Chapter 23

The wagon ride back to camp is uncomfortably silent. Not a single person bothers to speak. Some poorly repressed sniffles and a few coughs here and there are the only forms of expression wafting around our melancholy troops. It's painfully obvious who did and didn't get the order to return their gear and leave; the puffy red eyes of a thin boy over here, the mournful, absent eyes of a girl over there. I suppose I ought to consider myself one of them, but for some strange reason, I just don't. It's probably the thick layer of denial cloaking me like armor. What else do I have, if not for that?

My body feels utterly battered and bruised. My chest aches like hell, my lips are almost imperceptibly swollen and my gut feels raw and taxed. Like a hide stretched out to be tanned, I'm pulled thin, wound tight and practically on display regardless of what I do. Sympathetic glances are cast my way so frequently I can't help but swing between nauseous and irked. The fact that I managed to royally pass out in order to earn my ticket out of the camp shouldn't make me easier to empathize with than anyone else in the bottom quarter that flunked out, but for some stupid reason, it does. I can practically hear people sending telepathic messages advocating for the unfairness of my disposal, saying I didn't have a fighting chance and my collapse cut my run of the course too short to really assess anything.

But I've already confessed to my poor health. It's a decently well known fact among the people I associate frequently with; no doubt, it's trickled out far enough to reach at least one or two of the officer's ears. Not to mention the almost regular visits I have been making to the infirmary. Who would I be fooling if I said this was a one time accident? Anyone with a functioning brain would understand that what happened to me earlier was the result of my inability to prepare properly for the jarring sensation of maneuvering ODM gear in the air.

I ignore the stares that flock to me and instead watch the road roll by, the wheels turning endlessly. The wagon rocks, rumbling as we go, making me a tad sleepy. It's funny, almost. I've practically been made homeless by Shadis and yet I can't be bothered to care.

I'm not particularly inclined to fall asleep right now, though, not with that peculiar woman and the strange green eyed man haunting my unconsciousness. I wish I could pause time, just to sit down and process what I remember seeing flayed before my eyes earlier, but my brain is too preoccupied with thoughts of the scene I witnessed. If what I saw was truly what transpired, then…

Six months.

It's been just over half a year since Reiner and I spoke, let alone approached each other. I thought it would be easy to repress the sensations and feelings starting to well up inside me, but after seeing him earlier–after feeling my body relax slightly just because he was there–I realize, now, that there's no point in pretending what has developed inside of me doesn't exist.

I desire him. Deeply, from the looks of things.

An image of Reiner bent in half over my limb body, mouth hovering over my own, floods my mind and everything turns sour. If it had been him lying there I wouldn't have hesitated. Hell, I might've started administering mouth to mouth prematurely just to have the excuse to touch my lips to his. How depraved is that? But I would've done it. I would have.

I glance around the wagon. I don't know all of the trainees here all that well, but for all the ones whose names I've bothered to remember, all I can think of as I look at them is that I would administer mouth to mouth if they needed it. Because it's a matter of life and death. Because these people have grown close to me, to each other, to life. I would do it if they hated me.

I sigh, closing my eyes and tilting my head back to watch the sky spread wide above me. Is that why Eren did what he did, then?

No; there's no use in jumping to conclusions. Aliva is logical; she wouldn't accept some weird dream as fact before she could even confirm whether or not it was true. I crack an eye open, glancing around the wagon. Who could I possibly ask to tell me a decent account of what happened, without embarrassing me or altering the events?

"Marco," I murmur, leaning around the girl sitting in between us.

"Yeah?"

I glance at the girl, contemplating speaking over her. To my pleasure, she blinks and offers to swap spots with Marco. I wait until they've readjusted their sitting spots to speak to him. "I want to know what happened."

His look changes, sympathetic and understanding. For some reason, it kind of reminds me of Johan. They could be cousins, the two of them. "Ah. How much do you remember?"

