"He's not the perfect breed for it," Kirill says agreeably, "but they can rip some pieces outta a man if they need to."

Theron meets Kirill’s eyes, keeping his face carefully blank as his stomach churns at the thought of commanding Hagfish—or anyone—to harm another person. It's unsettling how casually Kirill mentions it. But something stops him from voicing this discomfort aloud: the quiet realization that Kirill would see it as weakness or, worse, as a liability.

Instead, he nods slightly, forcing a dry smile. "I'll add 'kill' to the list, then," he says lightly, more confident than he feels. "But let's start simple. Sit, stay, heel."

Kirill seems satisfied, returning his attention to his whiskey. As Theron bends down to scratch Hagfish’s ears again, he silently acknowledges the truth he's not sharing: he has no intention of teaching the dog to hurt anyone. The deception feels both necessary and dangerous, a small but significant boundary he’s drawn between himself and Kirill.

It’s unsettling—but it also feels distinctly like freedom.

The kid isn't hard to read: he has no stomach for violence. Lucky him, to contribute to a war only by decoding ciphers, where stomach doesn't really come in to it. "Good," he says, and leaves him to it. The King wanted daily updates. The ciphering progress will probably be enough to appease him.

Theron watches Kirill close the door, and for the first time, he doesn't feel the usual drifting emptiness settle over him. Instead, there's a quiet alertness—a steady internal hum, sharper and clearer than before. He looks down at Hagfish, who's already flopped onto the floor and started methodically chewing the corner of a rug. Somehow, the dog's casual mischief makes Theron's new resolve seem more tangible. More real.

He can think without prompting now—at least, a little. Maybe the dog helps, or maybe something in him has changed. Either way, he needs to use this chance before it slips away again.

Kirill isn't a monster, exactly, but he isn't safe. He's practical, and Theron is valuable; Theron knows exactly where that road leads. If he's going to avoid becoming someone else's resource, he'll need allies. Quiet, cautious allies who won't immediately sell him out to Razmir, Kirill, or the King. People overlooked by those in power: servants, stablehands, archivists, the cooks downstairs. People who understand what it's like to live on someone else's terms.

But first he needs a reason to talk to them—some trivial, plausible errand Kirill won't question. Theron glances again at Hagfish, now happily tearing fringe from the rug, and feels a slow smile creep across his face. A collar. A proper collar for his new "training companion." Nothing suspicious about that.

"Hagfish," he says quietly, and the dog pauses mid-chew to cock its head attentively, "Want to go for a walk?"

There's a guard at the door. "Where you headed, kid?"

Theron steadies himself, feeling a brief flutter of nerves, but the lie comes easily—smoothly, even.

"Hagfish needs a collar," he says, gesturing down at the dog, who promptly sits, tongue hanging out. "And something sturdier to chew on than Kirill's rugs. I figured the market court might have something suitable."

He keeps his tone casual, just bored enough to sound believable, hoping that the guard sees nothing beyond an idle errand.

"You're allowed to go out - I'll go with you - but not with your face uncovered. 's not safe. Razmir's got eyes, you know."

Theron hesitates, uneasy with the guard's scrutiny but quickly recognizing the truth behind the warning. He nods reluctantly. "Right. Good thinking."

He scans the room and spots a worn, hooded cloak hanging by the door—Kirill's, perhaps, judging by its rough practicality and faint smell of whiskey. Theron pulls it over his shoulders, adjusting the hood so it shadows his face.

He glances down at Hagfish, who looks up expectantly, tail thumping against the floor.

"All right," Theron says, feeling suddenly steadier. "Let's go."

Daggermark's keep is at the top of a hill, and the walls cascade down around the hill in waves. The outermost to keep out animals; the next outermost to keep out armies; the two innermost sets reflecting distinct histories of castle expansion and contraction. In the castle courtyard there are animals running loose and wagons being unloaded, men arguing, women haggling. Someone's left a small child tied to a nearby pole in a knitted sling; a dog is licking the child's feet. 

Theron pauses, momentarily overwhelmed by the crowded, noisy chaos. Hagfish strains against the leash, excited by the abundance of smells and sounds—animals bleating, chickens scattering, wagon wheels rattling loudly over cobblestones. Theron tugs gently at the dog, grateful now for the guard's presence; the burly figure helps clear their path through the press of merchants and laborers.

The scene is a far cry from the quiet chambers where he's spent most of his time, and the sheer life of it fills him with a strange exhilaration. These are exactly the people he needs to understand—people who live by their wits, who bargain, who see much but say little.

His eyes linger on the child tethered to the pole, laughing as the dog nuzzles its tiny feet. Theron can't help but smile softly at the innocence of the moment. Then he catches himself, shakes the distraction away, and refocuses. He's here with a purpose. This is his chance to find people who could help, allies who would see him as something more than property.

"Come on," he murmurs to Hagfish, stepping further into the throng.

From the far edge of the courtyard, half-hidden by a stack of wooden crates, three figures watch Theron's approach. They're careful to avoid drawing attention—just another trio of hired hands, nondescript and easily forgotten in the bustle.

The leader, Renata, stands with her arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable beneath the shadow of a hood. She's calm and experienced, an old hand at Razmir's dirtier jobs. This one isn't difficult, exactly, but it's sensitive—get the boy alive, unharmed if possible. Renata prefers clean instructions like these. Less chance for ambiguity, fewer excuses if things go wrong.

Beside her stands Gavik, stocky and scarred, rolling his shoulders impatiently as though uncomfortable in his stolen servant's tunic. His fingers twitch constantly toward the hidden blade strapped to his forearm. Gavik was never meant for subtlety—Renata can feel him simmering, eager for trouble.

