"We might have garnered some good favour in the Free Marches, by then," Marcus says, as if the idea of a future without war were an easy thing to conceive of, as if it were no challenge at all to fit himself within that space. He turns the wine glass against the table. "Or go further. Rivain."

If their constitutions could handle that much warmth and humidity in exchange for relative social freedom. They'd at least adapted to that corner of the world in a dream.

"I'll build a house," angled to Petrana, a whimsical offer made serious in tone.