I shrug. I can tell the people around us are trying to appear disinterested in the conversation and failing. Mindful to keep my voice low, I narrate something that I figure sounds plausible. "Just a bit. I was struggling to breathe when Reiner showed up. He thought it was the gear or my shirt cutting off my airflow, so he tried helping me out of it, but…"

Marco nods along. He waits until I've trailed off to a definitive silence before speaking. "It was pretty chaotic when I got there. I was on my last run of the course when I saw the crowd. Armin had found one of the officers, and was trying to plead with him to summon Shadis. That's how I knew it was serious."

My brows knit together. "The officers weren't on the move already?"

He shakes his head. "No. I think that's why everyone was so panicked. The ones we could see were just standing there, writing stuff down."

Ice threads itself down my spine. I shiver. "Were they…scoring everyone's reactions?"

Marco, bless him, seems wary to badmouth the officers, but the grim set of his lips tells me more than enough. Bastards. What if none of the trainees knew anything about handling these sorts of situations? Would they have just left me there to die? "You were unconscious when I got there. Everyone was so worried. It's a relief that you were able to wake up shortly afterwards; who knows how bad things would've been if you'd stayed in that state for too long."

I can't help but frown slightly. "Could you elaborate? I'm having trouble understanding what exactly happened."

Marco shifts a little bit, almost as if he's reluctant to provide further details. It doesn't seem like he's bashful about the subject…more like he's trying to be considerate of me? "I'm not sure…"

"Marco," I interject, gently but firmly. "You're the only one I can ask this from."

He wavers, mouth open, and then submits. Scratching his ear, he gives me a sheepish look. "Alright, Aliva. But please don't get upset with anyone. It was a really tense situation."

"Of course," I nod helpfully. Who knows how I would've reacted upon hearing the news for the first time from Marco? If what the girl showed me before is what transpired, then at least I'll have the benefit of time to process what went down.

Jean's friend takes a moment to study our surroundings, watching the sun creeping below the hills. It shouldn't be much further to the camp. How I'll weasel myself out of being kicked out is still beyond me, but it's a problem for later. For right now, I close my eyes and let myself focus solely on Marco's story. "You were a little indecent, because of what Reiner did," Marco starts, voice a little unsure. I can't help but chuckle a little bit; it's not like anything more than a bit of my cleavage was exposed. I don't really see why that matters. At least my amusement does the trick; my storyteller's words grow surer of themselves once the awkward part is addressed. He carries on. "But I assure you, he was very civil. You stopped breathing, and then your pulse went away too. It was Mikasa who brought up starting compressions."

"Is that so?" I prompt, thinking back to how deftly she'd assessed the situation upon arrival. She'll make a good soldier, once she graduates from training.

"Mhm. Afterwards, she said it was all thanks to Doctor Yeager."

Figures. I crack an eye open. "So did she take over?"

Marco shakes his head. "No, Reiner did it. I suppose he knew well enough to at least start the motions." I stare at him with my best, why'd you say it like that? face, until Marco coughs up the rest of the story. "But he uh…well, there's no gentle way to put it, but I think he got overwhelmed by the whole thing. Pretty understandable. I think I would've frozen up, too."

"So he just stopped giving compressions?"

He shakes his head lightly, mindful to keep the movement small so as not to draw too many eyes. "No, that part was fine. It was the, ah, the mouth to mouth he couldn't do."

"Ah."

Marco goes to scratch his ear again. I take a moment to focus on my expression, to make sure it's curious and not pushy. "Did Mikasa take over for him then?"

Marco's hand moves from his ear to his eye, palm rubbing away an itch. "It was Eren, actually. I haven't the slightest clue why." He nudges me almost conspiratorially, that easy friendliness I've always seen between him and Jean filtering into our exchange. "There's been a lot of speculation as to why. Some of us were convinced he would only do that sort of thing if it was for Mikasa, you know, and it's not like the two of you are the chummiest trainees in the hundred and seventh."

