"Yes," the young man says, after too long a pause, his mouth twisting in surprise at his own words. "I hear you."

That slight confusion Kirill recognizes; it's the oddity of first speaking by translation magic a language you could not speak without it, hearing your own intent find expression in different sounds than the ordinary ones. Not Aldan; then; they speak Imperial in Aldor. From farther than that.

"It is an honor, my lord hero," he says. "This land is Daggermark, and it is our custom when our kingdom faces terrible perils to conduct a great ritual, which calls to our aid a hero who can save us."

"It is an honor to answer your call, noble one of Daggermark! I stand ready to face whatever peril threatens your kingdom. Speak plainly—tell me of the danger your lands endure, and together we shall forge a path toward peace and prosperity once more."

"The holy and honorable gods shine on you," he says immediately, because that's always a good thing to say by reflex. He was really expecting to need to do more - persuading. "Daggermark is a small kingdom, long independent," for some definitions of both of those words, "and a peaceful and prosperous one, thanks to the wise reign of our king, Hemedais, by whose command you were summoned here today, and who is pleased to place you in command of our forces, and name you as his heir, if you can save us from the peril which in this day bears down upon us. For our neighboring kingdom is ruled by a cruel tyrant, who has impoverished his own people and seeks to impoverish ours, who has banned the churches of the holy and honorable gods from his land, and cheated the Abadarans -" is this landing, he feels like he really has quite a good pitch for someone concerned with peace and prosperity -

The young man's brow knits in focused consideration, clearly weighing Kirill's words carefully. He adjusts himself again, more deliberately this time, managing to rise onto one knee with a certain uncertain grace. His eyes, sharp now despite their initial confusion, sweep around the sumptuous room before settling back on Kirill with thoughtful intensity.

"This tyrant you speak of—tell me his name," he commands softly, an edge of steel threading into his voice. "And tell me also, plainly and without adornment: what manner of armies he commands, and what strength our own forces hold."

Yes, he was getting to that part - Kirill bows his head obediently. "His name is Razmir. He is a powerful wizard, though he prefers to have it said of him that he is a god, and it is the policy of Daggermark to acknowledge his godhood. For a long time that was sufficient to keep us from his notice, but now he has done enough damage in the land he rules that he is looking abroad, and our spies have it that he is looking here."

The young man's eyes narrow slightly at the name, a flicker of something crossing his face—recognition, perhaps, or at least the acknowledgment of a dangerous challenge.

"So this Razmir calls himself a god," he murmurs thoughtfully, pushing to his feet and standing, finally, upright. Though his balance is still tentative, there's a steady confidence beginning to gather around him, his stance straightening in subtle defiance of his earlier collapse. "Then we will teach him the humility of mortality."

He looks Kirill firmly in the eye. "Tell me of your armies. What strength do we have at our disposal, and how many brave souls are ready to march against Razmir?"

" - he's an archmage, my lord," Kirill says, because that seems like the fundamental misunderstanding here, and then hastens to answer the question anyway lest he seem like he's challenging his new commander's judgment. We have two thousand trained soldiers—well-disciplined, but not numerous enough for an open war. Our spies and assassins are unparalleled, and through them we've always secured our survival. But Razmir commands many more men. And...those adventurers who can leave have mostly left, except the ones who can Teleport, and -"

The summoned hero takes this in with a solemn nod. He paces a short distance, movements more confident now, as if testing the ground beneath his feet.

"Then we will not face him openly," the hero says finally, turning back to Kirill with decisive authority. "Your assassins and spies—how deeply have they infiltrated Razmir's realm? Do we hold any foothold there, however fragile?"

"It is not hard to infilitrate Razmiran, my lord, but it offers little guidance as to his plans and little opportunity to disrupt them." Kirill is at this point fairly distracted by the summoned hero's nudity, of which he is apparently wholly unselfconscious. He keeps his head bowed. "His priests are obsessively, maniacally loyal to him, and they get their orders by magic. He doesn't have...advisors...that we know of." He looks appropriately sheepish about this. "Archmages, you know - actually, my lord, if you could tell me a little of your own history, I would know more of what local context I ought to provide you."

"I am called Theron," he replies steadily. "In my homeland—Ithos—I commanded forces much like yours, though perhaps larger. I've fought tyrants, monsters, and yes," he smiles faintly, "even archmages who thought themselves divine."

Theron moves closer, speaking more quietly now, intent and earnest.

"If Razmir is truly an archmage masquerading as a god, then our first move must not be armies clashing openly. We strike where he least expects—through his arrogance, through the shadows you command. I will need to speak to your spies directly. We will craft our plan from what they know."

He pauses, thoughtful. "But first, good Kirill—tell me plainly: what precisely do you require of me? A general, a spy, or a blade in the dark? For each will bring victory, but each in a different way."

Kirill feels oddly as if he is dreaming. It wouldn't be surprising, actually, for him to dream of the ritual, which has consumed all his attention for seven weeks straight. It's something about the way the man speaks. Confident, commanding, but also -

- what????

"My lord," he begins, and then cannot think how to possibly non-fatally finish the sentence. "....may I humbly beg you tell me how you previously defeated an archmage who thought themselves divine?"

"Archmages who name themselves divine often surround themselves with illusions, Kirill. Illusions of invulnerability, immortality, power unending—but illusions, nonetheless. The key is never to strike at the illusion itself but at the foundations beneath it. Their power lies in belief; strip them of that belief, make them mortal before the eyes of their followers, and their strength crumbles."

