"Forgive my bluntness, madam," Niall began, "but I was under the distinct impression that Her Majesty Raqura would be meeting with us in person."

Mòrag had intelligence reports of Raqura's personal Blade, but she had never before met the woman in person. Ingrid, despite her resonance with the Urayan queen, was distinctly non-Urayan: fair skin, golden hair, pale green eyes, and a slight frame, like an angel out of a storybook. If not for her pale blue core crystal, one might have mistaken her for a gentler incarnation of Mythra. But according to the reports, Ingrid was more of a support Blade than a fighter, with healing and remote ether communications being her top talents. Her presence explained why she was the only member of the anticipated Urayan delegation.

"That was the original intention," Ingrid added. She might not have looked like her Driver, but she certainly sounded like her. "But given the circumstances, those plans have changed."

"What circumstances?" Mòrag asked.

"I'm surprised that you don't know," the Blade replied. "But I will allow Her Majesty to explain."

Ingrid closed her eyes and outstretched her hands. Streams of ether shot from her palms, weaving together like a magic silk. Before long, the small patch of ether had grown into a complete, glimmering screen. The queen of Uraya's image manifested before her Blade, as clear and constant as if she had been there in person.

"Your Majesty, I will not mince words. Release the Aegis, her Driver, and their companions immediately," Niall said firmly.

"I would gladly do so, if Master Rex had been here on personal business. But he was here on business for Mor Ardain. I cannot overlook that."

"Oi, Raqura, cut the crap," Zeke interrupted. "Rex was pursuing a known criminal. Mor Ardain has given you detailed reports about it. It's in your country's best interests to see that bastard and his companions apprehended. There's no way you can really pin this as an act of war. Mor Ardain had every right to send Rex into that area. What's this really about?"

Raqura glared at the prince. "It seems Tantal has yet to learn diplomacy, at least when it comes to non-Ardainian nations. Your Majesty, you have been direct, so I will return the favor. I had no desire to capture the Driver of the Aegis. I will gladly release him back to your country...on a few conditions."

"Let's hear them."

"The demilitarized zone must be expanded, as we've already stated. But more importantly, Mor Ardain must call off its alliance with Tantal."

"That is a very high demand to make," Niall said. A warning lined his tone.

"Consider this from Uraya's position, Your Majesty. My people do not trust Mor Ardain. Many of my citizens believe that Indol kept the empire's power in check. I am of a similar opinion. And now with Indol gone and this pending alliance with Tantal, Mor Ardain will hold more than three-quarters of the land within Elysium."

"It is an alliance, not an annexation," Niall replied. "Tantal will remain a sovereign nation."

"For now. But who's to say that thirty years from now, the heirs of this union will not seek to unify the territories under one banner? You are young, Niall Ardanach. I cannot expect you to truly understand how that threat affects Uraya's position."

"You fear that we will try to take over your territory next," Mòrag said. "Preposterous. His Majesty has honored the peace treaty since it was signed."

"Has he, Inquisitor?" Raqura cleared her throat. "If the Aegis's presence in the demilitarized zone were the only breach of conduct, then I could convince my countrymen to overlook this affair. But you should know as well as anyone that your military has taken other actions against us, Mòrag."

"What are you playing at, lady?" Zeke asked.

"Ardainian soldiers are currently attacking my soldiers as we speak."

"Impossible. I gave specific orders for all our men to stand down. My Blade saw to it personally."

"Then you have some rogue soldiers who are not as keen on peace as you are," Raqura said. She seemed pleased that she had more information. "Which proves that Uraya's concerns of Ardainian conquest are well-founded. As such, I have already commanded my vanguard to march on the Ardainian border. But I don't want a war, either. Call off this alliance and I will recall them without further bloodshed."

The sound of distant gunfire proved the queen's words. Niall shuddered at the noise.

"I implore you, Your Majesty. These actions are not necessary. Mor Ardain has no intention of waging war against Uraya. Any actions to the contrary are a misunderstanding. Please recall your men, and we will investigate and punish the offenders immediately. Once the dust has settled we can meet to discuss these matters further."

"If you can pull back your soldiers, I will pull mine back as well. But know this: once a man has lost his friend on the battlefield, it is hard to pull him back. And I have many who are eager for Ardainian blood."

Raqura signaled to her Blade, who ended the ether connection and dismissed herself from the room. Now that the conversation was over, they could easily hear the noises of battle, far closer than anticipated.

