“Yet another threat from the Cairish Shykh claiming I have corrupted his son. Every time a caravan passes by the desert, he sends an urgent missive to remind me.” “To be fair, sir. If they’re at the Crux, you probably have.” Arlon snorts. “No more than you, I’m sure.” At my questioning look, he says, “The Shykh’s son is Olbric.”