"Nothing," and the truth of it stings, a flaw in the air-tight wall of their defences. Many nights of watch, and still this slip of a threat prevailed against them. Guts can't name it or give the measure of its reach, but it seeps into the plane of his awareness, raises the hairs on his body, keeps him tethered to an edge.

Enemy and unseen mean arrows, on most counts. Spies, on lesser days. Assassins, on those rare occasions when Griffith's slights have amounted to more than crippling inconvenience, and he's tarnished noble pride, along with treasuries. They don't add up prettily and compact to haunting, but here they are, desolate before the quiet understanding that whatever's lodged in the confines of the master's rooms has a hold of the fortress it's not compelled to surrender.

Griffith kisses him, a mother blessing her child, or a woman trying the lips of her first lover: forcibly effeminate, but thoughtless — a fleeting fancy, nothing to build on or grasp whole. Guts kisses back meaner, teeth and a hard push, something to wake the feeling inside this man, who can't be troubled to take this damn well seriously.

"What does it look like, what you see?"