Time spirals into an indeterminate blur as the [Adjutant] leads me through my story again and again in exacting detail, questioning me about timelines, locations, even smells and shapes. My tongue is dry from lack of water and hours of talking, and my brain feels fuzzy after jumping back and forth between so many topics, but the interrogation never stops.

My mana is locked away by some technique borrowed from the [Inquisitors], my Skills out of reach while I undergo questioning. It’s unnerving, but I have to remind myself that we’re not actually enemies. We’re all more or less on the same side, even if I don’t know if I can trust them personally.

The raven-haired [Adjutant] waves his notebook in my face. “People lie, Nuri the young [Glassworker]. They lie all day long, in a hundred small ways to make themselves look better. Thankfully, I have a Skill that allows me to transcribe what I hear into exact notes. I never make a mistake; I never get any information wrong,” he brags.

“If people lie, though, then aren’t you just recording lies?” I ask, unsure why he thinks that perfect accuracy combats misinformation.

“Perhaps. That’s the funny thing, though. A simple truth is easy to repeat. If I ask you what your name is five different times over the course of the day, you’ll get it right each time. If you make up an elaborate story, or try to omit an inconvenient detail, however, you may have a harder time sticking to the lie after the fifth or sixth time I ask you to describe it to me. Variation in a recounting is often a dead giveaway that you’re hiding something.”

I nod slowly, collecting my thoughts. “But if I were trying to lie to you, then now I know to be on guard. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

The [Adjutant] doesn’t answer for a long, tense moment. He simply flips through his little black notebook as though looking for a particular phrase or sentence. Finally, he looks up and clears his throat. “If I gave you a shield and told you to stop a blow from [General] Tychicus, could you do it? Successfully, I mean.”

A short, bitter snort escapes me before I can remind myself to show some decorum. “Not a chance. A [General] is too high-leveled, and he has both far more fighting experience than I do and a combat Class,” I say, putting the pieces together as I work through the implications aloud. “Ah, you’re saying that even giving me a shield to defend against you—in this case, letting me in on your strategy—is irrelevant, because you’re that much stronger and smarter than I am that it doesn’t matter?”

“Precisely,” the [Adjutant] replies with a serpentine smile on his slim, aristocratic face. “Now, remind me again the color of the crabs you fought?”

“Crimson,” I answer automatically. “Although, honestly, we didn’t really fight them. We ran away and hid.”

“So you’ve said before, craftsman. I think we’ve long since established your cowardice,” the [Adjutant] says dryly, still scratching away in his notebook as his Skill takes effect.

“You would have done the same,” I scoff. “There were too many—a flood that carpeted the ground and covered the entire horizon. Fighting them would have been suicide.”

The [Adjutant] gives me a blank look. He raises his eyebrows and hums in the back of his throat, clearly unimpressed. Before I can defend our actions, he dives back into his notebook to pull out more questions. He’s constantly referring back to wording and phrases that I’ve forgotten I even said, needling me for details or trying to catch me in traps of inconsistency. My eyelids keep fluttering closed, and I start awake to the scent of burning flowers, although I don’t remember feeling tired this morning.

A small bouquet of flowers, haphazardly arrayed in a cheap, blue glass vase—I could make one far better, I can tell in an instant—are beaded with tiny drops of water. One of them is seared away to a crisp; the blue-grey smoke is still swirling in the air in lazy circles. The rest of the pale flowers bow down over the rim of the vase. They reach for the ground, suspended from light green stems, opening into blossoms like that look like bells or perhaps inverted trumpets. The white petals deepen to a pinkish shade, unfurling into multiple, delicate folds.

The [Adjutant] snaps his fingers in front of my face, and a burst of mana accompanies a sudden rush of clarity. I sit up straight, unable to look away from his gold-flecked eyes—like a rodent freezing underneath the terrifying stare of a snake.

“Describe to me again exactly how you know that foul void beast was communicating with you. That seems speculative at best, don’t you think?” His voice booms, and he spits out words faster and faster as he grows more irate. “Wraiths aren’t sentient. They kill and pillage and destroy. Talk of communication or friendship is foolish. No, it’s downright dangerous! The wraiths are our ancient enemies, not neighbors with whom we occasionally argue about fencelines!”

