Something was different. No—everything was different.

Mark paused on the doorstep, turning to Denning. "What's going on?" he asked slowly.

The morph gave him a transparent look. "What do you mean?"

"Don't do that." Mark scowled. He looked around to the morphs in the street surrounding them; some loitered on doorsteps, some walked arm-in-arm down the street. A dry breeze brought sounds of laughter from across the fort to their ears. "Something's happened, I can feel it."

Denning smiled, and unslung his lute from his back. He began strumming idly as he walked into the street, returning the nods and smiles he collected from those he passed. After a moment, Mark started after him, his frown deepening. "This isn't cute when Matthew does it, either," he called.

Denning stopped and turned, a huge grin crossing his face. "She told them."

Mark gritted his teeth. "Both those pronouns are missing antecedents."

"Apologies," Denning said with a mock bow. "I've only known how to speak for five years, after all."

"There are five-year-olds less obstinate than you're being right now."

Denning's smile remained infuriatingly fast. "Let me try again." He motioned with the lute neck to the morphs around them. "She told them that Grace is pregnant."

Mark's ribs suddenly seemed a great cathedral, in which his heartbeat was a meager echo. "Cassandra?"

"That is the subject."

"The morphs?"

"The direct object, yes. I'm pleased you're able to keep up with a five-year-old."

One hand ran through Mark's hair, while the other hung to one side, seemingly unsure of what to do with itself. It had been nearly a week since their astonishing discovery, a week for which all present had been sworn to silence. There'd been no question that Cassandra would have to tell everyone eventually; even if a pregnancy could be hidden, the end result could not. Grace was determined to carry the child to term, and armed with an unparalleled knowledge of medicine and magical healing, she was like to accomplish that goal. But making the news public carried its own share of dangers. The baby might bring the ire of Ostia—did that mean the morphs would see it as a threat?

From the looks on the faces around him, that was not the case. It felt like a weight he hadn't been aware of was suddenly lifted from the shoulders of every morph in the fort. There were couples now—several he'd suspected, and many he'd never had guessed. It seemed the news had caused a surge of amorous behavior. But it wasn't just that; nearly everyone seemed to carry a smile. As Cassandra had said, they had a future now, where they'd never dared to hope for one before.

He let out a small laugh. "I can feel it," he whispered. "There's an… optimism in the air. I haven't felt like this since—" He broke off, turning down the street.

"Since before you were captured," Denning surmised.

Mark nodded.

Denning studied him for a moment, then turned away, plucking his lute. "Come along, Mark. We've got to get you your exercise."

The tactician hurried after him. "It's not just us, is it? I thought Cassandra ordered you to always keep two guards on me."

"She did." He glanced about with a mock frown on his face. "Our third should have met us by know. Clearly she's been slacking off."

"She?"

"Or," came an all-too-familiar voice, "she's busy with the billion other things she has to do to keep this fort running."

Cassandra was already next to them by the time Mark turned around, nodding at him with her usual smirk. "Good morning."

"Good morning," he echoed dumbly. "You're our third?"

"Our noble lady has seen fit to descend from on high and mill about with us commoners," Denning said. He danced back out of range of Cassandra's swat.

"What he means to say," Cassandra said, shooting Denning a glare, "is that I took a few hours off."

Mark blinked. "Why?"

She grinned—not just smiled, but actually grinned. "Because it's a lovely day."

It was, at that. Despite the aging year, the sun was shining down on them as leaves blown in on the wind raced each other down the streets. None of which compared to the smiles on the morphs' faces.

Mark motioned to a passing couple—belatedly realizing it was Moriel and Durran. "I see they took the news well."

Cassandra's smile broadened as she looked out over the people. "They did. Seems I was worried over nothing. Finding out your kind isn't doomed to extinction would make almost anyone happy."

"Yes," Mark demurred, following her gaze to the sea of smiling faces churning about them. "But still…" He lowered his voice as he turned to her. "Aren't you worried about Ostia?"

She shrugged. "I am. But we'll deal with them in time."

He raised an eyebrow, and she cut him off before he could speak. "Diplomatically. We will deal with them diplomatically in time."