"Special Inquisitor. Please see to it that our men are brought back into line. I authorize any force necessary."

Mòrag nodded and bowed, her whipswords already at the ready. "Zeke, I'm entrusting you with the Emperor's safety. Don't let me down."

"You got it. Don't let us down, either."

The Flamebringer and her Blade disappeared, and in a matter of minutes, a trail of blue flames carved their path through the battlefield. Zeke shivered at the thought of how quickly the fight was spreading. Like Mòrag, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was dreadfully wrong with this whole situation. But why? He couldn't pin down a convincing reason.

Niall moved to the window. His forehead left greasy prints on the glass. The young Emperor clasped his hands behind his back, as if he was trying to summon some of Mòrag's unshakable confidence. But judging by his shaking fingers, the posture didn't help. He stood in silence for a long time.

"I should be out there, fighting with them," Niall said, his voice hardly above a whisper. "But here I am hiding while my sister puts herself on the line instead. What kind of Emperor am I?"

Zeke gave Pandoria a quick nod; the Blade made herself scarce. "You're worried that you're not being a good king."

"How could I not? My own Senate wants to oust me."

"That's 'cause they're power-hungry, not because you're bad at the job, kid. Look, Niall. You're pigeon-holing yourself into the centuries-old definition of a good Ardainian emperor. If you're trying to be Hugo, then sorry, you've completely botched it. You're not him. But I don't think Mor Ardain needs a warrior-king right now. After all, you've already got a warrior-princess and her Jewels," Zeke laughed. "What Mor Ardain needs right now is a peacemaker. A warrior can't do that. Which makes you just the man for the job."

"I'm not doing a very good job keeping peace though, am I?"

"No one ever said the road to peace was a gilded highway. That's because you have to build it yourself. And despite Uraya, I think you're setting a pretty good foundation, Niall."

Niall continued to stare through the window, his eyes tracing the line of carnage Mòrag left in her wake. "She should have been Empress."

"Sure, she'd be great at the job. But she's not in charge. You are. I know that isn't a great pep talk. But you can't get distracted by the 'what-ifs' right now. You've got to focus on what you can control."

"That is just what my sister would say."

"You might not be the warrior she is, but there is one thing you can accomplish right now that she can't."

Niall tilted his head to the side. "And what's that?"

"Get Uraya back to the negotiating table. You threw yourself in front of a live bomb to save their ruler, kid. That's some serious pull. Mòrag can't do that. I can't. The Senate can't. I doubt even Rex could. You can. But only if you stay focused."

Niall's brow furrowed as he considered this. I am terrible at pep talks, Zeke thought. And who am I kidding? This kid's got more experience ruling than I do. I should be asking his advice on how to run a country. But to his relief, the young ruler's scowl shifted into a smile.

"You're right. Raqura does owe me a favor. And I've placated Uraya once before. Architect grant me the wisdom I need to do so again...So you think my sister is a warrior princess?"

"Please don't tell her I said that."

The Emperor laughed. "You...you like her. Don't you?"

"I-it's complicated," Zeke stammered. He fidgeted with the band of his eyepatch. How much did Niall know? He might have been young, but he was a keen observer. And of course, Mòrag might have told her brother something about the time they spent alone together. The thought that Niall might know the story of his ill-timed, very rushed first kiss made Zeke's toes curl in embarrassment. "I, well, I admire and respect her more than anyo—look, have you ever had a crush, kid?"

"No. My station does not afford me many opportunities for peer relationships."

"Well, you could say that I'm somewhere beyond a simple crush, but...the thought of marrying her is still kinda weird. I'm okay with it, of course, but it's still weird."

"I have no intention of meeting Uraya's demands to call off the alliance. So I hope you're able to reconcile yourself with this union. As for Mòrag, she—"

A loud explosion outside drowned out whatever Niall said next. A captain rushed into the room; footsoldiers trailed behind him, guns in hand.

"Your Majesty! Things in the field have taken a turn for the worse. We have to get you to safety."

Another blast shook the earth, closer this time. Zeke shuddered at the sound. Those weren't normal missiles. Those were anti-aircraft shells. But who had anti-aircraft technology out here in the demilitarized zone? Uraya? The Aramach? Did it even matter?

