The Caller and the Seer chanced upon a camp as night fell, and begged a spot by their fire. The men of the camp agreed, and shared of their food.

“Friend travelers,” one of the men said, once they had eaten their fill, “perhaps you might help us to resolve a question that has troubled us.”

The Seer smiled as he spoke. “I deal in such,” he said. “Speak, and I shall answer.”

The men told of their travels earlier that day, when an ox had lamed itself on a stone lying loose upon the road. The unfortunate animal had been slaughtered, and their progress delayed. The men quarreled over whether the carter was at fault for not steering the animals differently, or the navigator for his choice of roads - or, as some argued, whether the ox itself bore some responsibility for where it laid its feet.

Having heard this, the Seer said that each had contributed in equal part, for any one of these might have changed the animal’s fate. The men were discontent with this answer, though, and pressed the Caller for any insight he might offer.

The Caller demurred that he had no answer, but when the men insisted he told them to place all of the blame on the ox, leaving none for themselves.

“My friend speaks correctly,” he said. “In the fullness of possibility, any of you might have saved the ox. But men do not live in such a way; we walk a single path. Our footsteps are fixed as they are made. What might have been is only a distraction from what is. Therefore, consider only the next step: it is the one you may yet change.”

- The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Growth. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)

Michael stared at his father; the crowd around them watched silently, unmoving. The Mendiko had gathered into a tight knot, clustering protectively around Lekubarri. Most of the Assemblymen present vacillated between fear and horrified curiosity, entranced by the crimson stain marring the grey stone of their hall. Their emotion was intense, overpowering.

He swayed on his feet, breathing in the heady wave of metallic fright from the air.

“Carolus Altenbach was a pillar of the Assembly,” Karl said gravely. “It’s shameful to think-”

Almost at his first word, Michael experienced an intense stab of irritation; this was yet another performance, yet another attempt to wrench some benefit for himself out of a tragic situation. He could guess how much his father had truly cared for Carolus, and it was not enough to merit an impromptu eulogy.

It was like listening to a man chew glass, grating and offensive. He could not bear to hear it; his head came up to glare at his father, words ripping from Michael’s throat before his thought could counsel otherwise.

“Quiet,” Michael rasped. His skin prickled with gooseflesh in the moment he said it; earlier in the year he would have died rather than defy his father in public. He hated himself for the sudden, overpowering impulse to shrink away, to become small. He did neither, retreating back into the safety of nonreaction, staring at Karl with blank eyes.

Karl did not react overtly, but Michael knew the little signs - the widening of his eyes, the flaring of his nostrils. Anger pumped out from him once, a frozen ripple that echoed from the stone. “We are in my house, boy,” he said, whisper quiet. “I command here.”

Michael did not trust himself to respond; he turned his sight pointedly elsewhere. Luc was still staring upward. His eyes were glassy, vacant, fixed upon things unseen. Traces of radiant glass echoed from his soul - the same that had wreathed Carolus moments before. A cold knot settled into Michael’s gut as he tried to account for that new soul, to plan against it. Right now, it was distracting Luc-

Thoughts clicked slowly into place in Michael’s head. Against the specter of Luc’s meteoric growth, there might never again be an opportunity like this. He would be proving his father’s insinuations correct in the eyes of all who watched, of course, but - there Luc was, in the flesh, enamored with his newfound soul.

Regardless of the consequences tonight - and there would be consequences, bloody and dark - it was better that Luc should die here than in a more seemly manner later down the road. Here, now, before that glint of red fury Michael had seen had a chance to grow, to become what Carolus could not bear to look upon.

Determination settled hard, iron-clad, but before Michael could take even one step forward he saw Luc’s eyes snap back into focus. His face was briefly startled; it slipped into contorted anger moments later.

