Haran was not old. Not the face of someone who had spent twenty-five years in exile — the face of someone who had been doing something serious and sustained and had the specific quality that serious, sustained things left on a person. Dark-haired, like Daren. A jaw he'd seen before, in his own reflection, in the way certain features passed through bloodlines so intact that seeing them in another face was like seeing a parallel version of yourself, similar enough to recognize and different enough to understand they'd lived a different life in the same material. The eyes — not quite like anyone else's. The specific quality of someone who looked at the architecture of things rather than their surfaces. Daren had been told, once, by a master in a training ground that he had eyes that read rooms. He understood now where that quality had come from. They stood on the bridge. Looking at each other. The river below. The pre-dawn grey above. The eastern territories opening beyond th