Brinnard Whitewood stepped into Tybalt's tent, his expression immediately twisting into a look of distaste. His eyes scanned the space with thinly veiled disgust, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. "This... is where you choose to conduct your affairs?" he muttered, stepping carefully as though afraid the floor itself might be offensive. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. The boy did say you were unconventional." He folded his arms, shaking his head. "It smells of old parchment and rat musk. And what in the hells is *that*?" His gaze lingered on some small detail—a scrap of fabric, an out-of-place utensil, something utterly harmless but, to him, an affront. After a long pause, he straightened, running a hand over his chin. The disapproval lingered in his features, but something softer tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Hrmph. I shouldn't—" He exhaled sharply, his posture relaxing ever so slightly. "Old habits and whatnot. The boy wants me to do better." Brinnard's eyes flicked toward Tybalt, this time with something resembling effort, if not warmth. He cleared his throat. "So. Breakfast, then." Tybalt remained unfazed by Brinnard's critique, merely smirking as he flipped a sizzling steak in a well-seasoned cast iron skillet. The rich aroma of seared meat and ghee filled the tent, mingling with the earthy scent of fresh-foraged herbs. Beside the skillet, a separate pan held eggs, their edges crisping to a perfect golden hue. "Aye, breakfast indeed, General," he replied smoothly, unfazed. "And that 'rat musk' you're so keen on is just fine Ysoki craftsmanship—oil for my lockbox hinges, nothing more. But if the scent lingers so strongly in your memory, I'd be happy to bottle some up for you as a keepsake." His tone carried an easy humor, but his sharp eyes watched Brinnard's reactions with interest. With practiced efficiency, he plated the meal—thick, seared steak, eggs cooked just right, and a side of fresh greens—before gesturing toward a seat. "Not quite the fineries of a noble house, but it'll do the job. And I assure you, no rats in the stew—at least not today." He took a bite of his own food with a relaxed air, the flicker of amusement still present in his expression. He leaned back slightly, tilting his head as he regarded Brinnard. "We've spoken at length about what needs doing, so let's get to it. How did you sleep, or did the wind in these 'uncivilized' lands keep you up?" His voice carried a knowing lilt, enjoying the contrast between Brinnard's rigid refinement and the raw, practical nature of Rivermarch. Brinnard Whitewood smirked at Tybalt's response, his sharp blue eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and begrudging appreciation. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pulled out the offered chair and settled into it, his posture naturally commanding despite the relaxed setting. He reached for a plate, inspecting the food with the same scrutinizing gaze he had given the rest of the tent. He took his time, slicing into the steak with precise movements, lifting a piece to his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. He gave no immediate reaction, though the rich, well-seasoned taste was evident in the way his chewing slowed just slightly. He swallowed, exhaling through his nose, before finally speaking. "I slept wonderfully," he said, his tone dry but lacking the previous edge of disapproval. "Peacefully, even. The wind in these 'uncivilized' lands suits me just fine." He took another bite, still not admitting outright that the food was to his liking, though he made no move to push the plate away. Brinnard let his gaze drift over the tent again, though this time without quite as much disdain. "You assume I was ever one for the noble lifestyle," he continued, resting his knife against the plate. "I grew up on the road. A sellsword, a mercenary—whichever title fits best. A life of finery wasn't for me, not then, not now." He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling at the corner. "Though my wife might disagree. She's always wished for me to settle. Gods know I've tried." His voice softened ever so slightly as he spoke of her, a rare moment of sentiment slipping through his usual gruffness. "But when the boy asked me to come here…" He paused, considering his words before continuing. "It gave me life again." He glanced at Tybalt, then back at his plate, idly slicing into the steak once more. "Brinn's got a good heart," he admitted, a touch of pride in his voice. "Stubborn, too, takes after his grandmother. He'll do what's right, even when it's hard. Always has." He shook his head slightly, a soft exhale escaping him. "My wife worries. I understand why. But this—" he gestured vaguely, indicating