[Cavan] Reynard, Aralim Reynard

[Lynzie Austin]

Reynard, Aralim Reynard

The air on the runner was devoid of the stench of faux stale cigarettes, Drakkar Noir and that distinct reek of toxic masculinity that permeated throughout the USS David Lee Roth. Ellie thanked her stars and garters that it had not seeped into their clothes somehow. The shuttle's atmosphere was a sterile, recycled blessing, and she took a slow, deliberate breath, purging her olfactory senses of the memory.

“I am logging a formal request for a Level-5 decontamination of all personnel and equipment,” she stated, her voice echoing in the sterile, blessedly quiet hallway. “The cultural pollutants encountered on that vessel may have corrosive properties.”

“Oh, c’mon, Raven, it wasn’t that bad,” Reynie said, slouching against the bulkhead with the air of a man returning from a fantastic party. He picked an iridescent sequin off his shoulder and flicked it away, pulling her in with a smirk. “We solved the case, we looked good doing it, and I got a new jacket out of it. That’s what I call a productive away mission. And you’re going to look even better when—”

“Before you finish that thought,” Ellie pointed at the pilot’s screen. 

The gentle hum of the shuttle's systems starting up became an incoming blare. A priority briefing from Starfleet Command flashed on all the displays with all the flair of a hammer to the knees. The screen lit up not with the usual data stream, but with the grim face of Admiral Brennan. He looked positively distressed to be seeing them again so soon.

Reynie’s smirk vanished, replaced with a string of expletives under his breath. 

“Investigator Reynard, Raven,” Brennan’s voice was a gravelly whip-crack. It was evident that Nikolai Brennan had not slept much in the last few days since he issued the last assignment and he was in no mood to be doing it now. “I’m reassigning you. Effective immediately. The David Lee Roth, is that actually the name… we really need to work on our priorities here…  the incident is closed. Consider it filed.”

On the viewer, a new data packet materialized. Security clearances scrolled too fast to read, followed by the stern visage of a Bolian art collector.

“Your new target is Maim Chalak. He’s hosting a private poker tournament. The buy-in isn't latinum; it's information. The kind that topples governments.” Brennan’s eyes narrowed. “We had an operative inside. His last transmission was a single word: ‘King.’ Then, silence. You will infiltrate this gathering, ascertain Agent Ferata’s status, and shut this intelligence leak down. Permanently. Reynard, this is important, it goes off without a hitch.”

The screen went dark, leaving the stark mission parameters hanging in the sudden quiet. Reynie let out a low whistle, the sound starkly different from his earlier playful tone. He turned to Ellie, the glint in his eye no longer one of mischief, but something that seemed more akin to anxiety.

“Well, Raven,” he said, his voice a low purr. “Looks like the universe has dealt us a new hand.”

The screen went dark. In the sudden quiet, Ellie’s fingers were already flying across the co-pilot’s console. A star chart materialized, and with a few decisive taps, she laid in the coordinates Brennan had sent. The runner’s navigation computer chimed in acceptance, and the hum of the engines deepened as they changed course.

“It seems that you will be very occupied, this is… what is the phrase,” she crossed her legs in the pilot’s chair. “Above my pay grade cowboy. I do not deal with the living. This is all you.  Brennan has your name on the paperwork, looks like I get to sit this one out.” 

Reynie stared at her, the reality of her words cutting through his bravado. “Ellie. You can’t be serious. A room full of intelligence sharks, and you want me to go in alone? My job is the song and dance! You’re the one who finds the trap door! This is a two-person con!”

“It is an intelligence and interrogation operation,” she clarified, moving towards their shared quarters. Cathulu weaved between her feet with a pathetic mew for food. “My mandate is forensics and pathology. Until Agent Ferata is confirmed as a corpse, he is your problem.” She paused at the door and looked back at him, her expression utterly serene. “I am going to put on my pajamas. If you find a body, you may call me.”

The door slid shut behind her with a soft, definitive hiss. Reynie was left standing alone in the cockpit. He looked from the glowing coordinates on the viewscreen to the closed door, then back again. The master of dramatic entrances and witty retorts was, for once, completely speechless. The only sound was the hum of the warp drive carrying him toward a den of vipers, while his partner and anchor prepared for a quiet evening in flannel.

Of course. That lasted for about a full ten seconds, Reynie just standing there, staring blankly at the door. The hum of the warp drive felt louder now, accusatory. He was being carried at faster-than-light speeds toward a mission that required two people, and his other half had just clocked out.

He crossed the small space in three strides.

Tap. Tap-tap.

“Ellie.”

 No answer.

“Raven, come on. This is ridiculous.”

Silence.

He leaned his forehead against the cool metal of the door. "Look, I get it. The living are messy. They're unpredictable. They have bad intentions and worse personal hygiene. But this is Maim Chalak. The man collects secrets like I collect... well, let's be honest, like I collect trouble. I can't read a room full of professional liars by myself. I need your... your whole thing, your whole vibe. Your terrifying, silent, 'I-can-see-your-soul-and-it's-unimpressive' vibe. It makes them nervous. You keep me grounded and honest and it makes them slip up."