“They built the labyrinth, didn’t they?” I ask cautiously, unsure how much I should risk his anger. “They can’t be completely mindless.”

The [Adjutant] sneers. “You think they’re like people? That they’re just strange-looking folk who are sometimes allies, and sometimes enemies? Bah! You’re even stupider than I thought, boy. Now, I need to know exactly what Tem said and did within the labyrinth. I grow tired of hearing you repeat the same dull tales over and over again.”

I rub my tired eyes, stifle a yawn, and nod, wracking my brain for the right words. I reach again for the cup of water that the [Adjutant] had delivered to the room. My mouth feels like it’s been stuffed full with wool. Speaking is becoming laborious. When I hold the cup up to my trembling lips, however, only a single drop of water dribbles from the cup. I frown, blinking. I appear to have drained it dry already. Huh. I don’t remember that.

My tongue is stiff, stuck against the roof of my mouth. I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to work the moisture back into my tongue and cheeks and lips. We’ve been talking for hours—haven’t we? I can’t remember.

I can’t remember.

Panic sets in as I realize that I’m losing control of my own mind. There’s nothing I can do to fight back, though, not really. I’m heavily out-leveled and out-Classed. I bite the inside of my cheek until blood flows, and the sudden shock of pain brings me back into control. We’ve been going in endless circles as we discuss and debate the intricacies of the labyrinth, the Greater Rift—apparently we entered a Greater Rift; there are smaller, safer varieties—and, of course, the hot topic of the day: the wraiths. What information is he trying to wring out of me?

The Greater Rift itself doesn’t seem to hold terribly much interest to the [Adjutant], but the labyrinth and its denizens? That is a different story. He’s abyss-bent on learning everything there is to know about its construction, its citizens, its weapons—and, most of all, its various weaknesses. My best guess is that he’s preparing for an invasion.

The thought of the portal prognostication device I’ve sent off for safekeeping makes me guilty. I could tell them how to predict the opening of the next Rift. I could be a hero and give them the key to ending the war. The royal army might be able to take the fights to the wraiths before the void creatures know that they’re in danger.

Unbidden, the face of the scared wraith attendant in the control room springs to mind, and I swallow hard. Tem’s words in the Labyrinth filter back to me: Invaders deserve no mercy. Simple folk guarding their homes? Well. If I kill them in their sleep, then that makes me the invader, doesn’t it?

Conviction building, I open my mouth before I think things through. “I’ll defend my home, but I refuse to be party to genocide.”

“Don’t be foolish, Nuri. You had no compunctions about fighting those big cats, did you? Oh, don’t look so surprised! Of course we looked into your past. Wraiths are no different from the shadow jaguars. They are all just monsters in the end.”

“What does this have to do with Tem? Can I go home yet?” I ask, all too aware of just how petulant my voice sounds.

“Why, anxious to get away?” he asks, his voice deceptively mellow in contrast to the radiating fire of his golden eyes. They’re dilating beyond human dimensions, the pupil narrowing to a vertical slit as mana seethes within. “You aren’t trying to hide something, are you?”

I flinch as a spike of guilt over hiding the PPP hits me. I shrug weakly and try to look as innocent as I can.

A cruel, thin smile spreads across the [Adjutant]’s face. He chuckles, soft and low and with a twisted sort of delight that sets me on edge. “Ah, ah, ah, as I thought! Hiding something, are we? Young man, I believe that I should let you know that I am no mere [Assistant] to the [General]. My background is with the [Inquisitors]—and from the way your cheek twitches below your left eye, I see that you’re already familiar with my brethren. So believe me when I say that I know for certain that you’re hiding something.”

My breathing accelerates, and I shift in my chair, my gaze darting about the small room and searching for a way out. I half-rise from my seat, but the [Adjutant] moves before I do. I can’t even try to run; escape is futile given our power disparity.

He slams his hands down on the table between us and leans forward, teeth bared in the richtus of a snarl, like a feral creature mad with disease and hunger. On his lips, the words that I’m hiding something are’t a question, but rather an accusation.