"Oh." He felt more relieved than he cared to admit. "Does that mean—"

"Don't worry so much about what everything means," she said, rolling her eyes. "Look around you. Everyone else has caught spring fever in the middle of autumn, and here you are, thinking like a tactician."

He exchanged a glance with Denning. "I am a tactician."

"Well, stop tactician-ing for a moment and have some fun, will you?" She motioned to the crowd. "Come on. Let's go say hi."

"To whom?" Mark asked.

"To who cares?"

She grabbed his arm and yanked before he could even squeak out a protest. It was easy to forget that Cassandra was shorter than he was, taking three strides to his two as she towed him along. They caught up to Moriel and Durran, sticking around long enough for the women to have a hurried conversation as the men stared at each other, trying to think of something to say. "So," Mark eventually managed.

"Hi," Durran replied.

And then Cassandra grabbed his arm again, and they were off. She had an animated chat with Shel before Haymer interrupted, then with an unusually-happy Deichtine before spotting someone else she wanted to chat with. They even stopped for a word with Peleus, who was perhaps the only one in the fort without a grin on his face, probably due to being the one responsible for caring for the pregnant Grace and her overprotective husband.

Mark managed to keep up with the conversations—and even get a word or two in edgewise—but only just. The odd thing was, Cassandra wasn't talking about the morphs' duties or the fort's needs; she was asking them how they were, or what they'd been up to. Making small talk. Some were as surprised as Mark, but most answered her with delight. Denning tailed them at first, but he'd vanished into the crowd by their third conversation. Mark had never seen Cassandra like this before. Then again, he'd never seen the fort like this before, period.

"And how about you?" she said as she tugged him along toward the smithy. "How have you been, Mark?"

"How have I—?" He had to think a moment. "I've been well. Worried, but well."

"Worried?" She stopped suddenly, and he almost ran into her as she turned to face him. "About what?"

"Well—about you," he admitted. "Last week, everything seemed so—"

She laughed. "Worried about me! Mark, haven't you learned by now that I can handle myself?"

"You were working yourself to death when you first captured me," Mark reminded her.

She waved a dismissive hand. Mark had to marvel at her; when she wasn't suffering under the weight of her people's destiny, Cassandra resembled nothing so much as a playful girl. "All in the past now. Thanks in part to you," she admitted. "But I assume you're not worried anymore?"

"No," he replied. "You certainly do seem… happy."

She went suddenly still; he barely had time to consider if he'd said something wrong before her smile turned soft. "Happy. Yes… I guess I am. Maybe for the first time in..." She shrugged. "Well, ever, I suppose."

It would later occur to Mark that her 'happiness' was a construct, just like the rest of her. At the time, though, all he could do was smile back. "That's good," he said. "I'm… glad." It seemed a feeble thing to say, but it was all his tongue would provide.

She cocked her head, and her smile broadened once more. "So, there isn't anything I can do to make your captivity more pleasant?" she asked. "Nothing I can provide? Something to read, perhaps?"

He gave her a sidelong look; there was something mischievous in her tone. "I suppose," he said slowly. "I've always enjoyed a good book."

She turned aside, and pulled out a leather-bound volume she'd concealed within her cloak. "Well, perhaps you'll enjoy this one." She presented the cover, smiling guilelessly. "It's called 'A History of Wyvern Riding.' I've just finished it."

His mouth couldn't have been open any wider than his eyes were. "You—that—I—" He finally gathered enough of his wits, reaching for the tome. "You little minx! You had my bag all along, didn't you?"

She made as if to jerk the book away, but relented, grinning, as his hand closed around it. "I did," she admitted, letting him take the volume. "I'm sorry I haven't given it back before now. I had to make sure there was nothing dangerous in there, and after that…" she shrugged. "I was just waiting for the right time to return it to you."

He tucked the book into his satchel, eyeing her. "And that time is now?"

"It is." She jerked her head back the way they'd come. "I asked Denning to leave it in your room. It'll be waiting on your desk—minus the book, that is." She paused, and a hint of embarrassment entered her expression. "I'm… sorry it took so long."