“You’re supposed to be better than that,” Luc rasped. “You’re supposed to be better than me. If the hand is bloody, yours and mine look much the same-”

Luc broke off as Michael leapt forward, provoking screams from the closest bystanders; they scattered as Luc dodged easily, in motion before Michael had properly oriented himself. He watched Luc glide sideways out of his path. There was a grace to his movements now, one that was nearly contemptuous in its unhurried stride.

His steps were those of a man who could not be caught unawares.

Michael cursed, venting his realization in the strike of his knee against stone as he landed. The tile cracked, fragments and dust spraying up. Amid the cloud Michael stood and turned, the enormity of his task sinking in. Luc was not a problem he could address with his fist, not anymore. He weighed his options, breathing deep, tasting the stone dust on his tongue.

Luc’s eyes widened. His eyes darted frantically around the room, settling on the cluster of Mendiko dignitaries - on Zabala. Luc raised his hand; the air blew cool around him, frost spidering away from the stones at his feet. Zabala stiffened as he saw the attack coming, but he did not flinch; he stepped squarely in front of Lekubarri, drawing on his soul to its utmost. Light flared from Luc’s hand.

It died away as Unai placed himself in front of the group, scorched arms spread wide. His eyes burned into Luc’s with cold accusation. The nascent bloom of light guttered out. Luc looked around once more, scowling, his motions quick and desperate-

“Shatter,” Michael whispered. His soul stretched out with his exhalation. There was no fractal filigree, no crushing sense of dominion that grasped the hall. Soft, deadly light shone from his eyes, pulsing in a slow beat; Spark coalesced around Luc like morning fog, clinging, prying at his legion of adamant souls-

Luc gasped and dropped to the ground, his fingers splaying across the stone tile, then sinking into it. A lance of stone shot upward to impact Michael on his jaw. The force of the blow spun him around even as the stone broke, sending fragments skittering away.

The spectators recoiled from the impact, finally beginning to react; screams came up from the crowd. Michael heard shouts of a more military bearing in the distance; it was only a matter of time before guards arrived. Karl was yelling at his attendant to wheel him farther from the fracas, while Luc crouched with his hands grasping his head, keening.

Michael narrowed his eyes, mustering his focus, but Luc’s eyes came up to fix on him. That red glint that had flared there before was in full evidence now, a baleful star shining dull and hot. It was the last thing Michael saw before a wave of stone crested over him, sinking him into darkness. Fear gripped him for a moment as the memory of Galen’s slow suffocation came back, vivid in the dark, but the stone quickly stilled around him. Michael struck it with the heel of his palm, twisting awkwardly to get leverage. The stone cracked, then crumbled with a second blow. He burst out of the enclosure with dust streaming from his coat, caked in the smears of blood down his front.

Luc had disappeared. “Sera!” Michael shouted. “I need-” He looked around, taking in the state of the hall. Mobs of guardsmen were pressing upon the edges of the crowd, fighting their way past a panicked flight of men and women rushing to escape the hall. His sight swiveled to the Mendiko; Zabala had placed himself at the head of their escort, squaring off against a guard that ignored the diplomatic papers Lekubarri was brandishing. The guard swung at Zabala, who contemptuously headbutted him in response. Blood sprayed across the stone.

It drew still more men, who closed in on the small Mendiko party. Michael tore his sight away, scanning the hall for Luc and finding nothing. He spat a curse. “We need to get the Mendiko out of here,” he said. “Can you see Luc?”

“My sight is probably worse than yours right now,” Sera’s voice replied. “My fucking head, whatever Carolus did-” She spat something unintelligible that buzzed against his ears. “I’m good for hiding the Mendiko if you can get them out of here, but not much more than that.”

“Fine,” Michael rasped, gritting his teeth; his throat burned with stone dust, anger thrilling through him. He’d lost Luc again, although it had probably been a foregone conclusion when fighting an artifex in a city of stone. Michael pushed the thought from his mind, focusing on the present. Zabala’s soul wrapped around the Mendiko, keeping them safe from the guards for the moment, but they were utterly penned in.

