Farren paused in the little sliver of light glimmering through the door to Linder's room. Inside, she did not hear the peaceful breaths or soft snores of someone fast asleep after a long, tiring day, as the way it should have been.

Before she raised her fist to knock however, the door swung open a crack by itself and Linder peered down at her.

The tired smile he gave her reached even his ever-exhausted eyes. When he spoke, his voice was raspy, the adorable sort when one tried hard to ward off sleep. "Still awake?"

"No?" said Farren. "I sleepwalk."

He blinked slowly. "You know...I don't get paid enough to deal with this. I should ask Commander Del for a raise."

"Ask for a year-long break from all this mess while you're at it," she said, raising her eyes to his weary, shadowed ones. "You need it."

"We both do, I believe." He gave her a grin, the saddening kind which held no mirth, given only to fill the silence.

He reached out and took her hand in his, thumb rubbing gentle circles on her wrist, his touch cold against hers--an alien feeling, for he was almost always in his armour, hands covered in gloves and cloak billowing.

She looked up. The man before her now, unarmed, in a plain white shirt and breeches, dark hair down and mussed, seemed so far from her usual image of him, yet more within reach than the armoured sword-wielder.

Farren did not notice herself stepping forward, nor did she see the door swing wide open and click shut behind her. The squealing of rusty hinges, wood slamming into a rickety door-frame, a slender yet strong arm snug around her waist and the scent of coffee were all that flooded her senses the next moment.

He held her in his arms.

He held her close and he meant it.

This was no game played in stable roofs and dark alleys, leaning away from kisses never supposed to mean anything, stolen glances and suggestive remarks passed only in jest. No, this was something real, real like the bruises on her wrists from the shackles, real like the crisp chill in the air and the cold stone floor beneath her bare feet. Real.

It unnerved her a little.

She buried her face in his chest, taking in the fresh smell of sun-warmed linen, and the steady rise and fall of his breaths.

"I would ask if you missed me, but that's pointless. It's hard not to, eh?" she said, for a moment longer in a silent embrace--and things would get rather sappy and mushy and generally too sentimental--which was anathema to Farren Clearstrike. "Am I right?"

"Gods, why can't you ever stay out of trouble?" he murmured into her shoulder, his cheeks coarse from a day-old stubble, arms holding onto her as though for dear life.

Moments passed in silence, a thousand unspoken words conveyed nonetheless--until she shivered as a cool draught whistled through the cracks of the windows. Winter's silver talons cut across the lands only deeper each day, the faint signs of spring obliterated long past. The fire in the grate had gone out, smoke fizzling out from embers. He broke the hug and looked at her with concern.

"How selfish of me to keep you standing in the cold," he said, gesturing at the blankets piled atop the straw-mattress. "Let's get us warmed up."

Farren smirked, a hand already reaching to loosen the knot holding the neck of her shirt aloft. "Never knew you were one for innuendos. Hidden depths, I suppose..."

His arms were still snug around her waist, eyes boring into hers in a hooded gaze from which she could glean that the plan of fleeing the tiresome reality, just for a night, was not on her mind alone.

Not to mention the bed here was of the perfect level of sturdiness she preferred.

But before they could lead each other into it, a dissonant cord sounded, breaking the trance.

"Really, Farren?"

Linder clamped his hand on hers. "Is this how you choose to deal with it all?"

It was as though a mask-- wearing a very seductive expression, no doubt-- had just been knocked off her face, to uncover a rather miserable visage. Farren cobbled it back into a smug one soon enough. "Getting shy, are we?"

There was nothing shy about the pointed, inquisitive look he gave her, as though this act had deeply offended him, as though they had not been unbearably close to battling it out with their tongues rather than blades.

His face softened then, hands pressing up close against her freckled cheeks, his touch cool, but soothingly so. "You're trying to run from your problems again."

But running from her problems was all she'd learnt, be it drowning her woes with a mug of ale, or, crudely put, seeking pleasures of the flesh-- despite the self-loathing that would settle in afterwards. Temporary fixes to permanent problems-- that was her way to go.

Perhaps that was why she had a hard time believing whatever it was she had with Linder was real, and not merely one of her many, dysfunctional escape strategies. For it surely had started like one.

She removed the thought from her mind at once.

"It's the only thing I'm good at. Let me," she murmured, fingers running up his collar, drawing him closer. "I'll make it worth our while."

