Two:
A Revolutionary Idea

A soft moan reached his ears, alerting him with the knowledge that his sleeping partner was now awake a split second before a warm hand splayed across his waist. Once, the sensations both evoked were erotic—causing anticipation to shiver through his thoughts and tendrils of desire to curl into his gut. Now, however, they were evoking nothing more than mild annoyance. He stifled a reaction, feigning a lack of notice, and kept his attention on the documents spread on the sheets before him. Tax forms, business records, ledgers, lists of sales and acquisitions—Reaver was fairly certain his lawyer was meant to have all this in order. It didn't matter. Ever since she'd become queen, Victoria had been cracking down on a great many things. The most recent: taxes and ensuring everyone paid fairly according to their income. And, while that meant the poor could get by paying a very small amount of gold, it also meant that the wealthy were now paying ridiculously large sums. While that in itself wasn't a problem, it had raised a very serious one on its own. He now had to be careful about where he was stating he got his money from. And, if a single piece of his less-than-legal earnings showed itself on any of these forms, that would be the end of everything. No amount of bail money would save him from prison and he had no desire to be arrested today, thank you.

It was still dark outside—dawn had not yet come to press slivers of light against the heavy velvet curtains—and a chill had crept into the room in absence of a fire. Everything was oddly still and quiet. By the light of a single oil lamp, the large room felt eerie and somehow morose. Shadows collecting on every surface like travellers at a roadside; waiting for something that was probably never coming. And then his companion gave a sleepy sigh and the spell seemed to break.

The hand at his abdomen slowly snaked its way up his torso, bringing unwanted warmth to his cold skin. The bed shifted slightly and, only seconds later, he felt a kiss press against his shoulder blade. His companion's head dropped to his shoulder and Reaver half-turned to send a probing glance in their direction.

"You're up an' working already," Cillian observed, his brogue slurring slightly as he woke up further. "Everyone's going to think you've gone boring on them."

And who, exactly, is going to be telling the others how I begin my day, hmm? Or is discretion no longer a part of this…arrangement? "Then perhaps they should stop leaving me to clean up their messes, shouldn't they?"

"Here I thought you enjoyed cleaning up my messes." Cillian kept his words light and almost playful as he slowly crawled out of bed, but it wasn't enough to keep Reaver from internally bristling with an annoyance that only just faded as he added, "I should probably leave."

Cillian would make a pretty accessory for someone, of that Reaver was certain. He had the sort of features that solely belonged on a painting or sculpture and green eyes far too vivid in colour to be anything other than eerie. He was a man whose entire skillset consisted of picking the perfect waistcoat to wear to a dinner party and how to sit at just the right angle to accentuate his features—at best, he was an amusing distraction; at worst…insipid and foppish were both adjectives that came readily to mind. And, had Reaver not been using him to steal information about his father's business, he would have had no use for him. He knew what lied down the path Cillian walked. To some degree, it mirrored his own. However, where Reaver's path had been calculated and then orchestrated, Cillian's sprung from only his faults. Reaver knew perfectly well the unsatisfying ending Cillian had awaiting him and there was really no point in lingering to watch Cillian reach it. Such a pity…and all those pretty words. At least he was decent in bed; surprisingly…receptive, as well.

"Oh? Weren't you just accusing me of being boring?" Reaver drawled, feigning affront. He was more than inclined to wish Cillian well and send him on his way, but the game still had to be played and he wasn't willing to forfeit his edge so easily. Not yet, anyway. "And yet you're in such a hurry to run back home."

"No…not a hurry, per se," Cillian remarked, picking up his scattered attire from wherever they'd been thrown. "I—it's just that…there's been a lot of rumours, you understand, that are going about right now."

That got Reaver's attention. He hadn't heard any big rumours lately that would be enough to put him in such a hurry. Cillian's tone and lack of desire to look at him was enough to spark his suspicion. It was about him, then. There was no one else it could be about. Which meant he needed answers. Immediately.

