Kurt sat in the basement, aside from the others cursing himself. Across the way, De Sardet glared at him. Her face was thunderous – clouded with betrayal and anger.

"Greenblood," he tried again, but she stood, pretending she hadn't heard him. He watched her work her way through those they'd managed to bring to the cellar, offering comfort – a kind hand on De Courcillon's arm, another on the small of Siora's back, a lullaby of words to Constantin.

Kurt deserved ignoring, of course. He'd ignored her as she'd called after him in the night. It still hurt though, watching her lavish tender affections on the others whilst all the while she was so cold to him.

But isn't this what you wanted? Sneered a voice in his head, Didn't you want to be nothing to her? Isn't this what's best?

Kurt felt his bile rise. He knew that this was best for her, but he hadn't expected it to hurt as much as it did now that he wasn't the one in control of the distance between them.

But you were never really in control, were you? You never could just leave her alone – a moth to a flame.

It was all painfully true. The knowledge of this being the best course of action for both of them was very different from the reality of it. He felt hollow, soulless, sick.

He noticed that she flicked her eyes at him for a moment and his stomach flipped with hope, dread, anticipation, but she said nothing and carried on murmuring to Constantin.

Above them, they heard a cry as the battle between men loyal to the Congregation, and those loyal to Torsten raged. The ghost of the shout lingered on the air between those hiding, and all conversation stopped in reverence to let the yell pass from existence.

"I should be out there," Constantin said at length, "This is all my fault."

"Shut up," De Sardet snarled back, though her face crumpled slightly and Kurt suspected she hadn't meant it with such venom. Her shoulders were high around her ears and the veneer of calm she always wore so well seemed to be slipping. It was too much for one person to carry, all this worry. And yet, who else was there but her.

On seeing Constantin's hurt expression, De Sardet's face softened slightly, "This isn't your fault, Constantin. Not at all. People have tried to topple empires for as long as there have been empires to topple, only to build their own dynasties to be overthrown in turn. This isn't your doing – this is simply… history. It's just bad luck that we happen to have found ourselves in the middle of it."

She turned to the rest of the room then, "I need to go out and make sure the Lady Morange is safe. I need to send messengers to the other cities."

She reminded him of Sieglinde then – a powerhouse of practicality and common sense.

"I'll come," Kurt said, standing, "If anyone should be out there, it should be me."

She eyed him suspiciously for a moment, trying to decide something that he couldn't possibly fathom.

"Fine. Any other volunteers?" Vasco, Siora, and Petrus all stepped forward, but De Sardet shook her head at the priest, "I'm not ready to deal with you yet. Siora? Will you stay with my cousin?"

Siora nodded to the legate, then smiled weakly at Constantin. Finally, De Sardet turned back to Kurt.

"A word?"

He nodded, dumbly, and followed her to a relatively private space behind some barrels.

"You've got some bloody nerve," she growled, barely above a whisper. Kurt remained silent, not knowing what to say, "You leave me in the middle of the woods, without a word, and the next I see of you is in my cousin's audience chamber, trying to prevent a coup!"

"I know, I'm s-"

"You're sorry? It's not good enough," her voice was beginning to lose its quiet menace, notes of rage creeping into her words. She took a deep breath and tried to swallow down the strength of all she felt, "I'm not a child, Kurt. And I was never your child. It's not your job to protect me!"

Kurt laughed, wryly, "That is literally my job. You pay me to guard you."

"Not my point."

"And what is? That I should have told you where I was going? What I thought was happening? Sure, you're right. I should have done," he could hear his own voice rising now, and fought to keep it down, "But I thought I was keeping you safe."

She was silent for a long moment before looking up at him, still clearly angry, but calm now and measured, "I've loved you since I was fourteen. Did you know that?"

He felt his stomach sink and he felt slightly sick at the idea of it.

"I suppose that means 'no'," her smile was humourless, "I didn't realise that's what it was at the time – in fact, I only figured it out on the boat over here, during the storm. But it happened that night I made you fight me. Everyone else presumed things of me – that I was no longer valuable if I was 'sullied'… their words… or that I'd been taken advantage of, or that some other thing out with my control had happened. But not you. You just read the situation for what it was, accepted me for who I was and reacted with honesty and calm, and respect. You didn't treat me like some delicate flower – like some prize to be coveted, put on a pedestal…"

She stopped, the anger seeping into her words again, "I told you the other night not to put me on a pedestal. I told you that I was no more than you. But you haven't listened. I can't do my job without all the information and you withheld that from me. Such a damned proud warrior," she sneered, "Too proud to admit how capable I am."

He felt the accusation in his bones, but at the same time, he felt the hypocrisy of her statement and Kurt was – for all he felt and all they'd been through – still Kurt.

"You're hardly one to talk! You're stood here, telling me off for putting you on a pedestal while at the same time, you're holding me to the impossible standards of an adolescent girl, infatuated with her teacher. Do you even know me? Or have you just slapped my face on whatever fantasy your younger self cooked up?"

She recoiled from him as if his words had been a blow. He felt simultaneously justified and stricken at the pain on her face. There was a long, steady silence between them for a moment, until she said, "Fine. You're right. But I'm too cross to talk about it now."

She turned to go, to ready her weapons.

"Greenblood," he called after her, unsure what he wanted to say, but knowing he didn't want things to end there. She ignored him.

