Fractured Magic: Chapter Eight

Fractured Magic is a fantasy webserial about political and personal accountability, ghosts both figurative and literal, and a pair of estranged friends who act like they’ve gone through the world’s messiest divorce.

During his first morning in Gallonten, Leandros was ambushed. It was the third time since he’d arrived in the city; the same thing had happened to him leaving the island the day before, then again when he’d tried to go out for dinner. Disappearing for sixty years and reappearing under the most dramatic circumstances possible apparently made one something of a celebrity, and every reporter within a hundred square miles was clamoring for a feature. While Leandros could handle reporters, he couldn’t handle them knowing where he slept, and this morning’s offender had lain in wait for him in his own hotel lobby. Leandros had taken one look at him, a plucky, precocious boy with brownish hair and bright eyes, and walked in the other direction.

“Wait!” the boy called. “You’re Leandros Nochdvor, aren’t you?”

At the name Nochdvor, many curious eyes turned their way. Leandros ducked his head and kept walking, but he didn’t stop the boy from following him, either. “How did you find me?” he asked once the boy had caught up.

“I’m good at uncovering secrets,” the boy said. Then, in a loud whisper, he added, “I have a message from the oracle.”

Leandros stopped abruptly, making the boy almost trip over his feet trying to stop as well. “Devikra? I haven’t heard from her since…” Since Histrios. Since his self-imposed isolation. He cleared his throat. “Walk with me. Tell me everything.”

 The Oracle of Damael was never wrong. It was the first thing Egil had told Leandros about her, something he’d repeated again and again through their acquaintance with her. Having a handful of her prophecies dumped in his lap now, when he was less equipped to handle them than he’d ever been, made Leandros’ chest ache—but whether that gripping, squeezing sensation was fear or guilt, he couldn’t say. What he could saw was that this was his fault. The world was changing because he couldn’t save his uncle. Because he’d encouraged Amos to invite her up. If Amos died, if Orean burned, if everything else the oracle saw came true, it would be Leandros’ fault.

Leandros wanted his uncle back, but he didn’t want to see anyone harmed in the rescuing of him—except, perhaps, a single orinian with glowing magic and all-black eyes.

Adding insult to injury, Aleksir Bardon proved to be something worse than a reporter: he was an Egil fan. After heaping Leandros with enough dread to last even an alfar’s long lifetime, the boy had proceeded to question him about his greatest failure over and over, as if he could uncover the truth of Histrios if he was just annoying enough. Leandros finally lost him at the bridge to Unity Island, and only then because he’d sicced Unity’s guards on the boy like glorified bouncers.

Then came a press conference with the Magistrates, which sank his rapidly declining mood further. His role in the conference proved to be entirely ornamental, with the Magistrates spending the allotted minutes reassuring reporters with flowery words that held no substance. By the time they concluded, they’d managed not to reveal a single detail of their actual rescue plan. And by the time Leandros reached the site of his next meeting, a half-timbered house in a quiet Gallontean neighborhood, he was tired enough for another sixty years of seclusion.

After so long in Alfheimr, he’d forgotten how to meter his energy in lively places like Gallonten. With each conversation, he spent more of it, monitoring his tone, mirroring the way people spoke here, so far from home. He’d spent so much now that he was running a deficit.

“Are you lost?” a quiet voice asked when he lingered too long at the foot of the winding drive.

Standing in the street behind Leandros was a short woman with bright red hair. Her eyebrows twitched when she saw his face, but she quickly schooled her own again behind a cold smile. “Unless you’re Prince Leandros Nochdvor,” she continued, “In which case, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

When she spoke, Leandros glimpsed sharp canines. Between that, her hair, and the feather-like texture that webbed across her pale skin, she was clearly maranet, the longest-lived of the human peoples. Given the gray streaks around her temples and the faint lines around her eyes, she must have been at least Amos’ age.

“You have the advantage of me. You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” Leandros said.

Her smile eased—Leandros still couldn’t call it friendly, but it was at least polite. “Evelyne Corscia,” she said with a bow, one leg forward in the formal Alfheimr style. Surprised at the courtesy, Leandros bowed back. When Evelyne straightened again, she added, “I’ll be your Head of Security for the trip to Orean.”

“Pleasure,” Leandros said. She wore a sword at her back and a gun at her hip; excessive, in Gallonten. If you were going to carry a weapon, it was considered polite to choose one or the other. In that sense and in others, she fit her title. She was scarred and armed, but more than that, the apathy behind her deep-set eyes unsettled him. He had to ask: “Do you work for Unity?”

