Due spent the entire night mapping out the architecture of their failure.
Alistair found him at the central table long before the first grey light of dawn had even begun to touch the Oasis.
Due didn't look up when Alistair approached. His hands were moving over a spread of borrowed maps with agonizingly careful attention.
The obligation threads he was reading weren't visible to anyone else in the room, but Alistair understood the language of his gestures.
When the threads were simple, Due's hands moved in wide, sweeping arcs. Right now, his fingers were barely moving.
They hovered inches above the parchment, twitching.
"Tell me," Alistair said. His voice felt like a serrated blade.
Due didn't look up. He didn't blink, his eyes fixed on a smudge of ink that represented a mountain pass.
"I've cataloged seventeen distinct routes into the disputed territory," Due said.
