Nothing ever bored Trisphar quite so much as meetings. He tolerated them anyway—they were a necessary evil, much like he was a necessary evil. Indeed, it was thanks to his understanding of evil that cannot be done without that Trisphar abided such an over-long meeting of the Knights of the Blue Order that dreary day in December, even though it had already gone on for twenty-four minutes longer than scheduled.

Giles cleared his throat for ten seconds before speaking (which was ten seconds too many for his largely impatient colleagues, who did not say anything but showed a keen interest in their pocket watches). "The next item on the agenda, we shall keep brief—" Giles said, and the Marquis Arossa interrupted with a lighthearted "I should hope so."

Although the Marquis was speaking in jest, and although Trisphar himself was feeling far from patient with Giles, he bristled at the remark. The Marquis—in Trisphar's estimation at that time, at least—was most likely quite evil, but probably not necessary at all. Trisphar had even fantasized once about biting off the man's head, reveling in imagined carnage for five minutes or so only to then feel the sudden onset of disgust. (He told himself that this was because on principle he did not condone violence, and it's easy to lose track of one's principles in a moment of anger. In truth, it was because he'd suddenly remembered that the worm probably gave Arossa's entire head a funny taste.)

"Yes, well, let me go on and finish then," Giles said, more flustered than affronted, then cleared his throat again before continuing: "This next matter is that of the unauthorized excursion to the Mindoro mountains and resulting loss of a Janus Project operative."

"Levy a fine!" exclaimed Ser Price without warning. "For heaven's sake, Murray, just levy a fine and be done with it, man."

At that, it was though some calming spell had broken and the various chilly and frustrated Knights of the Blue Order became as blabbering bluejays. "We aren't some common trading house, you know," remarked Ser Tiffany Evergreen at the same time one of the Sers Ashova said "For the third time this week, fines cannot be the solution to everything!" and her wife wondered aloud "Do the changelings even have money...?"

"Quiet," Giles said, but nobody heard him. (That is to say, nobody except Trisphar.) When Giles said "Quiet!" again and was ignored a second time, Trisphar let out a growl—the low, crackling kind that Giles had always told him to do whenever it was necessary to make someone afraid (which was often). It worked reliably, stunning the Knights into becoming their honorable selves once more. Although Giles, like always, sat with his back to Trisphar's dais, Trisphar imagined that he could see his mentor smiling in approval.

After a moment of awed silence, Ser Jeger spoke. "My Lord," she said reasonably, "Might I have your permission to summarize the incident, in brief? We who are assembled here would benefit from clarity."

Trisphar waited to see if Giles would grumble any about this, then when Giles did not grumble, nodded his serpentine head in silent assent.

"Thank you, my Lord," Ser Jeger said, then went on to do as she promised. She explained the events that had transpired in the Mindoro mountains—at least, the version of events she believed—fairly, succinctly, and without sentimentality. "Commissioner Lai has already submitted a request to intern Agent 00 at Redgrave Oubliette," she concluded, then said, "Questions, comments?"

Ser Price spoke up first. "Redgrave, now that won't do," he said contemplatively, then when Ser Evergreen cast a stern look his way, he clarified: "I only mean that it's expensive, having to commission more wizards to hex people in there. That's all."

Mollified, Ser Evergreen said: "What's more, it's far too merciful. The charges here more or less amount to high treason. Which, might I remind you, the customary sentence for is death. And death," she added mildly, "Is practically free."

"There you have it," said Ser Price. "Too expensive and too merciful. A total non-starter."

"Perhaps our Lord thinks mercy is a good investment," mused Ser Jeger.

Trisphar liked the sound of that. Moreover, he liked the way it made him sound: judicious, measured, and wise (and quite unlike his actual self). Redgrave was the wiser and stronger option—an upfront risk or cost for a later reward—and so he, a ruler of great wisdom and strength, ought to select it. (He hadn't the faintest idea just what that benefit would be, only that it would inevitably arrive: he was making an investment, and if the World knew what was good for it, that investment would pay off.)