“Technically,” she replied, then, “We should go in, my lord. Mr. Ochoa will wonder what’s keeping us.”

While she started up the drive, Leandros squinted against the sunslight that crested the rooftops. Their destination stood alone on a slope, flowers and tall grasses spreading from its foundation all the way to the property’s borders. It was surprisingly lovely, in this cold city. Because he was eyeing the house, he noticed a dryad peek over the second-story balcony railing before Evelyne did. The man’s mossy head of hair had blended so seamlessly in among the potted flowers he’d been tending that Leandros had missed him, until that moment. “Good morning, Evelyne!” he called down. “And you must be Prince Nochdvor! Come inside, let yourselves in. I’ll be right down to meet you!”

Evelyne held the door for Leandros, who had no choice but to step inside first. He just had time to glance around the foyer before the dryad breezed down the stairwell, exclaiming, “Your Highness, it’s such an honor! I hope you had no trouble finding the place. I asked for accommodations on the island, of course, but what with the press conference and the news about your uncle’s kidnapping hitting the papers this morning, it’s bound to be crawling with reporters. The Magistrates suggested we meet somewhere quieter. My name is Eresh Ochoa, by the by. I’ll be your Unity Coordinator for the foreseeable future.”

He barely paused to breathe, ending the speech by sticking his hand out for Leandros to shake. Leandros blinked at him, then down at his hand, and at the last moment, Eresh snatched it back. “Oh! You don’t do handshakes in Alfheimr, right? Too intimate, I think one of your Representatives said. I’m terribly sorry if I caused offense.”

“You didn’t,” Leandros assured him.

“That’s a relief. I really am a fan of you—your work. I never thought I’d have a chance to meet you in person,” Eresh said. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Please, follow me.”

Eresh led Leandros and Evelyne to a sitting room, though its south-facing windows made it more like a greenhouse. The room was hot and humid—perfect for the strange flowers and trailing vines that grew along the trellised walls. While Leandros took them all in, Eresh crossed to a table at the center of the room and started sorting through stacks of folders piled atop it. Instead of sofas, plush floor cushions circled the table.

Leandros nodded at the walls. “You have quite the collection.”

Eresh straightened like a flower given water. “Kind of you to notice! I was born in Lyryma forest, though I left when I was still a young thing. Most of the specimen you see here are from around Home. They’re difficult to maintain in this climate, but I can be quite stubborn about getting my way.”

“No one who’s known you even five minutes could doubt that, Eresh,” Evelyne said.

“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment, Evelyne,” Eresh replied. The pair’s informal use of given names didn’t escape Leandros.

“Who will you get to watch them while we’re gone?” Leandros asked, though honestly, he didn’t hear much of the dryad’s reply. He was too busy watching Evelyne pace the room out of the corner of his eye. Something about her set him on edge. It wasn’t as bad a feeling as that orinian woman had given him, but he still wasn’t comfortable turning his back on her.

And he would never doubt those instincts again.

“I have paperwork for you both,” Eresh said. “The others might come to get theirs as well, but I don’t expect they’ll stay long. I mostly thought we three should talk.”

When Eresh passed Leandros the thickest of the folders, Leandros immediately started paging through it. “What others?” he asked.

“Our other teammates, of course. Unity’s already got half the team filled. Fast, aren’t they?”

“Faster than I’d expected,” Leandros admitted. The impression the Magistrates had given yesterday was an ambivalent one. If they were as disinclined to act with urgency as they’d pretended, why staff the team so quickly? If they really doubted Leandros and Rhea’s story about the orinian woman, why take so much caution?

It bothered Leandros. This team had been Unity’s idea. Rhea and Leandros had both offered other suggestions, but the Magistrates had insisted on this team, this plan. And when Leandros wrested control of it away from them, they had been furious.

There was something strange about this plan—some angle Leandros hadn’t figured out yet. It seemed Unity had ulterior motives, after all.

Eresh waved down a maid passing by the doorway while Leandros claimed one of the cushions. He had to awkwardly fold his long legs around the table to fit. “Mary, if anyone comes to the door, will you show them in? These are comfortable, aren’t they, Your Highness? I once had the privilege of being admitted to the Oracle of Damael’s drawing room, and it was full of cushions just like these. I told myself I’d have nothing else, from then on.”

Just like that, Leandros’ mood soured again. “The oracle? An honor indeed,” he said.

