Lake Stillmere did not move unless compelled.
It lay beyond the western edge of Dillaclor, tucked behind thinning woodland and crumbling boundary stones no one maintained anymore. The road that once led to it had surrendered to moss and neglect. Even the wind seemed to pause at its banks, as if uncertain whether it was welcome.
Sir. Wilkinson preferred places that did not listen.
Roald preferred places that did not feel like they were waiting.
Stillmere was doing both.
Roald kicked a pebble into the water. The reflection of the sky fractured and then smoothed itself out again, as though nothing had happened.
"Well," he said lightly, "if we're murdered, at least it'll be scenic."
Sir. Wilkinson did not respond.
"We speak plainly here," he said instead. "No raised voices. No repetition."
Roald clasped his hands behind his back in exaggerated imitation.
"Yes, sir. Whispered revolution only."
They walked along the bank.
"So," Roald began, "what's the plan? We expose him? Storm the palace? Dramatic reveal? Hidden documents fluttering in the wind?"
"No."
"Good," Roald said. "Because I forgot to bring the fluttering documents."
Sir. Wilkinson stopped near the inlet where reeds grew thick and the water darkened.
"Nux controls perception," he said. "The man on the throne is reinforcement, not authority."
"The actor," Roald muttered.
"Yes."
"So we don't attack the actor," Roald said. "We attack the stage."
Sir. Wilkinson glanced at him.
Roald shrugged faintly.
"I listen."
Silence gathered again.
Roald rocked back on his heels.
"There is one efficient solution," he said.
Sir. Wilkinson did not ask.
"We kidnap him."
Silence.
"Nux," Roald clarified. "We grab him at night, tie him to the tallest mast we can find, and send him drifting down the lake like unwanted cargo."
Sir. Wilkinson closed his eyes briefly.
"We could attach a note," Roald continued. "'Return to sender.'"
"That would destabilize nothing."
"It would make me feel better."
"You are not required to feel better."
Roald exhaled through his nose.
"Unfortunate."
The joke did what it was meant to do. It made the air breathable.
Until it changed.
Roald sniffed once.
Then again.
"…That's not marsh."
Sir. Wilkinson continued walking.
"No," Roald said more firmly. "Marsh is… thinner."
The air near the inlet felt heavier.
Sweet.
Wrong.
Flies hovered low over the water.
The reeds bent inward as if something had forced its way through them and never settled again.
Roald slowed.
"Tell me that's a deer."
Sir. Wilkinson did not answer.
A rope trailed from a half-submerged stone.
The knot was uneven.
Poor.
The water shifted.
A pale shape rolled slightly upward.
A shoulder.
Bloated. Water-distended. Cloth clinging to it.
Not peasant wool.
Not traveler's linen.
Roald stopped.
"No."
The smell reached them fully now.
Rot. Sweet and invasive.
Sir. Wilkinson stepped forward into the reeds.
"Stay back."
Roald did not.
He edged closer, hands stiff at his sides.
The body had been weighted — but badly. One stone had slipped, allowing the upper half to rise.
The face was turned partially away.
Recent.
Too recent.
Sir. Wilkinson crouched.
And then he saw the collar.
Embroidery surfaced beneath the water.
Subtle. Refined. Not theatrical.
He knew that stitching.
He had studied it once in lamplight — not as a court observer, but as a craftsman. The precision. The restraint. The deliberate absence of excess.
The former ruler of Dillaclor had not loved spectacle.
He had loved craft.
Sir. Wilkinson's breath changed.
He reached carefully and turned the body just enough.
The clasp at the collarbone gleamed faintly beneath the water.
His work.
Not directly — but inspired by it. Commissioned through the royal workshops. Approved personally.
Approved by a man who had once spent an entire afternoon discussing joint tension in ship ribs.
A man who believed that governance and craftsmanship were siblings — both requiring precision, patience, and truth.
Most importantly, truth.
The right hand drifted upward with the current.
The signet ring caught the light.
Heavy. Authentic. Unmistakable.
Sir. Wilkinson did not speak for several seconds.
He had stood in that man's study.
He had been told — quietly, without fanfare — that within days he would be named Royal Craftsman.
Not for loyalty.
For merit.
For ingenuity.
For refusing to cut corners even when it cost him contracts.
"You build honestly," the ruler had said.
And he had meant it.
It was that same man who had sent him beyond the city walls.
"Find me someone who builds like you do," he had instructed. "Someone unafraid to question."
That journey had led him to Roald.
To chaos. To risk. To a life far larger than he had expected.
Had he arrived earlier in Dillaclor, he thought, he would have stood in the throne hall next week.
He would have knelt.
He would have risen Royal Craftsman.
Instead—
He was kneeling in reeds.
And the man who believed in truth lay rotting in lake water.
For a moment he did not look at the body.
He looked at the water instead — at the distortion, at the way the lake refused to hold a face clearly.
A tight pressure gathered behind his eyes.
Unbidden.
Unwelcome.
He blinked once, sharp and deliberate.
It did not obey him.
A single tear slipped free, silent and without ceremony, and disappeared into the reeds before it could reach his jaw.