Michael jumped. The stifling air rushed past, washing away extraneous thoughts. This was just another mob of soldiers, no matter the size, and he had been fighting Institute men for the better part of a month. Dealing with his father, with Sofia and Luc - that had been untested ground, and he had stumbled more than a few times.

This? This would be simple.

At the apex of his arc he pulled on the fear of the crowd, the mindless tolling bell that echoed through the enclosed hall; as he fell, he pushed it back into the guards. They recoiled from his landing with animal terror, dropping their batons and scrambling away. Michael smelled blood and urine, and sharp fearful sweat. One guard lashed out at him in blind panic. Michael didn’t bother blocking, taking the baton on his shoulder. His countering punch cracked bone where it landed, driving the guard back into three of his fellows with enough force that the lot of them went sliding across the blood-slicked tile.

“To the exit!” Michael bellowed, his eyes finding Zabala amid the fray. Zabala nodded once, sharply, his hand guiding Lekubarri firmly towards the clear spot Michael had made.

A blow struck Michael’s side with enough force to stagger him. He turned and saw men in finery, mostly young - Assemblymen, or their heirs. The scalptor who had struck him before lashed out again, his blade raking across Michael’s side; another flung his hand out to shoot a thin beam of light at him, white hot.

Nothing new; the Institute had fielded ensouled as well. The air blurred into darkness, drinking in the light. Dust hung motionless in a fractal lattice, and no sound trespassed through the inexorable grip that had seized the hall. The lucigens who had struck broke off his attack, his eyes widening-

“Dim the light,” Michael spoke, and the darkness spidered out along the skein of dust, greedily enveloping the lucigens, the windows, the lamps along the wall. In the murk, Michael’s eyes met the Assemblyman’s. “Burn, ignite.”

The lucigens scrambled to grasp the heat as Michael threw it back at him, but he was barely stronger than most of the Institute lucigentes that had accompanied the patrols. The man dropped to the ground with his fellows, smoke curling from the ashen ruin of their eyes.

Fear came at him again, redoubled; several other Assemblymen who had been closing towards the fracas quickly thought better of it. Within moments the area immediately near him had cleared of guards and bystanders. Michael rolled his shoulders, glancing down at the torn, bloody ruins of his suit. His head felt light, too-clear, his body thrumming with adrenaline and the warmth of low souls flaring bright.

Michael looked up. Few met his gaze, their eyes averted or locked to the smoldering corpses on the floor. Their faces were pale, drawn with fear; the din of their combined terror was almost too much to bear now that he had stopped moving. Michael turned his own sight to the corpses and felt his thoughts stumble. He looked away at once, clamping his thoughts down. This wasn’t the time.

Instead, he found Karl in the crowd, safely tucked away at the back. His father’s face showed no fear. On the contrary, he wore a small smile; he was leaning forward, fingers steepled, watching events unfold. Michael felt hot, acid anger bubble up within him as his sight traced over that minute smile, the contented glint in his father’s eyes.

Violence by either side is counterproductive, Carolus had said; Michael heard his voice echoing in the silence that had gripped the hall. These frightened people would seek comfort from whatever source, and Karl Baumgart stood ready to provide it. The leader of his rival faction dead, the leader of the rebels seeking peace, and a bloody spectacle to cow dissent.

Amid the blood and screams, Karl Baumgart was poised to have an absolutely wonderful day.

The thought set Michael’s teeth on edge, even as the guards formed up for another push. The Mendiko contingent was slipping out the front doors, and presumably Sobriquet along with them. That one small victory did little to offset the towering failures surrounding him, though. The Assembly would hear nothing he had to say. Any chance of a reconciliation with Sofia had vanished. Luc would be impossible to pry loose from the tangle he had made. The situation in Ardalt was, by his estimation, well and truly fucked.

Michael sighed and straightened up, the image of his father’s smile still festering in his mind’s eye. A moment later he allowed himself a rueful smile; one side benefit of things having gone so horribly was that there was little he could do to make it worse - and he could think of one way to make it slightly better.

