Becket stood at the door, his hand on the handle.

  “Nakamura, you’re with me,” he said, his tone brisk.

  “What? Why?” Nakamura snapped, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor as he turned to face Becket.

  “This whole plan hinges on whether or not you’ll be recognized as a criminal. You need to test the waters,” Becket said.

  Nakamura scowled, his fingers curling against the armrests. “I don’t take orders from Soldiers.”

  Stick leaned against the far wall, unable to stop himself from chiming in.

  “But you’re not really a Praetorian anymore, are you?” he said, his smirk sharp.

  Nakamura’s jaw tightened, his glare cutting across the room. For a moment, he said nothing, but the rigid set of his shoulders made his resentment clear. Finally, with a muttered curse, he shoved himself out of the chair and stalked toward the door. Before Becket could open it, Priscilla stepped forward, her movements graceful but urgent. She touched his arm, stopping him mid-motion.

  “Be careful,” she said softly, then pulled him into a brief but firm embrace.

  Becket’s expression faltered, his composure cracking for just a moment.

  “Priscilla…” His voice dipped low. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Her fingers lingered on his sleeve. She smiled, warm and reassuring.

  “In due time, my love.”

  Behind them, Shadis, kneeling on the sheets he previously lay in, raised a hand to gesture Stick over. “Mr. Arslan. A word.”

  Stick hesitated, glancing at Becket and Nakamura by the door before stepping forward.

  He started whispering as he approached. “If this is about the risk—don’t. We don’t have a choice. We have to trust him.”

  “That is not what I wanted to say,” Shadis replied, shaking his head. His weathered face softened, his tone unexpectedly earnest. “I wanted to apologize.”

  Stick froze. “What?”

  “I owe you an apology,” Shadis repeated, his voice steady despite the weight of his words.

  Becket released Priscilla from the hug, cracked the door open, and peered outside.

  “It’s clear,” he whispered, and in an instant, he and Nakamura slipped out.

  Becket shot a quick glance back and offered a confident wave. “We’re off, then.”

  They waved them goodbye before the door closed. Stick refocused on Shadis, who cleared his throat.

  “I want to apologize.” His pale hands rested on his knees, trembling slightly. “For what I’ve said. For what I’ve done. I was wrong.”

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  The air in the room seemed to still. Stick was caught off guard, the words taking a moment to sink in. With everything else happening, he struggled to process this unexpected admission.

  “I… You don’t need to—”

  “No,” Shadis interrupted. “Now is the time.” He leaned forward, coughing into his fist before continuing, his voice hoarse but insistent. “I might not have another chance.”

  Stick swallowed hard, the sight of Shadis’ battered face and bruised body forcing a lump into his throat.

  “Don’t say that!” he said, his voice quieter now. “I know you only did what you thought was right.”

  “That doesn’t make it right,” Shadis said, shaking his head. “You’re not just any other adventurer. You’ve been lied to, betrayed, and hurt by those your people might call beneath you—Montgomery, the Prized Possession, me. Yet you’ve refused to join Carnifex, even when it would’ve been easier. That reminded me that not all adventurers are out to get us. That takes more patience, more strength, than most.” He paused to catch his breath, the rasp of his breathing filling the quiet. “I’ve known people like you before. A long time ago. But the last few years have clouded my judgment. For that, I am sorry.”

  Stick looked away, his throat tight. Memories of their escape—betrayals, battles, sacrifices—flooded his mind. He clenched his fists.

  “Thank you,” he said finally, the words raw but sincere. “That… That means a lot.”

  Shadis gave a faint smile, his gaze drifting to the door where Becket and Nakamura had disappeared. “You’ve done more than most would. Not only that, you’re still fighting for something better. You’re looking for ways to unite us, for compromises. That takes more patience and willpower than most. That’s rare.”

  Another coughing fit overtook him, deep and rattling. Without hesitation, Priscilla disappeared into the small kitchen, returning moments later with a cup of water. She placed it in Shadis’ trembling hands, her brow furrowed with concern.

  “You’re too gracious, my lady,” he said before taking a sip.

  “Are you okay?” Stick asked.

  “Don’t waste your concern on me,” Shadis said with a toothy grin. “I’m already a dead man.”

  “Sir Moore!” Priscilla exclaimed, scandalized.

  “It’s the truth,” Shadis said with a wheezing laugh. “I was dead long before this war. Just a farm boy with no purpose, no prospects. Day in, day out, just farm work. No worthwhile life to speak of. Then Lord Alastair came along. A young, brilliant man, full of mad ideas. He gave us direction, breathed life into the East that had been forgotten by Cavon. He turned us into something more—miners, shipwrights, lumberjacks. We did everything he asked. People called him crazy, but without him, Cavon would never have conquered the seas.”

  Stick’s mind filled with the memory of Cavon’s massive fleet, its masts stretching to the horizon. That is Lord Alastair’s doing?

  “He gave me a life,” Shadis continued, his voice softer now. “Yes, I died long ago. But Lord Alastair gave me a life. Made me a knight. His work made him nobility, and a farm boy like me suddenly had the honor of associating with lords and ladies.”

  Priscilla made a graceful bow. “And you fit in quite nicely.”

  Shadis returned the gesture.

  “We worked hard because we wanted the next generation to thrive, not endure the hardships we had to. But then Carnifex came along…” His gaze shifted back to Stick. “You don’t deserve the cards you’ve been dealt, but you’ve done your best. And for what little it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  Stick swallowed hard, his heart pounding. He clenched his fists, struggling not to cry. “I didn’t do it alone.”

  “Your humility honors you,” Shadis said before turning to the Prized Possession. “And thank you as well.”

  The Prized Possession, unaccustomed to such dignity, shifted uncomfortably, his chains jingling.

  “It was nothing,” he murmured.

  Shadis’ smile returned, faint but genuine. “No, thank you. For not giving up on me.”

  Another coughing fit overtook Shadis. From the next room, a baby’s cry shattered the fragile quiet. Priscilla excused herself, returning moments later with a child cradled in her arms. An idea shot through Stick’s head. His curiosity sparked. He inspected the baby’s Status. What he saw made him blink in surprise—it was nearly blank, missing all but its Level 1 status and the [Origin] tag: Nova Civitas.

  “It doesn’t have a name?” Stick asked.

  “Anthony was… undecided,” Priscilla said hesitantly.

  “Undecided?” Stick exclaimed. “But it’s three years old!”

  Before Stick could press further, a sharp, hurried knock rattled the door. The sound was loud enough to make everyone freeze. Stick’s head snapped toward it, his pulse spiking. That was too fast to be Becket.

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