I laugh quietly. "Very true." I rub my bottom lip between my thumb and pointer finger, imagining what that sort of moment would've looked like to anyone else. I should've paid more attention to everyone else's faces when it happened, but alas, I was more preoccupied with my near-death out of body experience.

"In any case," Marco carries on at length, "I think I speak for all of us when I say that I'm glad that you're okay." He glances down into his lap and sighs. "Though it's unfair about you leaving and all. I wish there was something we could do for you."

I pause, the delicious warmth of a scheme crackling to life like kindling taking to flame. "Actually," I murmur lowly, a grin already beginning to form on my face, "there is something I need help with."

The sun is virtually absent from the horizon by the time the trainees stand up and begin to file off the wagons. I stand up and lean against the back of the seat, propping one of my feet up on the bench and stretching lightly. No one pays me any heed as I do. Marco gets up and hops into the line to get off the wagon, and the girl behind me politely waits for me to go in front of her before I wave her through. "Go ahead," I reassure her. She gives me a half smile to acknowledge she heard me, then brushes ahead. I take a moment to look around the camp nonchalantly; the calm before the storm. If anyone glanced my way, no doubt they would assume I'm taking one final wistful look at the place I'll soon leave.

A sharp yelp garners everyone's attention as Marco trips and stumbles off the wagon's edge, flailing his arms in a desperate attempt to grab onto something, anything. I hear a half dozen exclamations of alarm rise up to join his, people clambering to his rescue like bees flocking to sugary apples.

In their haste to assist him, no one notices as I swing my body over the edge of the wagon and hit the ground running.

My abdomen protests immediately, sore and exhausted after today's ordeal. The pain makes me want to stop moving. My body is begging me to just give up. It protests in singsong, lulling me into surrender, coaxing me with its melodic caress. Yet I cannot give in. I cannot indulge in the rest I so desperately crave—not unless it is in this accursed camp that I can sleep.

I take my time in darting from shadow to shadow, from alley to alley. My preoccupation with stealth prevents me from forming an in-depth plan, but honestly, I have a gut feeling I know what needs to be said and done. Why else would I be running this way if not to do what I do best?

The area of the camp I'm currently drinking through is significantly quieter compared to the areas the trainees frequent. It's smaller, too; I find the calm, quaint atmosphere of the place preferable to the overcrowded bunks and halls for the 107th.

It's my first time here, so I hunker down between two oversized wooden barrels and watch the officer's buildings for a few minutes. I don't have an outrageously long time to dally around until people notice I'm missing and come looking, but it'll do me no good to wander aimlessly without a decent plan or sense of direction. I take note of which buildings have a higher concentration of casually-dressed adults going in and out versus which are plagued more so by people still in uniform. I glance at a few signs, frowning when I realize I haven't the slightest clue what they could possibly be saying. My lessons with both Armin and Bertholdt are as good as over. If I want to find a way to boost my literacy, I sure as hell won't be looking towards either of them.

After mulling my options over for an extra minute, I take my chances and shoot for the building with the uniforms. It's late, but chances are, my target will have to return to the office to draft some sort of report about today's events. All I have to do is get there before him.

I slink out of my hiding spot, beelining for the big building with the clean-pressed uniforms and firm lined-mouths. I adjust my posture as I go: from hurried and slouched to purposeful and proud. I am here because I am supposed to be, just like everyone else.

In the end, I walk through the door without so much as a single lingering glance. The hallways inside are lightly decorated, with smartly accentuated furnishings and enough decorum to put this building just slightly above all the other ones I've been in since enlisting in terms of its status. The floorboards aren't warped, stained, or faded; rather, it looks like whoever oversees the management of this place has done a good job of keeping it tasteful and clean. I wonder for a second if there's a separate chef for the officers, too, with how minimal yet profound the quality of living seems to be between our statuses.