“You’ve kept something back from me. From me! You thought you could pull the veil over my eyes, but I always win in the end, boy. Tell. Me. What. It. Is!”

His demand slams into me like pummeling fists, and I cry out involuntarily, shuddering and clutching the side of my head in pain. I open my mouth to answer as crushing heaviness builds in my chest, a need to answer his command, and the swirling energy confirms that he’s using a Skill on me.

My own mana feels sluggish, like brackish water just out of reach on the other side of a dam. I can’t flare my [Manasight] into active observation since he’s done something to seal away my Skills. Yet I’m certain to the core of my being that the [Adjutant] is infusing each of his words with mana—with his sheer presence. For all I know, [Tell Me What It Is] is the name of a mental Skill he leverages for interrogation. I can’t hold out much longer, but I make a show of resisting for a brief moment.

The more I fight back, though, the harder it is to withstand his Skill. Something tugs at the base of my skull, like a hook through a fish’s lips. Pressure builds until my ears pop. Bile burbles up from my gut into my throat and threatens to explode out from my mouth.

The pain ramps up at an excruciating pace, and it’s a blessed relief to finally scream out the answer I’ve held in mind firmly for our entire interrogation session—or as firmly as I can in my compromised mental state. “I stole a beast core! It’s hidden under my bed at home.”

“Now, why would you hide such a thing from me?” the [Adjutant] asks me in a wounded tone, his hands pressed against his heart theatrically. He’s still clutching his black notebook as he stares at me with those mesmerizing, predatorial eyes.

My voice cracks under the strain of my single-minded answer. “I kept it in hopes that I could create a masterwork one day, or perhaps sell it if it takes me too long to learn how to mana-imbue glasswork.”

“There, there, dear Nuri,” the [Adjutant] croons, like some [Bard] at the local pub trying to earn some extra coppers from the ladies in the audience. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

He waves a hand, and a second cup of water abruptly unveils itself on the table where it was hidden behind an illusion spell. I reach out greedily, grasping it with both hands and lifting it to my lips like a [Drunkard] suffering through delirium tremens. I simply can’t stop shaking as I gulp down the water. When I’ve drained the second cup down to the last drop, I slump forward on the table, heaving a sigh and resting my forehead on the rough-hewn wood.

“So dramatic. No one begrudges you some greed,” the [Adjutant] says testily.

I sit up, swallowing as I try to break the hypnotic stare of my questioner. I cringe back in the chair, laying on thick the part of the cowardly snitch, and not particularly pleased at how easily I slip into the role. “Please, don’t take it from me. I—I need it more than you do! It’s my ticket out of here.”

“You think you’ll have a shot at keeping your grubby paws on something that valuable?” the [Adjutant] scoffs. He slams his palms down on the table again with a concussive blast that makes my ears ring. I blink back tears, no longer acting as I whimper and huddle in my seat. There’s a nimbus of black fire flickering around his head that I’ve seen before, and I’m not eager to finally find out what it can do. He could utterly destroy me without breaking a sweat.

“Please,” I beg, my voice high and reedy with desperation. “I’m not wealthy. I don’t have a chance of progressing much further in my Class without some sort of funding. I didn’t think it would hurt anyone to keep it a secret.”

“Ah, you didn’t think it would hurt anyone. Of course not.” My questioner’s voice goes soft and dangerous. “No one ever stops to think about the implications. And you may even be right in this case, Nuri. A beast core is expensive, but not essential. But what if you had been hiding something else, something critical to our war efforts, however? Your selfishness could cost an untold number of lives!”

“What are you going to do with me?” I ask, not faking the warble in my voice. I slide down in my hard wooden seat and will myself to disappear under the force of his disapproval.

“That depends on how willing you are to work for your country,” the [Adjutant] replies, tapping his chin with his finger.

“I’m not sure I have much to offer,” I say hesitantly, not wanting to lock myself into any arrangements that I’ll regret. Serving Densmore isn’t high on my list right now, not until I can get to the bottom of what’s going on with Tem, the wraiths, and the tangled snarl of capital politics. I’m not sure who to trust.

