Mark stared at the parchment before him; the only mark on it so far was a drop of ink that had fallen from his quill as it hovered over the page. He dipped the quill in the ink bottle again, despite the fact that it was already full, and let out a sigh. How was he supposed to write this letter?

"Just be honest," Denning said.

Mark flinched, and looked back at where the morph stood. Though he'd initially just brought Mark a lamp to light the table-turned-desk, Denning lingered in the room, watching over his shoulder.

"Is that really what you want?" Mark asked.

Denning shrugged. "It's what our agreement with Hector says."

"And what would Cassandra say if she were here?"

Denning's eyes narrowed. "Cassandra's a woman of her word. She wouldn't ignore the agreement just for the sake of convenience." He turned to look at the door. "Not all of us were made for deception, you know."

Mark frowned at the man, but he couldn't sense any dishonesty from him. Denning had been visiting him regularly over the last week, occasionally with Grace in tow to check on his health, and those visits were about the only thing keeping Mark sane. And if Cassandra had been worried about what he'd write in the letter, she'd have come herself to watch him write it.

Sighing, Mark turned back to his desk. Given how long it had taken him to decide what to write, actually writing it went surprisingly quickly. He marked it with his name, and presented it to Denning. The morph did not look down long enough to read any of the words, merely taking in the letter itself. "Rather short," he noted.

"There's not much to say."

Denning gave a slow nod, then motioned to the door. He still had his bow slung across his back, carrying no other weapons than a small knife. Still, Mark did not doubt that the bow would be nocked and aimed in a heartbeat if needed. He kept one eye on it as he rose and pulled on the door, relieved to have it swing open. This would be his first time leaving the room in a week, and he was trying not to show how excited he was to step outside.

Denning led Mark to the hall, the stairs, the front door—and then they were out. The sun had never looked more beautiful, and the way it washed the world in light and color seemed impossible to Mark's dulled eyes. He paused as long as he dared to take it in, letting his lungs fill with fresh air and ears ring with the sounds of the fort.

Though, even as he took it all in, a pit formed in his stomach. If he was like this after just one week of being locked up, how would he be after a year of it?

"Come on," Denning said softly. "Cassandra wanted to supervise this first delivery. She'll be upset if we tarry too long."

Mark nodded, casting one last look at the late summer sun before stepping out into the fort. It was the first time he'd been brought through here without a hood—something he was sure Denning had spent a great deal of time and energy convincing Cassandra not to use—and was surprised at what he saw. In-between the crumbling stone structures original to the fort, the morphs had erected several wooden buildings. Most of them looked residential, though Mark identified what appeared to be a butcher's shop and a bakery. Morphs shuffled down the tight streets, going about seemingly mundane tasks; rather than weapons, most of them carried baskets or jugs.

All of them, of course, stopped what they were doing the instant they saw him. He grew uncomfortably aware of just how alien he must look to them, his light hair and dark eyes almost directly inverse to their own. Some went as far as to rush inside when they saw him coming. Was he truly so threatening?

"Denning," he asked at length, "why are you so nice to me?"

Denning looked at him in surprise, before lifting his bow and his lips wryly. "You call this being nice?"

Mark felt a smile tugging at the corners of his own mouth. It was a strange sensation after being locked up for nearly a week. "You're the only one who comes to visit. You're the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm going to rain destruction down on the fort. Hell—you're the only one who talks to me at all."

Denning studied his eyes for a moment, then looked back forward. "We've crossed paths before," he said.

Triumph thrilled briefly in Mark's heart. "I knew it! Where?"

Denning shrugged. "I'm not surprised you can't place me. It was a rather hectic situation, we were both busy, and this is a message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you at the Dread Isle.'"

Mark's jaw actually fell open. "You—from Ostia—the morph commander—!"

Denning chuckled, turning at last to smile at his companion. "I'm a little disappointed that the great tactician Mark couldn't piece it together himself."

Mark could only continue gaping. "But… you… the Ostians…"

Denning nodded. "You held us off long enough for reinforcements to arrive, yes, and they managed to route my forces. Though my purpose was to stay in the castle, they drove me further and further back, until I was cast out, bloodied and broken. As far as they could tell, I was dead. A few more minutes, and I would have been."

Mark shook his head. "How did you survive?"

"Grace."

It took Mark a moment to remember that Denning wasn't talking about an abstract concept, but the curly-haired healer.

