*COMPLETE* "People don't believe in us anymore. They don't believe that in the end we will do what is right. We can't let them down. We can't let Ben win."
Decisions made on top of the lonely, wind-swept cliff of Lethinor reverberate around the five...
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The next day's morning light splinters in through colored, fragmented glass, and all around Allayria are the strangely ordinary sounds of sleepy-eyed people waking up over cups of coffee. Chieftainess Aren Dost's nose is practically in hers while Hai Sofo quietly snoozes into his; the High King of Solveig, Rastirel Feuilles, strikes a more dignified pose but glowers over the rim of his cup. Neither Qui Wren, nor Lei, nor Allayria touch theirs, while Ruben sips merrily, displaying an obscene amount of alertness and optimism.
No one is exactly thrilled with Ruben this morning.
Allayria spares the Skill master a quick side glance but avoids meeting his gaze. His words from the previous morning seem to hang like a cloak around her, locking her in.
We can't let him win.
She wants to disappear; even more than she had on that long ride up to Quersido's tower. She wants time.
But there is none to be had, and when Beinsho drains his cup, setting it down with a curt snap on the glass table, he stands, calling for attention. Allayria's gaze slides over to the Dynast at this point, but he seems unperturbed by his second-in-command taking the lead. Quite the contrary: he tinkers with some small gadget in his hands, barely glancing up as Beinsho goes on about supply lines and provisions.
"With that out of the way, let us turn to another important matter," the commander transitions, his crisp voice breaking a long, lulling reverie that had settled around Allayria as he sets his papers down on the table. "Ruben, can you bring in the rescued prisoner?"
All heads turn as Ruben rises and exits the room.
"The one retrieved from the Jarles?" Feuilles asks sharply, alert now and glancing over at Allayria as the rest of the council seems to awaken all at once.
"Yes," Beinsho confirms. "He has agreed to be interviewed by the council."
"Is he safe?" Sofo inquires warily, his fingers quavering feebly around the steam rising out of his cup.
"We checked him over. There is no sign he has gone through the process outlined in the book," Beinsho answers and Feuilles snorts.
Wey is the color of parchment paper when Ruben brings him in. The Skill master guides the teen to a chair where he collapses, arms jittering at his sides as his gaze flits across the room, jumping from one powerful ruler to the next. He looks like he could pass out, and Ruben places a warm hand on his shoulder, leaning over and murmuring what must be comforting words into his ear.
"Ah," Beinsho shuffles the papers in front of him, brows furrowing as he squints down at a scrawl across one. "Wey, is it?"
"Y-yes, sir," the Nature-caller answers, his voice barely above a whisper.
"The council has asked you here to testify to your experiences as a captive of the Jarles," Beinsho says, his hard eyes flitting up and latching onto the boy. "Any information on what you saw could be useful in rescuing the thousands of people still imprisoned by the Imperator."