"What rumours?" Though he tried to keep his tone conversational, Reaver couldn't help the edge that began to creep into his voice. He knew the way to address it was to pretend the rumours were baseless and meaningless—which would help them to end their course all the faster—but he couldn't help his ire at the sudden sting of betrayal. All he'd done for those ingrates…all the playing buffer between them and the monarchy, all the good words put in, and the not-at-all-legal deeds preformed on their behalves…and this was how they thanked him? By once again attempting to smear him and his name into the mud? Oh, yes, there needed to be a reckoning…but first he needed to know who, exactly, had started the rumours.

Cillian still wouldn't look at him as he pulled on his under-things and trousers. Annoyance growing, Reaver set aside his documents, rose, and, in almost an instant, had crossed the room to reach the younger man. Games and playing set aside, Reaver forced Cillian's chin up, giving him nowhere else to look but at the man before him. With an icy tone the people of Bloodstone were more familiar with than those of Bowerstone, Reaver all but purred, "I believe I asked what rumours you are referring to…my sweet."

The younger man simply stared a moment, eyes wide with a flicker of anxiety and almost innocent confusion. Clearly this wasn't working; perhaps, he thought, he needed to try a subtler, more encouraging route of persuasion. The thought had barely crossed his mind when Cillian finally answered quietly: "There are rumours…about yourself and…and Queen Victoria. That you…still have a relationship. That you're both manipulating us to be pawns for the crown. That you no longer care about the strength of the nobility as a class and that…that…you're…breaking."

Though the last statement had been delivered as a nervous whisper, Reaver could feel his temper growing in response. It was a miracle, he decided, that his features remained unchanged and perfectly blank. Cillian running away in terror would not help to settle things. Allowing his tone to thaw a bit, he enquired, "And…what do you think?"

"I don't know what to think," he admitted. Then, slightly more hopeful, he added, "But none of it's true…is it?"

The problem was that some of it was, in fact, true. He and Victoria did indeed have a "relationship"—or had one. Until a year ago, it had mainly been physical in nature; sex interspersed with bickering and discussions about the kingdom. And somehow lacking in truly meaningful conversation even when they had both craved it. Now, however, it was non-existent.

—if he was honest with himself, in the dead hours of the night, he longed for the scent of her hair and the feel of her skin. The way she'd once looked at him when they spoke of personal matters, and the curves of her smile when she was amused, was etched into his memory and he missed it like home after a long journey, even if its absence was his fault to begin with—

He knew perfectly well that they were both manipulating the nobility, though it had rarely ever been to a shared end. Some might have called that dangerous—playing a game with so many other players—but…well, no one could ever accuse him of shying away from danger. If only he didn't still need information from these…people.

"No," Reaver lied, if only because this was one of those few times when the truth would not benefit him. He turned his hard grip on Cillian's chin into a soft caress. "Not a word of it is. Would you like to see proof?"

Cillian was soft and he melted when Reaver kissed him. Only just leaning into his touch, taking it with the gentle care of a first time seduction. So soft…as if Reaver could break him with breath and thought. He vaguely wondered how many people were fooled by that—how many people thought Cillian was delicate and so treated him as though he weren't a threat. Reaver didn't trust softness—there was far too ample danger in it. Once, many years previous, he's had an ex-wife much like Cillian. She'd been so delicate, so frail. To touch her was to fear she'd fall apart in his fingers like wet paper. She'd seemed all the more beautiful for it—like a crystal figure on a mantle. Not six months after they'd married, she'd tried to kill him in an attempt to voice her displeasure at his continued vocation. They had divorced quite soon after that. And, while he didn't think Cillian would try to kill him, he didn't believe the youth was as innocent as he played, either. After all, poisoned chocolate lost none of its pleasure.

