for that. I expect the old crone will hang on for a while yet.”

“Her health is not the best,” Michael said, his voice somewhat more glum than he had intended. “I’ve noticed a couple of times when we were talking. She gets fatigued.”

Charles raised his eyebrows, a smile plucking at his lips. “That’s nothing special, lordling,” he said. “Just the thought of talking to you makes me yawn.”

“You’re not disproving his point, old man,” Sobriquet retorted, ignoring Charles’s exaggerated look of offense. “I’m not too worried. She’ll hang on for a couple of years yet, by her own estimates.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Vernon asked.

Sobriquet fixed him with a look; Vernon raised his hands in surrender. Michael wondered at the odd tension for a moment, but it dissipated when a knock came on the door. Vernon rose to let Unai in, along with the supper he had brought. The room dissolved into a bustle of flatware and clinking plates for a moment while they made ready to eat. The smell of roast meat and spices drew Emil from his nap, and minutes later they were all seated around their small feast.

Again, Sobriquet led the toast. “Michael,” she said, nodding in his direction. “For opening a path forward.”

The others drank, Michael following along with a halfhearted sip. Luc’s motions were stiff and wooden, his eyes downcast. The fear had threaded its way through him again, pulsing out bright and clear with an intensity that cut distractingly deep into the warm dinner conversation. The others could not feel it as Michael could, but Luc’s somber mood left them in no state to share stories as they had the other night. The conversation instead turned to more weighty topics.

“I happened to overhear an update on the situation at Imes,” Sobriquet said. “The Ardans hold the eastern half of the city, more or less, with some Safid holdouts along the coast. They’ve both dug in against artillery fire and are flattening whole blocks.”

“Emperor’s bones,” Charles muttered. “There’s not going to be a city left when they’re done. Why couldn’t the Ardans have waited one more year?”

Emil grunted around a mouthful of his roast. “You know why,” he said. “Mendian made their move, and the Ardans acted on it.” He swallowed and set down his fork, looking briefly over at Sobriquet - and Michael. “It’s going to be dangerous, involving Mendian in this. The War was destructive before, but it was settled. This will upend the table. Things will get worse, and quickly, long before they improve.”

“I think it was always too optimistic to think we could prevent a battle in Imes,” Sobriquet sighed. “The best we can hope for now is that Leire can use the fighting to convince the rest of the Mendiko to act.” She took a distracted bite of food, shaking her head. “I don’t know enough about the political situation here to say how quickly they’ll be able to move, though. Even if they’re Mendian, mobilizing their forces will take time. Leire can only do so much by herself.”

Michael frowned and tapped his finger on the table. “I’m not sure she’s going to be advocating for a full-scale mobilization. Denying her soul to Saf was her primary consideration. I don’t think she’s unsympathetic to the Daressan cause, I just-” He grimaced. “As much as I think she’s on our side, we don’t really know what that means in practice.”

Another unreadable pang of emotion from Sobriquet caught him off-guard, the strident tone of it making him turn his sight - not his head, since Michael did not want to fall into the practice of staring at people who were in the midst of emotional turmoil like a hound that had scented table scraps. Her expression was normal save for a slight smile, her eyes looking in his direction but focused on nothing in particular.

“We’ll know more when she addresses the Batzar,” Emil shrugged. “Things are already moving more quickly than I think anyone here anticipated. Always better to let the other side finish talking in a negotiation rather than running your mouth, especially if you don’t understand the full breadth of what’s going on. We don’t understand anything about Mendian; they like to keep it that way.”

“It’s not as though they can keep that up for long,” Michael said. “It’d be a neat trick to keep the machinery of their country opaque while simultaneously preparing me to take the office of the Star.”

“They’ll tell you, yes,” Sobriquet said, her eyes sliding back into focus. “I doubt they’ll be as forthcoming with the rest of us.”

Michael blinked. “Then I’ll tell you,” he said. “What are they going to do, shoot me? If they want me to solve their problems then they’re damn well going to reciprocate. I didn’t agree to sit safely up here while the continent burns.”

“I dearly hope things work out to be as simple as you’re assuming,” Emil grunted. “But my gut tells me that Leire has her work cut out for her if she wants to shift a millennium of neutrality onto a war footing.”

Sobriquet gave him a look. “As you said, we’ll know more at the Batzar,” she said, inclining her head towards the cart that had held their supper. “In the interim, I suggest we turn our attention to matters of more direct importance, like what they’ve given us for dessert.”

One honeyed fruit tart and some scattered conversation later, Michael rose to help return the dishes to the cart. Most of the others joined in; Sobriquet had walked away from the table, seeming uncharacteristically pensive and darting looks at Michael.

By the time the table was cleared, Michael had resolved to ask her what was troubling her; before he could, however, Luc turned and made for his room.

