( The deed, then done. Once they have reached the docks, he breathes and ache singes his lungs, overfilling with clean, rushed air that was until mere blinks before exhausted.

Beneath their supine bodies, the pier wood slates stretch and contract, the tender groans of wood splintered like high birds, calling. )

...the shard?

( A wretched thing, that at the end of their toil and trouble, this should be what utmost concerns them. Yet they have learned through multiple assignments to prioritise practicality.

He turns, at last, in the direction where Caitlyn threw her charge — hastening, half crawling, half advancing on his elbows, to retrieve it. Grace is for another man, who can wait until his legs once more give him polite answer.

Hands trembled, rounded and cupped, he catches the blink of dark glass, answering his own question — and whispering to Caitlyn, after: )

The same cold tremors of death within it. ( They have encountered this before. )