It's only once I've hit the stairwell that I realize I have no real idea where to go from here. It's not a half bad plan, truthfully, but it does me no good if I can't make it to my destination at the very least. I sidestep and salute as two officers head down the stairs from the level above me. One of them looks me over, but their companion is too busy plowing ahead for those eyes to linger long. I've avoided suspicion thus far, but no doubt my luck will run out soon.

I take the stairs up since I'm already here and lament the way my thighs immediately start to grow agitated with the additional exertion. Today's clearly not my day. The second floor is a lot quieter than the first, with not even a single person out and about in the halls. There's even fewer doors up here. I stroll quietly away from the stairs, looking at the plaques on the doors and chastising my previous self for failing to master reading the second I started being tutored. I haven't the faintest clue what my target's name even looks like when written down. I glance down at the doorknob of the room I'm currently standing in front of. Could I just open a few unlocked doors, peek in, and hope for the best?

The doorknob wiggles, and I jump back, but not before the door swings open. In its place stands a tall blonde man with a clean shave and a white button up shirt on. He's got some sort of funky necklace on, with a color similar to his eyes. They remind me of a blue sky, almost. "I'm afraid this is the men's room," he says, which makes me regret being here even more.

"Sorry," I sputter, wincing at the way my words come out. So much for trying to come off as polished and poised. "I'm not looking for the restroom." The officer's thick eyebrows don't even twitch upwards, but nonetheless, it seems like he's waiting for me to fill in the silence. "I'm looking for Keith Shadis's office."

To my surprise, the man's expression turns almost…amused. "Ah. You're in luck; I happen to be on my way there. Allow me to escort you."

I step back to give him ample room to enter into the hall. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," he insists, in a weird way that makes me unsure whether or not it actually is. I slip back into the man's periphery, following him down the hall and around the corner. He takes me towards one door set slightly apart from the rest of them–no doubt an indicator of a larger room than normal–and holds the door open for me. I'm surprised it's not locked. "He'll be up shortly."

I nod and file in, mindful of the presence now situated in my blind spot. To avoid having to strike up a conversation with this stranger, I feign interest in observing my surroundings. Shadis keeps a tidy office: small desk, miniscule adornments, large windows. A banner for each of the three military branches hangs suspended on the wall behind his desk. I eye each critically, thinking about how different the divisions are from each other, despite sharing their enlistment processes.

The bathroom man comes to stand beside me, weirdly at ease despite entering into a vacant office with a girl he's never met. I follow his gaze and realize that he, too, seems to be focusing on those three banners. "Have you given much thought to where you would offer your service upon graduation?"

"A little," I confess, because it's an open truth. Frankly, it would be weirder for me to say that I hadn't given it a single thought. What surprises me, though, is the way I continue to speak even though further detail isn't strictly necessary. Something about this man makes me want to talk and talk, like there's something I have to prove to him, something which can only be achieved by making sure that he understands what I intend to convey. "I lack the skill and finesse to ever hope to place in the top ten, so the military police brigade is out of the question. Really, it's just a matter of picking between the scouts and the garrison regiment."

The man turns his head towards me. This time, I feel like he's actually looking at me. "And?"

My answer hasn't changed, not even since losing touch with whatever memories and aspects of my personhood I laid claim to only a few short months ago. Even though all I have are hollow words heralding a gruesome future not yet come to pass–though I'm fully aware my decision to stay enlisted only draws me closer to death–I cannot help but feel that if I were to leave this place and the people here behind, I would regret it miserably.

"I plan to join the scouts, if I manage to graduate. But it's a secret."

"And why the scouts? Do you wish to serve humanity?"

I laugh, accidentally cutting him off before I can stop myself. "Goodness, no. I'm not that selfless. Maybe I used to be, but certainly not anymore."

I wasn't expecting that sort of answer to be considered funny, but he smiles fractionally anyways. "Humor me, then. Why the scouts?"

This time, I choose my words carefully, deliberately. Sometimes the safest lie is the truth. "When I first enlisted, I believed that standing here in this camp would be my way to earn a shot at a second chance. I think about the scouts that way, too, I guess. As a means to an end. Regardless of where I go, the division I choose will use me like human fodder. Is it so wrong of me to choose the one division I feel I can best use in return?"

