That isn’t… That can’t possibly be…

Before my mind can make a better decision, my body slinks after the gray robe’s trail. They carry a huge basket on their arm filled with what looks like loaves of bread, and I watch as the gray robe stops near every huddled vagrant and urchin child and offers the basket to them. They dive hungrily for the bread, looking up as if unsure it comes without cost, but the gray robe simply offers.

I follow them until the basket is almost empty, through the poorest winding streets of Vetris, and after passing a ramshackle house of thin boards and cheesecloth windows, they freeze in a small thoroughfare, turning to face me. They don’t lower their hood, but they raise their head, and I can see their face clearly.

The cruel twisted mouth, the dignified nose, the watery eyes. His hair is silver-white and cropped short now, and his beard is even shorter on his wrinkled chin.

“Gavik?” I hiss through clenched teeth. “What are you—?”

“You have the wrong person. My name is Kreld,” Gavik says instantly, almost far too quickly, as if he’s been deflecting such a question frequently. He breathes in. “You. What do you want?”

He sounds irritated. Not furious, like I’d expect him to sound when facing down his murderer.

“Oh, nothing,” I cross my arms behind my back. “I’m just following a particularly charitable citizen of Vetris and watching him work.”

“You think I’d pass out food to these insignificant lowlifes of my own free will?” he snarls.

“Not by any stretch of the imagination.” I lilt.

Gavik’s face contorts, his glare aimed at the basket as if he wants nothing more than to burn the thing. “I could be doing so much more, but that…girl”—he spits the word like poison—“has commanded me to do this denigrating work, day and night without rest.”

Ah—that’s why he’s here. He’s been commanded. Power has been lorded over him like he lorded it over the entire city of Vetris. Fury is etched into every inch of his face, and I take a sick pride in knowing there’s nothing he can do about it. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. The idea of a witch commanding a Heartless completely and totally still makes me nauseous, but this feels deserving.

“Is that why you aren’t trying to rip my throat out right now?” I ask. “Because she’s commanded you to play nice?”