not just the tent but Rivermarch as a whole. "This is something worth fighting for." He finally turned his attention fully to Tybalt, studying him with that same sharp scrutiny as before. After a long pause, he stabbed another bite of steak and took it with quiet acceptance. "Hrmph," he grunted, still unwilling to give Tybalt the satisfaction of an outright compliment. "It'll do." And with that, he returned to his meal, the conversation hanging between them, open for whatever direction Tybalt wished to take it next. Tybalt let the silence linger, content to let Brinnard's words settle in the space between them. He busied himself cracking another egg into the pan, the sizzle filling the tent as he watched the older man out of the corner of his eye. The begrudging acceptance, the softened edge in his voice when he spoke of his wife and grandson—it told Tybalt more than any outright approval ever could. "Aye, Brinn's got a good heart," he finally said, nodding as he flipped the egg with practiced ease. "Stubborn, too. But the best of us are, I think. It keeps us standing when others would fold." He slid the egg onto his own plate and leaned back slightly, studying Brinnard in return. "And you, then?" he asked, his tone light but edged with curiosity. "You've been a sellsword, a fighter. You know what it means to draw steel for a cause, to put your name on something bigger than yourself. What does Rivermarch mean to *you*?" He gestured vaguely with his fork, mirroring Brinnard's earlier motion. "You came here for Brinn, that much is clear. But what *keeps* you here?" He took a bite of his food, giving Brinnard the space to answer in his own time. The older man wasn't the type to waste words, and Tybalt wasn't the type to push when patience would serve him better. Instead, he let the question hang, waiting to see how much Brinnard was willing to reveal—or how much he might say without realizing it. Brinnard cut into his steak with practiced ease, the sharp edge of his knife gliding through the perfectly seared meat. He lifted a bite to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as Tybalt's question hung between them. The rich, buttery flavor mingled with the runny yolk of his eggs, and though he wouldn't say it outright, he had to admit—the rat had a damn good hand in the kitchen. He finally exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he set his knife down. "I told you already—I'm here for Brinn," he repeated, his voice firm, steady, as if that alone should be answer enough. But he didn't leave it at that. Instead, he tapped his fork against his plate, his gaze drifting for a moment before settling back on Tybalt. "The Whitewood name isn't some half-forgotten banner in need of revival—we're already well-established, wealthy, with lands and titles to our name. My father, and his father before him, they secured that with steel and gold, built our house into something powerful. Brinn doesn't need to *prove* our family's worth. But he does need to carve out his own place, his own legacy. That's why I'm here." He scooped up a bite of eggs, his expression unreadable as he chewed. "I won't be here forever, nor would I want to be. I told him I'd stay long enough to see him steady, long enough to make sure no fool comes sniffing around thinking he's just some green boy playing at rulership." He smirked slightly. "After that? Well, his grandmother would march down here and drag me back to Brevoy herself if I tried to stay any longer." He shook his head, chuckling under his breath. "Emeline's got no patience for me running off and playing soldier at my age. She let me have my wars, my campaigns, but she expects me home now. And gods help me, she might just kill me if I test her on it." He took another bite, chewing slowly, considering. "But I won't leave until I know Brinn has what he needs. This kingdom, it's his. But his name—our name—needs to endure past his lifetime too. It has to be more than just some upstart's experiment in the Stolen Lands." He leaned back slightly, his fork hovering over his plate as he studied Tybalt. "So, I'll do my part. See the right alliances made, ensure the right people are in place. Then, when the time comes, I'll go home. And I'll leave him with something worth keeping." Maximus entered the tent. "Greetings flesh companions and it is a pleasure to finally meet you General Brinnard." Maximus extended a metal hand in an attempt to shake hands "I believe you call this a hand fisting" Brinnard leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he regarded the automaton standing before him. "Well now, lad—ah, forgive me, 'construct'? 