Kirill's of the philosophy that any word with that many syllables is wizard's business. He heads out to get them bread and cheese for breakfast. And pepper spread. The kid seems to enjoy sharply flavored foods.

He flips through the pages, finger tracing lines of ciphered text, feeling strangely calm now that he's alone with the puzzle. "This three-letter cluster, 'khd', repeats frequently," he says softly, thinking aloud. "Short ciphered words often map to common words—probably 'the.' But I've ruled out substitution. If it's polyalphabetic, and this short cluster repeats consistently, then the cipher probably has a short, repeating keyword that aligns at the same point whenever this word appears."

Theron pulls a blank parchment over and begins scribbling quickly, aligning letters carefully, absorbed by the emerging clarity of the patterns beneath his fingertips.

Then, abruptly, he freezes, eyes widening with sudden understanding.

"Razmir," he breathes, the word coming out barely audible. "The keyword has to be Razmir."

At that moment, Kirill returns, carrying bread, cheese, and pepper jam. "Want to take a break, eat some breakfast?"

Theron looks up, his face bright with excitement. "Kirill—I figured it out. The keyword is Razmir. I can decode these messages."

And he's evidently thrilled about it. "Now, a key, I know how those work, and a password, I know how those work. But what makes a word a keyword? And is making your keyword 'Razmir' as foolish as making that your password?"

Theron smiles broadly, clearly energized by the success. "A keyword in a cipher like this isn't exactly like a password—it's more like a wheel, turning each letter of the message a certain amount, depending on the letters of the keyword. Each letter in 'Razmir' tells me how far to shift the letters in Razmir's messages to decode them. It doesn't grant access; it just translates the hidden text into something readable."

He pauses, considering Kirill's second question. "But you're right, choosing 'Razmir' as the keyword is...careless, I suppose."

"Moronic," says Kirill emphatically. "But people often are. I don't think Razmir communicates anything like important war plans that way - he can just use magic - but, still, that's a real skill, one you could make a pretty penny off. You were fast, too. Do you think you'd have gotten it if he hadn't been a fool, or were we lucky?"

Theron hesitates, thinking carefully before responding. "We were lucky," he admits finally. "A harder keyword—something random, meaningless, or longer—would have slowed me down. But I think I still could've solved it. It just would've taken more time. The way my mind works...it looks for patterns. Give me enough text, enough patterns to test, and I'll find the solution eventually."

He glances up at Kirill with a quiet determination. "I don't think it was just luck. It's something I'm genuinely good at—maybe the first thing I've found that's truly mine."

"I'm trying to think if it's enough of a bribe to get anybody good on-side. The tricky part would be shopping around without just getting you grabbed. But the latest Emperor down south would probably pay a pretty penny for it, maybe invade Razmiran, and I think he's got some of the honorable churches working with him..."

Theron's expression grows wary, though intrigued. "You're talking about selling my skills—cipher-breaking—as leverage to get allies against Razmir. I see the logic, but you're right—it's dangerous. Once they know what I can do, they'll either want me under lock and key, or... If we do it, we have to be careful. And we need to offer it in a way that keeps me valuable but still free. Maybe we don't give them everything outright—just enough to prove what I can do. We let them know there's more where that came from, if they play fair."

" - kid, if it saves Daggermark I'll sell you to the highest bidder. But yes, probably makes sense not to let them know at first where it's coming from. Or to go to the paladins, though they can't pay worth shit."

Theron laughs quietly, shaking his head in resignation. "Noted. Highest bidder, then." He pauses, looking down thoughtfully. "Still, maybe the paladins wouldn't be the worst choice to start with—if only because they'd hesitate before doing anything too underhanded. Even if their pockets are empty, they're predictable, honorable. Safer."

He glances back up at Kirill, seriousness returning. "Just—try not to sell me until we've run out of other options, all right?"

Theron plays it off lightly, keeping his voice even, but inside there's a sudden tightness in his chest. Sell you to the highest bidder. Kirill's joking—probably—but Theron finds himself unsettled, even angered, by how casually Kirill can talk about trading him like property.

For the first time, he's aware of something more than just mild anxiety or confusion. There's a flash of genuine fear, edged with resentment. He realizes, almost with surprise, that he's begun to think of himself as someone who should have a say in what happens to him.

He pauses, examining the feeling carefully. If he's valuable enough to sell, he's valuable enough to have choices, isn't he? Valuable enough to resist—or at least negotiate. Theron knows his situation, how tenuous it is, how reliant he's been on Kirill. But there's something else now: a stubborn impulse to claim at least a little control over himself.

When he says, "Just—try not to sell me until we've run out of other options," it's not entirely playful. It’s a cautious first step toward asserting his own worth, his autonomy. It's a small defense, quiet and careful, but it's unmistakably his own.

He's not joking in the slightest. What kind of sadist would joke about that? "Problem is, we don't know how much time we have. Eat some breakfast, and then let's keep trying to figure out what else you can do, and then I'll look into trading partners."

Theron nods slowly, forcing down a sudden, unpleasant surge of anxiety. Kirill isn't joking at all—he sees that clearly now. The idea of being traded, used as leverage, chills him more deeply than he expected. He's not property—or at least he doesn't want to be. But Kirill's calm pragmatism makes it painfully clear that right now, that's exactly what he is.

He picks up a piece of bread, more to steady his hands than from hunger. "All right," he says softly, keeping his voice steady, trying not to betray the tension he's feeling. "We'll test what else I can do. And then—we'll see."