He folds his arms thoughtfully, his gaze distant as though re-living battles past.

"The last such mage called himself Lyranos—Voice of the Eternal Sun, lord of a city-state called Thalavar. His temples filled with worshippers, his priesthood fanatically loyal, much as you describe Razmir's followers. But gods do not bleed, Kirill. I ensured that Lyranos did. Not in battle—no, that would only feed his legend—but in front of his priests, his citizens. One careful blade in the right place, witnessed by those whose faith held him aloft. His believers abandoned him overnight, the priests turning on each other as their 'god' fled.

Razmir will be no different. If his priests are beyond reason, we do not reason with them. We shatter their illusions. Find me a crack in Razmir's facade—a weakness in his cult, an apostate among his priests, or simply a gap in his defenses—and I will show you how swiftly belief falls apart."

His eyes sharpen as he fixes Kirill once more.

"Now tell me truly: does such a weakness exist?"

"I apologize most profusely, my lord. I'm wondering if it's the - translation magic built into the ritual - only, I think Razmir might be a different kind of archmage who calls himself a god than that."

"Perhaps the translation magic has led us astray, then. Explain plainly, please. When you say Razmir is a 'different kind' of archmage claiming godhood, what precisely do you mean? Is his magic inherently divine? Has he transcended mortality somehow—or is it rather that his power is absolute, his worshippers numerous beyond counting?"

"No, my lord. It's that -  I presume he gets some power from his worshippers or he wouldn't be so obsessed with the having of them, but if we killed them all he'd just be - the archmage he was when he took over Razmiran in the first place. If we bleed him enough he'll wake up in another body, or regrow in his coffin like a creature of the night - I don't know, my lord, and I am very glad to hear of your great triumph over Lyranos, and I know that the ritual called you here rightly, but -" If you tell the King that you will destroy Razmir by puncturing his image before his followers he'll kill us both and be right to.

"Ah. That kind of archmage," he murmurs. "An archmage who has moved beyond mere claims of divinity into true undeath—or immortality through darker rites—requires different tactics indeed. Your caution is well-founded. My past experience with those who merely pretended at godhood will only partly aid us here. But there is always a weakness, even for beings who cheat death. Such creatures rely on something—an artifact, a phylactery, a hidden altar, or a secret ritual—something tangible, however well-guarded. Destroy or defile it, and their immortality becomes frail once more."

And then it's clear. It's something in the confidence with which he observes that if Razmir is a lich they will need to find his phylactery, as if this might be the incredible wisdom for which for a kingdom's ransom they summoned this man from a land they've never heard of.

The summoned hero is a charlatan.

They are all going to die. 

"Right you are, my lord," he says.

"I will need to learn more about how Razmir maintains his immortality. Is it known what magic sustains him, or where his true vessel lies hidden? Does anyone in Daggermark hold even a whisper of rumor—however uncertain—that might point toward his secret?"

"In your great and varied experience of archmages pretending at divinity, my lord, have you run into any such creatures? Where did they tend to hide their immortal souls?"

"In truth, Kirill, the archmages I've faced before were arrogant mortals, not true immortals. But in Ithos we have legends, ancient accounts of those who pursued such terrible power. If Razmir has truly found immortality beyond death, then yes—I have heard of such creatures.

In legend, these undying archmages hide their souls—or a shard thereof—within a phylactery, a vessel of power. Usually something precious, heavily warded, and hidden far from prying eyes. A gemstone, a reliquary, even something mundane enough to escape suspicion entirely. I’ve heard of hidden chambers beneath towers guarded by horrors, amulets worn openly as a sign of false divinity, mirrors enchanted to trap souls, or rings passed down quietly through bloodlines. They guard these fiercely, because if destroyed, their souls become vulnerable once again.

Has there been any rumor, any story, no matter how trivial it seemed, about an object or place Razmir values above all others? Even the most obscure whisper could reveal where his immortality lies."

Kirill closes his eyes. Judge, he thinks, I've been an honest man, or more honest than most of them, and I've served my king, and I died doing my duty. 

"My lord," he says, "I don't think you've ever so much as fought a wizard who can teleport, and 'he keeps it in his favorite amulet' is the kind of story they tell about liches in places where they don't have any liches."

"I see," he says, quietly, without defensiveness. "No, Kirill, in Ithos true liches exist only in myth—or if they exist still, none have tested themselves against me.

"You are right. If Razmir can teleport freely, and if he's truly achieved lichdom or something akin to it, then any simple hiding place would indeed be naive. His immortality will be buried deeper—secured by wards, traps, and protections far beyond mere legend. My experience has not prepared me for that directly.

Yet the principle remains: to defeat him, we must learn how he sustains his immortality. And if we can't know it yet, we must force Razmir to reveal it himself."

Theron's voice grows more decisive, controlled confidence returning.

"Then, Kirill, since you clearly know Razmir better than I do—tell me plainly: What do you believe is his greatest vulnerability? You know more of him and his methods than I; your instinct here matters deeply. Is he prideful enough to make mistakes when provoked? Paranoid enough to betray his own secrets through overreaction?"

Those were fighting words, gently deflected in the same infuriating tone without even the implication that Kirill should retreat from them. Theron doesn't think he can take Kirill in a fight.