"Gretchen!" he tried.

"I don't think she wants to speak to you just now," Siora said quietly with a slight smile as she came alongside him, "Though I'm impressed you've been trying to learn our language."

He looked at her, askance, bewildered, "Eh?"

"Greenblood. You've almost got the pronunciation right, but it's more like Grai-tian, rather than Gretchen."

"But…" realisation dawned, "Gretchen is her name…"

"I know. I thought that's why you call her Greenblood?"

"It's… I mean, it's technically an insult, but-" Kurt's head was swimming. Siora sighed.

"Grai means green, and Tian means blood – the two together, Graitian is literally 'greenblood', but more than that, it's how we refer to the land's spirit – the force which flows through us and through the woods and waters. It is a great honour to be named for it. Far from an insult."

He was silent for so long that Siora gave up trying to talk to him and moved away again.

Kurt watched De Sardet go about strapping weapons to her body, resolute and calm on the surface. But he knew her – knew the way she fidgeted in her own skin when she was uncomfortable – and he saw it now in how she fastened and unfastened her belt buckle in an effort to get it to sit right, and how she kept swapping her cape from shoulder to shoulder, altering the way the fabric fell.

I've loved you since I was fourteen.

He let the words sink in. They made him simultaneously uncomfortable, and humbled, and… sad. Sad that she'd wasted her youth on him, sad that he hadn't seen it before, sad that this, this, was where it had led them.

No more.

If they survived this, Kurt promised himself he would…

What? What are you going to do, Kurt? Bed the legate of the Congregation of Merchants? His own subconscious sneered at him, but he felt that thread of strength through himself again, and promptly told himself to shut the hell up. He fought down a smile when he said 'shut up' in De Sardet's voice.

She called for him and Vasco then, giving Kurt a sharp nod and the Naut captain a long, grateful stare. Vasco clapped her shoulder reassuringly and she turned to address those in the basement.

"We're going to get word to our allies, find the lady Morange, and see if we can put a stop to this madness," she sounded confident, looked dashing even, but even the infatuated Kurt could hear how ludicrous the whole thing sounded. There were only three of them… and though he'd been able to warn Sieglinde before Torsten had arrived, he had no idea how much she'd been able to do to turn the tide in their favour.

Constantin stood then – shaky on his feet and pale. He walked towards the legate and reached out a hand, pleading.

"Please, sweet cousin, you don't need to do this."

"Why break with tradition?" she said with as much brightness as she could muster, "Frankly, I don't know what I would do with my time if I wasn't rescuing you. Think of it as gainful employment for me."

Her tone was merry, but her smile didn't touch her eyes.

"Be careful," he said, finally. She nodded, then opened the door. Kurt suspected that it was easier for her to face armed men than it was to face the feelings of anyone else in that room.

The intimacy of the dance they'd shared on that moonlit hill had haunted Kurt, but it was nothing compared to the way they fought now. A lifetime of crossing swords, and critiquing one another's moves to find a weakness meant that through the bloodied streets of New Serene, they could anticipate when to intervene for one another, and when to push their own strengths. They worked in symbiosis – a steady waltz set to the rhythm of Vasco's guns.

But there were only three of them, and beautiful though their deadly dance was, they were slowing – a gradual rallentando.

They took shelter in an alleyway, crouched beneath a window, and assessed the injuries they sported.

"They've fired fewer shots than I expected," Vasco said, poking a finger experimentally into a graze in his arm.

"I… might be able to explain that," Kurt murmured, "I was here… before you got back… and I have access to their weapons. I wet their powder."

De Sardet nodded, "Good work. Any other good news?"

"Major Sieglinde knew about the attack in advance – I tipped her off, so hopefully she's managed to gather a group of loyal guards and is making good use of them."

"Mmm," De Sardet grunted in a noise that was half acknowledgement and half pain. She removed her jacket to reveal a spreading stain over her shoulder.

"When did you get that?" Vasco asked.

"That last one got me," she grunted, "It's not deep, but it hurts like hell."

She took out a knife and tore at the stitching to her shirt. Kurt winced despite himself – all the young guard recruits sewed their own clothes in the barracks, and he knew first hand just how long those seams took.

"The privilege of wealth," he muttered, "Must be nice to have enough shirts to tear."

He regretted the words as soon as he'd said them, but she took them for what they were, a friendly tease – the sort of thing he'd have stung her with in the training ring. She flashed him a grin that was wolfishly pretty, then winced at the movement from turning to look at him.

"Shirts double as a bandage – that's why you always need a clean one. Or have you forgotten everything you taught me?" she quipped, then proceeded to fold the dismantled sleeve into a pad, save for a length of linen long enough to wrap around her armpit and chest. This, she slit lengthways and used to tie a knot so the cut wouldn't run. When she'd done that, she took each half of the strip in opposite directions around her body, and brought it back to tie and hold the pad in place.

"Neatly done," Vasco observed, impressed, "I'll remember that."

"Hope you don't need it," she smiled at him, through gritted teeth, then said, "What now?"

"Morange is safe and the lieutenants have been dealt with," Kurt said, trying not to look at the darkening centre of her makeshift bandage. Almost as if in response, De Sardet pulled her coat on again, wincing as she did so, "All that remains is Torsten…"

"Then we go get him," De Sardet growled.