"I need a boat to get out of the city without being seen."

Rook looked up from the ledger she'd been examining, one eyebrow rising toward her hairline. She closed the book with deliberate care and studied Morgana across the cluttered desk.

"We provide information," she said mildly. "Not boat-lending services."

The Copper Lantern was quieter during early daylight hours. A few patrons nursed drinks in shadowy corners, conducting business in hushed tones. Morning sunlight filtered through grimy windows, illuminating dust motes and the smoke from Rook's pipe.

"I know that," Morgana said. "I need information on who to contact for an extraction. Someone reliable, who can move at a moment's notice. Once I've done what I need to do, I'll need fast transport to Karsova."

"Karsova?" Rook rolled the word around her mouth like she was tasting it. "The port city on the edge of the Free Territories? Interesting choice."

She tapped her pipe against the side of an empty cup, knocking loose ash.

"What you're planning is a bad idea."

"Do you have a better one?" Morgana leaned forward. "I saw him, Rook. I saw what they've done to him."

"And?"

"And I need to get him out."

Rook snorted. "Buy him, you mean? With what? The Fallen Star brings in more gold for Thorne than any ten fighters combined. The man wouldn't sell him for all the riches in Sundar."

"I don't need to buy him." Morgana's fingers drummed against the wooden desk. "I just need access to him. I need to let him see me, recognize me. He'll do the rest."

Rook gave her a flat look. "You've grown into a pretty woman, I'll grant you that. But do you honestly think any level of beauty could make a man just decide to—"

"It's not about beauty," Morgana cut in. "It's about hope."

She explained what she'd seen in the arena. How Bedivere's Fluid had flickered and dimmed. How the source of his power had been hope, and how that hope had been all but extinguished.

"When I called his name—his real name—something changed. Just for a moment, but I saw it. He remembered who he was."

"And who is he to you?" Rook asked. "Really? Not just your father's right hand."

"He was like an uncle to me," Morgana said softly. "When my mother died, he was the one who sat with me at night when I couldn't sleep. Told me stories about the old wars, about my grandfather. He taught me how to ride a horse, how to hold a sword." She looked up. "And he was there the night my father was murdered."

"What exactly are your intentions here, Princess? What's the plan, long-term?"

Morgana didn't flinch at the title. "Vengeance. I'm going to kill the Sundarian Emperor for what he did to my father."

Rook stared at her for a long moment, then leaned back in her chair. It creaked under her weight. Finally, she nodded.

"Sure."

"Really?" Morgana blinked.

"Why not?" Rook reached into a drawer and pulled out a small wooden box, intricately carved with symbols Morgana didn't recognize. "You know, when I was young, my parents raised me to believe in something - someone - they called the Architect. Some chosen one who would appear and restore some semblance of balance to the world."

She opened the box, revealing a small pendant—a stylized compass rose made of tarnished silver.

"My parents were part of a group called the Order. Used to be they actually tried to make the world better. Help people, spread knowledge. Then they got obsessed with prophecies and signs and politics and power." She picked up the pendant, letting it dangle from her fingers. "I'm forty-three now, and there's still no Architect."

Her eyes fixed on Morgana's. "So I figure, why wait for someone else to fix things? Take your goddamn destiny in your own hands. You want vengeance? Go get it."

She tucked the pendant back in the box. "I've got contacts in the harbor district. Smugglers who can move you out on short notice. It'll cost you, but they're reliable. Won't ask questions."

"I can pay."

"I'll reach out to them." Rook closed the box with a snap. "They'll be ready when you need them."

Morgana studied her. "I didn't take you for the religious type."

Rook chuckled. "I'm not, not really. My parents were true believers, but the Order lost its way long before I was born. Started hoarding knowledge instead of sharing it. Started believing their prophecies more than the evidence in front of their eyes."

She shrugged. "For a while I believed what they taught me—that this Architect would come and usher in a new era of peace and understanding. Used to dream about being there when it happened."

She gestured at the tavern around them. "Now I deal in information and survival. Less disappointing than waiting for saviors who never show up."

"And the pendant?"

"Sentiment," Rook said, tucking the box away. "Not faith. Now, about getting you access to The Fallen Star..."

*****