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I duck my head. “At least someone has.”

The words slip out before I can catch them—raw and revealing too much. My growing awareness of how alone I am in this world,how dependent I've become on him. I didn’t mean to say it out loud. I don’t want him to hear it.

I’m sure he does, but he lets it go without comment.

The stew is delicious. Tender chunks of meat swim alongside vegetables in a broth thickened with something similar to barley but nuttier. The flavor clings to my tongue, rich and comforting. The bread beside it is dense and hearty, its crust cracking between my fingers as I tear a piece to dip into the bowl. I eat slowly, savoring each bite, trying to look like someone who belongs here.

From my position at the table, I can see a polished metal plate hanging on the wall opposite. It reflects portions of the common room behind me, and in its distorted surface, I can track the room without turning around. Merchants concluding deals, travelers sharing stories, locals meeting after work. The inn thrums with the heartbeat of Ravencross, a nexus where lives intersect.

While I eat, Sacha’s hands are in constant motion. First, he slides the salt cellar to one side. Next, he angles his spoon away from his bowl. Then he folds his napkin into a triangle, its longest edge parallel to the table’s edge. To anyone watching, he might appear to be straightening things idly, but I’ve spent enough days watching him to know better. Every movement this man makes serves a purpose. He doesn’t fidget. He calculates.

“What are you doing?” I keep my voice level while curiosity burns through me.

“Writing a message. A signal that might be recognized.”

“By who?” Intrigued, I lean closer.

“Anyone connected to my old networks.” He lifts his mug, andtakes a sip, then places it exactly a hand’s breadth from his bowl, forming an invisible line with the salt cellar. “If any have survived, and happen to be here.”

I'm struck again by the loss embedded in his words, even though there’s no hint of it in his voice. All those years stolen, friendships severed, a life interrupted. Everything paused for him while the world moved on. How many of his companions are still alive? Would they know him?

His fingers work with surgical precision, tearing his bread into pieces of identical size, arranging them in what must be a meaningful pattern along the edge of his plate.

I want to ask more—about his life before the tower, about the friends I’m sure he hopes might still be alive—but the intensity in his eyes stops me. This matters to him in ways I can never understand. For the first time, I don’t see the calculating strategist who escaped the tower, but a man searching for connections to a life that was stolen from him. So I keep my question simple. Focused.Safe.

“How will you know if someone recognizes it?”

“They'll respond in kind. A mirror to this signal.”

I continue eating, using the metal plate's reflection to watch the room without being obvious. The Authority officials remain absorbed in their discussion, occasionally making notes but paying no attention to anyone else. Their indifference doesn't comfort me. Predators are most dangerous when they seem disinterested. A server moves between tables, refilling mugs and tankards, while they clear away plates.

"How long do we have to wait?" I try to keep the impatiencefrom my voice, but exhaustion is settling into my bones now that my stomach is full, and my eyelids are drooping. The days of vigilance and hard travel are catching up with me all at once.

"As long as necessary." Sacha has barely touched his food, his focus divided between his carefully arranged patterns and his constant surveillance of the room. "Patience often yields better results than action."

I nod, fighting the urge to drum my fingers against the table. Since leaving the tower, our differences have become increasingly obvious. Where I crave movement, he embodies stillness. When I reach my limit of patience, he seems to have only just begun.

Is this who he always was, or did imprisonment sculpt him into a man who measures time differently?

Either way, I force myself to mimic his composure, even though it feels like wearing ill-fitting clothes.

His hand covers mine lightly where it rests on the table. “Be still.”

The shock of the contact goes through me like lightning. One thing I’ve noticed about Sacha in the time we’ve spent together is that he rarely initiates touch.Ever. Not even by accident.

"Someone is watching us." His fingers tighten slightly when I start to turn—a warning to stop. "Don't look."

My heart slams against my ribs, pulse thundering in my ears.

"Authority?" The word comes out breathless.

Andthat’swhen I realize that I've begun to think of the Authority as monsters, not because I know their crimes, but because they're the ones who imprisoned Sacha. Somehow, at some point in our journey, I accepted his enemies as my own.

The thought rattles me. I don't know why it scares me, I don't really know anything about them other than the small things Sacha has shared. For all I know, they’re not even the bad guys.

"No." His fingers remain on mine for a moment longer before withdrawing as he subtly adjusts his mug. "Someone who recognized my message."

I force air into lungs that feel too tight, willing my racing heart to slow. The space his hand occupied on mine tingles with phantom warmth. Minutes stretch like hours as I wait, tension winding tighter with each breath. Then, something in Sacha's face shifts, a minute change most wouldn't notice, but after days of studying his expressions, I catch it immediately.