Mark blinked. "Well… thank you," he said softly. He'd given up hope of ever seeing that bag again—the last link to his old life in Ostia. Now…

"Don't mention it," Cassandra said, turning and starting down the street again. "Like I said, I've finished reading it. Rather dry, I must say. I'm enjoying this new book much more." She withdrew another, much thinner, book from her cloak—not truly a book, even, since it had no cover. Just a large sheath of bound paper. She held it out in front of her, and cleared her throat. "'Day seven,'" she read aloud.

Mark felt his throat tighten.

"'I've set aside some of the paper the morphs have provided for me in order to keep a diary,'" she went on. "'I hope it will help me—'"

She twisted gracefully out of the way as he lunged for her, the wyvern riding volume falling forgotten to the ground. "How did you find that?" he hissed.

She smirked. "We gave you that desk, Mark. Did you think we wouldn't notice you'd hidden this underneath?" She lifted the book again. "'These morphs are nothing like the creatures who fought under Nergal. They have their own wants and needs, hopes and fears. Real or simulated, who can say? Does it matter?'" She batted her eyelashes at Mark. "Aw, what a sweet thing to say!"

He leapt at her again—not that he had a prayer of catching her. All the grace she brought to her swordplay, she now used to stay just out of his reach, dancing away even as she continued to read. "'Day ten. I've met a morph woman named Ellain.' Oh, this ought to be good!" She scanned over the next few lines, then turned to him with a frown. "It's not good. How do you make being the hostage of mystical creatures sound so boring?"

Mark collected himself, and jumped forward again. She was gone before he could blink, darting off just far enough for him to try again. He bit his lip; he had to get that diary away from her, before…

Before what? There was nothing in there that she didn't know already. He'd always known his secret diary might be discovered, after all, and hadn't put anything too sensitive in there for that reason. It was more a tool to help keep him sane than a true repository of secrets.

And Cassandra… if she'd wanted to read the diary, she'd have done so already. She very well might have, in fact. This little show was for his benefit. And the way she kept dancing just out his reach—she wanted him to try and snatch it back.

She was teasing him.

And—he realized with a start—he was enjoying it.

He was grinning the next time he lunged forward, twisting around to try and catch her. She spun out of the way without even looking up from the diary. "You don't even talk about the dress Ellain was wearing that day. Her neckline plunged so deep, you could have caught fish with it."

"You should have read the diary I kept in Ostia," Mark shot back. They emerged into a large street, drawing surprised looks from the surrounding morphs. Neither took notice. "Marchioness Araphen once wore a dress many swore was held up by magic alone."

"Oooh, scandalous." She turned a page. "Let's see what you thought of my dress, shall we?"

Mark's smile fell. Perhaps there was one thing he didn't want her reading.

"'Day thirty.' You can't think of a less dry way to begin your entries? 'I'm not entirely sure how to describe what has transpired,' good heavens, I'm falling asleep—ah! Here we go!" She held the diary closer. "'Ellain not only provided my own dress clothes, but—'"

Her mistake was in holding the pages too close to her face, and Mark took full advantage. He rushed forward as she was distracted, and actually managed to wrap his fingers around her wrist before she twisted away, squealing. She was off like an arrow, clutching the haphazard diary to her chest, but he was hot on her heels. She was more agile and fit, but Mark's height advantage let him keep pace with her as they tore down the street. Morphs looked at them with shock, but any worry melted away when they saw the foolish grins on both their faces. Mark came to realize that he was laughing—they both were, giggling like children as he chased her through the fort. He couldn't remember ever feeling this way, but it was the smile on Cassandra's face that made his heart soar.

She swerved suddenly, rushing through the door of a building—her building. Another mistake, for there was only one exit. He rushed in after her, just managing to catch a glimpse of her vanishing up the stairs. He took them two at a time, and darted through the open door to her room. He looked around quickly, realizing almost too late that she was no longer before him; he caught a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye, and spun just in time to see her slipping out from behind the door, still grinning like a lunatic as she brandished his diary.