I have a bad feeling about this whole affair...Promise me you'll keep him safe. Mòrag's words echoed in Zeke's mind, reverberating like a death knell. Niall's airship made for a big target—on the ground and in the air. Mòrag's instincts rarely faltered. But which threat was worse: terrestrial or aerial?

He made a judgment call. "Your Majesty, I have a plan. But it's a little unusual. Do you trust me?"

The Emperor nodded.

"Captain, how many people does it take to fly this ship?"

"Bare minimum, two. But then it would be vulnerable to every attack."

That should work. get this ship ready to launch."


Outside on the battlefield, confusion reigned. Mòrag came to the field with one simple goal: to recall the Ardainian soldiers back to base with as few Urayan confrontations as possible. Niall needed Raqura at the negotiating table, and that could not occur until both armies were back in line. It fell to Mor Ardain to make the first concession.

Recalling their men in uniform proved difficult, but not impossible. The more zealous Ardainians longed to strike a blow against Rex's captors. And greenhorn recruits and veterans alike were swept away by the adrenaline of their first combat in months. On those men, Mòrag's presence had a stabilizing, sobering effect: the sight of the Special Inquisitor pulled them back into formation. Slowly but surely, they began to fall back to the military outpost.

Not all obeyed so readily, however.

"You there! Fall back!" Mòrag shouted at one particularly stubborn soldier. A private, by the looks of his armor.

"Are you daft, man?" Brighid added. "The Special Inquisitor has given you a direct order! Do as you're told, or you'll lose that uniform faster than you earned it!"

The soldier turned to them, the bug-like eyes of his helmet meeting their gaze. He raised his gun and fired.

The shot caught them so badly off guard that Mòrag could not evade it completely. The bullet grazed her cheek. If she'd dodged a half-second later…

"What the hell?"

Rogue soldiers—it explained everything. The unprovoked attack, Uraya's response, the disproportionate number of Ardainian bodies to enemy combatants...a good part of the Ardainian cohort had staged a mutiny.

A quick glance around the battlefield proved her theory. Ardainian soldiers found themselves fighting not only Urayans but also other Ardainians. And telling a turncoat apart proved impossible until attacked; many true Ardainian soldiers fell, unaware of the threat until a bullet had already lodged in their flesh.

Why rebel now? Are tensions at the border outposts really this bad?

"Lady Mòrag, focus!" Brighid shouted, bullets bouncing off the shield she erected. The flames at the tips of her hair gleamed white-hot.

Mòrag parried or evaded the rogue soldier's next several shots easily. The sword in her left hand extended into a whip, knocking the gun from his hands. Who is this? None of the Ardainian soldiers were this sloppy, were they? And the way these rogue soldiers moved...they ought to be fighting in the style of an Ardainian cohort. Each squadron in her army used numbers to their advantage, especially in unknown territory like this. They ought to be surrounding her; even she and Brighid couldn't resist a barrage of bullets from all sides. Not indefinitely, anyway. But these rebelling soldiers operated independently. These divided tactics certainly made their movements more chaotic, but they also exposed themselves to danger whenever they encountered a foe more powerful than themselves. So anyone who crossed paths with Mòrag was quickly overwhelmed.

What if they're not rebel soldiers after all?

She hatched a plan instantly, her limbs streaming into motion as quickly as the thoughts entered her head. Hellfire to throw him off balance. A whipsword swung out and around his right flank, cutting off an escape route. Then a sprint forward, tossing her blades back to Brighid. Her hands now free, she kicked his legs out from under him. As he fell, she grabbed his helmet and yanked it off.

His head hit hard against a tree root. Out cold.

"Lady Mòrag, his beard—" Brighid began.

"As I suspected."

Members of the Ardainian military were to be clean-shaven at all times. The uniform demanded it. But this man's beard, which had been awkwardly jammed underneath his collar, extended to his chest. Similar dreadlocks fell to his shoulders—also not military protocol.

"Aramach?" Mòrag asked. Her Blade had more experience with the organization than she.

"That would be the most logical explanation, yes. It would explain the rogue soldiers."

"They have our uniforms now. How?"

"Wolves in sheep's clothing," Brighid mused. "That explains why Uraya thought we attacked them. Hmm...Aramach members could infiltrate nearly any military area now if we're not cautious."

Mòrag's face blanched. "The Emperor's flagship...Architect, they're going after Niall."