But, at that moment, his kisses were timid and indulgent. Feather-light brushes of flesh against flesh. Deliberately teasing, taunting, postponing that moment where it would turn to something more.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

The last of the noise at the door died down as Reaver pulled back to frown at the door. As curious as he was, this was terrible timing.

"Ignore it," Cillian sighed, his voice no longer nervous, but needy and almost demanding.

Deciding he would look into it later, Reaver obliged him. Trailed kisses up his neck with affected slowness. Cillian's nails scraped against his scalp, demanding him to come even closer.

Knock. Knock. Click.

"My Lord, th—oh, by the Light!"

Internally sighing, Reaver pulled away from Cillian to face the maid that had just walked in. Ella had been in his service almost a decade now—her parents had sold her into the service at the age of eight and he'd managed to procure her from another noble (a man with far more…peculiar and distasteful interests than Reaver's own extended to) before any irreparable damage could be done—and it still amused him that, though she walked in on him nude on almost a daily basis, she still flushed and immediately looked away. Revulsion, she had always claimed, not modesty. Given she looked at everyone in her presence in those situations in the exact same way, he was inclined to believe her.

"What is it, Ella?" he drawled, feigning far more exasperation than he actually felt.

She kept her eyes trained on her feet, a hand at her brow as though she were trying to avoid accidentally looking up at him. Even with the distance between them, he could see her face was bright red. "I…erm, there's something important you need to see, Sir."

"Then where is it?" he returned. He didn't even try to keep from rolling his eyes. If this was more tax rubbish….

"It's not…exactly here, Sir."

"And still you saw fit to interrupt my business." He watched as the flush drained from her face, leaving her cheeks splotchy and several shades paler than usual. And, though Reaver knew perfectly well that it would be counterproductive to beat her over the disruption (she was far too loyal to deserve it and far too good at her job, unlike the very rare few whom had actually crossed him in the past), the insinuation had the pleasant side effect of making Cillian gather up his clothes that much faster.

An unpleasant silence filled the room as Cillian grabbed his jacket and, only glancing back once, slipped out of the room. The door closed behind him and the tension went with him, leaving the room comfortable, if rather poorly illuminated.

"Was that completely necessary, My Lord?" Ella enquired, finally lowering her hand as Reaver shrugged on a dressing gown. "I only interrupt in an emergency."

"Ella," he cut in, trying to keep her from running off on a tangent, "what did you find?"

"There…was an attack, Sir," she began uncertainly. "At the castle, I mean. Someone tried to kill the queen."

And the world came to a halt around him.

Victoria lay in her cot, staring up at the carvings of ivy and flowers along the edges of the infirmary ceiling. She'd spent the night there, under "observation"…which didn't quite make sense to her, for everyone else had retired to bed by midnight. Nanny had given her enough potions for sleep and healing that Victoria was certain she'd be injury resistant for the next four years, disregarding the fact that potions didn't work that way. Jericho had lingered nearby, sleeping on the next cot over after retrieving some of Victoria's research and some books from the library along with her dog, Nero, from where he'd been begging scraps and attention from the kitchens. Though Nero was still asleep—snoring little doggie snores—Victoria was fairly certain that Jericho was awake, but in no hurry to have a conversation. Given the infirmary was empty but for them and a single occupant at the far end of the room, Victoria was completely fine with allowing the silence to remain.

It was the first time in two years that her thoughts were as silent as her surroundings.

Dusty morning sunlight streamed in from the large, arched windows, illuminating the old tapestries and pastel landscapes that hung at intervals around the room. Victoria could smell sea salt and damp earth through the single open window; birdsong trickled in with it, carried on a cold breeze. The last of the snow had finally melted only a week or so previously and Victoria was looking forward to the dead plants slowly returning to life. The castle seemed sombre without them.

An hour or so passed before a maid finally brought up a breakfast tray for them. They ate in silence. A lot of being in Jericho's company was sitting in silence. Words were extremely important to her and socialization was painfully uncomfortable, as consequence Jericho didn't often speak. Though Victoria wanted to ask her more about herself, Victoria also respected her and was willing to try…if only for Jericho's sake.