'Metalman'?" He waved a hand dismissively. Maximus continues. "I have a few concerns to address this morning, I do not have the sense of smell but Tybalt by the sounds of it you are performing well on the food. Do you have any oils I wish not to be rude and not dine with you all?" "The Lord Regent received a package of unknown origin within our walls. No one saw it arrive. No one saw who left it. No one saw it placed within his reach." He let the words settle before continuing. "This is a failure. A breach. One that should not have been possible and I feel I have some responsibility for this." His gaze shifted to Tybalt first. "You are the Emissary. This city has eyes in every shadow, ears in every alleyway. How did something slip past them unseen?" Maximus then turned to Brinnard. "And your soldiers? We have patrols. Checkpoints. Wards at the gates. Were there no reports of movement? No indication of an intrusion? How would you propose we coordinate in the future to prevent such an incident from repeating?" "There is also the matter in the eastern woods—something is wrong. My guard, Garrek, has been monitoring the situation closely. The bodies we've found—animals, even people—are not simply killed. They are torn apart, left behind as if for sport. This is not the work of common predators." He let the weight of his words settle before continuing. "The tracks are fresh. The attacks are growing more frequent. And whatever is doing this is getting closer to Rivermarch." His head inclined slightly toward Brinnard. "General, how should we proceed? Do we send scouting parties to track this threat? Fortify our patrols in the east? Whatever this is, it is hunting unchecked, and I do not wish to wait until it finds its way inside our walls." Brinn slowed his pace as he neared the tent, hearing the low rumble of his grandfather's voice inside. He had intended to enter, to meet Brinnard and Tybalt as planned, but something in the weight of the conversation made him pause. Instead, he lingered just outside, listening. "This… is where you choose to conduct your affairs?" Brinnard Whitewood's voice carried the familiar tone of disapproval, tinged with a sharp incredulity. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. The boy did say you were unconventional." A pause. Brinn could almost *see* his grandfather surveying the space, lips pressing into a thin line of distaste. "It smells of old parchment and rat musk. And what in the hells is *that*?" Brinnard's voice sharpened as he focused on some offending object, likely some minor, harmless detail that had drawn his scrutiny. A long silence stretched before his grandfather exhaled sharply. "Hrmph. I shouldn't—" Another breath. "Old habits and whatnot. The boy wants me to do better." Brinn's fingers tightened at his sides. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but the acknowledgment, however begrudging, sent something warm through his chest. Inside, Tybalt was unfazed. Brinn could hear the easy confidence in his voice as he responded. "Aye, breakfast indeed, General. And that 'rat musk' you're so keen on is just fine Ysoki craftsmanship—oil for my lockbox hinges, nothing more. But if the scent lingers so strongly in your memory, I'd be happy to bottle some up for you as a keepsake." Brinnard snorted, the sound half amusement, half exasperation. The conversation shifted, the scents of sizzling steak and eggs filling the tent, but Brinn barely registered them. He listened as his grandfather spoke again, this time about his past. "You assume I was ever one for the noble lifestyle," Brinnard said. "I grew up on the road. A sellsword, a mercenary—whichever title fits best. A life of finery wasn't for me, not then, not now." A pause. "Though my wife might disagree. She's always wished for me to settle. Gods know I've tried." Something softened in his grandfather's voice then, a rare sentimentality slipping through the usual gruff exterior. "But when the boy asked me to come here… It gave me life again." Brinn's breath caught. He had asked for his grandfather's help, knowing the man would give it, but he hadn't expected… *this*. To hear the weight of it in Brinnard's own words left him rooted to the spot. The conversation continued, shifting to Rivermarch, to what Brinnard saw in it. "Brinn's got a good heart," he admitted. "Stubborn, too, takes after his grandmother. He'll do what's right, even when it's hard. Always has." He shook his head. "My wife worries. I understand why. But this—" A gesture, unseen but felt. "This is something worth fighting for." Brinn finally moved, inhaling deeply as he readied himself. That was enough. He had heard what he needed. Stepping forward, he pushed aside the tent flap and entered just as Maximus spoke. "Greetings, flesh companions, and it is a pleasure to finally meet you, General Brinnard." The moment shifted, the warmth of his grandfather's words still lingering as Brinn