Denning's expression took on a different cast as he spoke. "Cassandra was already gathering and freeing morphs at the time. A small company of her followers were hiding outside Ostia, hoping to save my forces. By the time they caught up to us, I was the only one left alive. Grace found me, and healed my body; then, she brought me to Cassandra, who healed my mind." His right hand was toying with something on his left as he spoke, though Mark couldn't see what it was under the gloves.

"Cassandra freed you?"

Denning nodded. "Otherwise, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation. I'd just be telling you over and over that a dead man was awaiting you on an island." He smiled again. "Or I'd have shot you on sight."

Mark remembered seeing Denning before. The tactician usually stayed back from the front lines, but as they'd pressed on to the throne room of Castle Ostia, he'd caught a glimpse of the morph commander, gold eyes flashing out from under his cowl as arrow after deadly arrow sprung from his bow. He felt himself shiver. "I guess so."

Denning's smile faded. "I didn't mean to…" He sighed, shaking his head. "Mark, I tell you this to show what kind of person Cassandra is. She risked her life to help me and others like me." He motioned to the buildings around them, and the faces peering at them through the windows. "She led us all here, where we can live out our lives as if we were normal people."

"And she took me hostage," Mark said quietly, "to protect you all."

Denning's shoulders slumped as he nodded. "She doesn't want to keep you here," he said. "Were she able to, I'm sure she'd set you free."

Mark looked down at the letter in his hands. "Maybe."

They emerged from between two buildings, and found themselves fifty paces from the fort's entrance. There was a large open area here, as though the morphs had avoided building their homes too close—probably to make sure they had room to get carts in and out. Cassandra and Lefty were already there. Mark advanced warily, Denning at his side. Cassandra's eyes flicked to him, then to the letter he held. "You ready?" she said. Her voice was harsher than he'd expected. This had been her idea, after all.

"Yes," he muttered. He looked at the gate. "Has the messenger arrived?"

"Our lookouts have spotted him about a mile away. He should be here soon." She jerked her head at Mark. "Make it quick. I have work to do."

Mark frowned, an expression that was mirrored by Denning. The four of them started toward the gates as a group of muscular morphs shoved them open. The group stood in the entryway, looking out over the vast, empty expanse of the valley; the sky was pale against the deeper blue of the mountains, and the wind carried scents of grass and rain to Mark's nose. He scanned the horizon for the Ostian messenger, but it took him a while to spot the dark form of—

He gave a start. "Matthew?"

Cassandra's eyebrows were already up. "Bold of him to return," she said, looking over at Mark. "He must miss you."

"I somehow doubt that," Mark muttered.

The spy's mount carried him quickly through the valley, only slowing once he was a hundred paces from them. He pulled his horse to a stop five paces away and slid noiselessly from the saddle. He nodded at the group as he stepped into the shadow of the gate. "Mark. It's good to see you well."

"You, too," the tactician said, eyeing him. "Also confusing."

Matthew smirked. "I happened to be in the area. Thought I'd help Sanders out and get the letter myself."

Mark nodded slowly, still not sure whether or not the spy had something up his sleeve. Was he here for some kind of rescue attempt? Or was he simply suffering from a guilty conscience?

"The letter." Cassandra motioned at the parchment clutched in Mark's hands. "Don't tarry, now."

Mark glanced at her, then looked away. Denning might well be right about Cassandra, but she'd never looked on Mark with anything but contempt. He handed the letter to Matthew, his hand falling to his side as the spy tucked it under his cloak.

"Good," Cassandra said. "Now, Matthew, I suggest you be on your—"

She heard it before Mark did, cutting off and spinning around. The scream echoed through the fort walls to his ears a moment later. All of them turned just in time to glimpse the situation through the open gate. A horse bolted through the fort, a harness hanging partly off of it—and a morph woman, clinging to the straps, being pulled along beside it. Sharp hooves galloped dangerously close to scrambling feet, and her long black dress dragged behind her, threatening to trip them both. Even if it had been safe for her to let go of the reins, she didn't appear to have the presence of mind to do so.

In the space between heartbeats, Mark took in the scene. The horse and its unwilling cargo were fifty paces away. Cassandra was already dashing into the fort, apparently having forgotten all about her hostage. Denning was also turned toward them, but he had one eye still on the tactician. And Lefty, glaring at Mark with hatred, was already reaching to snatch him.

