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Tamal does not answer. He looks past Teorin to where Colsar sits with Asharin in his arms, rocking her slightly, his hands still pale and trembling.

When Tamal speaks again his voice is careful, though not cruel. “Say your goodbyes.” He pauses. “You may never see her again. And should she die in Morrath you will not be able to retrieve her body for a proper burial."

Teorin uses his power to send him through the door.

“Get the fuck out.”

The door swings closed. Teorin stood in the quiet. Then he turned to Colsar, and his voice comes out almost gently, which surprises him. “It is time. We have very little of it.”

“She did not trust you,” Colsar says. “I cannot leave her with⁠—”

“You do not have a choice.” Teorin keeps his voice even. “She dies or she does not die. Either way your children must live, for her sake. And clearly there are people who do not want them alive.”

“Yes,” Colsar says. “Like the uncle who just arrived in a warship.”

Teorin does not answer that.

Colsar closes his eyes.

The room is very quiet. Then Teorin sighs. He takes a knife from his belt and cuts his palm and lets the blood fall to the floor between them, a slow drip that neither of them looks away from.

“I will keep her safe for as long as I am able. I will protect her with my life or die trying.”

He pauses. “Even without my ships, the King of Thrykis will move on Veynar eventually. The undead scale the walls of Alarna. A mysterious assailant just murdered your wife.” He looks at Colsar directly. “Protect your children. Do not fail them the way you failed her.”

He lifts Asharin from Colsar’s arms. Colsar let her go, then his eye turned copper briefly and a shriek echoed across the sky.

He turns to Arabar. "Is it large enough?"

"By the call, it is. Well done, Majesty. Not every Fyrekin can summon a Wanderer."

Teorin does not know what a Wanderer is. Or care.

The sentinel turns to him. "A bird awaits you, you will ride it to Morrath."

"I do not need to ride a fucking--"

"You will ride the fucking bird." His brother shouts. The air in the room tightens. The remaining glass on the window shatters.

Teorin looks down at Asharin. The bird is likely faster, and whatever small, occasional gasps she still manages will not last much longer. "Fine." He looks at both of them and carries her out.

As he walks down the corridor, a howl rises from the Great Hall. It sounds like either a siakar or a man in pain. It fills the hall, spills into the corridors, and does not stop for a long time.

The Hairy Leg

NOX

Morrath

The human on the table had been there for the better part of an hour.

Nox had arranged everything herself. The chair, the setting, the peculiar silence Morrath always seemed to provide without being asked. She had even made sure the human was conscious enough to be present, which was more consideration than most received. All of this had been done with Aviaryn in mind.

Aviaryn was looking at the ceiling.

"Come sit for dinner," Nox said.

"I do not want that for dinner." Aviaryn did not look down. "His leg is hairy."