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    Garth straightens from his position bent over the bow and stares at her, a grave weight in his blue eye as it lingers on her cheek. His fingers twitch as if curious to touch and Sparrow is grateful for his restraint. “I do not know the whole of what you suffered,” he says, “but I know parts. The other guards- they spoke to each other often, and without care of who heard.”

    His chin dips as he speaks, as if in apology for what he could not help but know. Some part of Sparrow wants to spit at his pity, but another knows that were she in his position, she would have clamored for any word of her sole hope of salvation. She also knows that whatever he heard, it does not change the things she herself has done.

    She says, “By any just law the sum of my life would be determined by what I did in that tower, Garth. Regardless of what was done to me in turn.”

    Garth frowns. “The Commandant-”

    “Is dead,” says Sparrow. Wisps of a low-level inferno slide off her shoulders, dispersing harmlessly into the wind. “I saw to that myself.”

    --

    Sailing back to Oakfield, Sparrow considers the aftermath of her time in the Spire, and what it means for the path to the future that has been laid out before her.

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