He heard the faint sound of a drawer opening and closing. “Are you... are you actually changing in there?”

“The process of changing into sleepwear typically involves changing clothes,” her muffled voice came through the door, perfectly even. “Your powers of deduction remain, as ever, startling.”

“Can I at least watch?”

Silence.

“Okay fine. Ellie, be serious for one second,” he pleaded, his voice dropping. “This isn't a game. Brennan's man said 'King' and went dark. That's not a good sign. That's a 'body stuffed in a ventilation shaft' sign. My job is to talk to the living, yes. But your job starts the second they stop living. And I have a very, very bad feeling that's already happened. I'm not asking you to interrogate anyone. I'm asking you to stand there and look at them like they're a stain on your autopsy table. That's it. Just... loom professionally.”

The door slid open so suddenly he nearly fell into the room.

Ellie stood there in his old squad sweatshirt and not a whole lot else that he could see. Her hair was down.  It was comically large on her, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the hem brushing her mid-thigh She looked, infuriatingly, both utterly relaxed and completely formidable. He felt his entire body heat and freeze all at the same time.

“You have a 'bad feeling'?” she repeated, one eyebrow arched. “That is your argument?”

“It's a professional hunch!” he insisted, straightening up. "Born of years of seeing the worst the galaxy has to offer! The same way you get a hunch when a liver looks a little too... Lector—”

“My 'hunches' are based on bilirubin levels and cellular decay. Yours are based solely on theatrics,” She crossed her arms. “You have one day and forty seven minutes until we reach the rendezvous point. I suggest you use that time to review the psychological profiles Brennan sent, rather than attempting to negotiate my participation in a mission that falls squarely outside my purview.”

She began to close the door.

“Wait!” He jammed his foot in the doorway. “What if I... what if I promise to wear the sensible shoes? The ones you're always on me about? The ones with the traction and the arch support?”

Ellie looked down at his boot blocking the door, then back up at his face, her expression utterly deadpan.

“Goodnight, Aralim.”

She pushed the door gently but firmly against his foot until he was forced to withdraw it. The door hissed shut again, this time followed by the distinct sound of the lock engaging. Reynie stared at the sealed door, defeated. He was on his own. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and turned back to the cockpit. Twenty-four hours and forty-seven minutes to learn how to be a one-man show. The deck was stacked, and for the first time, he did not seem to have Raven to help him cheat.

An hour later, the soft hiss of the quarters’ door was deafening in the shuttle’s quiet. Ellie emerged, her hair still down and the oversized sweatshirt now paired with a pair of soft, practical leggings. Cathulu trotted at her heels, purring. She moved toward the small replicator, the intent of procuring a simple dinner clear in her posture.

She stopped.

Reynie was slumped over the cockpit console, his head buried in his arms. The jacket he had been so proud of was discarded on the floor. His shirt unbuttoned all the way, like some dark haired Fabio impersonator, but much thinner… paler… okay we can be real here, they would never put Reynie on a bodice ripper. The main viewscreen was a chaotic mosaic of data; psychological profiles, architectural schematics of Chalak’s compound, and dossiers on known blackmail brokers, all blinking in a frantic, overlapping dance. An empty coffee mug sat precariously on the edge of the console.

He looked, in a word, like a wreck. Not the fun ‘I can fix him kind’, the ‘leave him where you found him kind’. The artfully disheveled hair was now genuinely tangled, as if he had been running his hands through it repeatedly. The usual confident energy sapped away with a distinct air of exhaustion.

Ellie stood for a moment, observing. Her expression, as always, was difficult to read, but the stereotypical detachment softened significantly. She altered her course, walking not to the replicator, but to the console. She reached over him, he did not even stir, and with a few efficient taps, cleared the screen of all but the most essential navigational data. The frantic blinking ceased, leaving only the steady starfield ahead.

The sudden calm penetrated his stupor. He lifted his head slowly. His eyes were shadowed. “You have not eaten,” she stated flatly.

He let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. “Couldn’t find the stomach for it. Too busy trying to memorize the entire intelligence apparatus of the Beta Quadrant.” He gestured weakly at the now-blank screen. “You were right. It’s a lot.”

With a heavy exhale, she turned to the replicator at a rapid walk. “Computer. One bowl of plomeek soup. Hot. One turkey sandwich on wheat bread. No crusts. A glass of ice water.”

The items materialized. She brought the tray over and set it on the console beside him with a soft, definitive click. The simple, almost childish meal was a stark contrast to the high-stakes terror of the mission. Reynie looked from the food to her face, his expression a complex mix of gratitude and sheer helplessness. “Ellie, I can’t do this alone.”

She met his gaze, holding it for a long moment. Cathulu jumped into his lap, as though her purring loudly would drown out whatever sorrows he might have.

“You are not alone,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “You are merely without your pathologist in the room. I will be here. Monitoring your vitals, your comms, the security feeds. I will be… in your ear.” She paused, her head tilting. “And if you get yourself killed after I replicated you a sandwich, Reynie, I will be profoundly and scientifically disappointed.”

