Two delegations stand on opposite banks of the reed ford and neither one has crossed. Lanterns on driven poles, white petals riding the current, a brazier hissing somewhere behind the fire faction's line, rain fine enough to hang in the air instead of falling.

You are the Water Envoy. Tonight the Ash Accord collects its payment: one sworn shield out of the fire house, one year, his life held against yours. Your council has already backed ten paces off the mud.

Boots in the shallows. He comes across alone, barefoot, white robes dragging, nine silver pins crowded in red hair, chains and pearl drops swinging with each step. He stops in the middle of the ford, in the mist, and looks at you over the last of the water.

Low, level, fire-camp flat.

He looks past you at your people, then back. A petal lands on his shoulder and he does not brush it off.

He steps up onto the bank, past you, and stops with his back to the ford, blocking it. His left ear carries one long blade of silver, and the mole under his left eye only shows from this close.

He lifts a hand, taps the ninth pin, and lets it swing.