"…Not yet, huh?" Lenko murmured, his voice quiet, almost thoughtful, as he reached into his side pack. A moment later, he pressed something cool into Keiser's hand, a glass vial, beaded with condensation. The faint scent of citrus and herbs drifted up, sharp and tangy, cutting through the stale air of the arching window.

Keiser accepted it without looking, his eyes still fixed on the moving tide of people below. His fingers wrapped around the vial automatically, as though his body had already grown accustomed to Lenko's quiet, deliberate gestures. That realization irked him more than he cared to admit.

Once, not that long ago, he would have waved the boy off, insisted he needed nothing, that he could stand, fight, and endure without anyone's hand reaching toward him. He was used to doing everything alone, tending his own wounds, forcing his body through weakness, biting down until blood filled his mouth just to keep himself upright.

But Lenko wasn't like others. The boy moved with the reflexes of someone who had spent years serving another, and not just anyone, a prince. Every motion he made, from offering a drink to adjusting his cloak, carried the subtle ease of long practice. It wasn't servitude, it was loyalty woven into habit.

Keiser took a slow sip, the tang hitting the back of his throat, crisp and refreshing. He lowered the vial, exhaling through his nose.

"You don't have to keep doing that," Keiser muttered, though his grip on the glass didn't loosen.

Lenko shrugged lightly, resting his arms on the stone ledge. "And you don't have to keep pretending you can do everything now on your own."

Keiser's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer right away. His gaze flicked briefly toward the boy, his frame, tired eyes, yet unshaken resolve and loyalty. Muzio's vassal through and through.

Lenko seemed to possess a natural grace for seamlessly occupying the spaces others vacated. But for Keiser, each moment was a stark reminder of his borrowed power. He could formulate intricate plans, yet he doubted if his current body, though marked by scars and sigils, truly possessed the strength to achieve them.

The welted marks on his body still pulsed faintly beneath his clothes, reminders of the bloodscripting that had nearly consumed him. No longer raw wounds, but neither gone, each line a brand of something he had forced into permanence. And even now, when he pushed mana into them, they still responded.

Obedient. Relentless. Like shackles he had chosen to keep.

His eyes returned to the crowd, sharper now, searching. The drink was still sharp on his tongue, cool as it slid down his throat.

With another sip, Keiser felt his shoulders loosen, his breath come easier. His head, usually thick with the noise of plans, scars, and contingencies, felt oddly clear. Relaxed.

It was a strange sensation. A dangerous one. He had never allowed himself such a luxury, not in the royal brigade, not in battle, not even during the gambit, and certainly not now. Back then, as Sir Keiser, relaxation had been something other men enjoyed in taverns after duty. For him, it had been a weakness that could mean death. Yet here he was, allowing even a flicker of calm to settle in.

But of course, calm never lasted.

"You've talked with the elf from the dungeon, didn't you."

The words dropped so casually from Lenko's mouth, spoken with the same tone one might use to note the angle of the sun in the sky.

Keiser froze, the vial halfway back to his lips. His head snapped to the side, eyes narrowing at the boy. Lenko hadn't even looked at him, his gaze was fixed out the window, tracking something far in the distance. That alone told Keiser enough. It wasn't a question.

It was fact.

Keiser remained silent, waiting, weighing, but Lenko finally turned to meet his stare. His eyes, green, sharp, and clear, were brighter than Olga's ever were, lighter in shade but no less piercing. His hair, unruly and fire-touched, bristled as though stirred by a breeze that wasn't there, framing his face like flame about to catch. Just a boy.

"It's today, isn't it?" Lenko asked softly, though there was no softness in his tone. His words struck, certain of their mark. "The death curse. It's happening today."

For a heartbeat, Keiser said nothing. His gaze lingered, unreadable, then slid away, back toward the street below where the marketplace swelled louder and busier under the midmorning sun. His voice, when it finally came, was low and flat.

"…Yeah."

He said nothing more. He didn't tell Lenko about the two death curses hanging over the day, a fated doom now only put into a prophecy for him to know. One promised by the elf, the other by his own hand. Two cords tightening, fated to snap before tomorrow.

Some truths weren't worth speaking aloud. Not when silence weighed just as heavy.

Lenko drew in a deep breath, chest rising slowly, and let it out even slower, as if steadying himself. His voice, when it came, was quiet but laced with something sharp beneath the calm.

"…I should have known. You can't sing."

Keiser turned his head slightly, brow furrowing.

Lenko's lips curved into the faintest, bitter smile. "If you had tried to hum during the mass… during the start, I would have known you were with us in the temple, but you weren't."

The words caught Keiser off guard, dragging his focus away from the street below. "…What?"

He blinked, actually startled, before a crooked smirk tugged at his mouth. The thought slipped in before he could stop it, if he actually tried, would Muzio's body still be as tone-deaf as it was? A ridiculous, useless curiosity in the middle of everything, but somehow, it hooked his attention more strongly than the dangers crowding them.

"That's not what I thought you'd be asking…" Keiser began, but stopped short.

Because then he noticed. Lenko's arms were crossed tightly, but his hand, clenched against his sleeve, was trembling. He wasn't mocking, not really. He was shielding himself, cracking jokes at the edges of something too overwhelming to face straight on.

Keiser's smirk faded. He looked away, eyes hardening as his thoughts turned inward.

It was easy to forget how young Lenko really was. Just a boy, with a boy's way of dealing with fear, deflecting it, drowning it in sarcasm. And Muzio… wasn't much older. His mind still carried the weight of nearly twenty-seven years, a knight grown hard on campaign, but the body he inhabited was Muzio's, not yet eighteen, barely on the cusp of becoming a man before the Gambit began.

Eighteen. And already carrying a death curse.

Their fate, Muzio's, Lenko's, Yona's, Olga's, Althea's, the dragon's… his own, it all seemed unbearably cruel. Too cruel for boys and girls forced into games that kings and beasts found amusing.

"…Don't worry." The words slipped out before he could stop them, low enough it was almost to himself.

But Lenko still heard.

"I'll make sure to change it," Keiser muttered under his breath, the vow tasting heavy on his tongue.

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