“Quite so,” Eresh agreed, not noticing Leandros’ flat tone. Behind him, Evelyne raised an eyebrow, and Leandros was grateful when Eresh continued: “I suppose we should get on to business. My job for the next few weeks, Your Highness, is to handle the menial tasks associated with travel so that you are free to focus on bringing your uncle home. Supplies, arrangements, logistics—leave them all to me. Inside your folder, you’ll find Unity’s code of conduct, safety protocols, budget projections, and information on our known teammates. We’ll be a small team, with five diplomats—including you and I—and a five-person security team led by Ms. Corscia.”

Leandros frowned at that, the expression stopping Eresh just as he drew in a breath to continue. “So many?” Leandros asked. “This is a diplomatic mission—investigative only. Fifty percent of the team being designated security seems excessive.”

“You’re a very important person, Prince Nochdvor,” Eresh said. “Your safety on this mission is Unity’s top priority.”

Leandros snorted. Flattering, but he didn’t believe it. The Magistrates hadn’t even offered him a guard for his stay in Gallonten, and he’d seen the looks on their faces when they’d adjourned yesterday. They’d be just as happy if he was dead. Out of curiosity, he flipped to Evelyne’s entry in the folder and found it practically empty. The next security member’s entry was the same. It listed a name, an age, a brief rundown of skills, and that was all. Compared to the diplomats’ entries, which were several pages long each, full of experience and references, the difference was telling. Keeping his expression neutral, he said, “Unity’s top priority should be rescuing the missing king. Relative to that, I mean little, and I’m more than capable of fending for myself.”

“We’ll do more for you than protect you, my lord,” Evelyne said. She had a soft way of speaking. It sent a shiver down Leandros’ spine every time she opened her mouth.

Eresh shot Evelyne an uncertain look. “Yes, well,” he said, “We’ll also have the brother of a Unity Magistrate on the team, and the orinians who took your uncle did kill more than a dozen people. I assume Unity is being cautious for both your sakes, and I can assure you, Your Highness, that Evelyne and her team are the very best Unity has to offer.”

“That, I don’t doubt,” Leandros said, eyeing the woman in question. She met his gaze evenly, almost in challenge. Two things were becoming clear to Leandros: that Unity had suggested this investigative mission for a reason, and that that reason involved Evelyne Corscia. He asked, “How long have you been doing this sort of thing, Ms. Corscia?”

“Longer than you’ve been alive, my lord,” Evelyne said. Even with Leandros’ experience dealing with rigid, controlled alfar, he couldn’t read her at all.

“Are swords your weapon of choice?” he asked.

“I suppose.”

“Did you train formally? What was the school?”

“It closed over a century ago, I’m afraid.”

Leandros smiled politely. “That doesn’t mean I haven’t heard of it. Come, what’s the name?”

Eresh watched the exchange with wide eyes. When the maid suddenly returned, a nympherai woman following behind her, he let out a relieved sigh. “Ah!” he cried, cutting the tension. “Ms. Smith!”

While the maid excused herself, the nympherai joined the small group by the table. Compared to Evelyne, who felt to Leandros like the personification of nails on a chalkboard, Ms. Smith’s presence was calm and assured. Though quite short, she stood with her shoulders squared and her hands clasped behind her back, elongating the lines of her well-tailored suit. Her short hair was slicked back and her skin was spotted with opalescent scales. She didn’t bow or offer to shake hands, but she gave Leandros a curt nod. “Please, call me Trin.”

“You’ve met Evelyne already, right? And this is Prince Leandros Nochdvor. Prince Nochdvor, this is Trinity Smith. She’ll be our lead negotiator,” Eresh explained. “She has decades of experience in the field and has handled dozens of hostage negotiations.”

“Only petty kidnappings, though. This is your first time with something of this magnitude, isn’t it, Trin?” Evelyne asked. Her gentle voice made the taunt even colder.

“How fortunate I am to have you on my tactical team again, Ms. Corscia,” Trin said with an unshaken smile. “Of course I haven’t negotiated anything of this magnitude. If kings were frequently disappearing, that would be more of a failing on yours and Unity’s parts than mine, don’t you think?”

Evelyne scowled in reply.

“So, you two know each other,” Leandros said. He was beginning to worry he was the only stranger in a team of old acquaintances—it would hardly be the first time. “Do you work for Unity as well, Trin?”

“Only occasionally. It’s nothing to your trade agreements with the frìth, Prince Nochdvor, but when two hikers went missing in Lyryma last year, Unity brought me in to negotiate with them. I had the privilege of working with Ms. Corscia and her team then. Though I hope you won’t be so eager for blood this time, Evelyne.”