They slowly finished eating—Nero having eaten more than his fair share of black pudding. Jericho returned to her books, relaxing against her cot's headboard as though she weren't trying to make sure no one tried to sneak in and finish the assassin's job. Victoria simply sat there, alternating between stretching her stiff muscles and petting Nero. She wondered if it was fine for her to leave or if Nanny would hunt her down for doing so. Granted, if Nanny had it her way, Victoria probably would spend more than half of her life stuck in the infirmary, so it was most likely for the best if she crept out before Nanny came to check on them.

Rolling her shoulders and neck, Victoria felt her spine crackle pleasantly but froze as Nero gave a low growl. The growls became soft woofs as Victoria turned towards the infirmary's door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jericho slowly set aside her book. Hurried footsteps purposefully heading towards the infirmary –more than one set, Victoria thoughts—and raised, muffled voices. Victoria rubbed Nero's neck in an effort to calm him as she and Jericho exchanged dubious glances.

The voices abruptly quieted just before the door swung open, revealing a concerned Walter and a harried Reaver. For once, they didn't look like they wanted to kill each other. Victoria found that oddly more concerning than the previous night's assassin.

"Walter! …and…Reaver," she began, faltering on his name as though uncertain she wanted to say it. "Not that this isn't…erm…thrilling, but what are you both doing here? Walter were you not observing troop movements? And…I have neither an idea nor a care for what or whom you were doing, Reaver, but I highly doubt coming all the way to Bowerstone was worth it."

"I suspect we both have entirely different ideas of what is worth our time—"

"We heard about your near accident," Walter calmly stated, neatly cutting off Reaver before he could begin ranting. "And your attacker."

"We? As in both of…?"

"Your shoddy security measures aside, this is an issue that simply must be addressed!" Reaver chided, firmly rapping his walking stick twice against the tiled floor.

"You're not seriously blaming me for someone's breaking into my home and attempting to kill me?!" Victoria shot back. She was well aware she was a little too eager to start a fight, but…so was he. And this was how they'd always been, right? Residual anger couldn't be affecting her in any way, right? Everything is fine. Right…fine.

"Before this progresses, we need to focus on what is actually important right now," Walter intoned, stopping them both in their tracks. Even with his enormous goatee in the way, it was obvious he was frowning. "Are you alright?"

"I am, Walter. I'm…I'm more angry than anything, really."

"What happened?"

"…Hobson and I were arguing about—" she hesitated, unwilling to go into detail with Reaver and Jericho listening in and tried to detour around the unhelpful truths— "stupid tax stuff," Victoria finally said. Staring down at the stark white sheets, she carefully relayed the events of the previous night. With equal care, she left out the Crawler's whispers in the back of her mind. None of them needed to know about that; perhaps, one day, she would be comfortable enough with the idea of letting them in on her secret. But it was not currently an option. She also elected to leave out Jericho's involvement in the assassin's death, aware that it almost sounded as though the assassin had almost magically attracted a dagger to his neck. As far as she was concerned, Jericho was more than capable of bringing it up if she felt the need. Otherwise, there was no point in inviting Reaver's commentary on the subject. Not that it mattered; Reaver commented on anything he liked, regardless of its subject.

By the time she'd finished speaking, an uneasy silence had filled the room. For once, Victoria was certain she knew why. They'd had creatures come to attack the crown before, but this was the first time a human enemy had attacked them since Victoria had taken the throne from her brother. No one had ever made such an obvious grab for control before. And every single one of them was invested—either personally or financially—in the success of the current regime. If someone was making a bid for power, that could only mean one thing: war.

The thought alone made her blood turn to ice. She didn't want to think about having to put the country through that so soon after the ordeal with…her brother.

After a beat, Walter proposed: "If we're looking for an assassin, we should contact the Conclave; they may be able to tell us who this man was."

