"What have you done?"

Ruben's words echo in her mind, but it's the pain in his expression that she pushes away.

"Why? Allayria, why—?"

She remembers it, remembers standing out there, looking at this sea of people, this sea of strangers she is suddenly responsible for, strangers who demand the right to know her, the right to a show, and she thought of Isati's face, of Wey's fracturing expression.

"They would just toss the ones that didn't do anything—" he had said, so bland and so forthright, not knowing he'd be dead in a matter of days, dead at the hands of the people around him...

"Yes, I like you a lot," Isati had hissed, all fire and madness, teeth bared in triumph. She's somewhere now, tinkering with some other ploy, some dark contraption...

"You can be the shining light, the symbol Ben is trying so hard to create—" Ruben had pressed too, desperate and pleading. "You can't let Ben win."

"If it couldn't be the pretty boy, I'm glad it's you."

"The soldiers would use them as target practice—"

"Why? Allayria, why—?"

"You can't let Ben win."

"We're going to have fun, the two of us..."

You can't let Ben win.

She sinks her head into the palms of her hands, elbows pressing on the cold table.

She had stood there on the balcony, looking at it all, and the script died in her mouth as the words she had thought climbing the steps to this tower came back, stronger, clearer than before:

I can't let them control me.

Now they know, she thinks, remembering how the rulers had stared, how they had gaped as she turned, back straight, face set, and walked off of the balcony. Now they know I won't just do what I am told.

In the twinkling twilight of that first night the Dynast had told her she was a fox that needs to be a warhound. Warhounds do not sit in judgment. Warhounds go into battle.

There is a soft knock on the door and she raises her head.

She does not know the man who enters. He is scraggly and sharp-eyed and he bows, giving the ill-fitting servant's garb an awkward tug as he slips a folded bit of paper out of his sleeve.

"Y-Your Excellence," he says, his eyes darting and watching not like a servant, but a thief as he inches forward, extending the letter toward her with one tremulous hand.

She watches him for a moment but then takes it, sliding a bit of thin metal under its clasp so the letter unfurls in her fingers.

Your Supreme Excellence of the Brightest of Lights, the note reads, and Allayria can hear the sardonic drawl of its author, see the sly smile on the wide mouth and the glitter of a pair of black eyes.

I, your most humble servant, am writing my report. I have put it in good hands for delivery because Your Excellence, in all your infinite wisdom, has conveniently forgotten to secure a private channel of communication. It will make sending future messengers much easier if you do not murder this one.

The Urilong boy is on the move, alongside several other Solveigard houses. They seem to be amassing troops to send to the southeastern border, though the soldiers are being tight-lipped with the details. Which means they don't know any.

There were rumblings to the north of here, some weeks past, concerning a small group of morons who attacked a stronghold in the heart of the Jarles. But I will refrain from going into detail—given the reports of people scaling the outer walls in escape, I think you might be personally well-acquainted with those events.

I would like to remind you that you can't accord me a castle if you are dead.

There are still some murmurings here of Cabal supporters. News has spread of their extended stay with the Halften army, but I must report it has done little to subdue Sofo's fine subjects. Someone has put a crazy idea in their heads that they don't need one leader to rise up against our stuffy, cushioned friends. Imagine that.

I might also take the opportunity here to congratulate you: news of your little debut has even reached these small, dusty streets. They say you rode in armor stained red by your enemies' blood. Nice touch. I personally think a few heads dangling along the horse's flanks might drive the message home, but it's your party.

The usual scavengers who search the northeastern section of Keesark have been missing for about a week, but the last time I saw one he told me a strange story about seeing a short, wiry woman with a bow and a dark man he thought might have been a Smith-caller—Allayria's heart skips; her clutching fist wavers, but she reads on—They were tracking west and looked hungry, but still too dangerous to attack. Coincidentally, I do hope you are taking good care of the illustrious Fae Urilong. While I, of course, live to serve the great lightness of your being, I am also very fond of all of my limbs and would like to spend more time with them. Happy Urilongs make happy thieves.

When you make your grand sweep east, you may want to take a little, quiet detour up to your old stomping grounds. The Brothers of Wren have uncovered some charming little things I took the opportunity of procuring for you—with the understanding, of course, that I will receive full compensation and my usual service fee.