It was sheer luck that allowed him to move quickly enough to slam the door shut, cutting off her escape. Letting out another squeal of laughter, she dashed toward the window—but he caught her leg, and she both tumbled to the rug. He was upon her a moment later, using the sheer weight of his body to keep her down. Laughter pealed from both of them as he wrestled with her for the diary. He pinned one of her arms, and finally managed to pry the papers from the other. "Ah-ha!" he shouted, holding them aloft like a trophy. "Let this be a lesson to—"

He cut off the moment he saw Cassandra's face. Her lips were parted and her eyes were wide, fixed on him with something intense and unreadable. Her chest was heaving with heavy breaths, but other than that, she wasn't moving. With awareness of this came the realization of where exactly they were—on the floor of her bedchamber with him atop her, her arm pinned above her head, the layers of clothing that separated their bodies suddenly feeling sheer. If he just leaned down a little—

Mark dropped the papers, scrambling backwards as he tried to get off of her without making things any worse. The giddiness of moments before had evaporated, leaving horror in its wake. "I'm sorry," he whispered in a hollow voice. "I didn't mean to—"

She surged up at him; in less than a heartbeat, her arms were around his back, her chest was pressing into his, and their lips were locked together. He caught himself before he fell on top of her, but he barely noticed. The moment her mouth touched his, his entire body seemed to blossom with light, filling every vein, every nerve, every pore. His nose reveled in her scent, his lips thrilled against hers, and he could barely hear her soft sighs over the blood rushing in his ears. Every sense was full of Cassandra, and he couldn't get enough; only his eyes, initially wide with shock, drifted shut as she held him tighter.

It might have been seconds or hours later when she released him, falling onto the rug. Their heavy breathing and racing hearts had little to do with their mad dash through the fort, and they stared into each other's eyes as if they were truly seeing each other for the first time. "I'm sorry," Cassandra said at last, her voice meek. "I didn't realize until just now how much I needed this." A hand moved from his back to gently rub his cheek. "How much I needed you."

She didn't give him a chance to respond before pulling herself up to him again—not that he trusted his tongue to work if she had. His arms trembled before finally giving way, and he collapsed atop her, rolling to one side. She completed the roll, and his back pressed into the soft carpet as she perched gracefully atop him. Her fingers slid down his arms before interlacing with his own, pinning his hands above his head just as he'd done to her moments before. It took Mark a moment to realize she had straddled him, and he automatically pushed up against her. She smiled into their kiss, but said nothing. Long moments passed as they gave in to their passions, each filling up their world with the other, hearts pounding in unison.

She finally pulled away again; her grip on his hands tightened as she stared down at him, suddenly unsure. "Listen," she said. "Right now, you and I are equals. Tell me to stop, and I will stop."

He did not tell her to stop.

Long seconds passed. "I need to hear you say it," she whispered.

"Yes," Mark whispered back. He reached up to stroke her cheek, just as she'd done to him moments before. "I need you, too."

Her grin returned as she swooped down on him once more. There was a rustle of cloth as her cloak was tossed aside, and a moment later, she started tugging at his. He arched his back so she could slide the cloth out from underneath him. She rose just long enough to pull her blouse over her head, and practically tore off his shirt. She moistened her lips and took a steadying breath as she reached for his trousers—

They barely heard the footsteps rushing up the stairs, but the pounding on the door pierced the haze of passion clouding their senses. "Cassandra!" Ellain's voice rang through the door. "Are you in there?"

Cassandra shrieked and leapt off of Mark, diving for their discarded clothes. The room spun around the tactician as he tried to rise at least as far as his elbows, his heart now pounding more from shock than from desire. He'd barely started to roll to his feet when the door opened, Ellain rushing in. "Cassandra, there's—"

She cut off as she got a good look at them. "Oh," she whispered, a gloved hand going to her mouth. "Oh, my…"

"This couldn't have waited?!" Cassandra roared, struggling with her blouse, which suddenly seemed to have entirely too many sleeves. She threw Mark's shirt at him, hitting him square in the face.

