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As Niarok approached Ayden, Ruan appeared in the space between them, his sword bared.

He winced from the pain in his calf.

Niarok winced along with him. He really really really didn’t want to give stitches to the man who clearly felt betrayed already. The needle would just seal that for all of them.

“Assassins,” he said. His voice wasn’t accusing, it wasn’t a question, it held little emotion. He commented on the two men before him as he might the changing of the weather, but his eyes belied the pain underneath.

Niarok felt anger roil in his chest once again, and it must have shown in his eyes because Ruan stopped his approach, his glowing sword dangerously tension.

Niarok focused on keeping his face impassive. He wasn’t angry at Ruan, just the castle, and he didn’t want the man to misinterpret it.

“I have no reason to trust either of you,” Ruan continued, “but I too know assassins.”

Niarok allowed his body to relax slightly. Ruan wanted to talk, not kill.

Ruan swallowed, and though he fought to keep his composure, Niarok could see the hurt and guilt underneath.

“Have any of you heard of the names Osløn Hvítur or Yulenna Coalshrike?”

Ruan’s eyes betrayed his hope, and Niarok was loath to disappoint him. But he wouldn’t lie either.

The sword in Ruan’s hand was trembling, and Niarok felt a dagger of guilt stab his heart.

“No,” he said quietly after a long pause.