"A three day truce is better than none at all," she says, philosophically, the close-mouthed smile that had been prompted by I did not stab any of them lingering in the softness of her sharp features. (Sharpened by the way she's pulled her hair back, braided up into the crown she usually wears only to travel, tight and shiny with the oil she used to smooth it up again when she'd slept in the braids that form it.)

What befell Fate merits a glance up from what she's doing.

"Ah. Well; better his hand."

Poor Sina.