“No, no you don’t have much to offer,” he agrees, more readily than my ego likes to hear. “Yet you can make high-quality glass crockery and ornaments, yes?”

I nod, sitting up straight again as a bit of my professional pride resurfaces. “I’m likely one of the most skilled crafters in Silaraon, despite my youth.”

The [Adjutant]’s trademark, nasty smile snakes across his face. “Excellent. I believe we can come to an equitable understanding, then, you and I. You have nothing to fear, as long as you hold up your end of the bargain.”

=+=

By the time the [Adjutant] lets me go, our heavily one-sided deal finally struck—a deal I have no real intention of fulfilling—the lengthening evening shadows shroud the world in velvety silence. I stagger back home, push open the front door with a protesting creak, and collapse into bed. The day’s events replay through my mind on repeat, and I try to look for gaps in my narrative armor. Did I sell the story well enough? It’s too bad I can’t copy the [Adjutant]’s note taking Skill. Perfect recollection sounds useful, although it doesn’t apply very well to my profession. Melina or Ezio could benefit from it, certainly.

I groan and lift my head as I remember that I have work to do before I embrace the bliss of oblivious sleep. As expected, someone’s already been to my cabin. My bed is a disheveled mess of thrown-off covers and twisted sheets, and the frame is canted out from the wall, left off kilter from when the [Adjutant]’s agent ransacked the place. I know without looking that the beast core I’d stored underneath it is gone for good. I sigh. Part of me regrets the loss of my first beast core, given to me by Tem Cytekin himself before he disappeared, but the overwhelming sensation I feel right now is giddiness.

They let me go! Any sense of loss is subsumed in a rush of relief, tinged with a touch of glee at getting away with my plan. I’ll have to double-check that nothing else is missing, but as far as I can tell, I managed to side step the [Adjutant]’s Skill. I’ve successfully hidden the more important omission from my story.

Mbukhe’s warning springs to mind. I’m grateful to have allies, I think to myself as I tidy up the mess and shovel a bit of dry bread and dipping sauce into my mouth. Not all [Inquisitors] are fearsome, corrupt, or harboring ulterior motives. Casella and Mbukhe are kind and friendly, and I owe them for the message they delivered. As instructed, I destroyed his note the day before with a burst of [Heat Manipulation], burning the letter after reading it.

I’m still somewhat paranoid about their friendship, as fair-minded as they seem. What if everything they’ve done so far is just a ploy to get me to trust them? The [Adjutant] rants and raves, uses his intrusive mental Skills on me, and then they would seem far more reasonable by comparison. Maybe it was all just a trick to get me to tell everything to Casella and Mbukhe. Am I falling into their trap?

I don’t know if I can trust them, but if Mbukhe’s note is accurate, then it makes me even more determined to dig in my heels. I have to get to the bottom of what’s going on before I cast in my lot with anyone. I review again the words that are branded in my mind:

He’s alive. Trust no one. Tell them as much as you can for your own sake; they’ll know if you lie. We’ll be ready for you after. The sun rises in darkness.

He’s alive. Could they be more cryptic? Who? Tem?

“And what does that last line mean?” I whisper to myself, still puzzling over it as much as I did the day before. I’ve never been the best at deciphering riddles, and I’m not sure how much I should share with Ezio or Melina to try to get their input. I know they’re already implicated by virtue of association with me, but making them more active participants in escape feels like inviting them to place their heads on the chopping block. Treason is such an ugly word, and I don’t feel like I’m truly betraying my country, but I doubt [General] Tychicus will see it that way.

I pace back and forth across the floor, surveying the single room cabin. The combination bedroom, living room, kitchen, and dining room that makes up the singular indoor living space of my home isn’t much, but it’s mine: a symbol of my independence and a promise of growth.

The floorboards are worn down from years of heavy foot traffic. The previous occupants clearly had no sentimental attachments or drive to improve the place. Why would they? I’m sure they were all transients like me, looking for something better. No one’s taking the time to refinish the floors, paint the wall, or add a flash of color like in Kirsi’s home. There’s nothing particularly warm or nostalgic about my little cabin; no deep-seated connections or undying loyalty. So why do I feel so choked up at the thought of leaving?