That's - well, it's convenient for Kirill, who is still breathing, but it also makes the whole situation even more baffling. The ritual is supposed to send someone who has powers sufficient to save them. The ritual text actually made it sound like this was guaranteed, though he knew full well it was no guarantee against an enemy archmage. An extremely powerful idiot who is convinced he's a genuis general would be - not a surprising result. A ...random man who speaks as a hero out of legend but -

He's dead already, by Razmir's hand if not this man's. It's freeing. "Theron, before we speak more of Razmir, tell me, are you a swordsman?"

"Yes. Though that is not all I am. I am best with a sword—trained formally, tempered by experience in war, duels, and worse. If your question is whether I'm skilled enough to fight an archmage blade-to-spell, I would say I am—but I wouldn't willingly rely on blade alone against -"

"Right," says Kirill, a bit coldly. "Then let's get you dressed, and let's spar. I am wondering if it will be clarifying about the differences between our worlds."

"Of course," he says simply, clearly unfazed by Kirill's tone. "A sparring match would indeed be clarifying—and perhaps necessary. Show me where your arms and armor are kept, Kirill. Let’s see what this world makes of me."

There's a page waiting anxiously outside the room; Kirill shoos him. The King will be anxious for an update, of course, but Kirill thinks that he can get away with some sparring and some conversation without raising any questions, and he neither wishes to bring the charlatan-hero before the King nor to go alone before the King and explain that the diamond dust was wasted and the hero gives all appearances of being nothing more than a particularly verbose poet.

While he leads Theron down the hallway he tries to think it through one more time, in case there's some possibility he's missing. Perhaps the ritual failed; perhaps there was no one it could reach who could have saved them against Razmir, under which circumstances it picks someone who'll claim he could. Or perhaps the man has some hidden talent, though it clearly isn't war planning and he's  sure it isn't swordfighting either.

The man carries himself with the great confidence of a hero, but he doesn't respond to provocation like one, and his accounts of battle have a lack of detail that no real warrior would ever leave out. 

He reaches the practice hall, and hands Theron a sword, and bows.

Theron takes the offered blade, testing its balance with practiced ease—at least enough to confirm that he has, indeed, handled swords before. He returns Kirill’s bow gracefully, meeting his host's skeptical gaze without defensiveness, perhaps even acknowledging the suspicion with quiet respect.

Stepping back to make space between them, Theron raises his sword in a ready stance. His form is disciplined but clearly more ceremonial or academic than battlefield-ready—slightly too perfect, too considered.

"Come," he says evenly, with neither bravado nor hesitation. "Show me how the warriors of Daggermark fight."

Kirill has been in a dangerous job for thirty years; of the men he set out to seek his fortune with when he was young, all are dead. He's not the best swordsman in Daggermark, but he's one of a very few people who can ride the Riverlands alone. He moves his sword with supernatural surety, ignores a child's clumsy parry, and cuts a ribbon down Theron's arm though there is a blazing bitter part of him that's tempted to just kill the man on the spot. 

"You've fought no archmages," he says, instead, and if he's holding the man at swordspoint a bit to say it, why shouldn't he - how dare he -

Theron recoils just slightly from the strike, eyes widening not in pain, though the blood beads brightly along the shallow wound, but in sudden realization—perhaps even shame.

"No," he says quietly, lowering his sword slowly, not bothering to feign any further attempt at defense. He stares at Kirill for a long moment, expression pained but without bitterness. "No, I haven't."

He drops his gaze thoughtfully to the ribbon of blood on his sleeve, clearly embarrassed—not at losing, but at the deception, however unintentional, that led him here.

"I've fought men who called themselves kings," he says softly, eyes still on his arm. "I've fought petty tyrants and bandits who terrorized villages. But my world has no archmages, not truly, nor men who can leap through space at will. Certainly not liches. Magic in Ithos is subtle—omens, enchantments, dreams. Tricks of priests and sorcerers, not—this."

He gestures vaguely at the hall, at Kirill's easy power with the blade, at the broader implications that lie between them.

He meets Kirill’s angry gaze again, voice firm but painfully honest. "I never meant to deceive you. Your ritual summoned a hero—but it found me instead, because it could find no one better. My world does not have heroes like those you seek. Perhaps no world does."

" - no. Stop doing that. Stop - speaking with the valor of a man you'll never be. This isn't - you didn't mean to deceive me? You just made up some battles you never fought because that's, what, a customary greeting in your culture? You lied, Theron - is that even your name? - and I don't even understand why."

Theron flushes deeply, visibly struggling for the first time to hold his composure. He sets the sword down, carefully, deliberately, as though suddenly unwilling to hold it any longer. His shoulders slump slightly, the last pretenses of heroic bearing falling away, replaced with something more vulnerable and sincere.

"Yes, Theron is my name," he says softly. "And I lied—not because lying is customary, but because—"

He hesitates, brow furrowing in shame and frustration, clearly aware how feeble his reasons will sound.

"—because I was terrified," he admits finally, quietly but without evasion. "I was ripped from my world, thrown onto your floor by magic I didn’t understand. You called me a hero. You named me a destined savior. You spoke of a tyrant archmage and a war and immortality—and I—"

Kirill doesn't feel sorry for him. Kirill doesn't really do feeling sorry for people. You get whatever shot you get, and if you don't go around making everyone else's shot harder then you get another one after that too. 

Kirill feels confused.

