I’m told I collapsed when the door opened. That I choked out, in raspy, fractured Aran, “My name is Tisaanah. I am from Threll. Friend of Zeryth Aldris. I must speaking him.” I remember the way the woman’s silver hair caught in the waning sunlight, how I let out a weak, shuddering cry when she touched my back. But that’s all.

That victory meant another’s defeat, and sometimes our own defeat. That winning meant sacrifices, and sometimes ones that even our own people were not willing to make. That in war, someone always paid.

“And who the hell are we,” he finally said, voice low and thick, “to carry something so precious?”

I recognized that hidden vulnerability. I nursed it in my own bones.

He let out an exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. We will go to the Capital for a few hours this morning. And then we will continue with a lesson this afternoon. Does that satisfy your compulsive productivity standards?”

“I’m both disgusted and impressed by the delight with which you flaunt your superiority over a bunch of children,” Max said, when I rejoined him between stages. “At least try to look like you aren’t enjoying it quite so much.”

Hours passed. The sun set. I lit lanterns. I wouldn’t go inside because I didn’t trust myself not to slap Max if he snickered at me.

During my personal favorite of these interactions, one Valtain said to him, “I thought you didn’t do this anymore.” When Max flatly provided, “What, Order bullshit?”, the Valtain shook his head, flailed his hands weakly, and said, “I meant, well… the world.”

“Zeryth is Arch Commandant?” “You didn’t know?” “How I would know?” “How would I know.” “You would know what?”