Nonetheless, I’m committed now. I can’t stay here and risk that the artifact I stole from the wraiths makes its way into the wrong hands. Once again the thought haunts me. Why am I so certain that the royal army is the wrong hands? Before my interactions with the wraith in the labyrinth control room, I would have gladly led the charge myself to destroy the threat against hearth and home. After all, I grew up reading about [Heroic Generals] and [Justicars], dreaming that I could make a name for myself. I’ve always thought of myself as loyal to [King] and country. So why am I balking about giving the royal army a tool that could help them end the war before it even begins?

I drag my body through the motions of getting ready for bed, feeling like a dirty dishrag wrung out after a day of scrubbing plates. I prepare myself slowly, trying to keep up the facade that I’m devastated over my loss. It’s best to act as though I’m under surveillance around the clock from now on; I don’t believe for an instant that the [Inquisitors] are done with me already. I’m the only real link they have to the strange goings-on of the Rifts, so it would be foolish to assume that they’re not going to keep eyes on me.

But all that I can think about as I get ready to sleep are Tem’s words about invading someone else’s home. If Tem, who has likely spent more time in Rifts than anyone alive, thinks the wraiths are people, then I’d be foolish not to listen. If there’s any chance of coming to a more equitable solution, then I don’t want to give up on it now. And if Tem’s alive, then how come we haven’t heard about it? What does Mbukhe know that the rest of us don’t?

I lower myself down to the bed with a soft groan, closing my eyes and burying my face in the pillow. These are questions for another day. For now it’s time to sleep and to approach these increasingly complex series of puzzles with fresh perspective and new energy.

Once I return to my bed, though, I slip under the covers so that I can hide the grin that’s building. I may have lost the beast core, but the portal-locating artifact is away from here, sent off for safekeeping hidden amongst an otherwise mundane shipment of glass wares that Ezio’s [Researcher] friend ordered. We’ll need to recover the box eventually, but Ezio is certain it will be in his cellar; the [Researcher] doesn’t throw away anything, ever, and he likely won’t dig into the false bottom of the box. I don’t think the [Inquisitors] will track down our shipping histories.

As for the [Scholar Nonpareil] cracking under the strain of interrogation? Ezio has assured me that he has mental resistance Skills based on his Class. Apparently, avoiding academic bias is so difficult that there are several specific Skills granted just for dealing with the mental strain. Even if they question him, he’ll hold strong. I’m more likely to implicate myself than he is to betray my trust.

I was skeptical of Ezio’s plan at first, despite his assurances that the man never wasted anything. Once I found out that the [Researcher] was none other than the author of the biology piece about seashells, I understood that it was simply the man’s nature to gather as much of everything as he could, and to never, ever let go. Otherwise, he would have been far more economical with his words in his research paper. Based on the way he writes, we have nothing to fear about throwing out a box, I think again with a chuckle.

Still, depending on how thorough the [Inquisitors] are, it won’t take much to realize that Ezio has been helping me on a number of projects. He knew Tem before I did, although they have purely professional, academic connections; perhaps that’s enough to absolve him. If they want to track down any of Ezio’s compatriots, though, then the [Researcher] will be easy to find. He’s only a few townships removed from Silaraon, preferring the bucolic surroundings to the bustle of city life.

I massage my temples with the index and middle finger of each hand, trying to stave off the headache that’s been brooding ever since I struck a deal with the [Adjutant]. Theoretically, I have to make him any commission for glass ware he asks, at no charge, for the duration of the army’s stay in Silaraon. I growl at the thought, but at least it’s better than rotting in prison.

Tomorrow’s a big day. It’s time to get some sleep and hope that I haven’t made a terrible choice that’s doomed us all by not sharing everything I know. I snuff out the candle with a burst of [Heat Manipulation], roll over, and drift off into troubled slumber.

That night, I dream of fire and war. I walk a torn up battlefield, surrounded by the ashen, accusing faces. Thousands of young, dead [Soldiers] are staring up at me from where they lie in pools of blood, their faces frozen in the mask of death. Despite their unmoving lips and lungs that no longer draw breath, I can hear them screaming. Their myriad voices chorus together, a mournful, vengeful refrain: You could have saved us!