Brighid wished she could convince her Driver that wasn't the case, that it was just a coincidence. A band of criminals couldn't know the Emperor was here, could they? But she'd heard it from an Aramach himself: the Imperial crown was a target. Her stomach knotted. She had not yet briefed Mòrag about the interrogation; she'd hesitated, hoping that she could work out an explanation that left out Pachnall's identity. Was her secrecy about to get Niall killed?

"Should we retreat to the flagship, then?"

Mòrag thought for a moment, then shook her head. "We're still needed here. And Zeke is with him. He's a hard person to fool. Still, let's have word sent regarding these impostors."

The Inquisitor signaled to a nearby squadron of soldiers. After they'd shown their faces—all clean-cut military men she recognized—she passed along her orders. The squad split, half returning to the emperor and half joining the two women. The new plan was simple: clear out as many impostor soldiers as they could. If they could diffuse tensions with Urayan soldiers, too, then all the better. The approach required far less fighting than she would have liked; she was a woman of action, after all. Words were Niall's strength, not hers.

Thankfully, most Urayans recognized Mòrag; at the very least, they knew of her. And the sight of the Special Inquisitor approaching with sheathed weapons and raised hands was enough to make any soldier do a double-take. Some agreed to stand down. It was, however, too little too late. The Aramach had caused enough damage that the majority of "retreating" Urayans had done so to avenge their fallen comrades, boarding their airships or regrouping with their squads. The fight spread to the skies.

On the surface, Mòrag looked fine, her face impassive as she cut through her enemies. But it was all an act; had she and Brighid been alone, she might have succumbed to her growing panic. It stuck in her throat. If she stopped, it would choke her. Doubtless her Blade could sense the anxiety through their ether bond; a similar sense of dread echoed back from her companion.

Neither woman said anything, nor did they have time to. Bullets screamed through the woods. They bounced harmlessly off Brighid's ether shield. Ordinary soldiers weren't so lucky. The stench of blood and gunpowder stung in her nostrils. Mòrag stopped shouting orders; the roar of engines above overpowered every sound, punctuated by the raucous explosions of anti-air missiles.

We have to retreat. Now. Tracking down the Aramach will have to wait.

Every legitimate Ardainian soldier knew two things. First, the Special Inquisitor's orders were akin to orders from the Emperor himself. Second—and in this case, more importantly—the Inquisitor's Blade acted as a built-in signal flare. Together, Brighid and Mòrag could shoot pillars of Soulfire into the sky. It was not a tactic they used often; they were restricted to the most rudimentary commands (and while the soldiers were trained in the meaning of each signal, many misinterpreted them). And worse, the process telegraphed their position to the entire battlefield.

It was a risk they'd have to take.

But before she could pass her second whipsword to Brighid, her overwhelming sense of dread manifested itself in an awful burst of metal and flame.

At some point during the battle, Niall's flagship had taken to the skies, retreating to a more defensive position as the tides of the battle turned. Mòrag noted that it was moving even slower than normal. Were they short-staffed? If so, she would have some punishments and demotions to dole out later on. Abandoning the Emperor was never an acceptable course of action, and Niall would never order his personal guard into the fray.

Numbness washed over her. Not one, not two, but three missiles lacerated the skies. Each one screeched like a carrion vulture as it rocketed towards its mark.

Imperial airships—especially those belonging to a head of state—were heavily reinforced with the latest defensive technology. But nothing is truly impenetrable; each ship had its weakness. Niall's was no exception. The details of the ship's construction were known only to a select few, but at the rear was a ventilation shaft for the Titan's vaporized fluids. The right amount of force could destabilize it completely.

In theory, it was a once-in-a-lifetime shot. And a single lucky hit was not enough to cause significant damage. Three, however, would be.

"Brighid!"

The Blade didn't need prompting; she'd already sprung into action. Fireballs unlike any she'd yet summoned rocketed into the air, chasing after the missiles. For a sickening second, it seemed that Brighid's flames would win that deathly race. But the blue spheres spluttered out inside a low-hanging cloud. The missiles continued. The battlefield fell silent.

Then the heavens split in two.

The force of the blast knocked everyone in the area to the ground. A cloud of orange and red poured down scraps of charred metal and stone like scalding rain. Ether shields dotted the battlefield below, sheltering both friend and foe from the debris. There was a brief moment when every fighter paused to process what transpired. And then the Ardainians sprung into action.

