Viktor retrieved the second letter from his pocket. Josiri broke the seal, unfolded the paper and began to read. His face remained as impassive as ever. But not his eyes.

“What is this?” He extended the letter at arm’s length, as one might a pet of uncertain domestication.

“What it purports to be,” Viktor replied. “Lead your people against the Hadari, and the Council will restore everything you have lost.”

Josiri’s expression darkened. “Bad enough that the Council have made us slaves. Now we are to be its sellswords?”

“Mercenaries fight for coin. You’d fight for your homes. For your future.”

“We tried that once before, did we not?” He paused. “And this has full backing?”

“It has enough. Though it took some . . . persuasion.”

“Your persuasion?”

“As I said, I would undo the harms I have visited upon you, and upon your people.”

“I cannot help you.” Josiri’s tone would have curdled fresh milk. “Your kind have spent years beating the spirit out of mine. You’ve come to a desert seeking relief from thirst.”

Viktor’s temper twitched. “And you insult me by taking me for a fool. Your domain is lousy with defiance. Or do you think I’ve not marked the tally of death and torment meted out on our soldiers? And if you, your grace, are not at the heart of it, then you are not your mother’s son.”

Josiri flung a hand towards the window, and the wall beyond. “And does my bloodline grant me the knack for passing through solid stone, unseen and unhindered by enchantment? I am a prisoner granted the illusion of agency. A man goaded to provide leadership, but who learns his lands are besieged only when the horizon is aflame! We Trelans are many things, but we are not workers of miracles.”

They were the right words. The expected words. But more than ever, Viktor knew them to be lies. “And your sister? Is she a worker of miracles? She passed beyond the wall. She . . .”

He broke off, aware that his temper was quickening. He’d come too far now to surrender to pique.

“You would have to ask Calenne.”

“And I shall . . . Or I would, if it mattered.” Viktor plucked a ward-brooch from his pocket and set it on the windowsill. “I did not come here to trap you, Josiri, but to set you free. You, and those you choose to take with you.”

Josiri’s eyes flickered to the door – to where Anastacia waited out of sight. Viktor marked the nature of the glance, its longing and its regret, and drew the only conclusion he could. An interesting development. And not without its uses.