Bastien's lost himself, somewhere, and found himself here, stuck in the familiarity of the room and the crowd—not any particular piece of the crowd, but the crowd itself thrumming with familiarity—and too tired to free himself from it. Was he here, when they had Radonis?

He's here now.

The Archon isn't what he would have imagined, growing up on Orlesian stories. There's no smoke curling out of his eyes, for one. His fingernails aren't any longer than any fussy nobleman's. His teeth might be sharper—he'd need to smile or say something, for Bastien to know. Bastien's still considering him, when Flint speaks, and he's slow to turn his head to consider Flint instead, around and over the shoulders of the unidentifiable people between them.

"Once you've done that," he answers, "you can't have a better idea later."