The man stares me down for an extra-long second; after he's done studying me, he chuckles. "No, I don't suppose it is. It's a rather refreshing answer."

I find myself expelling a sharp exhale through my nose, almost as a means to disguise the random urge to smile. "Hn."

Whatever do I care for his approval for?

There's no point in dwelling on that sudden turn of thoughts, seeing as Shadis picks that exact moment to meander through the door. He sees the strange man first and recognition flares to life in his eyes; the next, it morphs into a kind of wary, exhausted irritation as he sees me.

"I believe I told you to–"

"Give me a moment, please–"

"Keith."

The room falls silent. The atmosphere is suffocatingly awkward and simultaneously tense; if it wasn't absolutely necessary for me to be in here right now, then I would be itching to retreat and leave these two men to their meeting. But I'm out of options, out of time. I can't get kicked out of here.

Another beat passes, and then Shadis sighs. He rubs a hand over his face and retreats to his desk, pulling out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Gripping the bottle by its neck, he waves it towards the two chairs on the other side of the desk. "Sit down. Both of you."

Me and the stranger do as instructed, picking out seats in such a way that it only serves to exacerbate the differences in our standings. I pick the chair nearest to the door in the event that I need to make a quick exit; the other man takes the one closer to the window, propping his elbow up on the arm rest like he fully expects for his business here to take awhile. Shadis notices the other man's posture and frowns. When he turns to me, I realize that the blonde guy's presence here may have single handedly soured Shadis's mood enough to dampen my chances of holding onto my ODM gear for another dawn.

He uncaps the bottle, tilting it over the rim of the first glass. "Go on, then."

I can't help but hesitate. I sneak a peek at the man to my left, debating whether or not to say everything I planned on saying when there's an eavesdropper in the room. I can't exactly ask him to step out, though, can I? Would that be considered audacious?

The blonde smiles, even though he doesn't look at me. "Keith and I are long-standing associates. I'm here today as a friend. Not a man of my station."

Shadis grumbles under his breath, but he does pass the filled glass over the desk before pouring himself a splash of whiskey. The blonde takes the offering and swirls it passively. I watch the amberish, brownish liquid frolic about in its cage, a dancer's skirt wallowing in a ceaseless circle. I wait for some sort of denial to come out of Shadis's mouth, but nothing does. It seems he truly doesn't see the other man here as threatening in the slightest. Though, that may very well be because he's yet to hear what I plan on saying.

I take a moment to center myself. There is dirt under my fingernails, word-shaped filth carved out of the ground by a girl I can't recall ever being. I'm gambling with unknown variables: if I take the leap, I might fall. There's nothing to prove the validity of the claim I'm about to make other than for the fact that I made it once before when I wrote it down in that book. Nothing to save me if Shadis decides to punish me for hearsay, slander, and bribery.

"I know what you did to Eren Yeager's ODM swing belt."

The whiskey stops circling in the glass. Shadis stills, eyes narrowing. There's an open threat to the immediate change in his disposition. Just a second I was pitying myself for picking a time to show up when we had an audience; now, I'm grateful that he can't deny what I've said because we have a witness. "Do you realize what you're claiming?"

"Yes. It is not unfounded. I am well aware of both your actions and the motivation behind it."
Shadis looks angrier than before at the implication that I could even possibly stand to understand what drives the things he does. But I do. At least, I did. Or whoever I once was certainly was convinced they did. Either way, now isn't the time for me to stop. I worry that vague sentences will get me nowhere but kicked out at this point: I need to corner him, and swiftly.

I take a breath. Once I go out on a limb like this, I'll either have him right where I want him, or I'll be branded a nut job on top of being the pathetically frail runt of the 107th. "You have a soft spot for Carla's boy. I get it. But you can't protect him from his fate. He was always going to exceed your capabilities."