“Blood?” Leandros asked, eyeing Evelyne. Unbidden, he remembered the oracle’s warnings of Orean on fire.

“Only a figure of speech, my lord,” Evelyne said smoothly.

The reassurance didn’t settle the unease gathering in Leandros’ chest. “Right. And what is a tactical team in this context, exactly?”

“A specialized unit trained in combat that’s called in to handle high-risk, high-stakes situations. Evelyne’s team may step in if negotiations with your uncle’s kidnappers fail and we need another way to extract him,” Trin explained. “Hopefully, that won’t be necessary. Hostile tactics are always a last resort, even if some on Evelyne’s team may disagree.”

They weren’t only for security, then. Was it really for Leandros that Unity was sending them along? Was it really for his uncle?

“I’m not the one getting ahead of myself,” Evelyne pointed out. “We don’t even know who the kidnappers are, or if they have demands to negotiate. It’s been four days with no ransom, and when it comes to information, all we have are two flawed accounts from the sole survivors. We need to launch an investigation in Illyon before we can even make contact with Orean.”

 It was only thanks to a lifetime of training that Leandros didn’t flinch at the word flawed. How much of his and Rhea’s testimony had Unity told her? All of it? “Flawed?” Trin asked. “Flawed how?”

Leandros made note of the question, and of Eresh’s curious look. Evelyne had been told more than the others, that much was clear.

“Ask him,” Evelyne said, jutting her thumb at Leandros.

“I know it may be difficult to recount, Prince Nochdvor, but if you could,” Trin prompted.

“I don’t mind,” Leandros said. He’d expected this, had prepared a version of the story more plausible than the truth. Not a lie, but an obfuscation. He needed respect from this team, and he wouldn’t get it if they all thought he’d gone mad. “We were assembled at Hampstead Hall when an orinian woman broke in and caused some sort of explosion. In the chaos, she escaped with my uncle.”

“How did she cause the explosion? How did one woman carry off a grown alfar? And how did she make it back out of the estate without being seen?” Evelyne asked. The Magistrates had told her everything.

Leandros bit back his irritation, but it came out on a sigh. “I’m only telling you what I saw. Truth told, I was preoccupied with keeping myself and my cousin alive. If that makes my story flawed, then I supposed it’s flawed.”

The noise Evelyne made in response was doubtful at best.

“I understand. Were you and your uncle close?” Trin asked. While her tone was kinder than Evelyne’s, it was analytic, not sympathetic. Leandros realized that to her—to all of them—he was worse than a stranger: he was a liability, a mystery to unravel and an obstruction in their way. It was understandable. What did they know about him? That he’d negotiated some trade agreements once, decades before most of them were even born? That he had killed the world’s most famous hero? That he’d been in hiding ever since? Why should they recognize him as a leader simply because he’d talked the Magistrates into calling him one?

They knew each other, even if they disagreed on some things. They didn’t know Leandros.

“As close as Alfheimr royalty can get,” he answered.

“You can trust me, Prince Nochdvor,” Trin said, and the condescension in it was a twist of the knife. “I’m here for you—we all are. What can you tell me about Amos that might affect how we approach Orean? Do you think he would try to escape? Is he the type to try to reason with his kidnapper?”

“Yes to the latter, no to the former. He’d know people were coming to help and wouldn’t make things more difficult for them.”

“Does he have a temper?”

“No.” Unlike Leandros. “He’s the most patient man I know.”

Some of his feelings on the matter must have made it into his voice because Trin asked, “And do you, Prince Nochdvor?”

“Only when I feel I’m being talked down to.”

Trin laughed. “My apologies, Captain. I almost forgot who I was speaking to,” she said, and Leandros could make out something like respect in her voice—not quite there yet, but it could be. She addressed the gathered group: “We’ll need to be patient on this mission, build trust and rapport with the hostage taker—once we identify them, as Ms. Corscia helpfully pointed out. We’ll need to trust each other, too. All of us. Captain, if you remember anything else about that day, please tell us.”

“I will,” Leandros promised.

Voices drifted down the foyer, then, shortly followed by two new teammates. A tall man with the pointed ears of an alfar was the first to enter, even ahead of the maid. He threw his arm around Trin’s shoulder and said, “Well, if it isn’t Trin! It’s been too long.” Despite his ears, he spoke with a flat Gallontean accent. A patch covered one of his eyes, and the other was sleepy and half-lidded to match his lazy smile. A stern man entered behind him, though he lingered in the doorway with his arms crossed. Just from the cold detachment behind their eyes, Leandros knew which part of the team they belonged to even before Evelyne said it.

