We drove back to the west side in the dark.
Not late dark — early evening dark, the kind that arrived in Kaelthorn when the season was shifting and the city hadn't adjusted its internal clock yet. The glass towers were lit. The bridge was lit. The east cliffs behind us were the specific deep tone of old stone at dusk.
Zevran drove.
I sat in the passenger seat and did not try to fill the quiet because the quiet was not empty — it was full of what we'd heard, and full things needed time.
At the bridge, he said: "Fenn Calloway."
I looked at him.
"He was on the pack council during my father's time," he said. "He mentioned it, in the common room. I should speak to him." He paused. "About what my father did. The reserves. The deal." He held the road steady. "Fenn was there. He might know t
