Although all in the room eagerly awaited the message from Farris, the knot of anxiety in Fionn’s belly had been tied by a different source. In his breast pocket, he held a letter. An unexpected letter from an unexpected source.

What would the zealot want with us? asked Sir Bearach. And why so much secrecy?

Fionn shared Bearach’s curiosity. He had found the letter in his chamber that morning, signed by Ruairí of the Sons of Seletoth, with instructions to meet him in the Silverback’s ward at dusk today. He was instructed to come alone and tell no one of this meeting.

Just go now, lad, said Sir Bearach. The sun will set within the hour, and what use are you here?

Fionn looked around. Of course, the crystallographer would relay news of Farris’s success or failure, and the councilmen of the Triad were already aware of what actions to take either way. Fionn’s eyes then met those of Chief-Sergeant Bernice, a towering female Simian with auburn-coloured fur contrasting her dark gaze. She’d surely set out to share the message with the rest of the awaiting army, so what use had Fionn here?

He slowly stood, giving the rest of the council an opportunity to react if they wanted him to stay. When none did, he made his way to the door.

“Firemaster,” said Bernice as he passed. “Do you not wish to see the outcome of Plackart’s trip south?”

“I do,” said Fionn, slowly. “But I have other business to attend to in the meantime.”

Bernice didn’t respond immediately, but Fionn could swear he saw her eyes narrow, ever so slightly.

“Don’t go too far,” she said. “We’ll need to reassess our situation if their mission fails. Though if it were up to me, we’d fly south regardless of the outcome.”

“Then the people of Penance can be thankful that it’s not.”

With this Fionn left, walking down the hall at a pace faster than he would typically be used to.

Glance back, lad, said Bearach. She might be following us!

Not likely, said Fionn, stealing a look over his shoulder anyway. Only an empty corridor lay behind. These military types are often slower to disobey chain of command than their attitudes would imply.

Let’s hope she’s like the others, then.

Fionn ascended a marble set of steps, passing a large mural of the Tower of Sin the extended from floor to ceiling. This artist’s depiction showed the tower as tall it had been before the Fall, piercing the clouds farther than any other mountain in Alabach.

Was it pettiness that drove Seletoth to tear it down? wondered Sir Bearach. Or something else?

Fionn considered the question. Many scholars believed that Seletoth had every right to punish the Simians for their Sin, though others framed it as arrogance. The counterargument was that trying to project Human emotions unto Seletoth was folly, as we could never truly comprehend His will. And besides, He surely had a good reason for doing it.

Based on what Meadhbh had said, however, Fionn perhaps understood the Fall of Sin a little bit more.

She had said the only Humans were bound by Fate and that Simians were free to do as they wish. If the Simians who built Sin did so out of their own free will, perhaps Seletoth’s destruction of it was an attempt to bring the Simians back in line with what Fate had predicted. After all, the Fall of Sin itself was seen by many Simians as a rallying point against Human rule. If not for the Fall of Sin, Penance, and indeed Alabach, would look very different.

On the next floor, Fionn walked through another corridor before arriving at a row of doors leading to several wards. He passed Cathal’s old ward and stood before the door to another.

“Hello?” said Fionn, stepping inside. “Ruairí?

This ward was similar to Cathal’s, with its square shape and drab interior. Its bed, however, was much larger, and in it lay Argyll the Silverback. A robust Simian, he still held the room to attention with his presence, as he always had, even when unconscious. The many tubes and instruments that tended to Cathal’s state were absent here. In fact, Argyll seemed like he was only sleeping, his complexion and composition no different to how they were when he was awake.

Beside him sat Ruairí. The Son of Seletoth wore a brown waistcoat over a grey shirt. His usual necklace hung round his neck, emblazoned with the symbol of the Sons—a trio of crooked, interlocking circles. It hung heavy on a silver chain, which glimmered in the weakening light of the coming evening.

“You’re early,” said Ruairí, whispering, as though not to wake Argyll.

“I wasn’t needed in the council hall,” said Fionn. “They’re just waiting to hear back from Point Grey, so they can wait without me. Besides, it seemed like you required my attention more than they did.”