I don’t sleep very well the rest of the night.

=+=

The next day, I shake off the shiver-inducing nightmare and head into town to enjoy my day off from the glassworks studio. It doesn’t take an astute [Social Expert] or an [Analyst] to pick up on the hunched postures and strained faces of Silaraon’s population. People are worried about the war, and it shows in the bags under their eyes and their hushed, furtive voices. We rarely see much in the way of official support from Densmore, and an entire battalion of soldiers, well over a thousand strong, has many people on edge.

“You’d think that we’d find the Royal army’s presence reassuring,” I mutter to myself as I make my way to my destination for the day. “If anything or anyone can stave off a threat, it will be the military who’s trained to fight against both men and monsters.”

Yet it strikes me that before the army arrived, we could shake off the strange anomalies in the sky as nothing more than natural phenomena. Rumors of an Invasion? We can scoff and call them unfounded rumors, or the incoherent, doomsday mutterings of unhinged conspiracy theorists. Now, there’s no denying what’s happening. The army has stolen people’s ability to lie to themselves, and they hate the [Soldiers] because of it.

By noon, I’m sitting in one of my favorite spots in a little courtyard in a cafe, tucked into a corner of the patio. Vines climb up the trellises behind me. Overhead, the sky is a pale blue, like a robin’s egg, with only a few high, wispy clouds marring the perfect heavens. Despite the heat, this spot is comfortable, shaded by the flowering vines and positioned just right so that the gentle east wind cools the dining patio.

I’m sipping on a tall glass of tea mixed with crushed ice, and for once I’ve let my [Heat Manipulation] go dormant so that I can enjoy the interplay between hot and cold. I’m waiting for my guests, neither of whom know I’ve invited the other one, although the surprise will be rather short lived. I’m still not sure if I can trust Padouk, but I suspect I’ll need his connections before this is through, even if he is from a neighboring nation.

Besides, if they’re going to accuse me of treason, then I might as well go all the way and involve non-Densmore citizens. It’s like an all you can eat buffet, I think to myself: if you’ve already paid the price of admission, then you might as well heap everything onto your plate and then into your mouth. There’s no point in moderation if at all costs the same in the end!

Amusing thoughts aside, I need the quiet warmth of a summer day after the soul-sucking drain of the interrogation yesterday. There’s something restorative about the tranquil outdoors. Breathing in the fresh air, I let my gaze wander around the cobblestones, enjoying the diamond patterns that the sunlight through the lattice casts on the ground. Off to the side, I see that a little colony of ants has made a home in the corner of the patio, taking advantage of whatever food the patrons of the cafe drop in order to keep their little hive well supplied.

They’re marching in a long, wavering column, like a tiny black thread weaving its way across the loom of the ground. Their destination? Small pile of crumbs, presumably left over from one of the cream-filled scones that the cafe specializes in—a treat that I fully intend to indulge in once my guests arrive. The ants’ little antennae waver as they communicate down the line and more ants scurry forward to carry off their treasure to the hive. I snort softly. Is that even how they communicate?

“Maybe I can ask Ezio’s biology friend,” I mutter to myself. Usually, I don’t pay much mind to my lack of formal education beyond the basics. But lately, as I rub shoulders with an increasingly elite crowd, my unrefined academic nature is becoming a liability.

A strange, almost earthy mana signature appears on the edges of my mana perception. There’s a faint sense of pulsing, almost like the bearer is searching for a response, sending out waves of delicate energy on a regular basis. Isn’t that how bats see the world? I wonder, proud that I’m not entirely ignorant of biological functions.

I turn my chair, shifting to look over my shoulder. A brief moment later, Padouk emerges through the cafe doorway. He strides straight toward me with purposeful steps, as though he knew exactly where I was. As he grows closer, the pulses of mana increase in frequency, taking on clarity as I recognize him as their source. Perhaps that’s how he sensed Mbukhe previously?

I stand up and nod in his direction. “Thanks for joining me, Padouk. Is that a Skill that allows you to sense your potential customers?”

