Jean folded his arms. He’d grown a beard since the mess in Lashain—said it made him look less like a killer. It didn’t. “And our part?”
Outside, a horn sounded. The Thorn of Emberlain—a name the city had given to a ghost, to a rumor, to him —was supposed to be a savior. A folk hero. But folk heroes don’t pick locks on powder magazines. They don’t know the price of black market crossbow bolts or which harbor masters take bribes in silver versus fear.
“No.” Locke’s grin was thin and sharp as a letter opener. “A better war.”
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“We steal the receipt. Then we forge a better one.”