He always dreams. Of Umbhra'ibaye more often than not these days, even when the wind turns the smoke from the castle and he can't smell it anymore. The burning orchards, the bloody bared teeth of the yellow dog, and his sister's bones singing sweetly in his ear:

It’s not them guns that kills ya, an’ it ain’t they bullets neither.
It’s the holes that kill you more than either.

A soldier steps on a dry branch, or stick hits the trunk of the tree. If he's startled, he hides it well. A very slight jolt through his body as it stiffens, his sleep-addled mind grasping for the present: he's in the alley with the tree that grows out of the broken wall - no - he's in Castle Thorne, and everyone's talking about war.

Kahlil is alert and focused in an instant. He opens one eye, slowly, and peers down at Wilhelm.

"You missed," he remarks, raising an eyebrow.

He's wondered about the boy in the past weeks. That he's heard nothing about him, and has hardly seen him is a good thing, all things considered. It hopefully means he's taken his warning to heart.