He’d arrived too late for the fireworks, but the observant child tilted his head a fraction, studying the strange, scalding tension between his friends. While Adelric showed no signs of derision or rancor, Aithniel’s frame reveled in it; like a sizzling inferno, hastening scorn and contempt, and his wonder morphed into confusion, befuddlement, a furrowed brow and a wavering embrace of the unknown: the world twisted too many times in its enigmatic threads for the poor scion to keep up most days. “Is something wrong?” The concern chiseled its way through his voice, Huyana’s blood surging over Deimos’ indifference, and perhaps, in some way, his query had been noted and coated away from their stances, their odd regard for one another, with Adelric’s proclamation: maybe they’d both been upset by the news of death, contorting and distorting in a veil along the little beast’s head. Was it the notion of a deceased Pegasus that sketched Aithniel’s features into a fiery scowl? While he wasn’t touched or poignantly affected, she could’ve been – was it kin? A relative? A former brethren? Leaning away from the filly’s feelings, because she’d tell him if she felt like it, and if he pried deeper she’d likely point the glare towards his direction, he delved into the mysterious shift in the empire: we’re supposed to figure out who did it. The arch of tenacity washed over him, an impulsive, audacious spring, a bullish fascination with challenges, with enigmas, varnished and lacquered his sentiments; it wouldn’t take much to sway him down the primrose path of adventure, no matter how dismal, how dark, how bleak the image appeared. He listened, pricked his ears, mulled and reveled, clawed and explored, as the lithe girl spoke of her findings (and he was a little dismayed to offer none of his own, but surely, he could change that soon), mused and thought over the exciting crusades into the Throat, the ebon King of Spies and his illustrious occupation. “Sacre: a lord of secret agents.” His lip curled over in a snicker now, thinking about how amazing the notion sounded, and then how their exploits and escapades seemed fruitful even now. Could those they met; seemingly gentle, serene, and shy, be secret murderers, whisking and cutting away the living? Were they furtive, immoral crusaders, beckoning with siren hands and mermaid wiles, draining the rest of the living dry? The grin warped into a menacing, feral, impish decree, and he finessed the mischievous foundlings into exuberant vocals, laced and layered them with the piercing shades of bravado. “Then let’s stop the Throat!”