"You don't want me," he said. "You merely want an escape. Probably from the things that happened at the Council hall. But...this isn't the way to go about it."

Minutes ticked away where he held her gaze and her attempt to disrobe further.

"By the Gods, don't you diagnose me like some healer!" Farren let out a sigh so heavy it ruffled her hair. Then, she planted her forehead into his chest, given up at last. "There, you just killed the mood."

A hearty laugh rumbled from him as he spoke, placing a chaste little kiss on top of her head. "I sure hope I have. Pardon me, but I know these patterns all too well, for I've lived through them myself. And I'm not going to enable you." He paused. "Wanna talk about what's on your mind?"

She mumbled something incoherent into his shirt but Linder seemed able to decipher it anyway. "Very well, then you don't have to. Let's just get some sleep."

He released her and went to stoke the fire in the grate--and warm them up. Gods, so this is what he meant earlier. I need to get a grip.

Heat soon thawed the frigid air and soft crackles of firewood filled the small room. Farren didn't need telling twice. She heaved her frozen legs off the floor and slid into the safety of the blankets. Covered right up to her chin, the day's exhaustion easing off her weary body and mind, Farren lay on her back, eyes on the shadows dancing upon the wooden ceiling.

A moment later the bed sank beside her as Linder got in, long limbs struggling to find the long end of the blanket, nearly smacking her in the face.

He simply took her hand and closed his eyes, no questions asked--as though they had always been bedmates. It was astounding how easier things were with him around.

Farren faced him. Dark, wavy hair framed his thin face and curled over his forehead. Days of travel across the plains had freckled his complexion, the arrow scar on his cheek a jagged white line. He was beautiful, and ever so peaceful with her hand clutched in his.

He was actually trying to sleep, rather than stay up drunk on gallons of the godforsaken bitter elixir of energy.

The frown was relaxing, dissolving into nothing. "What is this sorcery?" She traced his forehead with her finger in search of it. "Where'd it go?

He opened his eyes in annoyance. "What... are you doing, might I ask?"

"There, it's back again. Thank the Gods."

He closed his eyes with a sigh. "Go to sleep."

She poked him again. "How did you know I was outside the door, though?"

"City Guard instincts. Crooks lurk in the dark."

"And what're you gonna do about it?" She wiggled her brows. "Tie me up?"

"I'll gladly tie you to the bedposts if that means you'll let me sleep in peace!" said Linder.

Farren dragged her mind back from the gutter and lay her head against his chest. Gentle fingers ran through her hair. If she had imagined sleeping with him, this was certainly not how that went.

She looked up at his face, softly lit in the amber firelight. This was her chance to finally let out what had been bothering her since they ran into the Royal Guard and the Miveresk brothers.

"Hey, Sarge."

His lips quirked in a smile. "Please don't address me by my rank when you're in bed with me."

"Fine. Anyway, why didn't you say something to that bastard Troth? Give him the answer he deserves, I say!" she said, "we've got Her Highness on our side, alright? Next time we cross paths, I swear I'm going to beat the sh--"

"You will do nothing of the sort." He said solemnly.

"Why on earth not?"

Linder proved a master at dodging the question. "Why didn't you speak up against the minister? You know full well we could have taken the matter to the king and make that man pay for his words."

-"She'll be more of a burden on you in times of battle." Those words still haunted her.

“Tell me, Farren? Why didn't you stand up for yourself?” Linder was asking.

That's because I am a damn burden. The minister was right. Farren squinted her eyes shut.

"That's a different thing entirely!" she said, warding off the intrusive voices in her head.

"I'm afraid not." He cupped her face with one hand, his steel gaze ever so gentle. "When you've been fed such lies long enough, you start to agree with them. You must unlearn those."

She held his face between her hands, inching closer. He wasn't the only one good at the dodging game.

"So should you. Back when you were in the City Watch, you fought for what's right," she told him. "There's nothing naive or foolish about it. In fact, that's exactly what we're trying to do now. Us, Her Highness and the Silverhaarts. Draedona take Troth and his wretched brother."

"Really? You of all people are saying that? Even though it was because of me that you got marked for life?" His voice came out rather furious.

Farren smiled sadly. "But I had truly strayed from the path of good, hadn't I? I needed to get marked, just to get out of that place. I let you capture me, if you remember."

