Wren shoots a glare over her shoulder towards the tiff. It’d surely be withering if it weren’t utterly lost in the dim. And perhaps if it weren't made by someone who looks like they’ve recently gone waltzing with a bronto.

She raises her voice slightly, pitched just high enough to carry down the hall. The words are tense.

"If you throw something, or begin a shouting match," Raven. "We will surely speak to the guards sooner rather than later."

She trusts she needn’t spell out the consequences, with so many examples in view. Wren turns back to Inessa, tries to disguise the fidgeting way her hand keeps creeping back to her ears.

"The converts." Traitors, she thinks and won’t say. There may yet be affection — however misplaced — for such creatures. "Do any linger?"

Contacts could be valuable. No loyalty is ever absolute.