"That's the thing, isn't it?" Illario said, voice silken even as he breathed hard from the fight. "He doesn't know. If he's wrong about who's side I'm on, what else doesn't he know about me?"

His daggers came up again, flashing-

"There!" Spite cried out. Illario shuddered, gasped - fell, bleeding out, knife wound in his side.

Behind him, a young man. Boy, really. Skinny, in the same outfit those Crows in training wore, maybe twelve, thirteen, cascade of dark hair. This young, hard to tell which cousin, they looked so much alike. But when he looked up at Davrin it was Illario's deep blue rather than Lucanis' brown eyes. Bloody knife in his hand from where he had stabbed his older self.

What was really there.

Lucanis didn't know what was there with Illario now. But he knew what was there back when they were children. Illario the confidante, the protector, the unfailing ally. Illario who wouldn't allow anything to hurt him.

They both vanished into motes of light, and there was a loud cracking sound as the door behind them broke open, a yawning cavern into complete darkness with smoke pouring from it.