Sometime during the past few hours, the beds had been pushed to the walls, the mattresses pulled onto the floor, the pillows arranged in mounds, and the blankets draped haphazardly where they best suited. Something was burning in an incense chalice, the smell blending nicely with whatever the Medicine Seller had packed his pipe with, passed freely.

Thranduil lolled on one such pile, stretched out luxuriantly, hair unbound, head propped up on a folded arm. Dressed for sleep in a grey brocade robe, he poured measures of a clear alcohol into small glasses, the good Nevarran wine finished earlier in the evening. He pushed the tray with the glasses into the center of their little circle, idly offering a picture of their layout to Myrobalan so he knows where to reach when his turn comes.

“The rules are simple,” Thranduil says. “We will start with the host—myself—who may ask any other person in the circle to choose between a truth or a task. That person will choose, the host will offer a question or a task. Refusal to answer the question or to complete the task to the group’s satisfaction means you must drink.”

He gestures to the little armada of glasses. “After finishing—either answering, doing the task, or drinking—that person may choose someone, and begin the cycle again. And—mm, nothing that would have Seeker Pentaghast upset with me.”

Thranduil turns his attention to Wren, hoping to root out resistance before it has a chance to bloom. He smiles at her, all feline slyness. “I choose truth. Coupe,” dismissing formalities. “—why become a Templar?”

He finds her in the market at midday, her back to the street at large. Only several inches taller than her rather than a foot and some change, he has, perhaps, a slightly softer face, and shorter hair to match his stature. He touches her shoulder to catch her attention, waiting until she turns to smile.

(Yva is ignored.)

“Lady,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”

His accent is similar enough to the Lady Seeker’s, but perhaps it is his bearing that, among all the other things, he has not altered in the least. He still walks with the entitlement of a noble, but the serene grace has been stripped from him. There are wrinkles at the corners of his kohl-outlined eyes—the sun has darkened his arms, his shoulders. His teeth are not bone white.

“Dismiss your girl,” he says. “It is finally tomorrow, and I have much to show you and very little time.”

WILDCARD.