He lifted his head, spreading his arms. “I am Michael,” he said, raising his voice until it echoed from the vaulted ceiling, “Lord Baumgart! Having made my first and last address to the Assembly, I yield the remainder of my time to my distinguished father - Karl, Lord Baumgart!”

Murmurs spread through the crowd; several people twisted to look back at Karl. He was no longer smiling, his face collapsing into a stony glare. “Michael,” he rasped, his voice falling short of his son’s resonant address. “What you’ve done is-”

“What?” Michael asked, drowning out his father’s response. “Have I fallen short in any particular? Your opposition is leaderless, the rebels have reconciled with you - wasn’t this what you wanted?” He smiled thinly. “Did you not propose that we should work together?”

The whispers in the crowd rose in volume; Michael saw several Assemblymen in the crowd confronted by those around them, peppered with questions. By his guess, those would be the verifices - and they should find little issue with his statement. “Well,” he continued, “as my business is finished here, I suppose I shall continue on just as we discussed - to return to Mendian, and lend my aid to them.” He sketched a courtly bow, partially to hide the smile growing on his face; Karl’s expression of impotent rage almost made the entire debacle worth enduring.

Michael turned before his father could muster a rebuttal, knowing it would infuriate him all the more; he ran through the nearest door, leaving the sweltering interior of the Assembly for the winter chill outside. The Mendiko were nowhere to be found, but Sobriquet’s voice was in his ear before he had made it down the steps.

“Across the square, then down the first alley to the right,” she said. “There’s a Mendiko cutter anchored in the harbor; we’re on our way there.”

Michael grunted an acknowledgment, changing direction to run down the indicated street. “Everyone made it out all right?” he asked.

“Thanks to your splendid distraction, yes,” she said, deadpan. Her voice lapsed into silence for a long moment before she spoke again. “Did you make it out all right?”

“I’m fine,” Michael replied, his voice even despite the images of burning young Assemblymen dancing behind his eyes, the crack of ribs under his fist; he leaned into the mindless throb of adrenaline and ran faster.

He met up with the Mendiko before too long; Sobriquet had led them to a disused lot a few blocks distant from the harbor. Zabala tensed, then relaxed when he saw who was approaching; he gave Michael a grateful nod.

Michael returned the gesture. “You all ready? We should keep moving.”

“We’re ready to move, Jaun Baumgart,” Lekubarri said, walking up with quick, efficient steps. “And to move quickly; Ardalt is growing less safe by the moment.” He jerked his head towards the harbor. “The cutter is at pier sixteen; there is a complement of marines onboard. If we can make it there, we should be able to depart safely. You are, of course, welcome to join us.”

“We have our own transportation,” Michael said, “although I’m admittedly not sure where it is or what it looks like. I’ll - figure that out once we’ve got you on board.” He shook his head, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “Let’s not delay. I’ll lead. Zabala?”

Zabala nodded, pushing his soul out to the others; sweat beaded his forehead, and one of his eyes was bloodshot, but his determined expression did not invite inquiry on his stamina. “Ready,” he croaked.

Michael jogged over to where Sobriquet was leaning against the side of a building. “Sera?” he asked.

She shook her head, wincing. “I’m fine,” she said. “Things are muddled right now, it’s - not pleasant.” She took a long, deep breath, then pushed upright from the wall. Her eyes opened; she nodded. “I can move.”

“Right.” Michael took her at her word, turning to lead the group out of the alley. His sight roved around the deserted streets, peering between flakes of snow, but the chaos within the Assembly had yet to make itself felt outside its walls. None troubled them on the streets, but their group’s size and purposeful stride did draw some odd looks-

Michael paused. “I thought you were hiding us?” he asked.

