"Waited isn't the word," muttered Ilarion, all too aware. It was a mischaracterization, made him sound patient, like a man biding his time.

He had not been idle where Liadov was concerned. Perhaps he would have cringed and drawn a line before forcing Aleksandr's hand to jerk Nika's strings, but running him to the ground, exhausting his resolve with sheer predatory tenacity- well, that was another matter.

As it turned out, Lasha hadn't had a chance to exercise his rare restraint. Aleksandr had forced his hand instead.

"But yes," he said, softly, "it is about devotion. Whether you or him."

His lashes swept down, pressed against his cheeks for a moment as he breathed in, slowly.

"And as I've told you, devotion is ever my weakness."

The room was warm and still. Outside the mountain wind whistled and brushed the dark window.

"Taras."