*COMPLETE* "People don't believe in us anymore. They don't believe that in the end we will do what is right. We can't let them down. We can't let Ben win."
Decisions made on top of the lonely, wind-swept cliff of Lethinor reverberate around the five...
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It's only when the heavy tower doors settle behind, a low groan of stone and steel, that Beinsho turns back to her and Ruben, his face grave.
"Fae Urilong and the Smith-caller have not been found yet?" he says, his tone brusque.
"We have not heard from them yet," Allayria answers, the pit in her stomach somehow growing heavier at the reminder. "General Grismen assured us his men would continue to search the area."
"Hans Urilong will not be happy," Beinsho says, the dark line of his mouth tautening as they begin to climb the stairs. "Nor will Hai Sofo."
"Caj is an accomplished survivalist," Ruben interjects softly. "There is still a chance they are alive."
No one answers because it is what everyone hopes, but there are heavy doubts. Allayria remembers the chill of the forest, and what little Tara and Hiran have said of their own ordeal makes her imaginings of Caj and Fae's experience bleak.
There's still hope, she tells herself, even if she doesn't feel any.
They break bread in a narrow mess hall and then others fall away, branching off to their assigned quarters or in search of drink. As the hour climbs toward nightfall it's only Beinsho and Lei who remain, climbing further around her, until they reach the plain, brown door on the topmost level.
Allayria reaches to her breast pocket for the gray book tucked away there, safe. It is the only thing brought back. The only thing they have to account for.
But then she hesitates, pulling along her neck instead, as if she is sore from riding.
"Brezkin?"
His voice echoes across time, mocking and hard, jaded with a lesson hard learned. "If they have guts they'll have strung him up over city hall. But grand men in high towers never let their equals feel the consequences of their actions. It will be a nice clean cut on a nice clean board by a nice clean man in a nice clean courtyard... away from the rabble."
Allayria drops her hand.
Beinsho's gaze flickers to Lei before settling on her.
"The Dynast is in here," he says. "He is expecting you."
He glances back at Lei again, adding: "I think you should go in too, Lieutenant."
Lei's brows twitch, a barely concealed expression of surprise, but he only nods, watching as his commander begins the slow descent.
The rooms of the Dynast of Halften are not a vision of opulence, filled with sprawling silks and shining gold; instead, they are filled with instruments. Thin, delicate things dangle on long tables, the flashing rays of their glass sparkling in the streaming sunlight; long, scrawling rolls of parchment that spread across walls and sit in ledges, covered in vast, detailed diagrams and scurrying writing. A map of the stars stretches wide above the dining table, and some strange machine whirls in the corner, all levers and smoke.