He does lower the sword, though. Shouldn't hold an unarmed man at swordspoint for being confusing.  

"...no, you weren't," he says, after a moment.

Theron opens his mouth—then shuts it again, a sick feeling churning suddenly in his gut. Kirill's sword point is lowered, but his words hang sharply, cutting deeper than the blade had.

Hadn't he fought kings? Hadn't he led soldiers? He remembers saying it. He remembers believing it. But in Kirill's flat contradiction, there's a terrible ring of truth.

Why did I say those things, if they're not real? How could I have believed them—spoken them aloud without hesitation? He searches frantically, groping backward through memories, and finds—nothing. No faces of loyal soldiers. No clash of swords on steel. No echo of his own voice issuing orders.

Nothing except his own voice, just now, confidently narrating a life he's no longer sure he's lived.

He looks up at Kirill, eyes wide with confusion. "Then—" he starts, voice quiet, breaking slightly under the strain of this new, dizzying uncertainty, "if none of that is true, Kirill—what am I?"

"Well. I was assuming you were an accomplished liar, but now I'm thinking maybe it's more of a faerie curse. Only I'd really like to know more about it than that before I go tell the King 'we have the hero but he's under a faerie curse', it's not going to be cheap to fix."

Theron swallows, nodding slowly, grateful that Kirill seems more confused than angry, at least for the moment. His chest feels tight.

A faerie curse. That feels close—maybe even right. It explains his strange certainty, his empty confidence. And yet—

He searches inward, desperate to find something genuine, something solid to hold onto amid all the confusion. But there's just...emptiness. Intentions without substance, knowledge without memory.

"I think you're right," he says carefully, voice low. "It feels—like I have answers waiting whenever someone asks a question. Like they're just there, ready-made. But there's nothing behind them. I don't—I can't feel any memories behind them. Nothing real."

He hesitates, unsure how much to trust, how far to reveal himself. But Kirill is looking at him steadily, and despite everything, he doesn't think he's being deceived. And maybe honesty—real honesty—is his best chance.

"I don't know how to explain it. It's as if the answers...belong to someone else, and they're just passing through me." He meets Kirill’s eyes with cautious openness. "Can—faerie curses work like that?"

"I expect the fair folk can curse someone with lying, and with not being able to tell the difference between lying and not lying. Mind, you probably deserve it, I bet they give out curses like that for lying. - let's clear out of the practice yard and go to my rooms. I don't want to get anyone excited about the hero being here before we've straightened out your problem." Kirill has dropped the 'my lord' without pushback and does not intend to go back to using it, and if the hero's done talking like a storybook he's not going to keep talking like he's in court either. 

Theron nods silently, and follows Kirill without argument. He doesn't feel like a "my lord," anyway—hasn't earned it, clearly doesn't deserve it—and dropping the charade comes as a quiet relief.

As they leave the practice yard, Theron glances down at his hands again, flexing them absently, searching for some trace of memory or identity. Still nothing. He's no closer to understanding what he is, or why he's here, but at least Kirill seems to have some idea how to handle things. Or if not how to handle things, exactly, at least how not to make them worse.

He wonders, briefly, what he might have done to deserve a curse like this. What sort of lies he'd told, and why. But those memories, too, refuse to come.

The first thing Kirill does when he gets back to his room is pour himself a whiskey. "You drink, kid?"

Theron hesitates, then shrugs slightly. "I have no idea," he says, watching Kirill pour. "But considering everything, I'd be willing to try."

"We get it from the Gratz," he says, pushing a glass across the table. "Good stuff."

Theron sips quietly, thoughtful, then raises an eyebrow. "That's—interesting," he says finally. "I think I like it. Is that something else the fae might've cursed me with?"

"It's not a curse to like your drink. It'll kill you, but everything'll kill you sooner or later. Razmir's going to kill us sooner. Unless you're the chosen one." He drains his whole glass.

"So. I'm trying to think how I can save my city with a man who'll say all kinds of things but can't tell if they're true. You're not a general. You're not a swordsman. If we try a hundred things, you reckon we'll find one you really do have a calling for?"

Theron studies the liquid in his glass, turning it slowly in his hands. "I don't know," he admits softly. "But—when you asked about armies, or swordsmanship, the answers were there, waiting, even though I couldn't use them."

He takes another careful sip, and meets Kirill's eyes. "Maybe there's something I actually know underneath all the stories. Something real."

"Say I wanted to make a healing tincture, how would I go about it? Like a woodsman, not like a priest."

Theron nods slowly, reaching inward again. The answer is ready, clean and simple—herbs and steps arranged neatly in his mind. But as the words gather, he feels a quiet but insistent caution. Not confusion, exactly; not like before. This is sharper, clearer, a sudden sense that he mustn't speak lightly, not about something like this.

"I...know an answer," he says finally, carefully. "Comfrey, calendula, yarrow, steeped and strained. It feels right. But..." He frowns slightly, puzzled by his own hesitation. "But somehow, with this, it also feels important to say that I don't—actually know. That you shouldn't trust me."

He gives Kirill an apologetic look. "It didn't feel like that with the sword. Strange that it does now."

"I have noticed that I shouldn't trust you," he says dryly. "You at least wouldn't kill anyone, with that, though I don't think it'd save their life either. What about...poker, do you know how to play a hand of poker?"