He straightened.
When he opened his eyes fully, whatever had broken was sealed again.
Roald's voice broke the silence.
"He was at the square yesterday."
Sir. Wilkinson did not answer.
Roald's breathing grew uneven.
"I saw him."
He had.
He had stood in the crowd.
Watched the execution.
Watched the ruler raise his hand with steady authority.
Watched a man condemn another to death.
The same crest.
The same posture.
The same voice carrying across stone.
Roald stared at the corpse.
"That's him," he whispered.
But it wasn't.
And that was worse.
Sir. Wilkinson's voice, when it came, was steady — but lower.
"The knots are wrong."
Roald blinked at him.
"This was done in haste. By someone afraid."
Roald looked at the rope again.
Uneven.
Sloppy.
Not the work of a strategist.
Delegated.
"He killed him," Roald said.
Not a question.
Sir. Wilkinson rose slowly.
"Yes."
The lake remained still.
Unmoved.
A man who revered truth.
A man who would have raised him to honor.
A man who believed craft was sacred.
Dead.
And somewhere in the city, an actor wore his crest and performed justice.
Roald swallowed hard.
"The city's clapping for a corpse."
Sir. Wilkinson looked at the water one last time.
"No."
His voice carried something colder now.
"They are clapping for a lie."
The wind finally crossed Stillmere.
The surface fractured into ripples.
Reflection disturbed.
Nothing else moved.
The reeds shifted.
Not with the wind.
With steps.
Light. Measured. Unhurried.
Neither man had heard her approach.
"So," a voice said evenly from behind them, "you did survive the river. How lucky."
Sir. Wilkinson jolted.
It was not dramatic — but it was real.
His shoulder snapped back as though struck, heel slipping against the damp stone at the lake's edge. For one sharp second, his balance wavered dangerously close to the dark water.
He caught himself.
Breath shallow.
Turned.
Roald reacted differently.
He froze first.
Then his eyes widened.
Recognition did not creep in — it bloomed.
Bright. Immediate.
"Y—"
He stopped himself only because his grin broke the rest of the word apart.
"You're back!"
He moved without hesitation.
Not reckless. Not frantic.
Certain.
The distance between them disappeared in a handful of strides, and he wrapped his arms around her as though this was simply the natural order of things — as though rivers and disappearances had been temporary inconveniences at best.
The contact startled her.
Just enough that her posture stiffened for half a breath.
Then her hand rose.
She patted his head once.
Light. Brief. Familiar.
Roald pulled back, hands dropping to his sides as if he'd suddenly remembered himself.
He had to tilt his head up to meet her eyes.
"You're not dead," he said, like he'd been holding that verdict hostage.
"No," she replied.
Her voice was level.
Untouched by spectacle.
Her hand lingered at the back of his head for one second longer before lowering.
Then her gaze lifted.
Past him.
To Sir. Wilkinson.
He had steadied himself.
But he had not fully recovered.
There was something unsettled in the way he stood — not fear, not quite grief.
Something caught between.
"You're early," he said.
"You're late," she returned.
Roald looked between them, baffled and amused all at once.
"I nearly drowned once and you two start talking like traveling poets again."
For the faintest moment, the corner of Isobel's mouth shifted.
Barely.
Then it was gone.
The air shifted again.
Not because of her.
Because of the lake.
And what lay within it.
She looked at Sir. Wilkinson once more.
This time, more carefully.
"What happened?" she asked.
Sir. Wilkinson did not answer.
Not immediately.
Not at all.
His jaw tightened — not in refusal, but in restraint.
His gaze shifted away from her.
Toward the water.
Isobel followed the movement.
She did not repeat the question.
Something in his expression — stripped of its usual composure — warned her away from it.
This was not deflection.
This was containment.
The reeds near the bank bent strangely.
Not with the wind.
With weight.
A shape disrupted the reflection of the sky.
Dark fabric.
Pale suggestion beneath.
Isobel stepped sideways for a clearer angle.
And then she saw it.
The body lay half-caught in the shallows, one arm surrendered to the water, coat heavy and dark with it. The surface trembled faintly around him, as though the lake had not yet decided whether to release or reclaim.
Recognition did not strike all at once.
It crept.
Then settled.
The smell reached her a breath later.
Sweet.
Wrong.
Inevitable.
She stopped walking.
Not recoiling.
Not gasping.
Just still.
Her hand lifted — not to her mouth, but to steady the air in front of her, as if the world had shifted slightly off its axis.
Behind her, Roald shifted too.
He had not yet seen clearly.
He only sensed the change.
Isobel inhaled once through her nose.
Regretted it.
Exhaled slowly.
When she moved again, it was deliberate.
Measured.
She stepped toward the water.
Past Sir. Wilkinson.
Close enough now that the details refused mercy.
Waterlogged fabric clung to a frame she knew.
A face turned partially toward the sky.
Familiar.
Unmistakably.
She stopped at the edge.
The lake lapped once against the corpse's shoulder.
Then stilled.
She did not speak.
Neither did Sir. Wilkinson.
The wind moved through the reeds again.
And this time, it sounded like breath leaving a body that would never take another.