The Vanguard lifted his head when she came to the cell door.

He squinted, blinking against the light of the lantern, and she hesitated. His face was haggard, his eyes hollow, his angular features drawn in weary lines. A flicker of guilt darted through her middle as she turned the key in the padlock and stepped inside. She chased the guilt away with the firm reminder that this man wasn't at the fortress as a friend, and her father had bound him to the wall for a reason. He was dangerous.

"I've come to make a deal," she announced, placing the basket of supplies on the floor by the cell bars.

He stared at her.

She unhooked the shackle key from the keyring at her belt and held it up. "I'll release your hands and leave them that way if you promise to behave."

There wasn't any attempt at sarcasm. He just nodded, then watched her with dark, dull eyes as she stepped closer and crouched next to him. Wincing, he let out a groan when the shackle bar opened and his arms dropped like bars of lead, the backs of his hands hitting the floor beside him.

Like every other time she had freed him, Rhoa shuffled quickly out of range, although he had yet to take a swing at her. She doubted he could, now. He had been sitting in the same position for nearly three days with his wrists above his head, and his movements were sluggish as he flexed his arms, bending his elbows and curling his fingers.

She regarded him from the safety of the front end of the cell, her palm poised over the trigger lever of her crossbow.

He got slowly to his feet, rolling his shoulders and shaking his hands a few times, working the blood back into his fingertips while he stretched his legs.

Rhoa glanced away as the blanket fell to the floor, revealing that long, powerful torso and the swirls of ink gleaming in the lantern light.  

"Do they bother you?" He asked quietly.

With a frown, she looked at him again. "What?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "My tattoos. Do they bother you?"

The hum surged ever so slightly, eddying around him and washing over her.

"No." She flashed a tight grin in his direction and started unloading the basket, lifting out the water bucket and the lump of hard lye soap, followed by several rags, a large linen drying cloth, Isander's shirt and the Vanguard's own pants. "It's the smell of you I mind. Here." She backed all the way out into the hall, closed the door, locked it, took a moment to make sure the salt line was still unbroken, then tossed the shackle key through the bars at him. "Bathe yourself."

He caught the key, his eyes widening.

Still gripping the trigger of her crossbow, Rhoa took a few steps along the wall to offer some privacy, then leaned against the next cell down and settled in to wait.

There was a scrape of chains, then a thunk as the ankle shackles hit the floor. Something soft joined them – the filthy set of braes he had been wearing – then water splashed a few times and the astringent scent of mintsage soap began threading through the musty air of the dungeon, chasing away the reek of stale sweat and dirt.

A few minutes later she made out the light slap of his leather breeches and then the metallic scrape of the key in the shackles.

She raised her eyebrows. He was locking himself back up. Willingly.

Was that normal? Or sane?

Figures she would drag home the crazy Vanguard. That brought an odd urge to laugh, and she pressed her lips together, holding in a silent chuckle. "Are you decent?" she called, still grinning a little.

"Mostly."

Rhoa pulled a disgruntled face, then moved back to stand in front of his cell door.

He smiled, even white teeth flashing for a moment, then looked down. "Thank you."

"Yeah, well... I'm not too bad, for a Keeper." She gestured with the crossbow. "Throw the key over here and move back to the wall."

He looked at her without lifting his head, dark eyes glittering. "What if I say no?"

"Then I won't bring you anything else, and you'll have to sit here in the dark, alone and hungry until my father comes back."

"And when will that be?" he asked, his smile appearing again.

"You first," she shot back. "How many of you are out there?"

His smile grew. "There's only one of me, and I'm in here."

Rhoa gave him a flat glare. He was enjoying this too much. Which meant she was losing the upper hand. Her headache was starting to simmer behind her eyes. She was too tired for this —

"Did you find anything about the monster?"

His question caught her off-guard and she blinked. "No. There aren't any records of it ever escaping... Why would I believe you, anyway? Give me the key."

"The absence of proof isn't proof," he said quietly, his smile fading. Then he lifted his head and held out his hand, the shackle key in his palm. "Tell you what. I'll do whatever you want if you'll call me Kry."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Tell me what you're doing here, and I'll call you whatever you want."