Theron pauses, cautious, waiting for that familiar rush of empty confidence. And it comes—smooth, immediate, reassuring. Poker is easy, simple rules arranged neatly in his head.

He smiles a little, genuinely relieved. "Actually—yes. Poker feels quite clear."

"Huh. Say I'm holding two hearts. The table has two hearts showing, and there’s one card left to flip. What're my odds of making a flush?"

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?"

"Your Majesty. Kirill has told me of the plight of Daggermark. I wish to help, but I am afflicted by a curse. I remember nothing; I cannot distinguish between truth and lies. I am sure that buried in my memories there is something you can use to protect your people, but we have not yet discovered it, or not yet recognized it."

Theron repeats the words carefully, trying them out, then gives a quiet nod of approval.

"That's clear," he says softly. "It's simple. And honest, too—maybe that will be enough." He glances at Kirill, faintly hopeful. "Do you think he'll accept that?"

"I think he'll think we're full of shit, but we aren't, and maybe further questioning will establish that. It is rightly quite important to the King that you are here for Daggermark, not for me, and that if the King and I tell you different things about what to do you will listen to the King. Does that make sense."

Theron nods immediately. "Yes. That makes sense. I'll make that clear—if he asks, or even if he doesn't. I'll follow his word over yours. No offense."

This calls for more whiskey. He pours himself another glass. "I serve the King. Always have. It's a noble thing he did, calling you here, and you ought to help him protect our kingdom. As long as you know that, and don't get confused and tell a bunch of lies, probably goes fine."

Theron watches Kirill pour another glass, feeling something between amusement and dread twist in his stomach. He lifts his own glass slightly, smiles faintly, and says, "Probably."

He drinks.

Kirill is one of a very few people who would ordinarily wear his sword to dinner with the King. This time he pauses at the door to make a point of taking it off. The King might tell him to stop being silly.

The King does not do that. He has laid out a generous table, with chairs on his left and his right, and he has greatly expanded the shrine in the corner of the room, now laid out so as to nearly be joining them for dinner, in case the hero is the kind of man who will not lie in the presence of the holy and honorable gods. He watches Kirill disarm himself and gestures to the seat at his side. "Theron of Ithos. Welcome to Daggermark. We are honored to make your acquaintance."

Theron hesitates only briefly before stepping forward. He bows carefully, deeply, grateful for Kirill's careful coaching. "Your Majesty. The honor is mine."

Six words spoken, no disaster yet. Kirill settles himself at the King's side, knowing His Majesty will notice his tension, unable to stop being tense all the same.

He straightens, meeting the King's gaze steadily, conscious of the shrine looming quietly nearby. "Kirill has explained the plight of your kingdom. I want to help—but first, you should know that I've arrived bearing some manner of curse. My memories and knowledge are unreliable, a mix of truths and falsehoods I cannot yet tell apart. I hope that among those truths lies something that will aid Daggermark."

"Well, isn't that something. Be seated, young man, and we'll see what we can do."

Theron nods, grateful and quietly relieved. He takes his seat carefully, glancing only briefly at Kirill as he settles in.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he says softly, and waits.

"How're you finding Daggermark? You and Kirill getting on all right?"

Theron glances briefly at Kirill, then back at the King, choosing his words carefully.

"Kirill's been very patient with me," he says. "I can't say I've seen much of Daggermark yet—but from what little I have, I understand why it's worth protecting."

The kid's smart, he finds himself realizing belatedly - he should've noticed it from the poker, really. He found the initial pretense maddening, but it was fluidly executed and clever - most people couldn't do that if their life depended on it - and now he's supposed to be polite and diplomatic and so he's quite polite and diplomatic, in a way that'd take an ordinary person a long time to learn.

Who was he, before the fae cursed him? 

"Tell me more about this fae curse of yours. I've never heard of any such thing. I take it it doesn't make all you say come out false."

"No, Your Majesty, not exactly. It’s more—subtle than that. I find myself knowing things, or believing I know them, and only later discovering they're untrue. It's like having memories without substance. When I speak, I'm often certain, but not necessarily right."

He pauses, struggling briefly to explain clearly. "The things I say feel true. But I have no memories behind them, and no way to judge which is truth and which is falsehood."

"When he arrived, your Majesty, he told me he'd fought plenty of archmages pretending at divinity before, and he meant it, but once you tried to get down into details there weren't any."

"A strange thing, that that's who the ritual'd pick to stand us up to Razmir."

"Well, it'd be a strange person who could do it at all. I think he must know something, some secret weakness of Razmir's, and the puzzle is just figuring it apart from all the other things he knows that aren't true."

"Is that what you think?" he addresses Theron.

"It's the best guess we have, Your Majesty. I think—I hope—that hidden somewhere in all this knowledge that feels familiar, there's something true. Something useful." He pauses, carefully, then adds quietly, "I wouldn't trust me with a sword, or an army. But maybe with a puzzle."

"A puzzle, hmmm? You know any wizardry?"

Theron shakes his head, apologetic. "No, Your Majesty. Kirill tested me on that already. I thought maybe—but nothing. The only thing I've found I really know is poker."

"Conventionally considered a game in which it serves to know truth from lies, and be good at lying."

Theron smiles faintly, acknowledging the irony. "Yes, Your Majesty. I realize the problem." He hesitates a moment, then adds, quietly sincere, "But I don't think I'd be very good at bluffing right now. I'm too aware of how little I know."

