There was silence that night, around the fire. It was an uncomfortable quiet – harrowed and hollow, the events of the day having stripped out all the camaraderie between them. It seemed to have become something of a game of chicken – each one of them seemingly waiting for another to be the first to sleep.

Kurt's eyes were fixed on the priest. There was nothing of De Sardet in him – no sweet, delicate features, no crinkling lines of mirth around his eyes. He doubted very much that the man had sired her, but he couldn't turn his mind away from that name. Petrus. Petra. Too much of a coincidence.

Of course – some deeper part of his subconscious argued – he was only obsessing over the priest so he could avoid thinking about where they'd been… what they'd seen in the camp.

Kurt's mind tried to slip away from the things Wilhem had said – water off a duck's back, as the old saying went – but he could neither focus on nor forget what the recruit had been through. What he had been through, and the fact that De Sardet now knew. He felt ashamed, monstrous… even lower in comparison to her than he had been before. He should have been stronger – fought back against it like Wilhem did, like Siegline would have done… but he didn't. He'd been weak. Unworthy.

He stared at the fire and a thread of resistance sang through him – the words of his captain, the day he'd been taken to see Constantin and De Sardet for the first time.

"Your training was… regrettable. Other recruits grew bitter as a result. You… just seemed to care more about who came after. You've always shown patience with the younger recruits."

And look where that had got him.

He poked the fire with a stick and was aware of all the eyes which flicked in his direction, they were wondering, waiting.

He dared a glance at the legate, who was pointedly looking at a thin, palm-sized tome. It looked as though she was reading a slim volume of notes about island language, but he could make out the dog-eared edge of the letter she kept hidden in her pocket – the one she'd been reading on the boat.

She'd stood up for him, before the rest of the guards. Put herself between him and the others and used his words against them. The pride and the humility he felt at it almost choked him. He wanted to thank her, to talk to her about what it meant, but there weren't words for that sort of thing.

"Your excellency?" he heard the title slip his lips before he realised what he'd said and De Sardet's face snapped in his direction. Her eyes were wide, her face frozen in an expression he hadn't seen before. He felt his own jaw fall, surprised at himself.

"Kurt?" she breathed.

"A word?" he nodded away from the group and she rose to her feet.

They stepped away from the fire, into the night. Kurt could practically feel the ears of the others, straining for their conversation, but the legate led them a little way down the path and into a small nook within the rocks.

"Excellency?" It was that same breathy voice he'd heard the other night when she'd asked him to stay with her – the same aching, mischievous tone which invited contradiction yet somehow refused it all at once.

"I… what you did for me back there…"

She grabbed the front of his shirt then and pushed him against the rock face, kissing him. It was passionate – hungry – and he returned it, reluctant at first, but melting into it with a moan that rose from his ribs.

She pulled back, stroking his cheeks tenderly and peppering his scars with kisses.

"This… still isn't right," he growled. She silenced him with her lips on his. Gently, tenderly, he pushed her away, "Don't…"

She drew a breath through her nose, seemed to harden herself, then nod. She took his hand though, positioned her body close, alongside his as she pulled them back to lean against the rock.

"I'm sorry," she started, and he made to quiet her but she spoke over him, "Not about the kiss. I don't regret that at all…" the impish smile was back, and he found it hurt him to look at it. She was so very perfect, and she'd kissed him… He felt simultaneously blessed and cursed, unable to look at that face which was so far from his station it was almost laughable that he was standing there with her. He turned away from her, and it felt like turning away from the sun – a relief, but colder. He squeezed her hand, staring into the dark.

"I'm sorry for everything that happened today. It was…"

"A shit show," he murmered.

"That's one way of putting it," she smiled into the night and he could imagine the shape of her face in the darkness, hearing her bitter mirth in her words, "I'm glad we could save Wilhem, though."

"I'm going to recommend him to Constantin," Kurt said, then felt his stomach drop to his feet, his thoughts finally solidifying, "Greenblood – I need to go and check something in my pack."

"What is it?" He felt the colour draining from his face as he looked at her. He remembered the note they'd stumbled on in Rolf's office – the list of recruits sent into the ranks of the nobility. He remembered the marks on the neck of the lady in the carriage, imagined Rolf's hands on the legate's neck… He remembered Sieglinde's words;

"There's a pattern in who's getting the notes. They're going to high ranks in important houses. The Mother Cardinal sort of important houses."

And who was better placed than he was in the household of the Governor of New Serene.

"Kurt?" she said, a slight tremor to her voice, "What is it?"

All he wanted to say vied for the opportunity – too many sentence trying to escape his lips like too many people crowding through a door. None escaped, so he cupped her perfect face in his hands, kissed her with all the love and pain he felt, and then he ran.

If he ran all night – if he could just reach Sieglinde by the morning… perhaps he could keep them all safe.

He heard De Sardet calling after him – heard Gretchen calling after him – but he pushed her voice from his mind. Even as his fingers ached at his side to bury themselves in her hair again, he pulled away.

Because if he didn't – if he was too late – she'd walk back into the city, and straight into a trap.