A short laugh burst out of him, that smile flashing again, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "You just don't stop..." Then he sobered. "Fine. I'm here to give you a warning. The Rot is coming. It's moving fast, taking over more ground than we've ever seen before, and it's coming for the towers. You don't have much time left."

Rhoa stared at him. "Everyone knows that. Try again."

"Kry. Try again, Kry."

With a grunt, Rhoa pushed away from the cell bars and turned to leave. "The lantern will last another hour."

"Wait! Wait, just... Have you ever wondered why the spraknost are migrating? Or why it's been raining for so long?" He paused when she whipped back around to face him through the door, then continued when she didn't run. "You work so hard to keep the monster locked up in the tower, but you don't even know what you're fighting it for, or what the monster even is, all you know is what you were told about it –"

"And you obviously don't know how powerful the monsters are, or you wouldn't be going around trying to free them," she retorted. 

"Where does the Rot come from?" He shot back, his gaze boring into hers.

She wrinkled her brows. "What does that have to do with anything –"

"The Rot was here when the First Settlers arrived in the New World, but the monsters kept it at bay. Humans were exactly what it needed to bring down the monsters. The Rot infects us and feeds on our fear, on our pain, on our weaknesses. It doesn't kill all of its victims, either, some it only influences, some it tortures into things that aren't human anymore –"

"And why would I believe you?" She growled.

For several seconds everything was quiet as he studied her in the light of the lantern. Then he dipped his head in a nod. "You don't have to," he said, his voice low. "I'm just a slave who killed a man. But I have seen what's left of a human after the Rot has taken over. You can't always tell it's there, but it is. It's in everyone, whether we know it or not, passed down from parent to child."

Rhoa heaved a tired sigh. "Stop spouting your lies and give me the key, Vanguard."

He regarded her calmly, then he lifted his hand and held out the key.

Her headache was pounding behind her right eye, and that blasted hum had gotten somehow bigger, the ripples wider and stronger. Scowling, she reached through the bars, thinking to pluck the key from his open palm. Too late, she realized just how big a mistake that was.

He was fast – much faster than he should have been. Sneakier, too. With a swift flick of his wrist, he caught her arm and pulled her up against the outside of the cell door, hard, taking a step forward as he did, the clank of iron hitting stone revealing the fact that he hadn't locked himself into the shackles.

With a muffled curse, she planted her feet and hauled backward on her arm, but he didn't let go. Her crossbow was slung from her right shoulder and hung behind her, too big and clumsy for such tight quarters, and she swore louder.

He didn't grab at the dungeon keys tucked through her belt. He just kept pulling, holding her there, his grip on her arm unrelenting while she twisted and struggled, trying to free her dagger from its sheath on her right hip.

"Shhhh," he murmured, snaking his other arm through the bars, long, strong fingers sliding through her braid at the back of her head and pinning her right temple against the door.

She snarled, shoving at him with her free hand. 

He bent to bring his face level with hers. "I want you to mark this moment, Keeper's Daughter," he murmured, easily avoiding her attempt to bite him, his words warm against her jaw. "This is the moment I could have broken your arm... snapped your neck... but I didn't. I could escape right now. There's enough power in here that I could have melted the chains and the bars and walked out whenever I wanted. But I won't. I'm going to stay right here... because you're just as much a slave as I ever was, Rhoa Strongcastle. And you don't even know it."

Then he let go.

Suddenly free, Rhoa stumbled back to the opposite wall, wrenched her crossbow around, and came up sparking for a fight, only to find him sitting in the middle of the cell, locking the shackles on his ankles. For real, this time.

Breathing hard, heart racing, Rhoa glared at him through the bars.

"Thank you for the clothes," he said, tossing the key out into the hallway. "And the meatpies. They were delicious."

"You... you're insane," she coughed out, then shut her mouth, humiliation and confusion scorching through her. Without another word she stomped over and snatched the shackle key off the floor.

"Ask your grandmother about her grandfather's journal," the Vanguard called after her as she headed for the stairs, his voice echoing from the dungeon.

"No!" Rhoa shouted, and kept going, leaving everything behind.

Sleep was a very long time coming that night.

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