"Your mother..." His tone has gone soft with weight and longing as he wonders— he is looking at her with more focused interest, now, trying to recognize a resemblance. Trying to remember. He feels so very close to understanding, but there are so many faces in his mind.

So many losses, each one an aching wound. It is dangerous to dwell on. He knows better. No good comes of carding back through the memories, letting pain and nostalgia drown him. It would be easier to avoid such missteps if he had any grasp on the timeline, if he knew who was still alive; he glances to his free hand, scarlet blood smudged on pale fingers. He can almost put a name to these hands. He knows they are his.

If only he knew who that was.

"My apologies." For staring, for trailing off, for leaning on her as he makes his unsteady way through this unfamiliar street. The polite little smile he gives her is not easy to muster, but he'd like to think it's a noble effort. Doing my job, she'd said, and he does feel certain she's a warrior. "You must be a—" They've a new word for it, now. His word. He fumbles for it, "—a Huntress."

The Academies. Yes, he remembers now.