It was difficult to imagine a petty rivalry would matter in the besieged city, it was already a bottomless abyss of suffering after all. But it had mattered.

  By some immensely impressive communication effort, every soldier in yellow livery now knew Rastod's face. In days past the defenders had struggled to accurately relay messages from the keep to the walls, to track distributed rations, to complete a count of the civilians. Yet this Nook cousin, who had taken the tasteful moniker the Last Nook, had told the entire city the news: Rastod had punched him in the face. Twice.

  Ezlos, meanwhile, had been miraculously left out of this communication despite being the source of the trouble.

  They sat in their usual spot, which thankfully rarely had Tarcin soldiers nearby. Kasia had dragged a crate over, was perched atop it like some sort of creature. Ezlos and Rastod sat on their step, tired arms dangling off aching knees.

  "Apparently they've just discovered some of the abandoned stores near the gate are full of grain," Ezlos said.

  Rastod and Kasia groaned.

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  "How is it that the Baron, despite being a repugnant insect, has only good fortune?" Kasia asked. "His deeds are deserving of a lifetime of suffering, and yet he finds forgotten grain, has countless wells that never go dry, a lovely keep far from the besieged walls."

  "Life is a sick joke," Rastod muttered.

  Ezlos picked what looked like human hair from his nails. "Seems good deeds only happen to bad people."

  They sat in silence. It was their preferred hobby these days.

  "I am sorry," Ezlos said.

  Rastod looked at him from the corner of his swollen eye, probed at his burning cheek. "I know."

  Earlier that day, two Tarcin mercenaries had been helping Rastod shift a chunk of masonry. Rastod had na?vely thought his feud with the yellows may have come to an end. Instead they'd let go and almost killed him as the stone shifted. He managed to dive out of the way, headfirst into a cart.

  The dropped shoulders, the sneers, the shouted insults, it was all an unimportant breeze. Rastod was happy to ignore it. It was the Tarcin's refusal to help save lives that was grinding on him, a great gale ripping bits of his skin off. And beneath that skin was a monster, an angry man, someone he was having trouble containing.

  Civilians were dying because of this petty rivalry, a rift that started with Rastod but was steadily creeping outwards between Uzin and Tarcin. Each inch of that rift meant more innocent blood on his hands.

  Rastod had had enough, he stood, body protesting with a dozen jolts of pain.

  "Where are you going?" Ezlos asked.

  "The keep."

  "What for?"

  "To apologise."