"I don't think it was the Conclave ," Victoria confessed. "I don't think they had anything to do with it. The Conclave aren't the sort to have one of their people just…walk up to me. If the Conclave wanted me dead, they would have been much cleverer and I doubt I'd be speaking with you now."

"I concur. It's so very unfortunate there's not more information on exactly who was responsible for this…gruesome attempt on your life." If Reaver had been any more sarcastic, Victoria might have contemplated chucking a pillow at him. But what, she wondered, was the sarcastic part? Their lack of information or that someone had attacked her? As far as she was concerned, where he was directing his humour probably meant something important.

She almost wondered if Reaver was to blame for the assassin, except…it lacked his sense of style and drama. If he was going to kill her, she had no doubt that he would be the one to do it, not some hired hand. And it would have been far better planned out. Most likely, it would have lacked witnesses, as well. He would have made an art of it—messy, horrifically painful, excessively drawn out art. It would not be a peaceful passing. As such, this mess couldn't have anything to do with him…could it?

"He didn't…have anything to say about who hired him, did he?" Walter added, sounding fractionally more intrigued than concerned as his words sliced through her inner monologue.

Victoria paused, trying to search her memory. "I-I don't…wait. Now that I think on it, he might have. He mentioned some…General Turner. Does that name mean anything to you?"

"Oh, Avo," Walter murmured, dropping down into the chair nearest Victoria's cot. He looked as if he'd suddenly aged a decade as he and Reaver exchanged knowing, almost foreboding, looks. Her concern began to build once more. It was concerning enough the few times that he and Reaver both agreed on something, but for them to both act as though they were in on the same secret? That was bad.

"What is it?"

"If Solomon Turner is involved, this goes far beyond anything I could have anticipated," Walter admitted.

"I…am afraid I must, once more, concur," Reaver said soberly, mood shifting faster than Victoria could keep up with. Though it wasn't as if she were making much of an effort to try.

"Why?" Victoria enquired, impatience leaking into her voice. The name sounded oddly familiar, like something she'd heard as a child and had forgotten about. "Who is Solomon Turner?"

"He was a good man…at one time," Walter began. "He enlisted in the army around the same time Swift and myself did. He helped see your father to the throne! We served together for thirty-five years and he was immensely well respected—"

"And then he launched a coup against Logan," Reaver interrupted. Something in his tone reminded Victoria of a gossiping old woman at tea and it almost made the news sound less grave.

"I had never heard of such a thing," Jericho intoned, once more reminding the room of her presence.

"Neither did I," Victoria agreed. She found it very strange. Prior to their revolution, she had rarely left the castle. Surely the servants would have been whispering about it near her at some point or another. And yet…she had no memory of it. "What happened?"

Walter rubbed at his temples, clearly trying to rid himself of some stress. "Everything went to hell. It was shortly after Logan returned from Aurora; you were…indisposed."

If by indisposed he meant "you were lying in a hospital bed, recovering from running away from home and nearly losing your face to a balverine", then that explained quite a bit. Still, it was strange to her that something so important had missed her entirely. Then again, Logan had clearly taken greater pains to hide things from her at that time.

"Logan was different when he returned," Walter continued. "We all saw it, and, of course, not one of us knew why. Swift and I were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt—blame it on the stress of being a newly appointed king and the hardship of having a mission fail for the first time. Solomon, however, had different ideas. He became convinced that Logan, and the monarchy by extension, was evil. And that the monarchy needed to be destroyed. Swift and I didn't want to help him—we didn't know just how bad everything would become. We saw a scared, overly-ambitious child…and Solomon saw a throne that needed to be empty so the people could create their own government."

"Only it didn't quite work out as planned," Reaver cut in. "I'd heard of it second hand, but wasn't he ousted by his own soldiers?"

"I don't know who told Logan," Walter replied. "All I know is that the coup was destroyed in a single night. Dozens of men were lost; Solomon was arrested and sent away."