“Ivor Linde and Aaror Thomason, both my men,” she supplied while Trin shrugged off Ivor’s arm.

“Ah, yes! I have paperwork for you both,” Eresh said, digging through his stack. “You too, Trin.”

“Great,” Ivor said with an eye roll. Still, he took the folders when Eresh offered them. “We can’t stay; we only came for these.”

“Take Will and Chia’s, too,” Evelyne said. At Eresh’s questioning look, she explained, “Will can’t make it today and Chia’s out of town, but she’s expected back on Thursday; we can leave for Orean then.”

“That’s four days from now,” Leandros pointed out. “In hostage situations, delays like those can prove fatal.”

“It’s not ideal,” Trin agreed. “Is she really needed, Ms. Corscia?”

“You know she is,” Evelyne said. “Besides, Eresh still needs to finalize logistics. That will take several days on its own.”

Trin sighed and gave Leandros a shrug. “If Amos is still alive at this point, statistically, the hostage takers will keep him alive longer—as long as needed for their demands to be heard.”

“Then I’ll defer to your expertise on the matter,” Leandros said, but the words tasted bitter. He felt like a school boy again, stuck in a group project with peers who liked each other better than they liked him. He shouldn’t care, but he shifted uneasily on Eresh’s overpriced floor cushion. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to step out for some air. It’s a bit warm in here, compared to what I’m used to.”

As he stood, his bruises and cuts from his jump out Hampstead Hall’s window twinged—he had to fight not to wince. While no one stopped him, he felt curious eyes on his back all the way to the door, which meant he couldn’t let himself limp, either.

He needed fresh air and a moment of privacy, so instead of going out the front door, he turned up the stairs, remembering Eresh’s balcony. As he climbed, he told himself it was the humidity in the house, not his teammates, that made it so hard to breathe.

The cool summer air out on the balcony helped, but not enough. He paced up and down it a few times, but when it did nothing for his thundering heart, he sat cross-legged right on the balcony floor and closed his eyes, focused on his breathing. Ever since Histrios, he’d been having occasional fits like this. It would pass; he just needed to breathe.

Not for the first time since this all began, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. He wondered what he’d gotten Orean into. The unknowns were adding up, and the phrase eager for blood had stuck in Leandros’ mind from the moment Trin uttered it. He should be grateful Evelyne and her unsettling tactical team were on his side. He should be grateful they wanted to help his uncle. But he wasn’t, and he still couldn’t shake the suspicion that they didn’t.

Paired with Devikra’s visions of riots and cities on fire, Leandros began to dread this mission.

Suddenly, his sharp ears picked up the sound of the front door opening below him. “Oh. He’s not out here,” said a quiet voice. Evelyne.

“With any luck, he ran home to Alfheimr,” came a second—Ivor. There was a soft thump, then, “Ow! It was a joke, Ev. What’s with you? He’s just a spoiled little princeling.”

“Quiet,” Evelyne snapped. “Do not underestimate him. He knows more than you think.”

There was a heavy pause, and then Ivor asked, “About us?”

“Just keep your head down and do your job,” Evelyne warned.

Leandros missed Ivor’s reply under the crunch of three sets of boots passing onto gravel. Not wanting to be seen, he eased onto his back so he’d be hidden behind Eresh’s numerous flowerpots. Tucking his hands behind his head, he smiled bitterly up at the passing clouds until the crunching of boots faded. Only when he was satisfied they were gone did Leandros sit up and peer over the railing, but he was surprised to find yet another person making their way up the drive. Yet another stranger.

On closer examination, though, Leandros realized this stranger was more familiar than the others. He pushed himself to his feet and called down, “Mr. Ranulf!”

Gareth Ranulf jumped, looking around before looking up, a sheepish grin spreading across his face when he spotted Leandros. It was, to Leandros’ surprise, a face covered in bruises. “Prince Nochdvor! Yes, I’m surprised you remembered!”

Leandros leaned over the railing, resting his elbows on the painted wood. “After only a day? And after your kind gift, how could I forget? Thank you again for that; it helped me take my mind off things, if only for a little while. Don’t tell me you’ll be joining us in Illyon?”

“I will, in fact.”

“Hold on,” Leandros said, pushing away from the railing. “Let me join you downstairs.”