The king turns away from the hero and starts cutting his steak. "Was he very convincing, Kirill, when he claimed to be a great hero?"

" - yes and no, your Majesty. He had the bearing, and he spoke very eloquently - as one accustomed to a foreign court, to be sure, but certainly as one accustomed to a court. But the details made no sense."

"Is that so? Well, tell us, hero, of your perhaps imagined deeds. Perhaps I am a better listener than Kirill, who is a pessimist and a drunk."

Facing the destruction of their homeland men are driven either to drink or to willful ignorance, and Kirill never preferred ignorance. But he laughs at the King's not quite joke, tips his glass to him, and drains it. 

"As you wish, Your Majesty. I said I'd fought archmages who pretended at divinity. I remember—or think I remember—a place called Ithos, where such a man ruled, claiming divine power. I recall speaking with generals, planning campaigns, leading armies." His voice remains quiet, thoughtful, without the confident flourish he'd used before.

"Kirill was right, though," he adds softly. "As soon as he asked me for the details—the name of the city we freed, the tactics we used—I realized those memories weren't real. They're there, but they're empty. Like stories someone else told me, not experiences I've had."

He pauses again, weighing the truth carefully. "I don't think they're lies, exactly. I believed them when I said them. But there's nothing solid beneath them, no real memory. I'm sorry if that's not helpful, Your Majesty, but it's the truth."

"I see. And you've no idea how you might be able to stop Razmir?"

"No, Your Majesty. Not yet."

"An unfortunate situation," he says to Kirill, very neutrally.

"You call me a pessimist, your Majesty, and not wrongly, but I see hope here. There are very few who could have aided us and would have chosen to; the ritual has often selected men with other unfit qualities alongside the strength to save the city. I'd sooner a cursed man than a sadistic one, or one who wants to found an Empire, or a very diligent and tactically competent vampire. We just need to figure out what he knows."

"They say never to gamble with a gambling man."

"Unless, your Majesty, the banker's men are coming for you in the morning anyway."

"Even then, no cause for foolishness."

"You can accuse me of being given to drink and pessimism, but not to foolishness, I think." He looks over at the shrine. He's not sure if it's true, that if you lie in the sight of the gods they will turn you away from their afterlives, but there is something about impending death that makes a man serious about his character. "Your majesty, I think we may have here what we most hoped for - a man who can preserve your reign and Daggermark, and whose own most important concerns lie elsewhere. I just need time."

"Famous last words, often enough."

"They're not ones I'd mind repeating before the Judge."

"You should try the steak, boy," says the King to Theron. "The green sauce has a bit of a kick to it."

Theron, who has been listening carefully to the exchange, smiles faintly and nods. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I'll keep that in mind."

He tries the steak, carefully, and finds he likes it. The sauce does have a kick.

"Not bad," he says grudgingly to the kid when they leave the King's chambers. "Not fantastic, either, so don't be too impressed with yourself."

Theron gives a small, rueful smile. "Trust me, I'm not. But considering I didn't accidentally commit treason over dinner, I'll take 'not bad.'"

"We're not Imperials, round here. If the King decides you're a problem he won't say you committed treason, he'll just have someone kill you." He says this like someone who considers his way distinctly more civilized.

Theron's smile fades. "Comforting." After a moment, he adds, more quietly, "How long do you think we have, before he decides?"

"Well, I've known him for twenty two years, and you can see he's not decided about me." Kirill lets them back into his room.

Theron follows Kirill into the room, relaxing a little once the door closes behind them. "Maybe," he says cautiously, "he just finds pessimism and drinking charming."

"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."

Theron goes very quiet, his expression closing off. He holds Kirill's gaze for a moment, hurt and anger briefly visible before fading into something more guarded, more cautious.

"All right," he says finally, very quietly. "I'll try."

He looks away, jaw tight, and says nothing more.

"Tell me how you fought an archmage but this time in lots of details, starting with your day-before spell preparations."

Theron takes a breath, visibly bracing himself, and speaks carefully, forcing himself to be detailed, meticulous, slow.

"I woke before dawn," he says quietly, eyes fixed somewhere distant, voice even. "My spellbook was laid out on the table. I'd prepared the night before, marking pages I knew I'd need. First was defensive magic—wards against fire, lightning, and scrying, since I'd faced this archmage before. I prepared spells to dispel enchantments, break wards, and silence him before he could speak. And I memorized offensive spells too, ones to pierce magical shields."

He pauses, searching inward again, eyebrows drawing together. "But when I say all that...there's nothing behind it. I can't see the book, or the pages, or even recall how they looked. It's just a list. It's not real."

Kirill ignores that. "More detailed than that. Name the spells. Night-before spells are the ones that last long enough you don't need to cast them day of, so you have more spells saved for the day of the fight."

Theron hesitates, feeling a sharp pressure—like standing at the edge of something important, something dangerous. He focuses harder, trying to find details that he knows aren't there.

"All right," he says quietly, forcing calm into his voice. "The night before, I prepared spells like Stoneskin, Mage Armor—wards that last hours, at least half a day. Mind Blank, to keep my thoughts shielded. Contingency, so if my defenses failed, another spell—Dimension Door—would trigger automatically."

He pauses abruptly, heart pounding faster, confused by the vivid precision suddenly spilling out of him. He looks up at Kirill, voice tight. "I didn't—didn't know any of that a minute ago. It just—appeared. I didn't even think about it; it was just there."