joined the meeting at last. As Brinn stepped fully into the tent, the air shifted. Brinnard Whitewood turned his sharp gaze toward the entrance, and for a brief moment, the hardened warrior's face softened. "Ah, the Lord Regent arrives," he declared, his voice rich with pride and unmistakable warmth. The stern lines of his face eased as he set down his utensils, rising with the steady grace of a man who had seen more battles than most. He took a step forward, clasping Brinn's shoulder with the firm grip of both a commander and a grandfather. "Took your time, lad," he muttered, though the amusement in his tone betrayed the fondness beneath it. His sharp blue eyes studied Brinn for a moment, taking stock not just of his grandson's presence but of the weight he now carried. Brinnard gave a small nod, one of quiet approval. "You look well," he remarked simply. Then, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he gestured toward the food. "Come, sit. Tybalt's cooked up something passable, and Maximus is still trying to figure out what to do with his hands. Let's get to it." "I will start planning this "expedition,"" Maximus announced. "I intend on joining the hunt, would anyone else like to join?" Tybalt, who had remained quiet as Brinn entered, allowed himself a small smile at Brinnard's shift in tone. "About time you showed, Lord Regent," Tybalt teased, though his tone carried none of the weight of formal titles. He gestured to the plate already set for Brinn. "Sit, eat. You might need your strength if Maximus intends to drag us all into the woods after breakfast." At the automaton's words, Tybalt's ears twitched slightly, and he set his utensils down, fixing Maximus with an even gaze. "I don't like the idea of something creeping through our lands unchecked. If it's tearing people apart and getting closer to our walls, that's not something we *wait* to deal with—it's something we *root out* before it gets bolder." He took a measured sip from his cup before nodding. "I'll go. Someone needs to track this thing properly, and no offense, General, but your men aren't exactly known for their subtlety. Finnick's sharp, he can take point, but I want eyes on the ground that know how to read more than just footprints in the mud." He leaned forward slightly, glancing between Brinnard and Brinn. "But this isn't just a hunt. If this is the work of a *beast*, we put it down. If it's something worse—something being *directed*—then we need to know by whom and why. This could be some stray monster, or it could be a sign of something more calculated." His tail flicked slightly behind him as he considered. "We go in small. A scouting party, not a full force. Maximus, Finnick, Garrek—solid choices. I'll go, and I'll see if I can pull one more tracker that I trust to watch our backs. We find out what's out there, and *then* we decide if it needs killing or if we need more hands." He turned to Brinn. "What say you, Lord Regent? You want to see this firsthand, or do you want to stay behind and make sure another package doesn't show up uninvited?" His eyes glinted with sharp amusement, but the underlying question was serious. Brinn had to choose where his focus lay—on the stability within their walls, or the growing danger outside them. Brinn met Tybalt's gaze, the weight of the decision settling over him like a cloak. He glanced at his grandfather, whose expression remained unreadable, though there was no mistaking the expectation in his stance. "I'll go," Brinn said, his voice steady. "If something is out there, I want to see it for myself." His eyes flickered toward Maximus, then back to Tybalt. "You're right—this isn't just a hunt. If this thing is acting with intent, we need to understand what we're dealing with before it escalates. And if it's just a beast, then we put it down before it can do more harm." Brinn exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if preparing to bear the weight of whatever came next. "Gather the party. We leave as soon as we're ready." Unless there is more to discuss." Brinnard let out a short chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. His sharp blue eyes flicked over Brinn appraisingly, taking in the determination set in his grandson's features. "Eager to get going—I like that," he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of approval, but also something steadier, something grounding. Then, with a firm gesture toward the seat across from him, he added, "But sit down, lad. There's more to discuss, and you need to try this damn steak before you march off into the wilds." His tone was casual, but there was no mistaking the command beneath it. The old general reached for his own knife, slicing another piece of the thick, seared meat. "Tybalt didn't burn it, and I'm man