"And its consequences haunt you still to this day! You may try to cover it up with jokes all you want--but it shows," he said. "All because I was too eager to earn fame. And I was foolish enough to believe that it would somehow get me a place among the Royal Guards like my father. How is any of this right in your eyes?"

He searched her face for an answer, the look in his eyes almost feverish.

Then he said something she never imagined him saying.

"If I tell you I was, in truth, no better than a corrupt, power-hungry city guard...will you be able forgive me?"

No immediate answer came to her mind.

He averted his eyes after a moment, regret in his whole demeanor. "I... forgive me for rambling. You must be tired. I--I'll stop," he stuttered, "the hour's late. Best we get some sleep."

He turned away with a rustle, fingers digging into his dark hair.

Silent minutes passed, punctuated only by the crackling fire and their own breaths.

Farren scooted closer, wrapping her arms around him from behind. He tensed at first, but soon relaxed. "I'm so sorry," he said.

"I'd no clue you felt that... strongly about my mark."

When he faced her, his eyes shone.

"I didn't," he said. "Not until I got to know you. I spent seven years in Brittlerock seething in hatred against everyone and everything. You would have despised this wretch, had we met then. This night...would never come to be. Can you forgive me even now, Farren?"

She held her scarred arm before her eyes. The hatred, the ceaseless guilt she'd poured upon her own self and drowned with ale in Kinallen. She used to get so drunk, Klo would have to haul her back to the camp. After nights of being sick, she'd curse at herself for being a failure when she lagged behind everyone in training.

She smiled as she turned to the soldier beside her, broken by a similar tale of hatred turned inwards.

"We owe ourselves an apology, I think," she said. "Gotta forgive ourselves for being who we needed to be in order to survive. There must've been a reason why you felt compelled to act the way you did.”

He stared at the ceiling. "I wanted...no, I had to be a Royal Guard. That wasn't something I could simply sign up for and join in. Only the best warriors of the land with great feats in battle, or those who have done the kingdom a great service are granted that honor. At least, that was the case for Father."

"Good old times, the Countess used to say. Now all you find among them are filthy rich noblemen buying their way in."

"If only I could make him understand that. Ah, well." He sighed. "He said it was either the Royal Guard, or going back to take care of the family farm and estate because I was no good for anything else. After that transfer order however, he said never to come back home."

The image of him, tossing and turning in bed, trapped in a nightmare resurfaced in her mind. She held him close, burying her face into the crook of his neck.

"Whoa there, I'm not about to break down in sobs!" He chuckled, but drew his arms around her nonetheless. "This is an old tale I'm over long since. Haven't seen that man for eleven years, and I intend not to."

Farren felt a little silly. "Mind if I swore at him?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Good, because he's an arse."

He laughed. "Agreed. I'm never going back home, anyway."

"Listen here, you--" She sat upright, the blankets like a tent around her head. "Folks love you at Brittlerock. You have made yourself a home to come back to, earned respect the whole lot of Royal Guard could never command. You are enough."

Gentle hands reached out to caress her face. "If only you were that kind to yourself."

"Silence, O sufferer." Farren gave him a noble look. "It is I who shall impart deep knowledge to you lost souls. This wasn't part of the deal."

"I never signed up for anything!" And he tackled her back to bed in a tangle of arms and legs and blankets and laughter, until she was cocooned in the furs like fillings of a sweetroll. She had never seen him smile so bright.

"Listen to me, Farren," he said after a while, his face sober. "I'm serious."

"Mhm. You always are. A bit too much, actually."

"You gotta sit with your hurt and look it in the eyes. You won't heal by joking about it, or drinking it away or..." He chuckled. "Fuck it away. Oh, trust me on this: you'll always end up regretting it the morning after."

Farren gave him a sleepy grin. "That's why you should take the potion and play it safe. Fuck responsibly, that's what the Countess used to say."

"Anyway," he continued after a rather glamorous eyeroll. "You let those feelings sit, acknowledge them and let them heal. Remember, you are not a burden. You are worthy of all the love you get, and more."

"Easier said that done."

"Of course. I can't heal your wounds by mere words. Nor can you help mine. This is a battle that we must fight ourselves," he said, taking her marked hand and pressing his lips to her scars. "But we'll fight together. And come out victorious."

She nodded, sleep beginning to tug at her eyes. There was no war, no dark magic or evil beings. Peace prevailed across the lands, just for tonight.