Mark knew he had only an instant to act, and did so. He ran—

Into the fort. Lefty's hand closed on empty air behind him, and he heard Denning and Matthew cry out in harmonized confusion. Cassandra didn't even spare him a glance; she was already two lengths ahead of him. She was much quicker, but he immediately spotted her error; she was running toward where the horse was, not where it would be. Fast as she was, she'd never be able to catch up to a frightened horse. This called for another tactic.

As his feet ran through the fort, his mind ran through the brief journey through it earlier. He mapped the positions of all the structures he'd seen, simultaneously thinking back on every encounter he'd had with a horse in the past, be it on the battlefield or in the training yard. Something had spooked this beast, and it was just trying to get away. Where would it go? Angles and corners formed up in his mind, and he made a swift turn, planting himself in the middle of a passageway between two stone structures.

The horse rounded the corner moments after he arrived. He wet his lips as it approached, sparing a glance at the woman; her gold eyes, wide with fear, met his for an instant. He took a breath, and held up a hand. "Whoah!" he called in a voice both soothing and commanding—a voice he'd heard knights use hundreds of times. "Whoah!"

The horse's eyes fixed on him, and its gallop slowed to a trot. Mark took a couple steps back, moving with the mount, until its nuzzle just barely brushed his hand. "There you go," he said softly, gently taking the reins. "That's good. You're all right. Everything's all right."

He stepped to one side to help the woman down—and found Cassandra had beaten him to it. She glared at him, one of her hands around the woman's waist, the other on her blade. He was suddenly aware of a trickle of sweat running down his back. His feet itched to turn and run, but he kept his weight firmly on them, and pushed forward the hand holding the reins. "Here," he said.

Cassandra didn't move, but the other woman reached forward, taking the reins and letting her fingers linger on his. Her hair draped over her shoulders like a cat, and while her dress was indeed black, it was also trimmed with gold thread, and had a neckline designed to draw the eye—as it was drawing his now, he realized with embarrassment.

"My hero," the woman said in a low, sweet voice, fluttering jet-black eyelashes at him.

It was all Mark could do not to gape. Not only was she surprisingly collected, considering she'd been screaming in terror a few seconds earlier—but was she flirting with him?

Shouts from behind. Mark turned just in time to see Lefty racing toward him, Denning and Matthew hot on his heels. Then the world jerked upward, and Mark found himself on the ground, clutching at his throat and wheezing in pain. Lefty planted his knee on Mark's chest and drew back his fist for another strike, his other hand going to his blade—

"Gavin!"

Lefty's golden eyes snapped up, fixing on Cassandra. She was still holding the hilt of her own sword, a few inches of steel glinting in the afternoon sun. The other woman watched over her shoulder with wide eyes. "Stand down," Cassandra said firmly.

Lefty—Gavin—hesitated, releasing his weapon. "He tried to escape—"

"No." Denning stood over the man, shaking his head. "He had the opportunity to escape. He tried to help."

Gavin's eyes flicked to the woman. "Did he hurt you?"

"He helped me," she replied. "Just as Denning said."

Under the glares of both Denning and Cassandra, Gavin finally relented, lifting his knee and letting air suck into Mark's lungs. The tactician rose with as much grace as he could muster under the circumstances, painfully aware that all sets of eyes were on him, including those of a small crowd of spectators they'd drawn. He looked around at them, forcing himself finally to settle on Cassandra's eyes.

To his surprise, she looked away first, turning to the other woman. "What happened, Ellain?" she asked.

The smaller woman pouted. "Nothing 'happened.' I was just hitching him up to the wagon for a supply run when he spooked and bolted. I was too surprised to do anything but scream." She smiled at Mark, tilting her head invitingly. "I'm lucky you were there, sir tactician."

He felt himself flush a little, and immediately berated himself for it. She was just manipulating him—wasn't she?

Cassandra shook her head. "You'd have better waited until the Ostian messenger was gone. It was a bad time to be leaving the fort."

"Not bad timing for him," Gavin growled, eyes darting to Matthew. "You set this up, didn't you?"

Matthew blinked once, looking intimidated; Mark might have believed the act if he didn't know Matthew probably had at least three concealed blades ready to draw. "What? You think I broke into your fort without anyone noticing and set up something to spook a horse at the exact moment I was getting the letter to give Mark an opportunity to escape?" He smirked. "You give me too much credit, friend."

"All you'd have to do is release a mouse, or use another of those exploding bottles, or—"

"There was no mouse," Ellain said firmly. "Believe me, I'd know. And there was no explosion; the horse just grew frightened." She hesitated, and turned to Cassandra. "This was one of the ones we got from Laus last week. Perhaps he hasn't fully become accustomed to…" She motioned to the group—at least, the parts of it that weren't human.