enough to admit it's worth eating. I won't have you starving yourself before a hunt." Brinnard's gaze settled on his grandson again, softer now, though still lined with the quiet expectation of a man who had seen too many warriors rush into battle without considering what lay ahead. "We'll talk strategy, then you can charge off into the unknown with a full belly and a clear head." He smirked, stabbing a piece of steak with his fork and holding it up pointedly. "Now, sit." Brinn hesitated for only a moment before exhaling, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he relented, stepping forward and settling into the chair across from his grandfather. "You're right," he admitted, resting his forearms on the table. "I was being hasty. I should know better than to rush into something like this without taking the time to plan properly." His gaze flicked to the steak before letting out a quiet chuckle. "And I suppose I'd be a fool to pass up a decent meal before heading out." He picked up his knife, cutting into the meat as he met Brinnard's eyes again, his voice steadier. "I'll hear what needs discussing. Then we go in prepared." Tybalt smirked but said nothing, merely gesturing toward the plate already set for Brinn. "Listen to your grandfather, Lord Regent," Tybalt drawled, leaning back in his chair as he absently tapped a claw against his fork. "You might be rushing off to wrestle some nameless horror in the woods, but that's no excuse to skip breakfast. If nothing else, you should at least know what a proper meal tastes like before some beast tries to eat you instead." He waited until Brinn settled before continuing. "Now, seeing as we're not bolting out the door just yet, there's something I need to ask before anything else." His easy tone faded, replaced with something more serious. His sharp gaze locked onto Brinn. "Do you have the pendant with you?" His tail flicked slightly, betraying a rare moment of unease. "If you do, I need you to set it down. Carefully. I've been looking into it, and I don't like what I've found. I believe it's cursed, Brinn. I don't know how, or to what extent, but I know enough to say that it shouldn't be handled lightly." He exhaled, ears twitching slightly as he continued. "Until we know exactly what we're dealing with, keep it secured. Do not wear it. Do not touch it directly. And if you *have* been… well, we'll need to talk about that too." His tone was firm, but not accusatory. He was concerned—genuinely so. Only once that matter was settled would he move on to the next. "Once that's handled, I'd like to discuss the possibility of building relations with the Brevoyan noble houses. It's a conversation we can't put off much longer." His sharp eyes flicked briefly toward Brinnard before returning to Brinn. "But first, the pendant. Let's deal with one danger at a time." Brinn's grip on his knife tightened slightly at Tybalt's words, his appetite momentarily forgotten. He met the Ysoki's sharp gaze, reading the genuine concern there, and exhaled through his nose before setting his utensils down. Slowly, he reached into his coat and produced the pendant, setting it carefully on the table between them. "I *have* it," he admitted, his voice even. "And I won't lie—I've handled it more than I probably should have." His eyes flicked to Tybalt's, measuring his reaction before continuing. "I had my suspicions about it, but I wasn't sure. If you're telling me it's cursed, then I trust you." He leaned back slightly, fingers tapping against the table as he considered. "What exactly have you found? If we're dealing with something dangerous, I need to know everything you do." His tone was firm, but there was no defensiveness—only a willingness to understand. After a beat, he allowed a smirk to return, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "And I suppose that means I should count myself lucky I haven't grown a second head or started speaking in tongues just yet." He gestured toward the pendant. "But go on. Tell me what I've gotten myself into this time." Tybalt's eyes locked onto the pendant, his fur bristling slightly despite his composed exterior. His fingers curled against the table as he studied it, the memory of his previous encounter with the very same trinket crawling back to the forefront of his mind. "This isn't just any cursed trinket, Brinn," he said, his voice quieter now, more measured. "I've seen this before. Tartuccio tried to hand it to me, back in my tent. I refused it then. And now, somehow, it's found its way back to us—to *you*." His tail flicked sharply, his unease manifesting in the smallest of motions. "I don't believe in coincidence, not when it comes to Pitax. Tartuccio is working for them—I'd stake my life on it. That means this pendant isn't just some