A small shock runs through him for a moment, stiffening his muscles and turning his face blank. He recovers almost instantly, smiling at me wrly. “Ah, I forgot you have acquired a form of [Manasight], my new friend. Yes, the Skill is almost exactly as you described. In fact, I have an array of Skills that allow me to—how shall I say it?—uncover objects of interest. And, yes, my intuition begins to buzz at me in the presence of a potential sale. Buying or selling, it’s all the same to me! Each serves to grow my Class and help me gain levels. I’ve gotten stronger almost exclusively through barter and trade.”

I nod in understanding, since his explanation only confirms my suspicions. I glance up to the roof of the cafe, then lean to the side to peer around the vines, but no one is there. I can’t sense any stray mana signatures, either. I lick my lips and lean in a little closer. “Do you sense anyone nearby? I mean, besides the chefs and wait staff. Is anyone . . .” I trail off, and begin again in a soft whisper. “Is anyone watching us right now, but trying to stay hidden?”

Padouk’s eyes narrow slightly. He grunts, and shoulders past me to take a seat in one of the black, cast-iron chairs. “I didn’t come here to get involved in Densmore’s tangled politics. I was under the impression that this was a good faith meeting.”

I cross my arms, hook my own seat with my foot, and pull it back out from the table before spinning it around and sitting on it backward, leaning against the backrest. “You expect me to believe that you only visit so often because of Melina? You’re up to something, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it. So don’t give me any lines about staying out of politics.”

“I’m not sure I care for your tone,” Padouk says, but he doesn’t gainsay my accusation.

“There’s no such thing as neutrality for what’s coming next,” I say. “You think the wraiths care about the distinction between Densmore and Naftali?”

“I prefer to deal with the threat at hand instead of worrying about an ominous future,” Padouk says with a mild smile, his pleasant [Merchant]’s demeanor back in place. It doesn’t last long, however. He bolts upright, glaring off at the entrance to the cafe as another familiar mana signature makes its way near. “Why did you drag her into this?” Padouk snarls. “That’s a low blow, Nuri.”

“She’s already part of this. I’m telling you, Padouk, no one is exempt from what’s coming—what’s already here. Friends stick together; she helps me, I help her. You may think that you have a nice little thing going, but we’re a package deal.”

“You think whatever you’re up to is going to help her? Your high-minded words are all well and good under normal circumstances, but you’re dragging her into harm’s way. Don’t play games with other people’s lives.”

An instant later, Padouk abruptly shifts again. His entire face brightens, and he rises smoothly from his seat to offer an elegant bow to Melina as she enters the cafe patio in her customary work overalls and singular white ponytail.

“Nuri!” she exclaims with a grin. “I never took you for the romantic type. Setting up a date like this is unusual for you. What kind of tricks do you have up your sleeve exactly?”

“More than you can count,” I say, returning my friend’s grin with an impish smile of my own. “But for now, let’s just enjoy ourselves. Today’s lunch is on me. All I’m looking for right now it’s good time with dear friends.”

“Let’s not overstate things,” Padouk says, his tone teetering on the edge between forced politeness and frosty distance.

“Padouk! You wound me! Of course we’re dear friends. In fact, in some ways, you and I are more intimately acquainted than Melina and you are, since we’ve shared mana together.” I waggle my eyebrows at him, and Melina blushes furiously.

The awkwardness between us slowly melts away as we sip on more tea. The waiters whisk away our empty glasses, replacing them with full drinks freshly prepped in the kitchen, and set out a hard-crusted bread that’s exceptionally soft and warm and fluffy on the inside.

They bring us little bowls and dipping oil to go along with the bread, and keep us well supplied while we wait for our main course of spiced meats and vegetables skewers. I’m always amazed at how unobtrusive they are: they fade into the background, out of sight and mind, and yet invariably appear at precisely the right moments to bring us what we need. I’m sure it’s their Class-based Skills at work, and it’s fascinating to me to consider all the ways mana can be manipulated into endlessly flexible forms and patterns.

