He knelt at the foot of the grave, worn by the elements. This was a forgotten place, overgrown with trees and fauna. A place nearly in the middle of the nowhere, for whom none might stumble unless they had gotten lost. Oh, who might think to care for the resting place of an exiled former Apparat, some decade and a half dead now? But to Thomas, there was no man that it remained in his soul more than his former master — Thomas Wolsey. The memory was a vow. Of ambition, willpower, and most of all, vengeance. For it was this ghost that was the sole person who knew of the greatest living secret in Ravka. Of the world. The identity of the Sun Summoner. Men like him, like Wolsey, who were lowborn, and not nobles, were always looked upon with disgust at court, more so even then. And as the Apparat, Wolsey, had been tolerant of the Grisha, and had wanted peace. Perhaps he greased the wheels here and there as any adept politician would, but Thomas knew him as a good man. And the world always wanted to bring down a good man. And so, exile. And Thomas was sure that had broken Wolsey’s heart, which had led to terrible illness. And Thomas had nearly killed himself in the pursuit of the cure. He had ended up with something much greater, or at least it would be so in the eyes of his homeland. But Thomas cared little for it. And he would not serve the king. And so, he had left Ravka behind in spite and left for Fjerda, their natural enemies. He had become a clever and ruthless ambassador, though such a word could hardly encompass what he was. Scholar and spymaster and adviser. But all in the server of Fjerda. He knelt, his hands clasped together tightly, his eyes closed solemnly, as he muttered a quiet prayer, his hands glowing gloriously, with a sacred light. Unbeknowst to him of the man who had been searching for him for so long, who had finally found him. He knelt there upon the dark soil, caring only to pay his respects.