bauble gone astray. It's deliberate. It was placed where you would find it, where you would *take* it." He exhaled through his nose, fingers drumming once against the wood. "Now, if I had to wager, it's one of two things. Either it's cursed—meant to worm its way into your mind, influence your thoughts, change the way you act until you don't realize you've been nudged down a path you never would've taken on your own. Or—" his eyes flicked up to Brinn's, steady and sharp, "it's a scrying tool. A tether. A means for someone, somewhere, to watch you. To listen. To know exactly what you're planning before you've even spoken the words aloud." His voice remained calm, but his posture was anything but relaxed. "And if that's the case, then whoever placed it knew *exactly* where to slip it past us. They knew how to get it into your hands unnoticed." He looked toward Brinnard now, including the old general in his assessment. "Which means we have a breach. We have a weak link—someone in this city is passing information, moving things through our walls without detection. And if they can plant something like this, they can do worse." His eyes returned to Brinn, his tone lower but no less urgent. "We need to decide what to do with it, and we need to do it *now*. If it's a scrying tool, it could still be active. If it's cursed, the longer it stays near you, the worse it could get. My advice? We have it examined, but not here. Not anywhere near the capital. We take it to neutral ground, somewhere it can't compromise anyone else." His claws lightly tapped the table again, his mind already running through the next steps. "What's your call, Brinn? Because whatever we decide, we do it before we leave this tent." Brinn's jaw tightened as he listened, his eyes flicking between Tybalt and the pendant on the table. He felt the weight of the moment pressing down—not just the danger the pendant posed, but the implications that came with it. "You're right," he said, his voice steady but grim. "This isn't chance. Someone wanted me to have it. Someone inside our walls is working against us." He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to push aside the frustration curling in his chest. This wasn't the time for anger—it was the time for action. His gaze hardened. "We take it away from the capital. I won't risk this thing compromising our people. We'll have it examined somewhere safe, by someone we trust. And until then—" he flicked his fingers toward the pendant, "—we treat it like it's *both*. A cursed object *and* a scrying tool. Assume it's listening. Assume it's waiting." He looked to Tybalt, his tone resolute. "If there's a leak, we find them. Quietly. No sudden moves, no accusations—not until we know *exactly* who we're dealing with. But when we do?" His lips pressed into a thin line. "We make sure they don't get another chance." Brinn leaned back, exhaling through his nose. "So. We handle this now, we handle it away from here, and we start watching our own people a little closer." His blue eyes locked onto Tybalt's, firm with conviction. "Agreed?" Brinnard Whitewood let out a rough, gravelly chuckle, shaking his head as he eyed the pendant sitting on the table. His lip curled in a sneer, his tone thick with grizzled disdain. "Bah. A gnome and his trinkets," he muttered, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Quickest way to deal with one? Stick 'em in a box, let the Bleaching do its work. They either spill their secrets or move on to the next damned adventure." He flicked a glance at Brinn, gauging his grandson's reaction before exhaling sharply. "Course, I reckon that's frowned upon these days," he added with a dry smirk. "Shame, really. Used to be we had simpler solutions for this kind of mess." His blue eyes landed back on the pendant, and he scoffed. "So this is tied to that… what was his name? Tartuffle? Tartassio?" He waved a hand dismissively, as if the exact pronunciation wasn't worth the effort. Tybalt let out a quiet chuckle, though there was little humor in it. "Tartuccio," he corrected, his tone flat. "And aye, it's tied to him. That little wretch tried handing it to me once, back in my tent. I refused." His sharp eyes flicked to the pendant before returning to Brinnard. "Seems he wasn't willing to take 'no' for an answer." