*COMPLETE* Allayria promised to do what it takes to stop the Jarles, to make the ugly decision. She thinks, at last, she understands what the dynast meant. The lesson earned from the top of that lonely cliff and given the dark murky water below.
It...
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In the cold light filtered through the cell bars, Keno's arms dealer looks like a blotchy, bruised mess. Fae takes a certain level of satisfaction in it, a visible echo of her hidden injuries, and the dealer glares out at her, hulked over the bulky manacles that weigh his thick hands down.
Hands that seize, hands that squeeze—
She watches as his gaze flickers to the two men behind her, lingering on the dark phantom to her left. The seething fury emanating from there is so palpable that, even with the bars between them, the man must feel it.
And remember that metal bars are no detriment to this ghost. But Fae merely folds her hands in front of her white, clean dress, waiting for the arms dealer's gaze to return to her.
"I'm afraid we never had an introduction," she says. "Keno, what is this man's name?"
"He goes by Draug," the thief murmurs. "Though people around a small village in Halften would know him as Samuel."
Her eyes lock with the arms dealer's.
"So, Samuel," she says, taking one step closer to the metal barricade between them, "you must be wondering why you are here."
His gaze flickers just behind her to the left, and then returns.
"Not really."
"Samuel, if you were just an arms dealer I would have had you hanged already." There it is; a flicker—hope, suspicion? Interest has been piqued. "But we both know you have traded in more than just weaponry. More than just stolen goods and other paltry things."
Draug says nothing to this, but he watches her keenly now.
Fae holds out her hand to her right and, wordlessly, the thief slips the booklet into her hand, the woven material rough as her fingers curl around the sharp edges and she pulls it forward, flipping it open to the earmarked page.
"Twenty-five acquired by D. G. in the northern section of Keesark," she reads. "Keno, is there a second part to Samuel's pseudonym?"
"Grimes."
"Draug Grimes," she repeats and she lets the name linger there, in the cold air between them. "Twenty-five. Do you know what this book is, Samuel? Do you know where we took it from?"
"No," he grumbles, voice low like dirt, but his dark eyes are watching.
She leans in a little, her voice dropping too, a dark whisper through the bars.
"I think you do. I think you know exactly what you sold twenty-five of to the Jarles. I think you remember—how could you not? It's not every day your merchandise is alive."
"At least," she says, straightening up, shoulders set back and teeth clenched tight in a razor-thin line, "they were alive when you handed them over."