For Mòrag and Brighid, that moment lasted far longer. Mòrag still lay where the blast tossed her. If not for Brighid's shield, the debris would have burned her. Her ears rang. But the emptiness in her hearing was nothing compared to the great gaping hole that grew in her stomach. She rose on unsteady feet, eyes still trained on the dissipating cloud of destruction above.

"Niall. Zeke…" she whispered.

"...We don't know that they were aboard when it happened," Brighid suggested feebly.

"Where else would he have been, Brighid?" Mòrag snapped. "They—they're…"

No, don't think about that. If the worst has really happened, you're in charge. Act now. Cry later.

Mòrag almost hated how easily she could detach herself emotionally in a crisis. It made her wonder if her loyalty to the military had forced her to abandon her own humanity. But soldiers that grieved on the battlefield died beside their companions. And she was no ordinary soldier. If she died, other soldiers would, too.

The next few hours unfolded in a blur of activity. Mòrag cut off her ether connection with Brighid, relying on physical strength alone to fight. They could not share ether now, much less the accompanying emotions. The worst of the fighting seemed to have passed; Uraya ordered its men to retreat. No one was sure why. Perhaps they feared the ensuing Ardainian retaliation, or they caught on to the hypocrites and decided to make themselves scarce. Or maybe Raqura felt confident that the alliance worrying her countrymen was no longer a threat. No more Aramach appeared to continue the violence, either.

The woods finally fell silent. Only the dull crackle of fading embers filled the air.

"Special Inquisitor, your orders?" a soldier asked.

"Fall back to the outpost. Radio all other squads to do the same. I...I'll make my way there shortly. I need to go investigate," her voice wavered.

"We'll accompany you, ma'am."

"No. You've been given your orders."

Concern lined the man's face, but he nodded and obeyed. The soldiers trotted away.

"Mòrag, are you...it'll still be on fire—"

"I have to see for myself, Brighid."

"You're doing it again. Please don't shut me out," Brighid pleaded.

Her Blade reached out through the ether, a blue thread extending between them. Mòrag backed away, as if she could dodge the connection. But it latched on, and the emotions she'd tried to keep at bay rushed through the bond.

"No, stop," Mòrag protested feebly. "I can't do this now."

The Driver took a few stumbling steps towards the blast site. But she faltered, and Brighid caught her and pulled her close. Mòrag's brave facade broke. She went limp, her body overwhelmed with the sobs she failed to stifle. Her tears fell and turned to tiny bursts of steam against the fire Blade's skin.

"They—they're—"

Guilt kept Brighid silent. What could she say? How could she confess that she knew Niall was a target? This was her fault.

How long they lingered there, neither knew. It must have been hours, though, because an Imperial skimmer came into view. Was it combing the area for survivors now that it was clear the skirmish was over? Brighid pulled Mòrag to her feet and shot a fireball or two into the sky. The skimmer recognized her signal and circled into a boarding position. The gangplank thudded against the forest floor.

Mòrag sheathed her weapons and tried to wipe away her tears with her soiled gloves.

"Hey there, ladies. Need a ride?" someone shouted from inside the skimmer.

Mòrag's eyes widened. The intonation in that voice—smooth, sarcastic, theatrical. She knew it well. But it couldn't be. The blast, the flagship...there was no surviving that explosion. She bounded up the gangplank, Brighid a step or two behind.

Her ears hadn't fooled her. Zeke took up nearly half of the skimmer's seating area, reclining comfortably on one of the benches. He waved casually.

"You're alive," she huffed. It was the only sentence her reeling brain could form.

"Did you honestly think that was all it would take to bump me off?" Zeke asked. "I'm wounded, Flames."

She fought the impulse to punch him—but whether it was from sheer relief or the frustration at the "Flames" nickname, she wasn't really sure. "And Niall?"

"See for yourself."

Zeke's reclined figure took up so much of the skimmer's meager seating area that Mòrag had not noticed the much smaller figure sitting against the opposite wall: the young Emperor, his posture immaculate, his clothes pristine. Not a fiber or hair out of place. Her heart rate slowed instantly; thank the Architect, he was alive. That hole in her gut that formed after the explosion was just a bad memory.

