"'S some loyalty," He says, instead of I'm sorry to hear that. He isn't. She's not some plains farmer, a pawn; a bit piece in this sprawling war. She's the war. "Between you both."

Good odds she follows them. Jonah steers behind, and a country away, Broward's arm twists; a break that never healed clean. Blood, and blood,

Killed, and maybe at her hands. No. He wouldn't be sorry of it. Some bustle at the tower's base. Distant still to spy anything but the rush of motion, the glint of sun on steel. She looks — something, mad maybe. Addled. He just needs a little time.

"They're gonna want a lot," She knows that. "Can't vouch how it goes."

Must know that, too. Leather wears between nail.