Ellain's eyes flicked over their half-nude bodies once more before shutting. When they reopened, they were gazing intently at Cassandra. "No," she said, "it couldn't."

The two of them paused in their dressing. "What is it?" Cassandra asked. "What's happened?"

"It's Denning," Ellain said. "He—"

She cut off as another set of footfalls echoed up the stairwell. A moment later, Denning appeared in the doorway beside Ellain; the woman jerked back as he collapsed against the doorframe, panting heavily.

"Denning!" Mark rushed forward, forgetting that his shirt was only over one shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Golden eyes lifted to meet his. "This is a message from Lord Nergal," the morph rasped. "'I await you at the Dread Isle.' This is a message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you at the Dread Isle.' This is a message from…"

It's taken a month and a half; slow by some standards, amazingly fast by others. But I believe the morphs and I have developed a rapport. Cassandra continues to insult and tease me every chance she gets, but when I can get her to be serious, she seems open to the idea of an alliance. My Lord, I do not wish to speak too soon—but, barring any major disasters, I believe peace between humans and morphs may be within our grasp.

"Peace," Hector said softly, closing the letter and placing it gently on Priscilla's desk. "Can it really be possible?"

"It all depends on the people involved," Priscilla called from the bed. "This Cassandra seems like a remarkable woman. And you are a remarkable man."

Hector smiled at the compliment. "Thank you, dearest." He rose from the desk, leaving the letter lying by the inkwell as he crossed the room and sat down on the bed beside her, brushing aside the hanging posters. "But if I'm being honest, I wish Uther was here."

Her shoulders slid downward. "You've been wishing that for the last five years, darling."

"I know. Yet still I wish. He'd know what to do."

She shook her head. "You don't know that he would. He was as human as you are, Hector."

He didn't respond. His eyes returned to the letter—and the stack of others behind it. Seven weeks now, Mark had been sending these missives. Seven short weeks—less than two months!—and he'd gone from never seeing the light of day to being an important administrator in the fort, from never warranting an audience with Cassandra to speaking of her with respect.

"He speaks of them like they're almost human," he whispered.

It took his wife a long moment to respond. "Perhaps they're not as different from us as we believed."

He looked at her again. Her eyes were uncomfortable, seeking the window on the far wall rather than meeting his gaze. He took her hand without thinking of it. "Are you unwell?"

She shook her head. "Not aside from carrying an entirely too heavy baby around with me, no."

He smiled, hoping that was the right reaction. "But you're worried?"

"About you," she confirmed. She rubbed her thumb on his hand. "You've been consumed by Mark's captivity. I know how you feel, but it's been seven weeks, and he's still alive. You have other duties. Other…"

"Passions," he finished. He looked down at their intertwined hands. Had he really once gone whole days without speaking to this woman? Without even noticing her beauty and grace? He couldn't imagine why it had taken so long for him to fall for her. Nor could he imagine how she could have fallen for him.

She smiled. "Yes." She finally turned toward him. "This isn't a burden you need shoulder alone."

He sighed, letting his fingers slip from hers. He rose and stepped slowly to the window. "This is about more than just Mark," he said. "These morphs could be an invading army on our doorstep. Or"—he shrugged—"they could be exactly what they claim to. Refugees, just wanting to live in peace."

He heard Priscilla shifting on the bed behind him. "If Mark is to be believed, that peace could be within reach."

"Do you think we can believe him?"

"Yes."

Something inside him uncoiled at her answer. "Truly?"

"Mark isn't one to be led astray. If he trusts Cassandra, then I believe she is worthy of that trust."

He laid a hand on the windowsill. The chamber was on the east side of the castle, facing out over most of Lycia. Facing away from the morph fort. "What if they are human?" he whispered.

"Hector?"

"If Mark wasn't there…" He stepped back. "I think I'd have wiped them out already."

There was a rustling behind him, a few heavy footsteps, and Priscilla laid her hand on his shoulder. "You didn't," she whispered. "Right now, that's all that matters."

He lowered his eyes. "Uther would know what to do."

"You do know what to do." She laid her head on his shoulder. "You just have to convince yourself of it."