He swallows, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. "Kirill, it's like—it's like I'm not really remembering, just...answering. Like some part of me thinks if you ask a question, there has to be an answer, so it...makes one."

"Great. Those are your night-before spells? Then what are your morning-of spells?"

Theron opens his mouth, then hesitates again. He wants to resist this time, wants to push back against the automatic flow—but there's an insistent pull, a reflex, something deeper and harder to ignore than Kirill's sharp stare.

"Shield," he says, reluctantly, almost softly. "Mirror Image, to confuse enemy spells and attacks. Spell Turning, to reflect magic back at the caster. True Seeing, so no illusions could deceive me."

Each spell emerges effortlessly, one after another, precise and confident. Theron clenches his fists, feeling oddly sick, a tension tightening in his chest.

He shakes his head, voice strained. "Kirill, it's—I can keep listing them all day, as many as you ask for, but none of them are mine. It's like there's an endless list in my head, just waiting. I don't—I don't even understand how I'm choosing them. I'm not choosing them."

Theron stops, breathing shallowly, eyes widening slightly in realization. "Kirill—it's like I'm reading someone else's thoughts."

"Well, try reading Razmir's. What's he doing to prepare for the fight?"

Theron freezes, breath catching sharply in his throat. "Razmir," he whispers, fear flickering across his face as the name hangs in the air. "That's—I don't know if it'll work like that."

Drinking game, every time the summoned hero informs you that he doesn't know if what he's saying is real- no, that'd kill even Kirill. "Try it."

Theron closes his eyes, bracing himself, reaching out mentally—outward, rather than inward, for the first time.

Almost immediately, something shifts. He feels a surge of information, clearer and colder than anything he's experienced so far. He speaks slowly, carefully, each word feeling as though it echoes from somewhere else.

"Razmir doesn't fear mundane weapons, but he fears betrayal," Theron says quietly. "He'll shield himself against scrying, teleportation, assassination. He'll have Contingency spells linked to powerful healing magic—Heal, Regeneration. He'll ward himself with Mind Blank, Death Ward, Greater Spell Immunity."

Theron opens his eyes, looking startled by the stream of knowledge that just emerged, unbidden, from within him. A faint tremor creeps into his voice. "Kirill, that felt different. Colder. Clearer. Not just—lists. It felt like seeing through someone else's eyes. It felt—real."

...which is no information at all about whether it's real, but he can't quite bring himself to crush the kid's obvious delight. "Fascinating. Try...Meera, a washerwoman in Gralton. What's she thinking about."

He waits for the cold clarity, the rush of answers he felt with Razmir—but this time, there's only emptiness. A blank, endless silence.

He shakes his head slowly, opening his eyes with a troubled frown. "Nothing. I can't—I don't feel anything at all. Just empty."

He meets Kirill's curious gaze, uncertainty flickering clearly across his face. "With Razmir, it felt different. Like the knowledge was there waiting, real and immediate. But this...there's nothing. Just silence. Like Meera doesn't exist until you ask me about her."

He pauses, a sudden chill settling over him as he considers what that might mean. "Kirill, I'm starting to think the answers I'm finding depend on who you ask me about—and why. Like I'm only able to 'see' things that matter to you, or matter to someone. Everything else is just—empty space."

He snorts sharply, exasperated. "Well, I don't think that's the explanation, because Meera matters to me a good bit more than most people. She's the best lay I've ever had. Three kids, and they're probably mine."

Theron winces slightly at Kirill's bluntness, momentarily taken aback. "Then—I don't know," he says, frustrated. "Maybe it's not about mattering to you personally. Maybe it's something else. Razmir was vivid, immediate, detailed—because he's important to this kingdom's survival. He's tied to my purpose here. But Meera—"

He stops, a sudden understanding flickering across his face, an unsettling thought taking hold. "Kirill, maybe it’s not about real people or real memories at all. Maybe I'm not reading minds, or memories. Maybe I'm—constructing answers from context. Razmir matters to the survival of Daggermark, so when you asked, the details were there, ready, vivid. But Meera—you never mentioned her before now, so there was nothing to build from."

"Doesn't explain where you got all those spells. Most of them I'd even heard of."

Theron shakes his head slowly, uncertainty clear on his face. "I'm not sure either. Maybe—maybe whatever created me knew them. Or maybe they're spells someone like Razmir would know, and I just...guessed them from context." He pauses, uncomfortable with his own explanation. "It's all guesses, Kirill. I'm trying to make sense of it, too."

The problem is that he's not a very good guesser, but Kirill doesn't want to tell him that, because he's also astoundingly impressionable. "Well. I think you have access to quite a lot of information, when you think about it in the right way, and I don't know where you're getting it, but some of it is right, which is useful for ...any situation where being right half the time is useful. There are some of those, I'm just not immediately thinking of any that also help fight an archmage."

Theron nods slowly, thoughtful. "Half-right isn't great for battle plans, but it might work for something more—flexible. Like information, or messages. Something where accuracy matters less than patterns, or connections."

He pauses, his expression sharpening with a new thought. "Kirill, what about ciphers? Codes. If there's something hidden in Razmir's messages, or in your spies' reports—maybe I can find it. Maybe that's exactly the kind of puzzle my mind could handle."

