"Were it not for the Chantry, I should be dead a time or two over."

Indebted is not endeared — another shred of common dirt. He props a hand beneath elbow, fishes out a cigarette at last. Whether Isaac intends to remain beyond the hour, he’s settled long enough for a conversation.

"But I might say as much of the Rebellion," Thumb: Spark, smoke. It trickles for the walls, to curdle the paint. "And that the fresher bruise."

The War is six years gone. It has never truly ended.