She was at his side in an instant, accidentally knocking off her hat on the airship's low ceiling. All afternoon, her muscles clenched like taut springs, ready to burst into motion and retaliate. Not even her tears had managed to release that tension. But at the sight of him safe and sound, all that pent-up energy dropped out from under her. Her legs buckled, and she fell to her knees in front of him. She ought to stand—he was still the Emperor. All she'd intended to do was to hug him, to feel his slight frame in her arms, to convince herself that it was real. But here she was in a crumpled heap at his feet.

And for once, she didn't care. Their stations did not matter now. All that mattered was that Niall was still here. The nightmare had not stolen him. Death left empty-handed.

Her head fell into his lap. "I was terrified that I'd lost you," she whispered.

Niall stroked her head gently, slipping a few stray hairs behind her ear. "I apologize for making you worry. Again."

His voice soothed the last remnants of terror from her mind. For a moment, the outside world fell away, and they were back at Gormott. But now it was Niall doing the comforting after the nightmare, not the other way around. How many nights had she spent holding him, reassuring him that the dreams weren't real? But when he ascended the throne, Niall quickly learned that the nightmares often came to life after all. The numerous attempts on his life proved as much. If only she could take him back to Lake Yewtle, where the greatest danger was a skinned knee and soiled clothes.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," she said, finally leaning into an upright, more refined position. "I ought to have been there protecting you. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, Mòrag. You left me in the most capable hands."

Mòrag rose and took a seat beside the young Emperor. "I can't thank you enough, Zeke."

"Ah, don't mention it. Just doing my part, eh?" Zeke waved it off like the whole affair had been a simple mail delivery.

"He's being modest. If not for his quick thinking and excellent bladework, I would never have left my flagship, much less made it to this ship instead," Niall added.

"There's nothing quite like cheating Death to help you bond with your future little brother, right?"

Niall nodded, an unvoiced laugh lingering in his eyes. "Indeed. But I am far more grateful for the time we spent before things became dangerous."

The Emperor and the prince exchanged small, knowing smiles. Mòrag wondered what transpired between them to warrant such a look. Niall had always appreciated Zeke's humor—a rare commodity in the Ardainian court—but the expression the Emperor wore now mingled respect and admiration.

Perhaps it's for the best, she thought. Since Emperor Nealon's death, Niall had very few good male influences in his life. Yes, he had his counselors and Aegeaon. But the former were thrice his age (some older), the latter stoic and while loyal, not much of a friend. Zeke might have had his rougher, un-princely edges, but she remembered clearly how only Zeke managed to persuade Rex away from the World Tree. And that was not the only time Zeke had mentored Rex, either. Maybe he could do the same for Niall. After all, she could not teach him everything. Some things she didn't want to teach, either. Whenever the day came that Niall found himself dutifully seeking or even gladly pursuing a partner, well...Zeke seemed far better equipped to give "girl advice."

"I'm glad you are both safe," Mòrag said at last. "But how? When I saw the airship explode…"

Zeke spoke first. "If there's one thing I've learned in all the time I've known you, it's that your instincts are rarely wrong. And you had a bad gut feeling from the moment this whole mess started. So I trusted it. Even before your message about the pseudo-soldiers, I decided that Niall's airship could be a convenient target. So we took the unmarked skimmer instead. Not as classy or comfortable, but too cozy is better than burnt to a crisp."

"We will have to arrange for a state funeral for the soldiers who lost their lives in the blast. They sacrificed themselves so we could escape," Niall said, his expression falling. Fatigue lined his eyes. "And we will also need to arrange for a formal summit with Uraya at a much safer location. Assuming they will still even be willing to negotiate at this point."

"They'll come. Now we know the whole mess was just those arseholes stirring up trouble. Raqura will understand that," Zeke said. His normally confident tone wavered.

"But Your Majesty needn't worry about that right now. It's late, and you've had a long few days. Best not to strain yourself. Let those be tomorrow's troubles," Mòrag urged.

Niall sighed. Now that someone mentioned his exhaustion out loud, he dropped the facade of royalty he wore so well. His shoulders drooped, and he removed his crown and set it on his lap. He let his head fall against Mòrag's shoulder.

"Do you...mind if I rest a while? They'll need my report when we get back," he murmured.

His informality startled her, but she shifted her arm and wrapped it around him. After her simple nod, he succumbed to the weight of his eyelids and drifted off to sleep. Mòrag took his crown in her free hand and set it in her lap, protecting it, protecting him. Just as the Special Inquisitor should.