“Maybe on a good day I could hide us in a snowstorm like this,” Sobriquet muttered, scowling up at the flakes slowly drifting down from overhead. “If we were standing still. But we’re not, and there’s too much snow on the ground - and in case it’s escaped your notice, it is not a good day.” She winced, stumbling to the side.

He caught her by the shoulder, hastily removing his hand as her scowl turned his direction. “We’ll be fine,” he said. “Let’s just get to the port.”

They continued on to the port quarter of Calmharbor, where the snow had been ground into grey mud along most of the streets. Carts ambled down the main arteries, while men and women milled around market stalls. The attention on them lessened in the crowd, and Michael let himself relax fractionally.

He regretted it almost immediately, the acrid smell of smoke wafting to him through the air. His sight lofted up above the buildings, gaining enough height to see the waterfront and the rows of ships moored there. Their destination, a sleek Mendiko cutter, was easy to find - both because of its distinctive, modern lines, and the fact that it was on fire.

A small plume of smoke had erupted from the ship’s fore, moments later another followed. Shifting his sight closer, Michael could see Ardan soldiers rushing up the gangway - ensouled, scalptors mostly, though the ones on the ship were veiled. That veil was lifting now as the ship’s deck erupted into chaos. More fires sprang up from the ship’s midsection and rear, with gunfire sounding as the Mendiko realized they were under attack.

A horn sounded, strident and sharp; Mendiko soldiers began boiling up from belowdecks. The ship’s engines groaned, its screws beginning to lash at the water, but Michael could already see that a passing barge had slowed to a halt where it would block their slip.

He reeled his sight back, grim-faced, and turned to Lekubarri. “New plan,” he said. “We’re taking the other ship out.”

“There are a hundred marines on that ship,” Lekubarri protested. “The Ardans-” A burst of gunfire rattled across the rooftops, echoing from buildings; the crowd convulsed in panic and began to rapidly move away from the water.

“The Ardans have well more than a hundred,” Michael replied. “Sera, we need to find Lars and Charles.”

“I’ve been looking,” she said testily. “Give me a moment.”

Michael nodded, stepping further out of the road as the flow of people intensified. Nobody spoke. Few screamed. The street moved as a single, determined beast to draw clear of the noise.

Lekubarri seemed as though he saw none of it, his eyes narrowed and fixed on the smoke rising overhead. He was muttering under his breath, nothing clear enough for Michael to pick out, but as the crowd dwindled and the noise of their rushing footsteps diminished, the bald man’s head came up.

“Fine, yes,” Lekubarri said. “Provided we go straight to Goitxea.”

“Where else would we go?” Michael muttered, giving him an exasperated look. “I doubt any other ports are safe, even the Strait-”

“Found them,” Sobriquet said triumphantly, grinning - then frowning. “Berthed farther down the waterfront, that way.”

Michael looked where she was pointing. “Ah,” he said. “Past the Mendiko ship.” He turned back to Sobriquet. “Don’t worry about hiding us. Speed is more important; I’ll deal with any problems.” He turned to Zabala, jerking his head to the side.

Zabala nodded and began to urge the group towards the alley Michael had indicated. They walked quickly, just slower than a run, staying to the smallest streets that ran parallel to the waterfront. These had been deserted even before the fighting dispersed the crowd; now the only people they saw were a few vagrants that were either drunk or unwilling to move from their warm nests of cast-off clothing and scrap wood.

The sounds of gunfire filtered down between the buildings, distorted and echoing. In between the dark stretches of alley walls they caught glimpses of the fight. They passed by one street and saw that the fire had spread to the dock, urged on by firebombs from the soldiers; half of the deck was now ablaze.

At the next street the ship was barely visible. The wind had shifted, blowing smoke towards the city. Great choking clouds of it began to drift through the spaces between buildings. The port district disappeared behind a dark smog. Michael began to send his sight further ahead of their path, extending what he could see.

He drew up short, holding his hand up for a pause; the group milled behind him. Eventually, Michael turned to Zabala. “Roadblock,” he said. “We were going to turn here.”