✦✧✦✧

A loud rapping on the door woke her from a blissful sleep. When she opened her eyes, she found herself facing away from him, with his arms around her waist. Last night felt like a pleasant dream, almost unreal.

There came the knocks again, louder this time, shattering her chance to admire his sleeping form beside her.

"Coming!" groaned Linder as he sat up, his dark hair a rather gorgeous mess. The shadows beneath his eyes looked no better, but he surely appeared more well-rested than usual. He shuffled to the door.

"Rise and shine!" yelled none other than Gray from outside the door. "The Royal Sorcerer summons you to talk about crows or something. Take the apple of your eye--that Clearstrike girl-- with you while you're at it! He has asked for her as well."

Linder froze, hand still on the door handle, broad back tense underneath the thin shirt.

"What did he just say?" said Farren, arms crossed with a smug look of someone who had heard exactly what had been said.

He cursed under his breath and threw his back against the door. "I didn't know you were awake."

"Oh, look at you, so flustered," crooned Farren. "As though you didn't just spend the night in my arms. Not that I'm complaining. The look rather suits you."

Linder didn't say anything, but instead gave her a very evil look, as if to say: just you wait.

"Someone's in there with you? Are you alright?" called Gray. Footsteps shuffled outside. She heard a sword slide out of its sheath. "Should I break down the door or--"

"I'm perfectly fine!" said Linder angrily. "Be there in a minute. No one's killing me."

"Not literally, at least," said Farren.

But not even Rhilio could shut Gray up today, it appeared, because she could hear him pacing to and fro outside, perhaps looking into the other rooms to ascertain something. He'd found his answer soon enough, for he hollered moments later. "Hey, Clearstrike...is not in her room..."

Silence.

Realisation. Adding two and two.

Gray stuttered outside in the hall. "Er--I'll leave you folks at it--just get to the Royal Sorcerer in time, his office is at the North Tower. Uh...I'll go and tell him you'll be late because--"

Meanwhile poor Linder danced on one leg, struggling to get his boots on. "There's no need for that, stop!" And the next moment he threw the doors open.

Farren leaned back on the headboard lazily and watched the two flustered poor souls with glee.

"Hi," she said.

When Gray looked as though he was about to sprint down the hallway, she said, "never you mind. We weren't doing anything-- certainly not each other."

✦✧✦✧

The trip to the sorcerer's tower was a quiet one, with Linder suddenly discovering his fondness for interior architecture and staring at the walls and ceilings for the most part with utmost concentration, cheeks still a ruddy shade. The characteristic frown crawled back to nestle on his forehead, face yet again stern. Gray trotted ahead, staying out of claymore range.

Royal Sorcerer Marches mirrored his graveness as he welcomed them into his magnificent office. Farren was surprised to find Klo, Rendarr and Karles already there.

A long, tense moment passed in which she looked at the flecks of dust dancing in the slanted rays of the sun, casting on the old portraits of previous occupants of this office who watched them all with solemn eyes. The top of the tower loomed so high up it was dizzying to look at. Marble stairs spiralled all the way to the top, the storeys lined with bookcases and strange instruments, some of which rotated and whirred by themselves.

Marches folded his hands together and leaned forward on his desk. "It appears you have been chosen by the Goddess of Death, Sergeant Linder. That's why the ravens follow you."

Her mind snapped back to the moment she stood in chains, in the Council Headquarters, the raven which had appeared seemingly out of nowhere when Linder had-- rather uncharacteristically --lost his temper. It had saved her life from a wayward spell.

Heads turned to look at Linder, who only looked mildly shocked. Perhaps a little disappointed.

"That's grand, isn't it? Has good potential in combat," said Gray.

"Indeed." Linder sat in silence for a long minute before speaking.

"So.... it's only because the Goddess wills it? And here I thought I was finally getting better at befriending ravens," he said at last.

"What do you mean finally?" asked Farren.

"They have always fascinated me. So have cats. Thankfully, I have succeeded in the latter by my own efforts as there is no deity who controls felines, as far as I know," he told her.

"I miss Pickle," said Rendarr.

"Would this take long, sir?" asked Klo. "I gotta speak to Her Highness about something."

"Pardon?" said Marches who looked flabbergasted by their lack of alarm at the subject. "You're rather calm for someone who has been chosen by Death herself, you know that, Sergeant? Hell, you all are so calm! Is it just me who has been losing sleep over this?"