When Gareth held a hand out to Leandros, Leandros shook it happily. “Pleasure to meet you again, sir,” Gareth said. Up close, his bruises looked even worse. Curiosity gnawed at Leandros, but he held his since—he had no right to ask, and anyway, he doubted Gareth wanted to talk about it.

“Likewise. Though I must admit I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Surprised my sister would put me in this position, you mean,” Gareth guessed. “I’m sure I could have refused, but…ah. Well, never mind.”

“Tell me,” Leandros said. “If you have reservations, Mr. Ranulf, I’d like to hear them.”

Gareth eyed Leandros like he didn’t quite believe him, but he obliged: “I was determined to refuse Moira, but last night, I ran into three orinians who are staying at my hotel. They’re young, Prince Nochdvor, and so happy. It made me worry for their sakes. I’d like to make sure Orean’s treated fairly in all this.” At Leandros’ thoughtful silence, he hurried to add, “That’s not to say that you won’t, but after what you’ve been through, I’m sure you have some complicated feelings about the matter. I don’t, so if I can help provide clarity, I’d like to.”

Leandros thought again of Orean on fire. Complicated was certainly a word for Leandros’ feelings. “I appreciate your honesty.”

Like a peace offering, Gareth withdrew his cigarette case and held it out to Leandros. “Cigarette?”

“Please,” Leandros said. He didn’t make a habit of smoking, but at this point, he’d try anything to steady his nerves. He leaned in while Gareth lit the cigarette for him, then took a long drag before saying, “To tell you the truth, I’m grateful. I get tangled in my emotions easily; I’d appreciate having someone to keep me in check.”

“You can count on me, Your Highness.”

“And may I offer some advice?”

Gareth blinked. “Why yes, of course.”

“Know that I say this out of an abundance of caution. You should warn your neighbors about what’s coming. What happened to my uncle—I believe it was the work of a single individual, but Unity may not see it the same way. I don’t want any innocents getting caught up in this business.”

“They’re just tourists. Unity wouldn’t do anything to them, would they?”

“Unity is known for upholding order, not showing mercy,” Leandros said. At Gareth’s blank look, he explained, “If they view Orean as the enemy, then anyone from Orean will become the enemy. Your neighbors could be here for any number of reasons. Maybe they’re spies, maybe they’re assassins. Maybe they’re in league with the kidnappers.”

“They most certainly are not!”

“The truth isn’t the point. Do you think Unity cares about the truth? If the police, whose salaries Unity pays, care? All they need is a plausible lie, and they’ll spin it.” Leandros shook his head. “It’s our responsibility to cut the thread before it causes harm. Have your orinians take the train to Adriad. News is always slow to reach there—if they leave today, they might beat it. Then they can catch a ride on to Orean.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll warn them as soon as I get home. Thank you, Prince Nochdvor. If you’re right, you may have saved their lives.”

Leandros shrugged, biting back the guilt that rose on his tongue like bile. It was the least he could do when he was the one leading Unity to their home, when he was the one seeking retribution and the return of his uncle at any cost. He had good intentions, peaceful intentions, but what use were those in matters like these? What did his intentions matter when Unity held all of the power?

Changing the subject, he asked, “Did you pass a maranet woman on your way up?”

“Ms. Corscia, right?” Gareth asked. Leandros’ heart sank, but then Gareth continued: “I assumed she was part of our team, so I stopped and introduced myself.”

“You weren’t already acquainted?” Leandros asked, relaxing again. “I’m relieved. The rest of them seem to know each other. If I may, what was your impression or her?”

“Hm,” Gareth said, a heavy sound. His sister voiced her disapproval in the same way—it must have been a family trait.

“What is it?” Leandros asked.

“We didn’t speak long, but there’s something off about her, don’t you think? About all of them. My father had a similar air about him.”

“And what sort of man was your father?”

Gareth stomped out his cigarette and didn’t look at Leandros. “A cruel one.”

It was no comfort to hear, even if it echoed Leandros’ own impressions. He wanted to say more, to voice his theories about their tactical team, but Gareth was still the son of a Magistrate, the brother of a Magistrate. Leandros couldn’t trust him.

From the moment he’d made his risky move with the Magistrates, asking to lead the team, he’d known he would be alone in this. Still, knowledge didn’t ease loneliness.

Instead of voicing anything, he simply said, “We should get inside. Mr. Ochoa has paperwork for you.”

Fun Fact about this chapter: in the original draft, Trin had maybe...three or four lines in the whole book. She's one of those characters that elbowed her way in and demanded a larger part, as are Eresh and our mysterious missing security team member, Eftychia.

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