Theron leans forward slightly, considering the scenario carefully. There's a moment's pause—brief, natural, thoughtful—and then the numbers unfold easily in his mind, clear and certain.

"You have four hearts total—two in your hand, two visible," he says, voice steady. "That's four out of thirteen possible hearts already accounted for. So there are nine hearts left unseen. Six cards known so far—your two, and the four on the table—out of fifty-two total. That leaves forty-six unknown."

He hesitates only briefly, surprised by how smoothly the calculation comes, how comfortable and solid it feels. "So your odds," he says finally, "are nine in forty-six. Just under one chance in five."

He looks up at Kirill, unable to keep a faint, hopeful smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That's...probably the first real thing I've told you, isn't it?"

"Well, I guess you can probably earn your supper just with that trick, lotta places, until you piss someone off and he knocks out your teeth. I don't see how we can beat Razmir with poker but it's - encouraging, about what we'll find if we try a hundred things. You know any wizardry? If I draw -" he pulls out a piece of chalk and makes a pattern on the table, the one for Detect Magic, he's seen it often enough - "that mean anything to you?"

Theron looks at the pattern, waiting for recognition—hoping, suddenly, desperately, for a moment of effortless clarity like before. But there's nothing, only the same empty silence.

He shakes his head slowly, frustrated. "No," he says quietly. "Nothing at all. It's just lines."

Then he adds, a little dryly, "If you're trying a hundred things, that's two."

"Wizardry'd have been a useful one, though. Ah, well. If I ask you how far it is from Daggermark to Isarn overland, and what you'd need to arm a caravan with?"

"I—" He stops, then sighs. "Nothing. I don't know how far. I don't know about caravans."

"Whose forces met at the battle of Davois? Which city did Razmir burn to conquer his country? Which god ascended drunk? Who rules in Heaven?"

Theron pauses, the answers rising easily to mind—detailed, coherent, comfortably precise. He doesn't even need to reach for them. They simply appear, like familiar stories from childhood, told a hundred times.

"At Davois, the armies of Molthune and Nirmathas met," he says smoothly. "Razmir burned Xer, razed it entirely to establish dominance. It was Cayden Cailean who ascended drunk. And Heaven—Heaven is ruled by Iomedae, the Inheritor."

He stops abruptly, suddenly uneasy. The certainty that felt so comfortable a moment ago now feels strange, suspicious. He meets Kirill's gaze with visible discomfort.

"I don't know why I know any of that," he says slowly. "And I don't know if it's true."

"....say you got three of them right and one wrong, do you have a guess which one you made up?"

Theron hesitates, weighing each answer again carefully. They all feel equally solid, equally smooth. He turns them over gently in his mind, hunting for any hint of falseness or doubt.

Nothing. Each feels equally plausible, equally vivid, equally empty.

Slowly, reluctantly, he shakes his head. "No idea. They all feel the same." He gives Kirill a rueful, apologetic glance. "How many did I actually get right?"

"Two, if Iomedae rules in Heaven, which I think is the kinda thing people argue about. I'm sure Heaven gave her a crown and a fancy title, she's an Aldan, Aldans love that kinda thing. Cayden's the man who ascended drunk." He respectfully drinks another glass of whiskey at the mention of his name. "Xer is a city in Razmiran, but not the one he burned. And Davois was a fight between the armies of Caliphas and Rhentyr. So you know the gods but not local mortal history, which makes sense, and I guess might be useful. I don't suppose you know Razmir's secret weakness."

Theron tries to find something, grasping hopefully for that effortless flow of answers—but nothing comes. He shakes his head, resigned.

"Allies somewhere that might be willing to come to our aid?" This has all the demoralizing character of the desperate search through useless possibilities that led him to the ritual in the first place.

"All right. There's...Gatewatch. Vigil. Lastwall—something about knights there. Absalom, ruled by guilds. Cassomir, a city of ships. Magnimar and Korvosa, rich trading ports. Mendev, I think, crusaders and paladins...Nidal, a place ruled by shadows..."

He trails off, uneasy. "But I don't know how many of those places actually exist. Or if they do, if they'd help us or just laugh."

"Most of them exist, but they're not going to - do you know any politics? I don't mean the specific politics of those places, I mean if I asked, why won't arbitrary trading ports on the South Sea come save us from Razmir do you know the answer to that -"

There's a knock at the door.

"Clear out!" Kirill tells it.

The door opens anyway. "The King invites you and the summoned hero to come join him for dinner," says - not the man who opened it, actually, but one of the men accompanying him.

Well, shit. "This is Theron, of Ithos, and of course we are honored by the invitation. You'll have to bring him some suitable clothes in his size; mine won't do, not for that."

The man hesitates at the door. "His Majesty said it was urgent."

"The urgency has not escaped me. But this alliance being of the utmost significance for our future, it is also urgent that it get off on the right foot. Find him something suitable."

The man hesitates, staring searchingly at Kirill. Then he nods slightly; his assistant closes the door.

" - all right, forget all that for now. The King was not sure about this summoning procedure, do you understand me? A lot of the summoned heroes have claimed the throne when they're done."

Theron’s mouth goes dry. He hadn't even thought of that possibility—that he might be seen as a threat to the King himself. The stakes have abruptly shifted from embarrassment and failure to life and death, and he's desperately unequipped for the change.

Still, something in Kirill’s voice—the quiet urgency, the tight control—sparks a sudden, strange sense of resolve. Theron doesn’t know what he is or what he can do, but Kirill has put his life on the line to buy him time. He owes him at least an attempt at competence.

"All right," he says, voice steadier than he expected. "Tell me quickly—how am I supposed to behave at dinner?"

"The King of Daggermark is an honorable man, addressed as 'your Majesty', and I obey him in all things," not always by doing exactly what he is told to do, but that's probably not something the fae-cursed boy should be introduced to right now, "and if you want to save our city you will need to obey him as well, as conflict will certainly condemn us. We have prospered under the King's rule; he is doing a good job; he needs aid to deter Razmir from his course or destroy him, but he has ruled us well and will continue to. You are under a curse. We don't quite understand it yet. You know a great many things, and one presumes that one of them is something we need to know to stop Razmir, but you don't know what of your knowledge is true and what is false. You do not have any political ambitions. It would be absurd, given your curse. You will consider yourself adequately repaid for your help if we figure out how to break the curse. Do you understand?"

Theron nods, repeating carefully: "I have no ambitions. I'm here to help the King of Daggermark, who rules honorably and well. My curse makes political ambitions absurd, and the only reward I seek is having it lifted."

He pauses, then smiles wryly. "Well, at least that last part is certainly true."

Holy and honorable gods preserve us. "See, no, now you sound like you are definitely lying and not even good at it. 'I have no political ambitions' is not something you go around saying."

Theron winces slightly, embarrassed. "You're right. It sounded much better when you said it."

He takes a breath, composing himself, then tries again, more simply: "I’m here to help. The King rules well. My only goal is to break my curse."

He hesitates, looking to Kirill for approval. "Better?"