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“It’s a pre-world vintage, kept in stasis up until very recently. Drink. You’ve earned it or” —Atticus gave him an appraising look, then sighed— “perhaps you haven’t, but Serval calls me soft so I may as well live up to his admittedly low expectations.”

“He seems loyal.” Orpheus took the glass and swirled the liquid. It smelled lovely. What was this?

“Loyal indeed, but not to me. To my wife.”

Orpheus stilled, not looking up from what he realized was a glass of scotch.

“But that’s not why we’re here, are we? We’re here to talk about the other woman in my life.” Atticus’ wry smile was an indulgent thing Orpheus almost laughed at. “Take a sip, first. You’ll thank me.”

Orpheus sipped at the glass and—well, it certainly tasted worse than it smelled.

“Ah, not what you expected? I’ll admit it’s an acquired taste. If you’re lucky you’ll have the time to explore it. If not, well…I’ll cut to the point. What the Architects plan for you, they planned for Gwen, first.”

Wait…what? Orpheus nearly spat his scotch across his lap.

Instead, he sputtered, “They want to—to Gwen?”

Atticus leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, glass hanging from three fingers. In the cool light his white hair and salt and pepper beard stood out, making him look older than the man who he’d bathed with some week ago.

“I won’t allow them to, which is largely the reason I came after you. But you should know, if this doesn’t work, I will not save you from what the Architects have planned, because if it’s not you they use in their spell, they will turn to Gwen, instead.”

Those monsters, Orpheus thought—except, hadn’t he planned the exact same thing?

But not anymore. I changed my mind.

Orpheus sucked in a shaking breath. “That can’t happen.”

“The most surefire way to prevent that is getting this spell to work. Do you think it’s possible?”

No. Yes. Well, if he had enough power. Then again, if he had enough power, they wouldn’t need the spell at all, would they?

“You’ve set me to an impossible task.” Orpheus gripped his glass so hard it was amazing it didn’t shatter. “What we should do is take Gwen and leave for the Empire.”

“I can’t abandon all these people. Not for one girl. I can’t. No matter how much I…” Atticus closed his eyes, that grim expression returning, like all the awful things he’d done in pursuit of healing Sanctuary actually were weighing on him, but this one most of all. “I can’t, no matter how much I may want to.”

Yet again, the greater good demanded its price and Orpheus…Orpheus understood why Atticus decided how he did.

Even if he didn’t agree.

“And you call us the savages,” Orpheus murmured. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know you care for her as I do, and I think, knowing what’s at stake, it may make what happens next…well, if not easier, at least make some sense.”

“You expect me to willingly die for Sanctuary?” Orpheus whispered. “You think I am so magnanimous that I’d give my life for this cursed city?”

“Not the city,” Atticus said. “For Gwen.”

Orpheus jerked, scotch spilling over his fingers. He stared at his hand, mind empty of the urge to snap, his heart pounding within the hollow of his chest, within the place his magic had once occupied—then Fenrir—and now Gwen.

“That’s not fair,” Orpheus whispered. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t hurt you on purpose. This isn’t my fault; I was only trying to help.”

“And yet, here we sit with the consequences anyway, where either one man or one girl’s life must be traded to save that of thousands. The choice is yours, Orpheus. Isn’t that the least I can do for you? Allow you to choose?”

This is no choice. And Atticus knew that, forcing out into the open an admission Orpheus had already confronted, but now played perfectly into Atticus’ waiting hands.

“I hate you,” he whispered. Across the table, Atticus swirled his glass without replying. Quiet. Solemn. Resolved.

They spent the next hour in communal silence, Sanctuary’s hymn rising and falling in mockery of a prayer that would do Orpheus little good. He needed this spell to work, or both he and Gwen may die, but it wouldn’t take a failed experiment to prove what he already knew.