It is a pale, blue gown that the Queen of Keesark dons to receive Emir Beinsho, Commander of the Armed Forces of Haften. The garment is light, delicate, showing strength only in the stiffness of the fabric, the high jut of the collar. They put twinkling flowers in her woven, tucked up hair, blinking pearly white against the hard blackness of her crown. Soft and strong. Delicate and severe.

I am a body of contradictions, Fae thinks, the memory of an old school teacher rhapsodizing on the coded meanings of color and shape absurdly popping up in her mind. When I am seen, anyway.

In the riddles of appearance and ploy they choose to keep her removed, a figment not often spied, yet alone seen. It is easier to keep her safe, Keno reasons over a marked, littered map, easier to keep her image clean. Besides, the people of Keesark see enough of Caj to remember she is here too.

This will be the first public appearance since the executions. Since—

Well... Keno has put a guard around her and a knife hidden on her thigh. No risks will be taken.

Beinsho takes none either; it is a horde, a sea of shining Halften soldiers, that marches to her door, and they flank him, straight and stiff and in perfect formation, as he climbs the steps up to her.

"Your Grace," he says for a third time ever, bowing over her proffered hand. It's strange to see him so, strange when a little over a year ago it was she curtseying to him, she introducing herself, applying for a chance to be part of a special taskforce.

I wear the crown, she thinks, eyeing the broad line of his metal-clad shoulders, why is it I still feel like the subordinate?

"It's good to see a friendly face," she says instead and he straightens up once more. "Please extend my people's gratitude to the Dynast for the supplies—they are sorely needed and deeply appreciated. Please, come inside. Tell me what news you have."

"There is some," he answers as the heavy doors thunder shut behind them. Staff scurries along around them, synthetizing and keeping order in the massive droves that trail behind each of them, these two leaders in power. "The Paragon moves east. Thalassa City has been secured from the Jarles."

"I thank her too," Fae murmurs.

"She now moves in on Vatra and Chaudri with Ruben and the others," Beinsho presses on, his boots clicking smartly against the polished stone floor, his tone crisp and precise. "Chieftainness Dost and some of Dynast Wren's forces have just joined her."

Would that I could too. That I could leave this all behind and journey there, to a foe that fights on a field, not in the shadows, a foe that fights with steel, not words and children.

"Our thoughts go with her."

"Some, but most should stay here," Beinsho answers as they enter the study, the door snapping shut behind them. "I have heard reports of all that has happened."

He turns to her, expression hard.

"Tell me what the Cabal has done."

She does; all the ugliness, all the misfortune, the ruin.

"These prisoners," Beinsho says of the dearly departed Samuel Grimes and the others when she is finished, a frown growing upon his face, "how did you know they worked with the Jarles?"

"The Paragon sent us intel," Fae answers, selecting her words carefully, remembering when she sent that little gray book for the Paragon, then when Keno brought it back after. Both times in the dark, both times in the silence.

The commander's frown deepens.

"You have more pressing issues at the present than ilk like Saul Fernuch," he says. "What measures are you taking against the Jarles Hive?"

"We have tasked some of our Smith-calling soldiers with detection," Fae divulges, "but they majority are needed in the field."

"Hunting down pirates and arms dealers?"

"No," Fae shoots back, bristling. "Fighting the Cabal. My spymaster collects the traffickers."

She can see it, edging around the guarded expression, the slight curl of Beinsho's lip, the subtle flare of his nostrils.

"And this spymaster is from...?" he demands.

A beat; a second beat.

"He is a close friend," Fae retorts. "He was a close family friend."

Her fingers tap on the woodgrain for one, trembling moment before she slides them into her lap.

It might be best to keep them apart.

"I see," Beinsho replies, though to Fae's ears he doesn't sound like it. "Regardless, efforts should be diverted elsewhere. I have brought some of my own Smith-callers. Good men. We will establish them as inspectors, have them run through the guard before moving to the general populace."