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as his tail flicked behind him. "I don't believe for a second that he gave up on whatever scheme he had in mind. If he wanted me to have it before and now it's found its way to Brinn instead, that means it wasn't just meant for anyone. It was meant for someone close to the heart of Rivermarch." His nose twitched, distaste curling at the edge of his voice. "And knowing what I do about Tartuccio, I doubt it was meant as a gift." Tybalt exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "I'd wager my fur he's still playing the same game—seeding division, planting poison where he can. We should assume this thing was meant to cause harm, whether through magic or manipulation. And if he's still skulking around somewhere, I'd like to make sure he doesn't get another chance to try it." His gaze hardened slightly. "So, General. If we're frowning on the 'box method' these days, what's the proper way to deal with a gnome who won't stay out of our business?" The smirk that followed was sharp, almost daring. "Because I'd be more than happy to hear your preferred approach." Brinnard Whitewood grunted, rolling his shoulders as he leaned back in his chair. "Tried and true methods work fine for me," he muttered, voice rough with age and experience. "You get rid of the problem before it festers. Simple as that." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "But seems we're dancing around 'proper' solutions these days. So, I'll let the boy decide on strategy." His gaze settled on Brinn, and though his words carried an air of indifference, there was something weighty in the way he said it—an expectation, a test. "Your kingdom, your call. Just make sure whatever you decide don't leave us looking like fools in the end." Maximus piped in again, “We threaten them with violence?” Maximus arcanic eyes glowed more intensely Brinn remained silent for a long moment, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he weighed the words of both men. His grandfather's blunt pragmatism was something he had grown up with, a constant reminder that the old general saw problems as nails, and hammers as the only solution. Tybalt, for all his sharp-edged humor, was much the same in that regard. They were men who saw threats and moved to eliminate them. And they weren't wrong. Brinn exhaled through his nose, his gaze shifting from the pendant to Brinnard. "The problem with simpler solutions," he said, his voice calm but edged with thought, "is that they don't always account for the bigger picture." His blue eyes flicked toward Tybalt before returning to the pendant. "Tartuccio is dangerous, but he isn't a mastermind. He's a tool—one that someone else is using." His jaw tightened. "We could track him down, put a blade through his heart, and be rid of him. And believe me, I'd like nothing more than to remove the little bastard from the board." He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. "But if we do that without knowing *who* he's working for or *why* he's targeting us, we'll be cutting weeds instead of pulling the roots." Brinn glanced at his grandfather, his tone firm. "We're not dancing around solutions. We're making sure we don't miss the *real* enemy." His gaze then shifted to Tybalt. "We follow the trail. We find out where this pendant came from, who gave it to him, and why they want it in our hands. *Then* we deal with him—permanently." His expression hardened, and his voice dropped to something cold, decisive. "We *will* get rid of the problem before it festers, General. But we do it in a way that doesn't just cut one head off the hydra. We make sure there's nothing left to grow back." He sat back, exhaling. "So that's the call. We treat the pendant as a threat, keep it secured, and we track Tartuccio—not just to kill him, but to find out who's pulling his strings. And once we do…" His lips pressed into a thin line. "We make sure they don't get another chance to play their games." Tybalt nodded, his expression firm. "I'm in agreement. Tartuccio is a problem we need to deal with, but first, we get this pendant away from here. If it's listening, if it's cursed, we don't let it linger a moment longer than necessary. Once it's out of Rivermarch and secured, *then* we decide how best to handle him." He drummed his fingers against the table once before continuing. "I'll handle the transport. I know how to move things unseen." His tail flicked slightly as his mind turned over the best route, the safest hands to place it in—if any. "We'll need to wrap it in something that blocks divination, just in case. Lead works, cold iron maybe, though I'll need to confirm that. I'll find a way to smuggle it out quietly." His gaze flicked toward Brinnard. "As for finding our leak, you're right—we do it slow, careful. No ripples, no sign that we're onto them. But I'll start pulling threads, see who tugs back. I have ways of sniffing out the ones who think they're too clever to be caught." His smirk was thin, lacking its usual amusement. He exhaled, then looked to Brinn. "I'll arrange for someone to examine the pendant as soon as we have a safe location. But for now, we treat it like it's live. No speaking in its presence unless we want the wrong ears listening in."