"Why don't you stop trying to have political opinions, which I think we have established is not your hidden forte, and we'll see if we can figure out what is. If I asked you how to shoe a horse, anything come to mind?"

"No. I could invent something convincingly wrong, probably. But there's nothing real behind it."

"Write an inspiring sermon?"

Theron pauses again, waiting—then frowns slightly. "I have words for that," he says slowly, "but they feel like the same empty kind that convinced me I knew how to fight archmages. Not sure you'd want to trust a sermon like that."

"Why don't you give it, and I'll decide if I trust it."

Theron sighs, and shrugs slightly. "All right," he says, resigned. He takes a breath, steadies himself, then speaks clearly, simply:

"In times of great darkness, hope is our weapon, courage our shield. The gods watch over the brave, the steadfast, those who protect the weak and uphold justice. Fear is natural—but true strength comes from rising above it. Hold fast, stand together, and let the certainty of your purpose guide you. For though the night is long, the dawn is inevitable, and it will find us ready."

He stops, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "See? Words, but—nothing beneath them."

"I don't know that that's more true of your sermon than all the rest of them. But I don't think you're a sermonizing genius, at any rate. Animal training?"

Theron shakes his head again, more quickly this time. "No. That one feels entirely blank—not even a plausible lie."

Kirill is feeling unsatisfied, again. He really shouldn't pour himself another drink. He does it anyway.

"You told the King that as soon as I asked you for details of your adventures, you realized they weren't there."

Theron nods carefully, sensing Kirill's tension. "That's right. It felt...solid at first, when I said it. But as soon as you pushed—asked for details—there was nothing. It just dissolved, like mist." He pauses, watching Kirill with quiet concern. "Is that important?"

"Well, just, that's not what happened."

Theron hesitates, startled. He opens his mouth, closes it again, then looks away, frowning.

"You're right," he admits softly. "I didn't realize until much later. But—I wasn't trying to lie, Kirill. When he asked, that felt true."

"The Judge, I'm told, gives folks a lot of credit for trying." The point of drinking is to feel warmer, but Kirill feels cold, and angry, and tired. "I'm not sure whether something feels true or not has a damn thing to do with anything, with you. How about you answer the question about animal training."

Theron flinches slightly at the sharpness in Kirill's voice, but quickly nods. He closes his eyes briefly, trying again, searching inward for any genuine certainty. After a long pause, he quietly shakes his head. "No," he says, voice flat, careful. "I don't know anything about animal training."

He hesitates, then adds, very softly, "But you're right. I'm not sure how much it matters what feels true to me, either."

"So fucking make something up about animal training, then."

Theron looks up sharply, surprised at the edge in Kirill's voice. He holds Kirill's gaze for a long moment, something hardening in his expression—hurt, or perhaps anger.

"You want something made up? Fine," he says, his voice low and even. "Approach slowly, talk quietly, hold out your hand flat. Animals respond to patience, calmness. Give a reward immediately after a behavior you want repeated. Never show fear, never strike out of anger."

He stops, breathing sharply, then lowers his voice almost to a whisper. "There. Convincing enough for you?"

"Horses in particular. How do you tame a wild horse."

Theron doesn't look away, doesn't blink. "You isolate it. Keep it calm, show it you're not a threat. Get it used to your presence, your voice, your scent. Let it run when it needs to run, then slowly, patiently, bring it closer each day. When it's ready, you touch its neck first, then its back. You never rush it."

He pauses, voice tight. "But none of that's real, Kirill. None of that's me."

"The horse is suddenly lame, won't put weight on one leg at all. What do I do about it?"

Theron opens his mouth, confident words ready, automatic—

And then he stops himself abruptly, his expression shifting from anger to something much more uncertain.

"I don't know," he says softly. "I was about to answer, but—I don't know."

He looks at Kirill, tense and cautious. "Were the other answers right? The ones I just said?"

"Answer the question, kid."

Theron visibly flinches at the tone, then forces himself to hold Kirill's gaze. He breathes sharply, frustrated.

"Fine," he says quietly. "Check the hoof first, for stones or nails—anything obvious. If you find nothing, feel along the leg for heat, swelling, or tenderness. Could be a strain, a sprain, or something worse. Keep the horse calm and still until you know."

He stops, tense, eyes still fixed on Kirill.

"There. You happy now?"

"I think so, yes. All of that was right. 'oh, I don't know, it's just a blank emptiness' is just as much of a lie as the nonsense you were spouting earlier."

Theron stares at Kirill for a long, tense moment, anger flashing in his eyes before abruptly fading into confusion. He looks away, clearly shaken.

"I wasn't lying," he says quietly, almost pleadingly. "I didn't—I wasn't trying to. I don't understand what's happening either, Kirill."

"Kid, can I tell you something about Daggermark? No one cares if you're lying. They care whether the words that come out of your mouth mean a darned thing, and they care whether they'll be the same ones tomorrow, but what's in your heart's between you and the gods, the way I see it. I'm not trying to figure out if you're a nice fellow. I'm trying to figure out what you can do. If I were you, I'd be hoping that works. You don't understand what's happening? Stop whining, and try to figure it out."