Zabala frowned, then shook his head. “They’ll have cordoned off the whole waterfront,” he said. “We’ll have to break through somewhere. You said we’re close?”

“Close as we can get on side streets,” Michael said. “I count - fifteen men.”

“Perfect.” Zabala bent down and scooped up a broken half-brick from the gutter, hefting it in one hand. “After you.”

Michael rolled his shoulders once, exhaling slowly; in the next moment he sprang forward out of the alley. The roadblock was some distance down the street, but he had already marked each of the constables’ faces with his sight. His soul gusted out counter to the billowing smoke, twining around each of them before they could do more than adopt a startled look.

“We’re authorized to pass,” Michael said, not bothering to raise his voice; the guards heard Spark’s whispers better than any words. Haltingly, with jerking motions, they dragged one of the barricades aside. Michael stayed at the roadblock until Zabala had ushered the Mendiko through.

The nearest constable looked at him with a shaky smile and terrified, screaming eyes. Michael felt as though a great cold fist had gripped his spine, remembering the same eyes shining from dozens of faces in white shirts. He stared, transfixed, until Zabala gave a short, sharp whistle.

Michael shook himself and dashed after the others.

Some time later, under clear winter skies, Michael stood at the rail of their dubiously-acquired freighter and watched the waves crawl slowly past. They had made it out of port in good order, with all attention focused on the burning Mendiko cutter.

Michael’s mind, though, had not strayed far from Calmharbor. Faces swirled in his vision - his father, Carolus, Sofia. Luc, both in his amicable mien and the bloody mask he had adopted only moments later. Constables half-seen in smoke, their eyes prisoners in their own flesh.

It seemed vaguely hypocritical that after months of escalating violence he should be so shaken by more of the same, simply because he knew some of those involved. Perhaps he had been such an existence to all those he encountered, killing fathers, brothers and sons, and never truly felt it - never bothered to understand what that omnipresent fear truly meant, when followed to its human end.

Soft, measured footsteps came up beside him. Michael did not need to turn his sight to recognize Unai’s stride. “Are you feeling better?” he asked. “It was an eventful morning.”

Unai chuckled softly. “Some,” he said. “The sea breeze is a welcome change, especially from the smoke. I’ve always found cities to be stifling.” He leaned forward on the ship’s rail. “There’s something about all of that humanity in such a small space - or perhaps I’m just showing my age.” He shook his head. “I think every generation of old men complains that the world is too fast and too crowded, no matter the era.”

“Perhaps they’re all right,” Michael offered, turning towards him. “People do tend to complicate things, and there’s more of us every year. In one of my books-” He trailed off, frowning. “I can’t remember which. One of them speculated that the growth of humanity resembled an exponential curve, and that within the next century there would be ten times the current number. Nations of billions, and still a paltry few million souls between them.”

“Reymonde Arnaud,” Unai said, smiling. “Leire kept a correspondence with him. She said he was alarmist and simplistic, but that he was nevertheless more correct than not.”

Michael snorted. “I imagine she was in contact with half the authors I’ve ever read.”

“She had little else to occupy her time, some days.” Unai shrugged. “It was a more palatable alternative than immersing herself in the minutiae of politics or spending long hours contemplating the impending failure of the Mendiko state - not that it stopped her from doing either.” He looked up, out at the distant haze. “It seems a strange world without her here. As if I’ve woken up one day and found that birds were gone, or that the sky had lost its color. Neither would change my daily life much, but every time I looked up…”

The waves sloshed gently against the side of the boat. Michael let them toll their count, avoiding the question he had to ask for a few more breaths, a few more quiet moments on the rail.

Eventually, though, it was time for him to meet Unai’s eyes. He did and found them clear, lucid for all that they were sunken and red-rimmed. “Luc saw something when he looked at you,” Michael said. “I’m not a skilled enough anatomens to try, but I know that he wouldn’t have reacted - how he did, not unless it was serious.”