"Redgrave," he said in a slow, soft rumble, intently filing the ragged edges off of his voice as he spoke. His assembled followers fell silent and looked to him. "The Changeling will go to Redgrave."

"But—it has trespassed against the order," Ser Evergreen said incredulously. "Betrayed us, betrayed you—"

"Am I not your Lord?" Trisphar said in his Real Voice, the one that could only come from the Real Body. "Are you not my faithful?"

"Yes, you are my Lord, and I would have you be my emperor!" Ser Evergreen cried, throwing herself across the flagstones in a fit of apologetics. "My faith in you and your promise is unshakeable. I love you and obey you without doubt, without question. Forgive me, I beg."

"My word is absolute and my benevolence is boundless."

"Yes, my Lord, yes." She was utterly groveling now—Trisphar had made his point well enough. He ought to have been satisfied.

He wasn't.

"The Changeling's humiliation and regret at the death of their comrade will be their punishment. I, magnanimous, grant them clemency."

"It will be granted, Lord, exactly as you say."

A crackling growl of approval escaped him; he caught it and turned it into words. "Let it never be said that I am not merciful."

So you see, although he saved you, it was never about you at all. At least, not yet.

When the umpteenth log placed upon the fire to feebly prolong it was reduced to ash, the meeting adjourned. Trisphar's giant, cumbersome joints were stiff, and after the time came to cram himself into a smaller shape, he felt like one big stiff joint.

The meeting had been far too long—and for the most part, dull. But even in his smaller shape, Trisphar still felt grand. Still felt glorious. He was entirely enamored of his own absolute word, his own boundless benevolence. He imagined the face of Ser Evergreen as she had plead for his pardon. The imagining pleased him. He began to imagine you, too, but when he tried to picture your face, he found he could not.

An idea came to him, then.

He planted that idea like a seed within the idle chit-chat between himself and Giles, let it grow into a suggestion the old man thought was his own: "Why don't we take a stroll through the Keep before returning to Leadenhall?" Giles said in that thin, grey, unbothered voice of his, unaware of the schemes Trisphar was spinning.

He would have preferred to steer their route directly past whatever office you awaited news of your fate within, but he could not remember for the life of him which armament commissioner Ser Jeger had mentioned by name, so instead they circled the gallery of the Great Hall. From there, it was only a matter of waiting for you to appear.

He waited.

You appeared.

And when his gaze affixed to you, it was a revelation. For he could see both sides of you: the outside, a meek, human servant girl with sweet brown eyes, and the inside, where it was clear you were not a servant girl, not human at all, but rather some monstrous thing—born of violence and endlessly returning to it, a wild creature, a rare treasure, a tool—anything but human.

Like he was.

Like I am.

Perhaps it was written on the face that only his clear eyes could see. Perhaps it was written on your soul, and some stolen scrap of my omniscience revealed it to him. In any case, your true nature was plain as day.

From that moment, he had to have you. To possess you, in spirit and mind. But he wasn't just going to walk up and demand that you hand yourself over, oh no, he was going to have you come to him.

Isn't it pitiful? Isn't it terrible? This great blue scaly thing that cannot bear to ask for what it wants, nor to reach out and take it... It's not enough for him to force his will on you, he must shove it down your throat all the way to your very own heart, to the fluttering depths of your stomach.

When you saw he'd seen you, you scuttled back into the shadows like the unsightly thing that you are, and he could see you no longer. This didn't worry him. He knew you wouldn't wander far, that you'd keep close and reappear before too long—he'd seen a hunger in your wretched, red-rimmed eyes when you had looked at him. It filled him with a strange certainty that his investment would pay off, that it already was paying off, that your love and loyalty were all but assured—that you were as good as his, and nobody else's.

He wasn't entirely wrong.

But we wasn't right, either.