But inside, Theron is already considering possibilities, wondering if he can somehow expand the small measure of autonomy he's just begun to claim. 

And then they'll get a girl, his impression of Theron is that the kid needs a girl, a sweet one who will tell him how pretty he is. "Alchemy? Do you know anything about making alchemical fire?"

Alchemy turns out to be another blind spot, yielding nothing but confidently stated nonsense—convincing at first glance, but hollow on closer inspection. It's disappointing, though Theron can't entirely suppress his relief that he isn't suddenly valuable as a walking weapon-maker.

Other areas yield similarly patchy results: healing, wilderness survival, and warfare strategy all fall short. But when Kirill asks about language translation, Theron quickly proves astonishingly capable—reading scraps of text in languages he's never consciously encountered, producing clear, fluent translations without hesitation. The pattern holds: codes, ciphers, languages, puzzles—his mind thrives on tasks involving patterns and hidden structures.

Internally, Theron finds himself growing steadier with each successful demonstration, each genuine ability that proves he has real worth beyond mere cipher-breaking. He doesn't yet understand the limits of his newfound talents, but he feels increasingly certain that these strengths belong genuinely to him.

Wizards can do that too but the kid has been deflated ever since Kirill explained to him that he might trade him to the latest Emperor down south, and Kirill doesn't want to ruin his morale, so he doesn't tell him. When they've run through everything he can think of he heads out to speak to the King.

"If it saves Daggermark I'll sell you to the highest bidder."

The statement hadn't been a joke. It was too casual, too matter-of-fact, and Theron feels an unexpected wave of anger tightening in his chest. He'd never realized until now exactly how precarious his situation was, how fragile this illusion of autonomy had been. He’d grown dependent—too dependent—on Kirill’s approval, his reassurance. But Kirill was not his friend, or his protector. Kirill was his owner, for all practical purposes, and the realization sends a chill down Theron’s spine.

He looks down at the ciphered papers, the scattered notes he'd scribbled about the Vigenère cipher. There, at least, is something real—something valuable that he can truly claim as his own. His eyes fall on the neatly written solution, the keyword "Razmir" circled on the parchment. That knowledge belongs to him. For the first time, Theron feels genuinely protective of it, even possessive. He has leverage, but leverage is useless unless he’s prepared to use it.

Slowly, he sets the breakfast aside and picks up the papers again, thinking carefully, deliberately. He can’t prevent Kirill from bargaining him away, but he might be able to influence how—or at least ensure he isn't helpless when it happens. He could memorize the critical keys and hide or obscure parts of the solution. No one else knows exactly how these codes are cracked—Kirill would be hard-pressed to explain or replicate the process without him. Theron feels a sharp thrill at the thought: he can hold back essential information, keep it as insurance, a secret he's not obligated to share.

His mind starts racing further ahead, more systematically. Kirill controls his connections and allies, but perhaps Theron can find his own—quiet, smaller players who might see him as more than just a resource. Someone who would benefit from Theron's skills, yet lack the power or inclination to simply seize them by force. He remembers the names he's heard around the castle: the quiet scholars in the archive, merchants passing through with caravans, even the lesser priests of minor faiths. Each could provide a way out, a safety net if things go badly.

He glances at the cipher again, suddenly recognizing another potential use for his skills: escape. Travel documents, city gate passes, even official orders—all of them ciphered, encoded, or otherwise hidden behind patterns and languages. Patterns that Theron can now unravel. He's more valuable than Kirill realizes, and more capable too, if he chooses to be.

Theron sits back in the chair, taking a deep breath as he carefully and deliberately folds his most critical notes into a small, easily concealed square. It's not much, but it's something entirely his own—an anchor in an otherwise unstable world. Whatever happens next, Theron knows one thing for certain:

He isn't helpless anymore.

When he gets back from speaking with the King and dictating a letter to the paladins the kid is still at the table, staring off into the distance, looking vaguely upset. "Tenbit for your thoughts?" he asks, pouring them both a drink.

Theron looks up slowly, as though Kirill's question has pulled him back from somewhere distant and unsettling. He hesitates, eyes flickering toward the glass Kirill offers but not quite reaching for it.

"I was just thinking," he says finally, voice low and carefully even, "about what you said earlier. About selling me if it saved Daggermark." He pauses again, choosing his words deliberately. "I know you meant it as a kindness—being honest with me about how things are—but it didn't feel kind."

Kirill drinks from his own glass. "I was gonna suggest we go out and hire you a girl. Someone who'll be real nice to you."

Theron blinks slowly, momentarily thrown. He looks at Kirill uncertainly, weighing the words carefully, trying to figure out whether it's meant as another blunt kindness, a distraction, or something else entirely.

"I—no, that's not the issue," Theron says quietly, shaking his head. "What bothered me wasn't loneliness, or…comfort." He takes a slow breath, eyes focused clearly on Kirill now, hesitant but determined. "What bothered me was realizing how easily you think of me as something that can be sold."

"They'll be nice to you, you know, if it comes to that. No one keeps a codebreaker in the dungeons. Good food, good wine, lotta folks would trade their good arm for a life like that."

Theron looks away briefly, jaw tight. "You talk like you're doing me a favor, being upfront—but from where I'm sitting, it feels more like you're just giving yourself permission. Permission to trade me without feeling guilty about it."