Michael set down the last of the dishes and moved to head him off. “Luc, wait,” he said, stopping shy of touching the other man on his shoulder. “I wanted to talk.”

“About what?” Luc asked. “You’ve made your decision, yes? I can’t even say you’re wrong to make it.”

“You look like you want to, even so,” Michael pointed out.

Luc managed a small, sad smile. “Everything you’re doing is right for today,” he said. “I’m not you, or Leire, and I don’t have a third option to offer. I wish I did. The path you’ve chosen is a monstrous one.”

He shook his head before Michael could object. “I don’t think you’re a monster,” he said. “But you’re going to make one within you. Souls aren’t benevolent. They’re inhuman, in every sense of the word. You’re going to wade into the War and feed the one you’re carrying, let it grow strong. How do you know it won’t twist you into something you’re not?”

Michael pressed his lips together, perturbed. “I suppose I don’t,” he admitted. “But I don’t get the sense that my soul is malevolent, even if it’s not actively seeking out good. Those concepts have no bearing on it. It looks to me to understand things on a human scale, as yours does to you.” He smiled at Luc. “A friend of mine told me once that evil is always a choice. It’s not something we fall into by accident.”

“As much as I didn’t know everything about the doctor,” Luc said, “as much as I was blind, I have no doubt in my mind that he thought he was justified. That he was improving the world, expanding the frontiers of humanity. That it was a noble goal, one which justified any means to reach it.”

“But it was his mind that was twisted, not his soul,” Michael objected. “He believed that the ends justify the means; I know better.”

Luc gave him a flat look. “You just agreed to take a soul to steer the course of the War, yes? What do they expect you to do with that soul, once you have it?”

Supper twisted unpleasantly in Michael’s stomach. “That’s different. I don’t like it, but the alternative is that Daressa falls to Saf and everyone here dies. Cruelty is excessive, as is taking joy in death - but Sobriquet and the others deserve to defend themselves from what Saleh would visit on them, and that does mean fighting.” He grimaced. “It means killing. Maybe in a better world it wouldn’t, but the one we have has already turned to violence.”

Michael frowned as he spoke, an irritated edge forming on his words. “You know I don’t seek out conflict,” he said. “And it’s not as though you’re such a pacifist yourself. Weren’t you the one saying that Stellar’s soul was glorious, that it was a soul as they should be? No small number of people died in that glorious display back in Leik.”

Luc ducked his head, and Michael winced at the tone he had taken; it seemed like the height of hypocrisy to feel anger at Charles for his treatment of Luc only to bull over him in the same manner not a day later. Luc replied before he could say anything to soften the implied rebuke.

“You’re right,” Luc muttered. “I did think it glorious. I only saw the power, the untouchable might of the soul. At the time I envied that.” He shook his head. “Traveling with you and the others has given me - time to think about what has happened to me. I’ve learned more about souls, and mine in particular. I’ve gained some new perspective.”

Michael let out his breath. “You mean learning to use your soul to heal,” he said. “Whatever I end up doing, I think you should pursue that. You were the one that told me a person can’t run from their soul. Using yours to help, like you did with Emil - it’s an answer you’d have to come to on your own, but I think there might be some peace there.”

Luc smiled. “I’m glad I was able to help Emil,” he said. “I owe you for convincing me that Claude’s soul could do more than harm.” He held up his hand and looked at it, flexing his fingers in the leather glove. “But that’s one soul.”

“Luckily, one is all you have to deal with,” Michael said. “These others are my problem, but I’ll manage somehow.”

Luc pursed his lips, a fresh shimmer of nervous energy shedding from him. “And if you don’t?” he asked. “If you go charging into the War and it breaks you?” Another shivering hesitation gripped him before he began to tug the glove off his left hand with quick, nervous motions.

He held up his hand so that Michael could see it - the light calluses on the palm, the web of scars tracing over the back. The skin tone, a shade lighter than Luc’s own.

Michael stared at his own left hand, wed smoothly to Luc’s wrist.

“I didn’t realize what it meant until recently,” Luc said. “But now I do. It means that if you make this monster within you and it tears you apart, then I’m next. It will come to me - just like the doctor intended.” The fingers began to tremble; Luc looked at the hand like it was a serpent coiled around his arm. “And then your soul will break me too.”

A wave of vertigo struck Michael as he tried to process Luc’s words, his eyes refusing to come unstuck from the hand. A noise behind him registered dimly within his mind; Sobriquet had paused to watch them, though she was making no move to enter the conversation.

Michael shook his head and refocused on Luc; he looked even worse than Michael felt, pale-faced and trembling as he focused on the hand. After a moment of grinding will, Michael jarred his thoughts back into motion.

