"Her team." It already sounds too little to his ear, plain in the way it rolls about his tongue; longer than one short syllable. "Information on what they're doing – something with your shard-bearers – but the team, too. Guards. Researchers."

At least, a chance to reach them. To turn or to kill them in turn. A longer project, surely the work of months ahead, and not guaranteed results. He picks at the fray of one costume sleeve. Down on his luck,

Isaac hasn't evinced public regret for that fateful dream. Rather: Stepped back from a post he held only for obligation; took private conversations with the handful that he fretted for. It was better for Riftwatch to think mages in need of placation, and he had been –

Distracted, besides. Still: Some measure of it must have stung. Self-knowledge usually does.

(It is not only Cassiopeia who's burned.)