"Sent where?" Victoria asked.

The look Reaver gave her was almost chiding. "Where else do you send a traitor? Ravenscar Keep, of course."

Victoria and Jericho exchanged confused frowns. "What's Ravenscar Keep?"

It was Reaver's turn to look confused. "You don't…?" He paused, turning to frown accusatorily at Walter. "In all this time, you didn't tell her?"

"What didn't you tell me?" It sounded distantly familiar to her, but, as with General Turner, she couldn't recall where she'd heard it. Something to do with Logan….

Walter roughly dragged a hand through his short, grey hair with a heavy sigh. "I didn't want it to become a crutch like it did for Logan. You've seen her give judgments—she does perfectly well without the Keep holding her back!"

"Oh, yes, and we can see how perfectly well that—"

"What aren't you telling me?!" Victoria half-shouted, trying desperately to get them to stop bickering and to start answering her.

"Your father took it over," Walter finally said. "Ravenscar Keep is on an island to the south. When Sparrow came across it, he decided it would be a perfect deterrent. A place to keep the worst criminals away from society. For a time it even worked. Would anyone really want to risk being sent there?"

"So what went wrong?" Victoria enquired.

"Logan returned from Aurora…and everything changed. He had changed. Suddenly, everyone who showed the smallest hint of threat was sent to the Keep. Dozens, if not a couple hundred, of prisoners over the years," Walter elaborated. "There's a lot of unjustly imprisoned people there. I didn't want you to fall into the same trap. It's too easy to rely on a simple fix."

Victoria remained silent, thinking it over. She'd not imagined something like this existed. Disappointment that Walter hadn't seen fit to entrust this information to her sooner put aside for the moment, she was at a loss for words. What was she supposed to say? She certainly wasn't alright with it. However, she couldn't say she completely objected to the idea, either. She was well aware there were people that were too dangerous to keep in a simple prison; such an isolated location…surely it was better to place them there than near others? At the same time, how could they hope to rehabilitate them from so far away? "Why not try to appeal his verdicts? Try to get the people that don't deserve to be there out?"

"The documents were nowhere to be found," Walter scratched at the back of his head, frowning. "I checked everywhere in the castle, but they're not here."

"Not that it matters now," Reaver interjected. "Clearly the only thing to do is speak with Turner. See if he's really involved or if your attacker was merely pointing fingers."

"Whether or not Mr. Turner is involved, I doubt he will be willing to speak to Victoria. He has no incentive to consider it," Jericho observed, her voice almost soothing.

She was right, Victoria knew. There was nothing they had to offer him to insure he'd be truthful. She knew she couldn't offer him a pardon. There was no guarantee that he'd abandoned his desire to destroy the monarchy and she wasn't cruel enough to lie about the possibility of freedom.

"Then offer him a harsher sentence for refusing," Reaver drawled, waving his hand dismissively.

"That would do the opposite," Walter shot back. "Solomon is an experienced soldier; he knows what to do when he's interrogated by an enemy—which is very nearly what you're suggesting," he added to Reaver with a disapproving glance.

"I was not suggesting it," Reaver interrupted. "I was stating that it's the best and most logical course of action…especially when Her Majesty's life is being threatened."

"I think we all know perfectly well what your history of 'logical' and 'well thought out' courses of action is," Walter snapped, rising from his seat. He wasn't even close to Reaver's height, but he made up for it through sheer strength of presence.

"My history?" Reaver began almost delicately, taking a half step closer. His lips curled derisively and his posture possessed none of its usual grace—brawlers and bar fights came immediately to Victoria's mind. "Why don't we talk about your history…and how the last major decision you made nearly resulted in Victoria's death?" Dropping his voice in pseudo-sympathy, he went on: "It must bother you so much to know you swore to protect her, and yet she was far safer with me than she ever was with you."

