The first thing Berius does is go home. The valleys are lush as ever, and the fire is warm. He basks, for a while, in his community’s pride. A great success, his parents say approvingly. Just as we all predicted.
The second thing Berius does is leave home once more.
The solid stone cobbles of Egyország’s roads were once a comfort, but now he travels them with a questioning restlessness that cannot be quelled. Many others do the same, it seems.
He ferries Magnus to meetings with various business contacts. He brings Taekol to each fount of knowledge that they come seeking. And, famed for his discretion, he carries frantic members of the Párt from one emergency meeting to the next.
He says very little. He hears all.
Egyország is a fractured thing, ready to be pried open by a well-placed paring knife. Berius provides the Resistance with it; Holtváros’ streets soon echo with secrets spilled from his lips.
It soon catches up to him. He bears witness to the Inquisition’s final, desperate gasp as he’s bundled into a cell and sentenced to death.
As he sits there in the cold darkness, he thinks of the forests and the fire, of the smell of his favorite childhood stew and the sound of summer rain on their cottage’s thatched roof. He remembers the last time he heard his family’s voices.
He regrets nothing—but he wishes, perhaps, that he could be there one last time.
In the morning, sunlight cuts through the shadows, and the prison walls crumble to crowds and flames and song.
The third thing Berius does is go home.