Groveling at your wondrous feet,

A Friend

Allayria reads the letter once more and then sets it alight, watching it burn to cinders.

They're alive, she thinks, watching as the thief's words about the hungry woman and man crumple into ash. They're alive, and they're on their way back. With this, Keno is well on his way to earning that intangible castle.

She stands and presses a gold coin into the man's hand.

"Tell our friend that the porter in Quersido is very fine; I might bring him a case sometime soon," she says, and the man bows, eyes still watching as he slips out of the room.

She's turned, noting the map, scrawling in shorthand the little hints from the thief along the margins of kingdoms, when the door opens once more and Hiran walks in.

"What was all that?" he asks as he stretches out on the sofa next to her. Allayria feels a pin-prick of annoyance; there's a smug air of expectation about him that makes her suspect he won't leave her in peace.

Come to ask me why too? she thinks to herself. Come to poke at me too?

"Hm?" she queries instead, putting on a private show for him as she feigns, not even bothering to glance up from her work. "Oh, nothing."

The Nature-caller sighs, crossing his legs.

"No, no, that's not enough at all. You've got to give me more than that."

She really does look up now.

"What?"

"I can't tell Feuilles the random man walking out of your sitting room was 'nothing.' " His hand flicks up, gesturing in a lazy circle, oblivious to the sudden tautening in Allayria's shoulders and back. "I need some more meat to work with."

She sits back, finally abandoning her work.

"You're telling Feuilles what?" she prompts and her voice is ice.

"Everything you're doing and everyone you're meeting," he answers, still all ease, and his hazel eyes twinkle at her. "Come on, Allayria: did you really think he wouldn't have someone doing it? Particularly after what you pulled today?"

She doesn't answer this; anger has come to her aid but there's a cold warning, an error in this calculation that makes her hesitate.

Why volunteer this information?

"Look, we can either play this game the right way," Hiran continues, "or I can tell Feuilles I've been made and he'll find someone else. Someone who's not going to let you know what's going on, someone who certainly isn't going to let you decide what gets passed back to him."

She watches him a long moment.

"Why are you telling me this?"

The handsome Nature-caller shrugs, his hair fanning out like a golden halo on the cushion surface around his head. 

"If we play Feuilles' way nothing changes," he says. "I told you from the start I want a little bit of glory, and that won't happen if we go slow. So why don't we give my great King a few breadcrumbs so he won't look too close at what you're really up to?"

She lets the silence stretch between them, but his smile does not break.

"You asked me on that flying horror show to trust you about Lei Chaudri," he reminds her, his green-flecked gaze arresting, his long fingers drumming on his taut stomach. "I'm asking you to trust me about Feuilles. He'll be a lot more manageable if he thinks he has eyes on you."

She presses her hands together, elbows leaning on the table, and sets her chin on top of them for a moment.

Can he really be trusted? an old voice whispers in her ear, the one that came out of the cold Lethinor water with her and then lingered, musing in the dark corners of her mind. She turns to the side almost as if to respond, but finds she has no clear answer.

"Tell Feuilles a messenger came," she orders Hiran instead, fixing her gaze on the map in front of her. "I wouldn't give up the source, but you thought they seemed like a southerner, someone from Thalassa City or those whereabouts. I burned the letter after I read it."

The Nature-caller smiles, almost feline, and the light shimmers on his golden waves as he stands.

"Very intriguing," he says, striding toward the door. "I may require more in a few weeks—we'll need to make it look like I'm making progress."

She only touches the bracelet when he leaves, her fingers twisting the weight along her wrist. She thinks of another bracelet, a silver one, dangling on a thin, angular wrist, and she Skills the message out slowly.

BEING WATCHED. DO NOT SEND REPLY.

A/N: I'd like a personal delivery service where Keno sends me snarky notes about all the ways in which I am disappointing him.

There's a litany of chapter notes this week: Wey talks Jarles detention center horrors in Partisan's "Clouds and Mist," Isati's taunts Allayria in "Sisterly Love," and Ruben first pleas with Allayria about the Cabal in "Can't Let Him Win." You might also remember the ubiquitous Brothers of Wren from the early chapters of Paragon, more specifically Allayria's aerial view of them in "The Name Game." This may, perhaps, not be the last time we run into them.

But enough about them; we'll be wracking a different set of brains next chapter...