I make a mental note never to gamble when the man next to me is at the table. He looks as if he's overhearing Shadis and I discuss the arbitrary changes in the weather, of all things. That is, until Shadis speaks. He stares me down long and hard, as if debating whether to execute me on the spot or do it later in a more humiliating manner. "Your name, again?"

"Aliva Moreau." I can't say I'm surprised.

The blond man takes his first sip of his drink. I notice his lips pucker for a moment, cheek indenting. He offers me a passing look. It reminds me of the way he looked earlier when we talked about the divisions: like an artisan, scrutinizing a potential tool.

"And what is it you want, Moreau? I've already dismissed you. Your performance today was nothing short of abhorrent. Do not think a simple threat as loose as this could convince me to retract my decision."

I sit up a little straighter, the sharper parts of my consciousness getting ready to slice. Finally, I'm getting somewhere. He's not immediately dismissing me: that means, against all odds, what was written in my textbook was right. "I can be what you can't," I offer, keeping my words vague on purpose. What better way to draw in attention and hold it, than to build up one's natural curiosity and intrigue? "Someone in opposition to Eren won't save him. Pushing him away from the path he's determined to travel down will only make him more firmly rooted to it. What is needed is someone who is capable of journeying with him, to keep the last bit of Carla in this world alive and well."

Shadis scoffs. "You?"

"Yes sir."

He takes a quick sip of his whiskey, eyes narrowing as he talks down his nose at me. "You can't even handle an obstacle course. Let that Ackerman girl handle being his bodyguard."

"It's not strength he'll need," I counter, but I can tell Shadis is getting tired of our back-and-forth.

"What, then, intelligence? Don't tell me you're suddenly scoring higher than Arlert."

Irritation makes the back of my neck prickle with heat. I want to bicker, suddenly: to defend my honor and let Shadis know exactly how irritating he's being. But of course I can't say anything. The second I lash out, he'll truly keep me out for good.

Fine, then. If I can't convince him of my merit, I'll have to show him.

"Respectfully, sir, if you had true faith in them, you wouldn't have messed with his belt." I let that fall for a second, collecting my thoughts for one final push on the matter. "Eren will graduate from the cadets. He'll join the scouts, just like he always promised he would. Mikasa and Armin will follow him, out of the bond they share and their desire to stay together. The reason you can't stop any of this is because you aren't capable of being vicious enough to sabotage his destiny. You can't conjure up a scheme harsh and elaborate enough to surpass his determination. But I can. You and I are the same, sir. You acted with respect to your history with Carla. I intend to do the same. I claimed her life; this is how I intend to settle that debt."

There is a secret scene I've kept close to my heart, a moment I have yet to share with anyone. It comes to me in dreams, in daylight, in doubt and determination. It reminds me of my sin, of my regret, of the lifeblood I owe to Eren Yeager for collecting his mother's future.

Aliva, she whispers, a quiet, mewling melody. Her hand cups my face. She coughs quietly into the moth-ridden fabric of her shirt. Promise me you will cherish Eren in my stead.

I don't understand. Why can't Mikasa?

She already does. How can I ask her for more than that?

What do you mean, more?

I banish the memory before I can think of the rest. That haunting voice lingers, though, percolating through the room until I swear it almost echoes off the walls. I clear my throat. "If you can't trust in me, trust in the faith Carla bestowed upon me before she passed. Trust in her dying wish."

That's all I have. I realize, of course, that I could say more. I could lay everything bare before Shadis in the desperate hope that he'll understand the necessity of my being here. But it feels impossible. Be it pride or shame, I can't bring myself to confess to the rest. Certainly not in this man's company. Certainly not with a stranger here, too.

Like he can read my thoughts, the man in the chair next to me stirs to life. He takes another sip, his cheek puckering again–is he savoring or souring–before setting it down on the desk's wooden top with a thin clack. "Well, Keith?"