Cassandra's frown had remained fixed on her face throughout the entire discussion. "Perhaps. But it was a bad time to be heading out on a supply run, with the messenger coming. You should check with me before leaving from now on."

"But you're so busy all the time," Ellain sighed, running a hand along Cassandra's arm. "Why bother you with something as insignificant as—"

Cassandra brushed her hand away. "Check. With. Me." She turned her gaze to Matthew. "You may go. And I suggest you do so before any more trouble starts."

Matthew looked at Gavin, meeting the morph's naked hostility with a neutral smile. "As you wish, my lady." Showing no concern at being surrounded by hundreds of morphs, he began making his way toward the gate.

Mark nodded at him as he passed. "Thank you for coming," he said softly.

Matthew slowed his pace just long enough to whisper, "We haven't forgotten you. We'll get you out somehow. In the meantime, keep playing it smart. You'll be all right."

And he was gone, sweeping off toward the gate.

"I think I hate that man," Gavin grumbled.

"I was just thinking of how much he reminded me of you," Denning replied.

By the time Mark turned back, Cassandra was directly in front of him, Denning and Gavin taking their usual places at his side. Ellain studied him with concern, but kept her distance. Cassandra nodded to him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "Time to go back to your room."

Mark looked up at the blue sky, and took one last deep breath of outside air.

My Lord Hector,

My time as a hostage is off to an inauspicious start. I have not been allowed to leave my room, which has no windows. My delivery of this letter to your messenger will be the first time I see the sun since you left. The isolation has also worn on me, although one of the morph guards does take time to speak to me and inquire after my well-being at least once a day. I am being fed, and have no trouble sleeping—there is precious little else to occupy my time. The thrust is, I am alive and healthy, at least for now.

I've learned little in my time here, but I've noticed something odd about Cassandra and her morphs. I'd previously thought morphs to be incapable of true feeling, given our encounters with Ephidel, Sonia, and Limstella. But these morphs seem to experience true emotions, and a wide variety of them, from anger to fear and even amusement. Whether these are genuine feelings or just elaborate simulations is impossible to say, but it happens frequently enough that I have begun to take it for granted that they feel the same way humans do.

I fear I have little else to tell you at this time. Perhaps my future letters will be more entertaining, though I doubt it.

Ever your servant,

Mark

Hector lowered the letter with a frown. It was about all he could expect, and yet… "And he appeared to be in good health?" he asked Matthew.

The spy nodded at him from across the large table where they all sat. The buttresses of Castle Ostia rose above the group, and light filtered in through the windows to dance over the floor. "Good enough, at least for now. He didn't seem afraid. Well… no more so than you'd expect."

Serra winced, running hands through her pink hair. She'd begun wearing it down recently, something Hector was sure had to do with the blond monk sitting next to her. "If they don't take care of him, he'll starve to death."

"They wouldn't do that," Oswin said firmly. "Losing Mark to poor health would lose them the protection he affords."

Lucius nodded his agreement, looking over at Serra with soft eyes. Of everyone at the table, he'd changed the least over the last five years, still looking soft and fragile with long, effeminate hair, but possessed of an inner strength none could quite fathom. "They'll keep him safe," he told Serra. "They have to."

"They will if they know what's good for them," Raven growled. His red hair had grown out since Hector last saw him, and his arms were crossed over his broad chest. He sat next to Lucius, opposite Serra. Hector wasn't sure why he'd come, but he'd refused to leave Lucius's side since their arrival.

"But that doesn't mean they'll treat him well," Matthew said darkly. "Their leader, Cassandra… she's a woman of her word, from what I've seen, but she's also a pragmatist. If she sees no reason to keep him in anything but the barest minimum of good health…"

Hector found he was rubbing his temples, and forced himself to lower his hand. Calm. Confidence. They're looking to you to lead, and lead you shall. He was sounding more and more like his brother every day. "Let's worry about the problems we can solve," he said. "What word from the others?"

Matthew glanced at Serra, who had turned her head pointedly away from him, and let out a sigh. "Word's been sent to Pherae and Caelin both. Lord Eliwood and Lady Lyndis hope to come here as soon as they've settled issues at home. Our messengers should be reaching Reglay any day now. There are still more allies we could contact..."

