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Have you heard the tale of Mathieu Bellamont, and the great treachery of Cheydinhal?

***

There is a sharp tug, a pull behind his eyes and suddenly he is cold, blinking at the muted light of the twin moons, obscured both by trees and the softly falling snow. The hazy chaos of the Void is gone for the moment, the Listener needs him.

They move, quiet and light as shadows through the darkness, never speaking a word. The branches tangle in his robes, scratch at exposed skin, and for a moment he forgets he is only a spirit.

They wait for hours, crouched and shrouded, watching the bustle of people move back and forth, oblivious. Every unknown face is another precious second lost. Finally, a sigh, and Lucien knows that the target isn't here. Not yet at least. His blade grows anxious, and he touches the silver hilt, as if reassuring both of them that blood will be spilt, soon.

The Listener sits, drawing an apple from the folds of the robe, yet another change that claws under Lucien's skin, an itch that is impossible to scratch. Everything is just so wrong now. He watches as white teeth pierce the red skin of the apple, and he's taken back to another time, back when things were still right.

His mind drifts, to sharper teeth, skin, a blood red moon and a different sort of itch.

He smiles.

His mind turns now, to silence, stone floors tainted with red, too pale skin, bloodstained pages of a book.

His smile fades.

"Tell me a story. Tell me about the Brotherhood when you were alive." The words are soft, barely carried on the air. Lucien turns away.

Even the Listener knows everything is wrong.

"Have you heard the tale of Mathieu Bellamont, and the great treachery of Cheydinhal?"