Snake over mongoose, he settles against the stay of her hands, reluctant to resume eye contact, and more critical when he does. A thread of frustration winds thin through the whistle of his breath, has to be traced back, caught, and deliberately stifled while a needle tongue feathers at the talisman pinned to his breastbone. It’s not by chance they’ve never discussed this before.

“It’s only a matter of time before I’m Blighted in my studies,” he says. “I’d like to be made a Warden.” Saying so rings true in the way it makes him tired. He’s already met resistance.

The truth in what he says next has more to do with the mutually dangerous position they’ve tangled themselves into, trust earned over the past several months, the reality of his self-assessed odds of survival. And the simple fact that she seems set on hearing it:

“If they won’t have me I’ll retire to a hamlet in need of a healer and never be found.”