The soldiers looked at each other. Rendarr answered in their stead. "Definitely. We folk of Kinallen are used to it. Wouldn't be surprised if I get chosen by Atruer come tomorrow."

"Pray you don't," said Gray.

"Anyway," said Linder, now facing the sorcerer with a serious look. "This...being chosen by Death, there must be a way I put this power to good use. Surely Sweet Mother has a purpose for me to fulfill?"

"I'm afraid it is up to the Chosen One to decide what to do with the powers they're given," said Marches. "Though I believe I have a hint. After things settled down a bit, I tried speaking to priests of Draedona all around the city cemeteries. Unfortunately, they can no longer reach out to their patroness, nor hear her voice."

He reached into a drawer to get out a sheaf of parchments, and tossed them onto the desk with a dull thump. "These are their reports that have been addressed to me all the while I was out travelling."

Now like others, she ran her eyes over the letters, likely scrawled in a hurry by alarmed devotees of Draedona, suspecting some foul sorcery was on the loose, blocking out their path to their Goddess. They seeked the Royal Sorcerer's aid in the matter.

"And now, the reason I've been up all night--" Marches shot up from his seat and swayed on his feet. But before they could lend him a hand he shook his head and retrieved a large folder of documents bound together with rope, dropping it all on the desk with a little dazed look.

Farren recognised that look even as dust swirled in little clouds and blinded her for a splintered second. Ryffin had the same glimmer in his eyes when he talked about Ancient Sorcery.

"This took quite a while, but I found it at last--although that was pure luck," he said, sifting through the papers. He held up one yellowed, much-worn paper, dog-eared at the corners and a bit of cobweb hanging off it.

It was a first page of a letter that seemed to span several pages. "Look!" he said, tapping a single line at the bottom circled with red ink.

'On the other hand, Draedona's champion is prepared for...'

"For what?" asked Linder, which was everyone's question.

Yet that was where the line ended, leaving things open to interpretation for the current Chosen One. Whether this was symbolic or simply unfortunate, he did not know.

Nor did the rest of the document mention anything to help them find the context, other than mundane discussions on gathering sorcerous resources around the city. It appeared that the sender had changed the subject only at the bottom of the page.

"Couldn't find the rest of it." Marches sighed. "But the letter itself dates back to the time of the Great War, as you can see at the top. Most of the documents from the time have been lost, but this one I found stowed inside a tome on necromancy, and that's saying something."

"So there have been Chosen Ones before," said Linder, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

Klo took the parchment to examine. "Remember that book we talked about?" She turned to Farren and Linder.

"Ryffin's book, yes!" said Farren.

"Oh?" Marches was alert at once. "Do tell."

"It mentioned disturbances in Draedona's realm as effects of the creation of the Vasaeni," said Linder. "It can very well be I'm supposed to fight against them."

"A swarm of ravens sure does sound better than a supply of Sacred Blades we haven't yet found," said Farren, suppressing a shudder at the thought. The dark glint of the raven's eyes through the stained glass windows of the Council Headquarters flickered in her vision again. However good its intentions may have been, it unnerved her a little. So did their master.

Linder turned his dark eyes on her. "I think so too."

Would he, now associated with a deity himself, understand if she told him about the deal?

Her eyes travelled over the faces present. Would they understand?

Back when the City Watch dragged her in shackles, it had been easy to promise to herself to come clean to all. Now it did not seem so.

"I suggest you train with the Silverhaarts," said Marches. "Let us not work on the basis of mere assumptions, while the author of the book you mention is available himself. I will consult Ryffin and see if we can find more on the subject."

"Train with sorcery..." He looked a little lost. "But I've never had magic."

"Never practiced yours, is what you mean to say," said Marches with a bright glint in his eyes. "The mercenaries are skilled mages, and have the means to help you harness your powers better. Would you be up for a bit of law-breaking?"

Linder gave her a mischievous smile before nodding at the sorcerer. "If Draedona herself chooses it, how illegal can it really be?"

Marches grinned. But next, to her horror, the Royal Sorcerer turned his attention to her.

"Now, the reason I called you here," he said.

No. Farren could not do it. Gears churned in her mind, giving rise to yet another lie.

Lying was so much easier, for Atruer was known to be up to mischief, in tales and legends and in everyday life. Ebon Street was overflowing with rumours of his wrongdoings. Perhaps she would tell them he had gotten bored of tricking thugs and expanded his zone a little, going as far as to play the Council.