Shadis looks like he wants to sigh again. "I can't reinstate you, Moreau. Not if you can't perform physically." He's right, of course, but it's a blow all the same. "Besides, I've already sent word to your father–"

I shoot up so hard I knock my chair backwards. "My father?"

"Yes. Betham Moreau. Current resident of Trost District. I told him to expect your return shortly."

The news makes me dizzy. In a flash I'm just a young kid again, standing in a boat watching my father stay on dry land. I thought he'd died. So did my mother. Instinctively, my hand reaches my ring finger to twist the wedding band I wear daily. Did he know? That we survived? "My father…" Yet, even as I say those words, they don't feel wholly true. The fall of Shiganshina marks the earliest memories I can recall of that man. A day's worth of memory; years' worth of his absence. I feel no closer to him than I do to Hannes.

There is a certain degree of relief, though, in realizing there is less blood on my hands than I thought.

Shadis tilts his head towards the door. "Now that you understand your situation, Moreau, I think it's time for you to go. There's nothing more I can do for you."

Despite myself, I waver, rooted to my seat. Is there truly no cards left that I can play? Have I reached the end of the line, the extent of my abilities? The thought of that makes me bitter, sour regret and reprimand exploding on my tongue.

The blond man raises a staying hand just as I go to rise. "Sit," he says, in a voice low enough to be interpreted as a suggestion, even though its weight betrays how often he's ushered that word as a command. I inch back into the chair. "You permitted me to sit through your discussion; it's only fair I allow you to do the same."

I watch, partially irritated at being forced to stay at the scene of my humiliating defeat for longer than necessary and partially curious as to what two officers could have to say to each other. The stranger procures a letter from his pocket and sets it in front of Shadis before replacing his empty hand with his glass. "It's from Dot."

I frown. The name feels familiar.

"Mm. Yet you're the one delivering it."

He shrugs. "He knows we're close, you see. He felt I could be trusted to ensure the message arrived safely in your hands."

Shadis raises an eyebrow, then sets his glass down and cracks open the letter. The second he pulls it out he frowns. "Explain," he says, turning the paper around to wave an empty piece of parchment our way.

"Pyxis simply wanted to say that this is a lovely time of year for Trost. Perfect weather for a mock defense drill in a walled district."

As Shadis's frown lines cut deeper into his face, I try not to look too interested in what's being said. It's not hard to do, really. Not with the news that my father is well and alive taking over the majority of my headspace. "I can't say I had one planned."

The man nods amicably, like an accommodating host. I get a sneaking suspicion that I wasn't the only one here who set out with the intention of twisting an arm or two. "Perhaps that is why he felt it especially poignant to send correspondence your way. He wouldn't want your latest trainees to miss out."

One look at the man seated across from us makes it painfully apparent that he grows tired of this back and forth. I can practically hear his expression screaming at the other man to cut to the chase already. "What does he want, really? I don't have all night."

"Pyxis needs a distraction. I'm sure news of the outburst of coderoin suppliers and buyers has reached even here by now. It's difficult to meddle in the inner wall, what with certain…obstacles there, but here, at least, the garrison can uphold order."

It's painfully obvious to me that he's tiptoeing around something for my sake, despite being the one to tell me to stay and listen. What's the point in keeping me around if I'm only going to hinder your conversation?

Shadis grunts, takes a long draw, and eyes the other man critically.

"Why my trainees?"

"You're the closest ones to Trost. He needs a distraction that can come in quickly. Something large enough to validate running his troops around the district for, yet something unthreatening enough to prevent tipping off the den and its dealer."

Shadis leans back in his chair. "So he's already found the head of the snake?"

The air to my left sharpens. All of the sudden, I have the sneaking suspicion that my being here isn't because of this man's passing fancy. "Yes.

"It's a man named Betham Moreau."

A/N: Another day, another chapter! I read some especially amusing reviews over the last few days so thank you for that! They're like little treats to keep writing hehe.

Not a whole lot to say down here since it hasn't been all that long in between updates. I got my nails done but that's about it. Okay, until next time!