Walter's hand twitched as though he were repressing the urge to deck him. Instead, he lowered his voice and replied, "I might take what you have to say more seriously if you weren't the same man who gave up his shot at the crown because you didn't find the engagement fun any longer. You lost your chance to order me around. Tell me, how often does that sting, Reaver?"

Reaver had gone paler than usual, jaw tense. His throat worked a moment before, almost inaudibly, he said, "Every day. It stings every day."

"As it should."

"This isn't helping!" Victoria snapped, trying to ignore the discomfort in her stomach. She didn't want to see them fight. And, while she understood why she was concerned for Walter—she'd long since come to terms with him being as close to a father as she currently had—she didn't understand why she felt so protective of Reaver. He was powerful, he was capable, and she was utterly furious with him behind the politeness and focus on the matters at hand. He didn't need protecting and she should have no desire to offer it. So why couldn't she let it go?

"What isn't helping," Reaver asserted, making no effort to calm down, "is that we're standing here, listening to crack-pot theories dissecting hearsay history lessons when we know exactly who has answers and we could already be off to see him."

"Reaver, if you're going to keep antagonizing Walter, I will have you escorted off the castle's grounds. By your hair, if my guards must," Victoria cautioned, letting the challenge linger in the air between them. She could feel Jericho staring at her, but didn't move to return it. Someone needed to keep Reaver in line. Just because she didn't want to see him hurt didn't meant she was going to let him play the bully.

He stared at her a long moment, body tense, as though he were debating whether or not to keep arguing with her. All at once, he relaxed and stepped back to lean against the far wall. Once settled, he waved a dismissive hand in Victoria's direction, as though telling her to commence with whatever she had in mind.

She resisted the urge to sigh at him, not willing to egg him on, before turning back to Walter. "Unfortunately, there is some urgency to finding out whether or not this was a planned attack or just a coincidence. Do you think you could find any of the files on Turner's arrest?"

"I might," Walter conceded with a slight frown. "But there's as good a chance those files are wherever the missing ones are."

"If you can't find them where the majority of the archives are, then don't bother," Victoria instructed. "As much as I'd like to research before making a move, there's no point to us wasting time when I can go to the Keep myself."

"I will assist him. That will be the quickest way to find them, it they are there," Jericho murmured. Though her voice was soft, her eyes were not. Calculating, observing, piecing things together that they didn't say through their body language alone.

"Thank you," Victoria responded as Walter did the same. She turned to Reaver, hoping she wouldn't come to regret this as she began, "Reaver, can you—"

"E-excuse me, Ma'am?" a nervous voice interrupted. A small, thin soldier stood in the doorway as though unsure of himself. As four sets of eyes turned to him, he seemed to hunch in on himself as though he wanted to be anywhere but there.

"Yes?" Victoria replied, patience beginning to wane once more.

"Y-you're wanted at the—at the Industrial docks, Your Majesty," the soldier stammered, his ears going red.

Reaver scoffed. "We're in the middle of—"

"Did something happen?" Vitoria interrupted, pushing her blankets off her legs. Her nightgown had bunched up around her thighs and she found herself wishing for warmer clothes.

"I…I don't know, Ma'am," he replied. "I was told something 'bout a strange ship and Captain Finn says it's urgent you meet him. Armed, he said. Immediately, he said!"

Victoria slowly got to her feet, trying not to look at anyone but the soldier as she thanked him and sent him back to his post. Her thoughts were racing. Not for the first time this morning, she wondered if the assassin had only been the beginning of something far, far worse.

AN: If anyone thought Reaver was on the road to being a good person after MoI...sorry. Not quite yet. Don't forget to review if you want new chapters!

Dev. Notes: The beginning of this chapter is literally the reason we didn't get a couple weeks of a T rating. Reaver, please. I can introduce you early, but I can't do anything if you're walking around with your goods out. Making out with boys you hate. Complaining about taxes. I bet you didn't even sleep last night. Tsk, tsk. What a boy.