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The rest.

The Everhand. Rook. The mission I failed before it properly started.

My stomach drops. “Veradin, I need to tell you⁠—”

“Come. Sit. Tell me everything.” He releases my face but keeps one hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the central workspace. Then his gaze catches on Agnar, who’s standing just inside the entrance, his bound hands held loosely in front of him as he watches our reunion with an unreadable expression.

Veradin stops and raises an eyebrow. “And who’s our guest?”

His deliberate word choice tightens my throat.

I force the answer out before I can second-guess myself. “His name is Agnar. He claims he was there to meet someone the same night I arranged to make the purchase…in the same exact place.” I observe Veradin for signs of anger or disappointment, and relief swells when I only note intrigue.

“Claims,” Veradin echoes. His attention never deviates from Agnar as he assesses him the way he might examine an unknown plant. Curious but cautious.

“I don’t know if he’s telling the truth.” The confession hurts. I hate admitting uncertainty to the one person who taught me to trust my instincts. “I thought you should decide what to do with him.”

My chest loosens as the burden of what to do with this treacherous, confusing, and infuriating man finally lifts and rests in my mentor’s capable hands. After three days of fretting, I no longer need to worry.

“Well, good gods, Esme.” Veradin utters this like I’ve committed some obvious breach of etiquette. “Untie the man.”

“He’s dangerous…” My protest, born from three days of hyperawareness and one very specific conversation where Agnar told me exactly what kind of monster he keeps leashed, dies under Veradin’s scrutiny.

“So are most of the animals we tend to, but this isn’t how Wardens treat guests.” Veradin’s voice stays gentle but firm.

He crosses over to Agnar and produces a small knife from his robes, sawing through the bindings with quick, efficient movements. “Forgive my student. She means well but occasionally forgets that hospitality is sacred, even in difficult circumstances.”

Agnar rubs his wrists and says nothing, but his mouth quirks up.

Of course my humiliation entertains him.

One of these days, I will smack him. I swear it by the gods. It’ll come when he least expects it. It won’t do any damage, but that’s not the point. The point is to hit him for being so infuriating.

Veradin pockets the knife and smiles at Agnar with the warmth he reserves for promising students and interesting specimens. “You must be hungry after your journey. Please. Sit. Make yourself comfortable. We’ll prepare something.”

Veradin disappears through the northern archway toward the kitchen. I hesitate at the prospect of allowing Agnar to wait in Veradin’s workshop alone, but my mentor doesn’t give me a choice, calling my name from the next room.

The alcove is small, carved into the western wall and fitted with a simple hearth and shelves that hold dried goods.

Veradin navigates the space with practiced efficiency, pulling down bread and cheese, unwrapping dried meat from its cloth, and setting water to boil for tea.

I join him automatically, falling into the old rhythm of preparation we established years ago. He assembles, while I carry. He cooks, and I serve. A division of labor so familiar and comforting, it requires no discussion.

“It appears he doesn’t know who you are.” Veradin speaks in a low voice.

“No.”

He nods approvingly before handing me a wooden platter and arranging the cheese and bread on it. “Well done.”

The praise should settle my rising shame. Instead, it curdles in my stomach. I got a ‘Well done’ for keeping secrets from someone who saved my life multiple times while risking his own.

I set the platter aside. “I need to show you what I was able to find. This was in the room the seller told me to go to.” I extract the papers from my bag and hand them to him. “Agnar said he was there to meet up with an informant. I think he might be a mercenary. He’s an extremely skilled fighter.”

Veradin peruses him, then motions for me to turn pages as he chops food. “This tournament the bookies are setting odds for. Who’s going to attend? Or participate? You should check into that too. Ask Agnar. He might know.” He misses my discomfort. “As for the rest of it, we’ll tell him what we must. About the order. The Withering. The cure we seek. The Everhand that was stolen⁠—”

“Then would it matter so much if I revealed who I am?” I can’t stop the question from escaping my lips. I can’t take the query back, either, and part of me doesn’t want to.

Veradin pauses, his hands stilling.