“You never said anything.” Michael touched Luc lightly on the shoulder, guiding him towards some nearby chairs; they sat. Michael could almost pretend it was for Luc’s benefit alone. “Why? Why not on the train? You were looking at my - your hand, I saw it. You must have realized then.”

Luc laughed, although the noise he made was closer to a whimper. “I knew before then,” he said. “I just didn’t know the purpose behind it - didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want to look at the hand. Not like you. You haven’t been shy about showing your hand. Haven’t kept wraps over it for fear of what your soul might do.” He grimaced; Michael watched his hand curl into a fist.

“You would have said something,” he said. “But I’m not you. I’m one of the empty boys the doctor stole from Esrou. I’m not made for a soul, but I have one anyway. One of the doctor’s last tricks.” Luc exhaled, and with an obvious effort of will he let his hand unclench. “I don’t send armies running, don’t call lightning from the sky. You do. I thought we were going to die so many times.”

Another moment of silence slid into the conversation. Luc tore his eyes away from his hand and looked at Michael. “But I could never bring myself to leave, to run away from the danger. I don’t have - anyone else. When I was on my own I was imprisoned, worked to the bone, nearly starved to death. With you, I’m - here.”

He gestured to the suite, the dishes picked clean on the cart, the stars twinkling through the windows. “But I’m terrified, every moment of every day, because you live a life I’m not meant for. You keep walking forward. Each day brings some new horror, and on the day it’s too much for you-” He broke off, licking his lips nervously. “Then the horror comes for me. Even if I ran, that wouldn’t change.”

“You have a soul already,” Michael said, trying to keep his voice soothing and level despite the turmoil he felt, the shrieking fear radiating from Luc in waves and the consternation from Sobriquet and the others behind him. “It’s not certain that it’d come to you if something happened to me - and I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.”

Luc managed a smile. “Your soul has never cared about the limit of one,” he said. “Why should it start with me? More than that, though - I feel the connection. The affinity, yes? For you my hand is just a hand; for me - the hand touches a different world than I am meant to touch. I see glimpses-”

He fell silent, biting his lip. “I see things that are not mine to see. Feel the pull of death when it’s near. The doctor was many things, but unskilled? Never. He knew his business. The bond he made was strong, and I cannot see a way for me to slip free.”

Michael leaned back, seeking calm amid the tumult. After a moment, he nodded. “I understand,” he said, smiling at Luc’s skeptical look. “I do, really! You give me too much credit. I’m no more meant for this than you are, I’m just less-able to escape it. But unqualified as I am, I doubt I shall die tomorrow.” He broadened his smile, trying for a reassuring look.

“There is nobody more knowledgeable about souls than the Mendiko,” he said. “Jeorg learned from them, and Spark learned from Jeorg. Let me talk to Leire, we can see what she says. She’ll at least know where to begin addressing the problem.”

Luc looked doubtful, but Michael felt an eddy of hope within him even so. “What if it can’t be undone?” he murmured.

Michael reached out and clapped Luc on the shoulder. “Then we’ll figure out what to do,” he said. “Together. You’re not alone on this. I know what it is to keep secrets close because it’s all that you have, but you’ve got all of us on your side as well.” He waited a beat, then adopted a thoughtful look. “Maybe not Charles. But the next time something is weighing on you, you can tell the rest of us.”

It was a poor joke, but it drew another smile from Luc. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry. It was important, I should have said something. You’ve never been anything but kind, I just-” He tapped the side of his head. “I always imagine things worse than they are.”

Luc paused and noticed the others watching; an immediate flush took his face. He looked abruptly towards the window. “I didn’t want to - thank you, but I’m tired, and I-” He half rose from his seat, then sat uncomfortably back down.

“It’s fine,” Michael said. “We don’t have to talk about it now. I’ll let you know what Leire says tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Luc mumbled, rising and fleeing back to his room before anything else could be said.

Before he heard the door shutting behind Luc, Michael felt the adrenaline spidering through his chest, heard his heartbeat coming fast in his ears. He gripped onto the armrests of his chair as the calm facade he had grown for Luc’s benefit melted away, replaced with a whirling skein of half-formed thoughts.

The hand loomed in his vision, dredged up from the dark corner of his mind where he had hidden it. It was one thing for it to be some faceless stranger’s hand, but knowing the truth of it had brought the horror of Spark’s mutilations closer somehow. It felt more personal knowing the rightful owner of the hand, seeing what their shared injury had wrought on him.

It took a long while for his heart to slow to a more normal pace, and for his eyes to see the darkened room rather than the phantasmagoria of severed hands and clawing fingers that they spun for him. Michael breathed in, feeling the sweat beading his face, dampening his palms.