A believable one too, for she had once been part of the crowd of Silver Knife Square.

"I am speaking to you, Miss Clearstrike." The sorcerer's gaze sharpened on her.

Damn it all. This was no tavern brawl that she could cheat and get away with--no, this was the Royal Sorcerer, possibly one of the most powerful of all wizardfolk in Midaelia. Nor could she find something to negotiate with, or hold leverage upon.

She was out of weapons.

"We may speak in private if you'd like," Marches said. "And if, of course," he gestured to the others, "they don't mind."

They didn't. "Ain't in much hurry," said Rendarr.

She did not know if sorcerers could sense liars, but they surely could detect panic. Or Perhaps Farren's face made it only too obvious. Either way, the two walked into a balcony on the other side of the tower overlooking the palace gardens.

"I would not force anyone into a situation knowing they wouldn't be comfortable in it," said Marches before she could ask anything.

Shame took over her, thinking how she'd already had a line of lies waiting. "Sorry."

His eyebrows rose. "For what? You don't need to apologise for the ways you've had to adapt. You must have had a reason. We all have our own."

Fear, regret, guilt. Farren could name a few.

"But keeping the truth hidden would do you no good. Those who have gathered here, did so out of their concern for you," he said gently, gesturing over his shoulder to where the others sat before the desk. "I had my mind preoccupied with the matter of the ravens. It was your friends who asked me to address your situation. What happened with Lord Atruer in the Council...the mages may be satisfied with the story of an evil doppelganger creature--as long as they get their prize money. But your squad members ask an explanation."

Flowers swayed in the gardens below, the roses like specks of blood in the layers of snow that had gathered in the bushes. The body that lay there earlier had been moved away, the gore cleaned up spotless. Birds chirped and insects buzzed. Farren didn't know where to start.

"Take your time," said Marches, and took a courteous step back.

None of this felt right. They might as well have chained her to a chair and forced her to confess, for this kindness was much harder to deal with. It made the guilt all the way more stronger. She deserved some retribution for lying to them all, didn't she?

"It's no conincidence that Atruer chose to masquerade as me," said Farren, the weight of each word striking her in the chest, yet feeling lighter as they left her. "I have...I have made a deal with Atruer."

He nodded.

Farren continued although he did not urge her to. "He fused an immortal soul to mine...a warrior's soul that he stole. Its powers allow me to endure more pain, grant me more strength and resistance against common magic."

"An immortal soul...?" His face drained of color as Marches listened to all this. "But the Lord of Despair rarely grants wishes without a price." He paused, as though choosing his words carefully. "These strengths you acquired...at what cost?"

"I am a vessel for safekeeping of his stolen item, for instance. The soul makes me resistant to common magic. Therefore I cannot be hurt by it, but can't be healed by it either."

"But higher magic can still hurt you." His expression darkened. He seemed to cast around for phrases, as though finding it hard to put it into words. He gripped the railings, heaving a long breath.

"Cleatstrike. Listen," he said, "your situation is far worse than you realise. This is no longer about keeping secrets, or morality. Do you understand?"

Farren didn't. What had gotten the Royal Sorcerer so worked up? The deal was rather straightforward, its merits and demerits clearer than daylight. There had been no hidden catch. Farren had made sure of that. "What're you on about?"

Marches turned to her, lips pressed into a thin line. "A mortal body," he said slowly, "is not meant to hold an immortal soul. It may begin to damage you from the inside. If it's left in there long enough, that is."

"What?" said Farren, "but I've been doing fine."

"Oh, you'll find the effects taking their toll once you break the deal and the immortal part leaves your body. A sort of withdrawal reaction, worse than Dragontail. You spoke of pain tolerance? Even the smallest of wounds would hurt you more, once the powers of the immortal soul are gone, simply because your nerves are not used to feeling pain."

If Farren had been making her mind about finally telling the truth to the others and even finding a way to undo the deal, that resolve shattered now. "What?"

"Don't panic, alright?" he said, throwing his hands up. "I'm only talking about the extreme, when you've had the deal for a really long time. If this is a matter of a few months--or even a year, we can make this work. Tell me, how long has it been since you made the deal?"

The floor beneath her boots was the swaying deck of a ship caught in a storm.

"Seven years," said Farren.