“When we’re done here I do want to go for a walk,” I say. “We’ll bring some scones and have dessert as a picnic. I’ve been meaning to take a walk through the woods, along the stream Tem and I explored before the Rift. I’d love some company along the way.”

“Sounds marvelous,” Melina says, her smile dazzling as she regards Padouk. “This is such a good idea! I’m honestly impressed that you came up with it, Nuri.”

“I’m not sure whether to be flattered at the compliment, or feel offended that you sound so incredulous about it,” I say with a laugh.

Her eyes sparkle mischievously, a trait she shares with Avelina. “A little bit of both is appropriate.”

Padouk says nothing, still regarding me in silence. Strangely, I find his discomfort over Melina’s involvement encouraging, since it speaks of personal investment. If he’s just a spy for Naftali, then he’s potentially useful to help me escape, but he’s not someone I can trust. If he’s genuinely interested in one of my friends? Perhaps that’s a shared foundation upon which we can build something more lasting.

After a delicious meal, I tip the wait staff extra, and we depart for the woods with a box of scones. Much to Melina’s dissatisfaction, I refuse to let them eat while we walk. She manages to look so disappointed that I break down and describe the clearing I have in mind. “I promise it will be worth the wait when we’re streamside, surrounded by wildflowers.”

“I’m sure we’ll enjoy the pristine, scrumptious experience, surrounded by nature and far from the press of humanity,” Padouk says acerbically, staring at me out of the corner of his eyes while he walks arm in arm with Melina. His sarcastic streak actually makes me like him more; it reminds me of the ways Lionel, Mikko, and I always tease each other. Like brothers.

“I do hope we won’t be interrupted. I was hoping for a nice, quiet, private setting,” I say, catching Padouk’s eye to let him know that, yes, I’m referring to his various [Merchant]’s Skills for identifying potential buyers, and that I’m counting on him to act as watchdog for our group.

“So far, it seems we’re all alone,” he confirms, a note of somewhat forced cheerfulness in his voice. “Are we almost there? I’m drooling just thinking of those scones!”

I nod curtly. I don’t need him to like me. I just need to know that we’re safe.

“What’s with all the mystery?” Melina asks, laughing at my stony-faced expression. “You have something on your mind, Nuri? Don’t let it eat at you. Out with it!”

I shake my head, strangely reticent to speak up now that I’ve begun the process. I focus on one step at a time, not replying until we reach the little clearing I had in mind. It’s not far from the city, only a quarter hour’s walk or so, but I still feel far too close to the [Inquisitors] and the rest of the army personnel.

I spread out a blanket that I’d brought in my travel sack, invite Melina and Padouk to take their seats, and at long last pass out the promised scones. I wait to speak until they take their first bites, letting the sweet cream bring blissful smiles to their faces before I deliver the difficult words.

“Remember how Tem was accused of treason? Well, it’s my turn next. All of us need to get out of Silaraon, perhaps for good,” I say quietly. Melina’s eyes go wide, but I press on in a rush, tripping over the words in fear that I’ll lose my nerve if I don’t get them out all at once. “We need to flee while we still can. We’re not safe here, and it’s all my fault. I’m sorry—”

Melina cuts me off with a sharp wave of her hand. “We’re with you, Nuri. There’s no need to apologize. But why ask us? Surely Ember has better Skills to help you escape.”

“Not this time,” I say. “Padouk, do you think you could arrange passage for us? We’re going to be on the run, and we’ll need someone with experience traveling unfriendly roads.”

Melina puts a hand to her head, massaging her temple. “Nuri, as much as I love him and know he’ll help out, Padouk is a [Merchant], not a [Caravan Captain] or [Armed Escort]. He’s a law-abiding man, not a [Smuggler] or [Mercenary]!”

“Nonetheless, I share many of their Skills,” Padouk interrupts a bit sheepishly. “I’ve done my fair bit of sneaking, and I may have dabbled in, ah, the occasional contraband. He’s right to ask me for help; I’m probably your best bet to escape.” Ignoring the pointed look from Melina, he turns to me and rubs his palms together, warming to the idea. “I know several hidden paths we can take, safe from observation. Now, let’s get down to the fun part: how much you’re willing to pay for my services!”