"I won't betray Saint Clara City." Knight Tarkinson's voice was firm, and hostility entered his gaze.
"No one is asking you to."
Little Smo was short—shorter than the towering Knight Tarkinson, even shorter than the slender Binn beside him. But he had a presence that was impossible to ignore.
"Didn't you just say..."
"The Hall of Arts does not represent the Art Capital."
Knight Tarkinson suddenly realized that the protesters outside were a distraction. The slight man before him had probably come for him from the start.
Unsure whether to be stirred or to argue, Knight Tarkinson froze for a few seconds before saying, his feelings tangled, "Did Annan Reeves send you?"
"Lord Annan entrusted the affairs of the Art Capital to me."
"What makes you think I'll work with you?"
"Because we want the same thing."
"...I don't understand."
"You do."
Standing before The Immortal Burning Tree, Little Smo looked strangely like the tree in the painting, still upright though the forest around it had been destroyed. "The enemy is the Hall of Arts."
"The Hall of Arts may not be the enemy, but you are." Knight Tarkinson remained unmoved.
He disliked the old men in the Tower too, but that did not mean he would help outsiders turn against his own people.
"To a sturdy wooden house, termites are far more dangerous than a stray spark."
"Say whatever you like. I won't betray the Art Capital!"
"I've told you, no one is asking you to betray the Art Capital," Little Smo said calmly. "Or is it those nobles who draw their pay and do nothing that you're loyal to?"
"That's none of your concern, outsider. The Art Capital has plenty of flaws, but I'll change it with my own strength, just like your lord did."
"Will you change