Ruairí sighed. “I don’t require anything from you, Fionn. I just wanted to have… a chat.”

Fionn frowned. “Is that so?”

So why was it important we came alone? asked Sir Bearach. Why the secrecy?

“And what would you like to discuss?” asked Fionn. “Anything in particular?”

Ruairí stood and strode across the room. A fur overcoat lay strewn over a chair beside the window. Next to this, was a leather pack. Ruairí squatted down next to it, and produced two cups and a bottle of wine, its colour a deep ruby.

“Bhuaím Blackberry Red,” said Ruairí, cradling the bottle in both hands as he turned to face Fionn. “This was gifted to me from a friend in Terrían, right before the horde came. Could very well be the last bottle left in this frightening new world.”

Ruairí unsealed the bottle and poured himself a glass. Fionn tilted his head as he watched. Something was certainly off. Ruairí usually exhibited incredible confidence as he spoke, even at the council meeting yesterday. Confidence edging on arrogance, if Fionn was to be perfectly honest. But now, Ruairí’s voice seemed weaker, not just from whispering, but as if it was frail. As if he was frightened.

When his cup was full, he held out an empty one to Fionn. “What would you say to a toast? To Farris’s success in Point Grey, and to yours whenever you reach Dromán.”

Fionn instinctively reached out for the glass, but then paused. He turned an eye towards the unconscious Silverback, still motionless in his bed, bar the slow rise and fall of his massive chest.

What do you want? thought Fionn. This was the type of thing Farris or Argyll would have done with ease, navigating strange conversations, unravelling others’ intentions while concealing their own. Fionn, had much less experience in that realm of politics, despite his time on the council.

“Sure,” said Fionn. “Regardless of Farris’s outcome, tomorrow will be a long day for me. So, just one for luck.”

Ruairí smiled weakly and poured a glass for Fionn. He handed it to him, holding it between a delicate thumb and forefinger, as if afraid of cracking it.

Both Fionn and Ruairí raised their glasses and took a deep drink. The taste came first as a sharp burst of fruits and berries that quickly turned dry in Fionn’s mouth. As he swallowed, it a left bitter impression, like scrumpy set to ferment for too long. He went to raise the cup for a second taste but met Ruairí’s eyes instead.

“And to Argyll’s health,” Fionn said, giving another awkward salute towards the bed. “Is there any update on his condition?”

“No,” said Ruairí. “The healers reckon he’ll awaken by the end of this moon, but they still dare not speculate on what condition he’ll be in.”

This brought a lull to the conversation, as the two drank in silence.

“Was there anything in particular you wanted to ask me?” ventured Fionn. He rotated the cup in his hand, his grasp on the stem awkward with his severed third and fourth finger.

“Nothing more than looking for some insight as to what’s going on.” Ruairí sipped from his drink.

Fionn snorted. “You think I’d have a better idea than you? You’re the Silverback’s right hand after all, aiding him in all his duties with the Triad.” Fionn leaned back, ready to take a triumphant quaff. “And if I understand it, in matters far more important than that too.”

Ruairí’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me how much you know, then.”

“Garth told me most of it, on the way back from Roseán. The rumours that the Silverback has been leading a covert rebellion against the Crown and the Church are true. The Sons of Seletoth have been aiding him due to the involvement in the latter. Garth was mapping the Glenn for the Silverback, but he didn’t elaborate on why. He also alluded to powerful weapons that Nicole had been working on, which I assume were the automatons and firearms we used to fight back the horde. Now, based on these, conjecture would lead me to conclude that these covert operations of the Silverback’s were close enough to boiling into outright rebellion. Perhaps the massacre at the Basilica was part of it. Perhaps the death of Borris Blackhands was part of it. But as I said, that much is conjecture. And I’d wager that much is but a small portion of what you know.”

Ruairí had kept a straight face during this, but after a moment, he smiled. “Such a clever lad. You and Farris would have gotten along very well had circumstances been different.”

“What do you mean?” said Fionn. He had only really spoken to Farris a handful of times, and most of those times he had been using an alias. “Is he involved with the Movement too?”

Ruairí reached for the bottle to top up his cup. Then offered to do the same to Fionn’s.