He had very nearly relaxed when he noticed that Sobriquet was sitting next to him, unnoticed; he startled almost out of his chair. She smiled apologetically, holding her hand up.

“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Michael nodded, trying to breathe normally. “It’s fine,” he said. “I was wandering a bit. Didn’t see you.” He looked around the rest of the room, noting that it was dim and empty. “It’s late, isn’t it? I’m sorry, you had wanted to talk about something earlier.”

“It can wait,” she demurred. “This business with Luc is more important. I’m a bit embarrassed I didn’t press him for the truth earlier, to be honest. I knew he had a secret or two tucked away, but this-” She pursed her lips. “It would have been nice to know. He’s still hiding away one or two things.”

Michael shrugged. “Yes, but don’t blame him. I wasn’t lying, I do understand why he kept silent.” He looked at Sobriquet, his lips curving into a smile. “You haven’t forgotten that you’re scary, have you? I was half-convinced you were going to kill me for the first few weeks.”

“I had some plans around that,” she admitted. “You were a stranger then; it’s one of the first things I do when I meet new people. Clair always called me paranoid, but I do have a rather substantial price on my head.” She smiled, bittersweet.

“And I struck you as a covert agent of Ardalt, out for your bounty?” Michael snorted. “You may be less adept at reading people than you think.”

She laughed, quietly. “I thought you were dangerous. I believe I was entirely right on that point.”

“Dangerous,” Michael sighed, his face falling. “I don’t think of myself as dangerous, but I know that’s wrong. I don’t suppose anyone thinks of themselves that way, not really. There’s no unpredictability to one’s own actions.”

Sobriquet shrugged, leaning back in her chair. “Unpredictability isn’t necessarily bad,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought when we met that you’d name yourself as one of our number.”

“Am I not?” Michael asked.

“You didn’t have to be.” Her face was tilted so that it was lost in the room’s shadow, only its outline visible. “It’s not a life most would choose.”

“I didn’t find it too hard of a choice,” Michael said. “Of the people I’ve met since Jeorg died, you’re the only ones that make any sense to me. Even the ones I thought I knew, like Sofia - and Vera.” He shook his head. “I thought they were good people, but they were only good to me while it suited them.”

Sobriquet had gone very still while he was talking. “We’re not good people,” she said. “I’m proud of the work I’ve done for the resistance, but I’m under no illusions that it was virtuous work.”

Michael sighed and let his head thunk back against his chair. “You’re making Luc’s argument for him,” he said. “I hate that there’s so much suffering in this War, but there’s a difference between the meaningless cruelty of soldiers and death that serves a purpose, if that purpose is peace.” He grimaced. “It’s a thought that’s been weighing on me lately, can’t imagine why.”

“Having a cause doesn’t absolve us of everything,” Sobriquet said. “You see that cruelty for long enough and you want to even the scales. Sometimes you add more still, just to balance out what you know they’ll visit on you the next day.” She shook her head. “And then one day you realize you haven’t looked at the scales in a long time. They’ve been buried under all that bloody weight. Snapped and bent until there’s no setting them right.”

“I don’t think there is a balance to be had,” Michael said. “It’s the wrong thing to strive for. The War is the problem, and you’re working to end it. We all are.”

“You are,” she muttered. “Our part in this was little more than transport.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “You give yourself too little credit,” he said. “I told you I wasn’t lying to Luc, earlier; I was lost when I met you. I had no purpose, no direction. You helped me find that, or at least started me in the right direction. If I had reached Mendian like Jeorg wanted, it would have just been Jeorg and Leire shaping me into a weapon.”

Sobriquet scoffed, though she could not help but smile. “I doubt that would have gone predictably,” she said. “Not with you involved.”

“Probably not,” Michael admitted. “I certainly couldn’t have foreseen the way things have unfolded - but I’m glad they did. As much as I like Leire, every conversation with her has an aim. She sees other people as tools, even if she treats them with respect.” He shook his head. “I’m better for having met you.”

Sobriquet sat upright, and there was another pulse of confounding emotion from her. Michael’s brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m rambling. You had something that was troubling you-”

There was a scrape of chair legs; Sobriquet’s hand wrapped viselike around Michael’s arm and dragged him towards the balcony, releasing its grip only so she could fling the door open. She kicked it shut a moment later, leaving the two of them standing under the starry evening sky.

“I’m confused,” Michael admitted.

She stepped closer to him. “It’s nicer out here,” she said. The feeling radiating from her was an all-encompassing drumbeat; Michael’s thoughts felt sluggish and frenetic at once.

“It is,” he murmured, looking down and seeing reflected starlight in her eyes. “Very nice.” He brought his arms around her. “You were going to tell me something.”

“You said it already.” Her hand came up to grab his lapel, pulling him down to lips that tasted of honey and wine.