"My guards are all accounted for," Fae returns, struggling to keep her tone mild, fingers underneath the table curling into fists. "Though your offer is much appreciated."

The commander looks up at her.

"Your Grace, you were attacked by a twelve-year-old with an unSkillable knife inside your tower. You almost died, only to be saved by the quick thinking of your Protector—"

"It doesn't mean—"

"It means there are gaps in competency," Beinsho cuts through. "Gaps we cannot afford right now."

You can't let him talk to you like that, instinct tells her. You can't let a foreign commander talk to you like that.

But then Beinsho sighs, leaning forward on the table and pressing his fingers to his temples.

"You are so young," he says, and the crispness is gone from his tone. "Too young."

Something locks down in her, splintering in her throat, and she only realizes that the pulsing rush that fills up in her rigid bones is fury when it floods her face with heat.

"I was asked," she answers, hating the way the cold bite of her voice quavers, "over the dead bodies of my father and brother, Commander."

And he looks up from his hands, studying her face.

"So you were," he agrees. "It was a slapdash scheme to patch a burning barn, but what could we do? There was no time, and you came with the Paragon's backing."

He sighs again, hands knitting together on the table. He looks older than Fae has ever seen him, older and wearier.

"I am not a child," Fae bites out, conscious of the way her fists shake in her lap, out of sight. "And if I was, you left me here without aid or seasoned help. If I was a child, you should have known you would not return to find one."

And Beinsho brings his knitted hands up, pressing them to the firm line of his mouth as he surveys her over their clasped bridge. He nods once, twice.

"The Dynast Wren... is eccentric. It is Halften's greatest advantage and our greatest disadvantage," Beinsho murmurs. "He requires assistance in ways other rulers do not... so I could not be away too long."

He pauses.

"I could not be away too long, because we needed to get these out to the front lines."

He pulls papers from his breastpocket, spreading them out. On them are sketches, plans for machines, weapons of war.

"Mechanized catapults," Beinsho emphasizes, pointing to the sketch of a tall, hunkering thing. "Rudimentary in basic form, but the all rock and stone mechanics make it unSkillable to the Jarles. Minimal effort for us, and we'll be able to send earth the size of small houses at them—much more than what any Skiller could do on their own."

"The zeppelins," he says, gesturing to a familiar-looking ship. "You've already been on one."

"And this."

And the commander reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, red box. He sets it on the table in front of her. She opens it, staring down at the gray powder inside.

"He calls it black powder," Beinsho says, and winces when she cocks an eyebrow. "I know, but when it goes off..."

He waves a hand.

Fae traces a finger over it.

"What does it do?"

"Exactly what happened to your brother and father and Hai Sofo," he answers and Fae flinches before she can mask it. "But bigger and quicker than oil, which lights up well enough but..."

He trails off when he glances back at her face.

"Well, oil requires certain parameters to combust," he ends awkwardly, clearing his throat. "This, as I understand it, only needs a flame."

And the Dynast thought it was a good idea to make it? Fae thinks, staring down at the substance.

"Smaller quantities are needed too," Beinsho says after a moment. "We are hoping all of this will give us a much-needed edge. Aside from these, there are several different prototypes the Dynast has been working on for the war effort."

"Prototypes," another, deeper voice whispers in Fae's memory, the word strange enough to spark it. "Courtesy of a few friends in Quersido. You'll be seeing more of them soon enough."

Fae looks up at him, studying Beinsho's lined face.

"What other prototypes?" Fae demands. "What else has the Dynast been making in Quersido?"

A/N: Do we remember who else has been throwing around some gray powder? :)

Chapter notes: Fae passed along the gray book to Leo who then delivered it to Keno in Partisan's "Persistent Heart;" she then received intel from it in Prodigal's "A Red Queen." Her memory of Samuel Grimes' words is from Prodigal's "Still You, Still Me" chapter.