Samaire stiffened as she recognized the voice. The First. Well, the First in interim. He was young—he must be three or four winters younger than her, barely shaving. She turned, studying him through the rain. He was lean, but young, too young to be bearing his burden. His shoulders could not possibly carry the weight. She watched him in silence, studying his gait. He’d favor his right, but he’d be quick. If it came to blows, she would have to be faster. It took a conscious effort not to touch her blade. There was no one to protect, after all. She was no First.

She let him speak first. He had not come to join her watch. First’s did not speak to guards without reason, and she suspected his reason was dark news. He told her of the Third and her suspicions, and Samaire straightened, her jaw tightening. The woman had no reason to trust her, of course, but her ego abhorred the slight. Of all people, [i]she[/i] was least likely to cut out hearts. She knew the horror that wrought. No, Samaire would have her vengeance with cold steel.

The child’s intent was obvious. He was no Fool; his words were too clumsy. Nikolas would have talked circles around him, she mused bitterly. She instead smiled, the expression never quite reaching her green eyes.

“You know exactly what you need to do,” she informed him, her voice low and lethal. She nodded to the prisoner, pacing in the rain. “You will give me the man-thing. When you do, I will gather my equipment and I will never step foot in your lands again. Your stags will still die. Whatever is coming for you will not stop until it has what it wants, I suspect.” She tilted her head, considering him. “You would be wise to prepare for it.”