" - all right, you know, with that you might genuinely be on to something. Razmir's people do pass ciphered messages. I'll see if I can get us a hold of some." He pauses and takes in the boy. Either the boy is swaying with exhaustion or Kirill is swaying from drink. Or both. "...in the morning."

Theron nods slowly, shoulders relaxing with quiet relief. "Morning, then." He hesitates, glancing down briefly before looking back at Kirill. "And—Kirill? Thanks. For not giving up on me yet."

Kirill wakes up with a headache. Long ago he thought of this as the headache you wake up from drinking too much, but these days he knows better; it's the headache you wake up with from drinking too little, which is to say that gin will fix it. The kid is still asleep. He thinks about leaving a note, decides that in the absence of a note the kid will probably not wander off or anything, and heads on to Rhonthe's office to ask for some of Razmir's coded messages.

The headache is gone by the time he gets back to his room. The kid is awake. 

Theron is sitting cross-legged on the floor by the window, gazing intently at nothing in particular. When Kirill comes in, Theron looks up immediately, alert and curious.

"Did you get them?" he asks quietly, but there's a tight eagerness in his voice, as if he'd been thinking of nothing else since he woke.

He sets the sheafs of parchment down on the table. "We've intercepted plenty of their communications. Nothing the King's spies have been able to crack." He was going to give more guidance than that but the kid is clearly chomping at the bit. "Take a crack, I guess."

Theron picks up the parchments carefully, eyes moving swiftly across the scrambled letters. He frowns at the text, brows furrowing in concentration. "This isn't just substitution," he murmurs, more to himself than to Kirill. "Look how evenly distributed the letters are. That's deliberate—it suggests something polyalphabetic. Vigenère, perhaps, or something similar."

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."

Where did that come from. It's like he turned around and the kid's an entirely different person again. Part of him is tempted to shake him until a more agreeable personality comes out. Part of him is proud. "You think I should feel guilty about trading one man to save a city?"

Theron hesitates, but his voice is quiet and steady when he answers. "Maybe not. But if you don't—if trading me away doesn't cost you anything, not even guilt—then it means you've already decided I'm not a person. Just something useful. Something convenient." He pauses, searching Kirill's face carefully. "I don't know if that's supposed to make me feel better, or you."

"If the Judge wants to say I'm a monster she's surely got plenty of ammunition." Kirill drains his glass. "I still think a woman'd do you good. You want someone to be nice to you, tell you you're lovely and special and wonderful. I know you said this isn't about comfort, but - not much it doesn't help with."

Theron studies Kirill silently for a long moment, a slow, rueful smile forming despite himself. "I appreciate the thought," he says quietly, pushing away a tangle of conflicting emotions. "But if someone does tell me those things, I'd rather it be because they believe it—not because you paid them."

He picks up his glass, turning it thoughtfully between his fingers. "Besides, comfort isn't what I need right now. What I need is to figure out how to protect myself. Even if you're willing to trade me, that doesn't mean I have to make it easy."

He glances up again, meeting Kirill's gaze steadily. "I have to find out what choices I actually have. And I think it's about time I start looking."

"You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?"

"The - grandiosity. Making your sentences into speeches. Also when you finish them you kind of - your eyes glaze over -"

Theron freezes, suddenly self-conscious. He drops his gaze, embarrassment evident in the tightening of his shoulders. "I didn't realize I was doing that," he murmurs, voice softer, less certain. "It just—comes out that way."

He takes a careful breath, visibly struggling with something uncomfortable. "I think—I think when I'm not answering questions directly, it's like my thoughts don't quite stay together. So I...I turn them into speeches, because it makes them feel clearer. Realer."

"What do you do when I'm not in the room, just stare at the wall?"

Theron looks away, embarrassment giving way to genuine discomfort. "Sometimes," he admits softly. "Or I'll go through notes, over and over. When you're not here to ask questions—when nobody's here—it's like I don't even know how to start thinking."

"Well, all right, what we should do is get you a dog, train it to jog you out of it. I know a guy might have a Dwellersund he'd sell me."

Theron looks back at Kirill uncertainly, clearly torn between embarrassment and curiosity. "A dog," he repeats quietly, turning the idea over. "You think it'd really help—just having something else alive around?"

"It's not like I've treated a fae curse before. But I notice - it seems like it might be crafted to keep you - docile? You always answer questions. You're always very focused, when i'm asking them. You don't walk away, even when you're angry, and when no one's around, you're just ....waiting."

Theron stays quiet for a moment, absorbing Kirill’s words. A fae curse—Kirill had called it that before, but Theron hadn't fully understood, hadn't believed it. Now the description fits uncomfortably well. Always answering. Always waiting. Docile.

"I didn't really understand what you meant before," he says, voice low. "But you're right. When someone asks a question, I can't refuse to answer. It's not even a choice. And when I'm alone, it's worse. I'm just waiting, like a tool put aside until it's needed."

He meets Kirill's eyes, embarrassment and determination mixing in his expression. "If a dog can help—if something else alive could break that waiting—then let's try it. Curse or not, I can't live like this."

"Well now I'm curious what happens if you try not answering a question. But if you don't want to try that we can go get a dog. ...I will go get a dog. We don't want Razmir's spies to see you."

Theron tenses visibly at the thought, his expression cautious. "I don't think I could refuse even if I tried," he admits. "But—I'm curious too. Maybe once we have the dog. If it goes badly, at least someone else will be around. 

And Kirill—thank you. For helping me with this."