Night encroaches on the fens, the clouds darkened almost to black, the last shades of pink and gold slipping quickly away to the west. The wind has quietened, leaving stray breezes to tug and play with Inric's long braid while he waits for full dark. In the distance, between him and the Orderhouse, voices are raised, calling for someone to stop.
"Did you see him?"
"He went that way!"
Two men in military garb, holding lanterns and searching. Inric watches and ponders. By the river, Cyrward crouches in the mud, grinning wildly, unable to stop the mad exhilaration thrilling through him as he makes his escape.