"Not yet," Hector said. "The fewer people who know about this situation, the better." He sat back, tapping his fingers on the table—another nervous habit he needed to break. He looked at the table's final occupant. "In the meantime, what do you think of the letter?"

Canas shifted in his seat, looking nervous. The dark-haired scholar always looked nervous, of course, robes rustling as he adjusted his monocle. "Well, I… that is… I fear I still know disappointingly little about morphs, my lord. I studied them as much as I was able during the war, of course, but there was so much I still hoped to learn, and… well, even more I feared to learn." He looked down at the books spread out before him. "I've brought everything I could, but what you asked me, I…"

Hector stopped him with a wave of his hand. "Let's focus on one question at a time. What Mark said in his letter—could a morph experience emotion?"

Canas pursed his lips, glancing at the empty seat at his side. Hector knew the scholar had hoped his wife would accompany him to Ostia, but ultimately, she'd chosen to remain with her own research—and their son. "Perhaps," Canas murmured. "I've speculated with a colleague about this. Morphs may not be able to feel emotions as we understand them—everything they have was given to them by Nergal, after all, so he'd have crafted their feelings as much as anything else." He shrugged. "But does being constructed make them any less real? I fear there's no way to know for certain."

"It could be that they're simply pretending, in order to manipulate Mark," Matthew said quietly. "The morph woman he saved from the out-of-control horse, she… flirted with him a little afterward."

Serra sat up straight in her chair. "She what?"

Lucius glanced at her in surprise before turning to Matthew. "You think they might be trying to play on his sympathies?"

"Perhaps," Matthew said. He looked at Hector. "I'm not saying he isn't loyal, my lord. Simply that the morphs might be trying to appear more human to him, even befriend him, to get him on their side as well as ours."

"He wouldn't do that," Raven said. He glanced at Lucius. "Would he?"

Hector felt his frown deepening. "We'll have to keep an eye on that," he mumbled. "There's just so much we don't know…"

Canas raised a tentative hand. "I will lend you as much aid as I can, my lord," he began. "But there is one who knows even more than I—the colleague I mentioned earlier. I doubt he'd appreciate being disturbed, but under the circumstances—with our friend in danger, and with a surviving morph colony—he might be willing to help." He took a breath. "The Bishop Renault."

"No!"

All eyes turned to Serra in shock. The cleric was standing up, her seat pushed back a few inches by her sudden rise. "You can't," she said, gazing at Hector. "You can't bring Renault here."

Anger and confusion roiled in his mind. "And why in blazes not?"

"Because—"

She cut off, and looked down at Lucius's hand, which had just gently settled on to hers. She looked at the monk, who held her gaze for a long moment; Hector had no idea what passed between them, but something certainly did, for when she looked away, she seemed about to cry. Lucius lowered his eyes for a moment before looking up at the shaman. "That's a good idea, Canas. Father Renault would be a good man to have on our side here." He hesitated, then added, "If you tell him that I'm here… I believe he'll come."

The room was silent after that, the air heavy with the burden of unspoken words. Matthew cleared his throat. "I'll reach out to our contacts," he said. "See if anyone knows what Bishop Renault's been up to since the war."

"Do it." Hector looked over at Lucius and Serra, seeing the way he held her hand, and felt his heart aching. He wished for the hundredth time that his wife was attending this meeting. He needed her advice. And her company. "In the meantime, Lucius, Canas, go over your research and learn whatever you can. Keep us informed—and pray that this ends well."

As the group dispersed, Hector took Matthew aside. "The thing with the horse," he said quietly. "You were being truthful when you said you had nothing to do with that?"

The thief nodded. "I'd considered something like that, but it left too much to chance. In truth, milord, I suspect one of the morphs—a man named Gavin—set it up, to give himself the chance to kill Mark for trying to escape."

Hector suppressed a shiver. "He must know what would happen if he did."

"Perhaps he thinks they can survive our attack. Or perhaps he's so blinded by hate that he doesn't care."

Hector pinched the bridge of his nose. "A man my size is not built for this kind of balancing act, Matthew," he muttered. "Still, with you there, Mark might have made it. Why not take the chance to flee?"

Matthew smiled sadly. "If Mark made the decision, then you know it was the tactical one, milord." He looked up at the windows. "By helping the woman Ellain, he gained something that—in the long run—might be more valuable than his freedom."

Hector nodded. "Indeed. He gained their trust." He followed the thief's gaze, studying the dust swirling in the sunlight. "I only hope it was a worthwhile trade."