The third operative, a thin, nervous man called Pietr, chews his lip anxiously as he scans the crowds, occasionally glancing toward the keep gates, expecting palace guards to burst through at any moment. Pietr is young, new to the life, not yet numb enough to handle days spent pretending to be what he is not. Renata watches him carefully. If the boy doesn't break him first, Gavik's temper might.

Theron passes within arm’s reach, cloaked but unmistakably their quarry. Renata straightens, gives the slightest nod to Gavik, who slips smoothly into the milling crowd, Pietr following reluctantly.

She exhales quietly, shifting to watch their progress through narrowed eyes. This needs to go smoothly. Razmir isn't generous with second chances.

Theron navigates slowly through the throng, Hagfish pulling eagerly on the leash toward a vendor selling smoked meat. The guard follows, vigilant but not tense; Theron wonders briefly if the guard actually expects trouble or is just bored and glad to stretch his legs.

Theron moves slowly through the market stalls, keeping an eye out for anything suitable to fashion into a collar or lead. Hagfish tugs impatiently at the rope Theron hastily tied around his neck before leaving, clearly unimpressed by this makeshift arrangement.

He stops at a stall piled with rough rope, twine, and coils of rawhide—tools for harnessing livestock or repairing carts. Theron picks up a length of softened leather, considering carefully. "What do you think, Hagfish?" he murmurs. "Better than what you've got, at least?"

Hagfish sniffs it briefly, then seems to lose interest, distracted by something far more edible-smelling nearby.

The guard chuckles softly behind Theron, evidently amused at the dog's priorities. "Seems he's more interested in sausages than style," he observes dryly.

Before Theron can reply, across the market someone bumps into a cart stacked precariously with earthenware pots, sending one crashing noisily onto the cobbles. Heads swivel toward the sudden commotion—shouts and laughter, the vendor scolding loudly, broken pottery scattering everywhere. Hagfish, startled by the noise, jerks sharply on the rope, nearly pulling Theron off his feet.

At that exact moment, a burly servant pushing a grain-laden wheelbarrow swerves sharply to avoid a running child, crossing paths directly with Theron. Hagfish lunges forward, nose pressed eagerly toward the spilled grain, and the rope tangles tightly around the servant’s legs. The servant curses, stumbling forward into Theron, and both crash to the ground in a confusion of dust and scattered grain.

As Theron scrambles to his feet, apologizing instinctively, his eyes land on something half-hidden in the spilled grain—a net, tightly folded, and alongside it, a cluster of slender, glittering tubes. Definitely not farming tools. The servant's panicked eyes confirm Theron's sudden fear.

He steps back sharply, gripping Hagfish's rope tighter. "Guard," he calls out, voice steadier than he expects. "Check this man—quickly."

The servant lunges upward, blade flashing from a hidden sheath. The guard reacts instantly, drawing steel. Shouts erupt around them, chaos spreading through the crowd.

Theron glimpses two more strangers pushing urgently toward him through the throng. Adrenaline floods his senses, wiping away hesitation. He whistles sharply, points toward the nearest approaching figure, and calls out clearly: "Hagfish—go!"

Delighted by the clarity of command, Hagfish bounds forward joyfully, barreling into the startled assassin.

Hagfish hits the assassin with joyful enthusiasm, knocking the man backward into a heap of tangled limbs and grain sacks. The man yelps, flailing wildly as the dog grips his sleeve and shakes it with cheerful determination.

Theron barely has time to register the attacker's panic before another figure bursts through the chaos, hand outstretched with a cloth that glistens wetly. The guard intercepts, steel flashing, and the would-be kidnapper stumbles back, startled. Moving more by instinct than thought, Theron grabs a nearby crate, heaving it awkwardly at the man's legs. Apples scatter everywhere as the attacker crashes to the ground.

Shouts erupt through the courtyard as merchants scramble, animals scatter, and guards pour in from all directions. Theron, breathing fast, yanks the rope, calling Hagfish sharply back to his side. Hagfish releases the assassin's sleeve, trotting proudly back to Theron with a torn scrap of fabric dangling from his mouth, eyes bright with pride.

Just then, Theron glimpses another commotion by the archway—a third attacker, face covered but with his hood fallen back. Theron's stomach lurches as he sees a face identical to his own, distorted by panic. For a heartbeat, they stare at each other, equally stunned. Guards quickly seize the impostor, pinning him roughly to the ground.

"Please—I yield!" cries the attacker Theron toppled, lifting his empty hands in frantic surrender. But the guards move in ruthlessly, boots and fists striking down in swift punishment. Theron flinches sharply, suddenly sickened. "Stop—he surrendered!" he calls out, but his voice is lost beneath the guards' angry curses and the captive's muffled cries.

Kirill pushes urgently through the crowd moments later, eyes wide with genuine worry. He surveys the overturned carts, the beaten prisoner, the false Theron now pinned to the cobblestones—and his expression darkens with grim certainty.

"Well, he tried, but not that hard. We're leaving. Now. Before he tries harder."

Theron nods numbly, adrenaline fading to unease. He had acted—had saved himself—but his victory tastes bitter now. He can't look away from the bruised, bloodied attacker, curled miserably on the stones.

Beside him, Hagfish drops the torn sleeve and wags his tail furiously, oblivious to everything but his own triumph. Theron kneels slowly, stroking the dog's neck with a shaking hand. "Good boy," he murmurs, voice barely audible. "You might've just saved us both."