[[What would you have me say? That I’m proud? Or I can mock you, if you worry over a swollen head.]]

Josiri gazed out across campfires far sparser than they should have been. How many lives could he have saved by joining with Viktor from the first? “No danger of that. I’ve made too many mistakes.”

[[If you live to see two hundred years, perhaps then you’ll match my tally, but I doubt it.]] She paused. [[Viktor’s right. The past’s not for changing. But the future is what we make of it.]]

She drew closer. The tattered shawl twitched about her shoulders. Black eyes gleamed in the perfect white-gold face. A witch’s eyes, as they were so often called. How terrifying she should have seemed to him, and to the superstitious soldiery. But Josiri had no fear of her, and word had spread as evening wore on. Of the porcelain woman who’d felled a charging grunda. Whoever Anastacia had been before she’d come to Branghall, she’d made herself a legend, if only for a day.

“I love you.”

Her head twitched in irritation. [[Josiri . . .]]

“No. You’re not bound to Branghall any longer. Not now. We’re free. There’s nothing to keep us apart.”

Her fingers brushed his cheek. [[Oh, my dear heart. There’ll always be something to keep us apart. I’m a daughter of Lumestra. My light may be fading, but it’ll shine long after you’re dust.]]

“But that’s tomorrow. Or the day after. Or the day after that.” He took her smooth fingers in his, again surprised at the warmth of what should have been cold. “The moments we have together are what matter.”

[[You’re not going to give up on this, are you?]]

“I’m a Trelan. I’m stubborn.”

She offered a hollow echo of what might once have been a sigh and embraced him. [[I do love you, Josiri. Insofar as I am able.]]

Josiri felt his mouth twitch in what was surely an idiot smile. He felt no shame, only relief. “That’s all I ask.”

He closed his eyes and put his arms about her. For a long moment, he forgot Calenne; forgot the bloody horror of the day and the challenges that would come with the dawn.

“Sorry, your grace. Can’t let you in.”

The northwealder set a hand on his sword and shot a sidelong glance at his fellows, clustered around the nearby fire. A ruffianly bunch, and neither a friendly face nor a wolf-cloak to be seen. It seemed that Viktor Akadra’s promise of shared authority didn’t extend as far as the prisoners. That, or the guard didn’t care. Probably the latter.