Sharp thud of metal in wood, or stone, or whatever forms this carapace of a tower takes, his eye caught by motion and flame and what else, further away: the man who sent the arrow flying, Lan Zhan, a tattered, beautiful living flame that flickers to white.

The message caught up in a motion down to his knee, and the collection of parchment woven in fletching; his name, such as it is, and the plan of action.

He lifts the paper to his lips, and lets it rest there, the closest thing to a blown kiss before he nods and slips into the interior shadows. He will be pulled out again, as the dragon becomes a settled beast, as magic collides and he's brought down to small size and even exhausted, he will find it in him to navigate the streets he's learned and guide two other men to the docks from the path of least obvious tracking, but that is for hours still.

Hours before the cold seas, hours before the sun sets, and he will live and stand and breathe and ensure he and Lan Zhan share that much of themselves, for whatever else they do not right now. Trust and faith, stitched together by circumstance that pulls the better out of them.

The chaos, and disaster, they both know how to most easily survive in the midst of, when silent.