Unai gave him a tight smile, nodding. “He has less control over his soul’s expression than he imagines. When I was injured at Korbel it wasn’t with burns alone. I was Leire’s personal aide for long enough that I know the signs. Nausea, hair loss, decreased immune response-” He held up one arm, and Michael could see the strain of it in his trembling fingers. “Not the most acute case I’ve seen, admittedly, but still quite lethal.”

Michael swallowed against a dry throat. “You’re sure there’s nothing you can do? Nor I? I’ve been remiss in my studies, but you said that I had a unique capacity to heal.”

“And so you do. But an anatomens traces the path from sickness to health, from injury to convalescence. If there is no path, there is nothing to trace.” Unai looked back out at the sea. “This particular ailment does not usually permit much hope. Within another week or two my body will begin to fail entirely; some weeks after that I will die. That is what he saw, when he looked at me.”

Michael could not think of much to say in response to that, nor did he trust himself to speak in that moment. Unai seemed to intuit his difficulty, though, and stood up from the rail with a quiet laugh.

“It isn’t such a tragic end,” he said. “I’ve done great things, and kept the company of great people. The regret of mortality is the same no matter when it comes, early or late. An extra twenty years would have been nice.” He shrugged. “But this is the end of the life I lived, and I would not trade any part of it for mere time.”

There was an odd resonance between them; Michael remembered spreading his arms under a deep black sky. Embracing it. “I understand,” he said. “I - Ghar’s blood, Unai.” He turned and wrapped the older man in a hug. He felt thin arms return it a moment later; the two men stood in quiet for a long moment until Michael pulled away.

He held Unai at arm’s length, not quite able to force a smile. “It won’t be the same,” he said. “Let me know if - if you need anything, now or when we’re in Goitxea-”

Unai smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “But I don’t plan on arriving in Goitxea.” He met Michael’s eyes, and his smile faded. “I’ve seen more than a few men die this way. There is nothing in the next few weeks worth staying for.”

Michael was slow to pick up his intent; he had never heard someone so casually announce their own death before. “Ah,” he said. “So - sooner?”

“I can think of no better place, nor time, nor company for such a thing,” Unai said, gently guiding him towards a low crate a few paces away. The two men sat on it, facing out to sea. “Unless you had pressing business elsewhere.”

“Nothing comes to mind,” Michael said, feeling lightheaded; there was a familiar pressure in his chest, an ache that built gradually. He pressed a hand to his sternum, looking down, then back up at Unai, meeting his eyes. “Ghar’s bloody - you know, I’m never going to get on another boat after this.”

Surprise flickered across Unai’s face; he laughed sharply. “Ah, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think of that. I suppose that in the end it’s a selfish decision.”

“That’s not a word I would label you with,” Michael said. “I’d never have made it this far without you, Unai. Thank you, truly.” He reached out to clasp the other man’s shoulder. Their eyes met again, and this time there was a recognition between them.

Michael had the mad urge to keep talking, to find something pressing to discuss that would lengthen that time by a moment more. It seemed wrong that they had been talking idly just before, only to arrive here so suddenly. He said nothing, though; he felt Unai’s conviction. He felt his peace. For the other man it was not sudden at all.

So Michael found a smile to offer Unai, and nodded.

“To quote our young Ardans,” Unai murmured. “My soul to the One.”

There was a quiet, delicate movement of Unai’s soul, and Michael’s world burst with light.

But - no more than that. Michael remained awake, upright, blinking through his tears as he caught Unai’s body, feeling light and warmth settle into him from every direction. No void or garden intruded on that moment, and no apparitions came to dispense their wisdom. Unai’s souls, high and low, came to him with gentle ease.

His mind briefly dove into wild speculation, pulling apart the reasons why that might be, but before long he steadied his breathing and leaned back.

Unai had called this a perfect view. Michael released his grip on a thousand less-important things and looked through his tears to the sea.