A real, weary smile finally touched his lips. He picked up the sandwich. “No crusts?”

“I am mitigating potential choking hazards. You are clearly distracted.”

He took a bite, chewing slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. The simple act of eating was calming enough, but he had gotten so used to being in their duo that he was not remotely prepared to be a solo act again. 

“It’s not enough, Ellie,” His voice was low, stripped of all performance. “Having you in my ear… it’s not the same. I need you there. In the room. I can’t read the table and watch the corners and track the micro-expressions all by myself. It’s going to be a symphony of lies in there, and I’m going in tone-deaf.” He reached out, not to touch her, but to gesture pleadingly. “Just… come down to the planet. Be in the building. You don’t have to sit at the table. Just be close enough that I know you’re there.”

He gave her a look of pure, unvarnished need. “If this goes sideways…. Please, Rave?”

Ellie held his gaze for a long, silent moment, the only sound the hum of the ship and Cathulu’s rumbling purr. She watched the genuine fear in his eyes, the way his usual bravado had been completely sandblasted away, leaving behind only the stark truth: he was terrified of failing without her.

She let out a slow, almost imperceptible sigh. “Very well,” she caved.

Reynie’s breath hitched. He looked as if she had just thrown him a rope to climb up.

“I will accompany you to the surface,” she continued. “I will remain in an adjacent, secure location. I will not interact with the players. I will not enter the game room. My purpose will be strictly logistical and observational.” She fixed him with a look that was both stern and fond. “And you will wear the sensible shoes. That is non-negotiable.”

A wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed over his face, so potent it seemed to physically rejuvenate him. The shadows under his eyes didn't vanish, but the dread in them did.

“The shoes. Yes. Anything,” he breathed, a real, grateful smile finally breaking through. “Thank you, Ellie.”

“Do not thank me yet,” she said, turning back toward their quarters.. “I must go change out of my pajamas. And you must finish your sandwich.”

“If I finish the sandwich… Can I watch this time?” Reynie looked up at her like a puppy dog asking for treats. 

“For a morale boost, I suppose,” she turned on her heel and headed back to their quarters with a light laugh. 

Reynie stared after her for a second, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across his face. Then he picked up the sandwich and took an enormous bite, knocking out nearly the entire thing in one go. 

*****

The shuttle settled onto its landing struts with a soft hydraulic sigh. Through the viewport, the “secure location” was revealed to be a sleek, minimalist penthouse apartment overlooking a glittering, rain-slicked cityscape; a property quietly owned by Starfleet Intelligence. It was the antechamber to the lion's den.

Reynie emerged from the shuttle’s rear compartment first. He had, true to his word, changed into a severely tailored black suit that gave off more opulence than he was far used to. The lines were razor-sharp, the fabric whispering of obscene wealth. And on his feet, a pair of impeccably polished, incredibly sensible black leather shoes with robust traction and, one could only assume, superlative arch support. He looked like a devastatingly handsome assassin who took podiatric health very, very seriously.

He struck a pose, arms slightly spread. “Well? Do I look like a man who can lose a planet's ransom at a card table and call it a rounding error?”

Before Ellie could answer, she stepped out behind him.

Reynie’s confident posture deflated into a look of pure, undiluted betrayal.

Ellie had for gone her usual funeral black sweater and slacks, for a dress of liquid crimson, a single, seamless piece of fabric that draped and clung in a way that was both architecturally exact in the way it hung and devastatingly alluring. It was high-necked but backless, falling to a sharp hem just caressing below the calf. It was the kind of dress that was a weapon; silent, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. Her hair was swept into an elegant, severe knot. She looked less like a pathologist and more like the personal bodyguard of a galactic crime lord… or the crime lord herself.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Reynie whined, his voice dripping with genuine anguish. He gestured wildly, swapping between whining and whimpering. “I’m in the sensible shoes! I look like a mob accountant! And you... you look like that?”

Ellie adjusted a small, crimson clutch that undoubtedly contained hyposprays, micro-tools, and whatever else she deemed necessary for this excursion she did not remotely want to be dragged along on.

“You specified that my purpose was logistical and observational,” she stated, her tone utterly neutral. “You did not specify a dress code that would render me inconspicuous as a piece of furniture. I read the dossier, it seems that ‘visual arm candy’ is the dress code. It is designed to be visually distracting, allowing the operative—you—to operate with reduced scrutiny.”

“Reduced scrutiny? Raven, baby doll, ain’t no one is going to be looking at me! They’re all going to be looking at you wondering which one of them you’re going to have killed for looking at you wrong!” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. 

He offered his arm and she took it without another word on the matter. 

They were ushered through a series of increasingly secure checkpoints by silent, hulking attendants who communicated only with the barest of gestures; a tilt of the head, an open palm. No scans, no questions. Just a palpable, judging silence that felt heavier than any security field. They were flying completely blind, their only map the ghost of a suspicion and Brennan's infuriatingly sparse dossier.

The final door, a slab of darkened, polished metal, slid open without a sound, and the atmosphere of the place hit them like a physical blow. This was not the raucous, glittering energy of a public casino, quite the opposite of the frenetic energy of the David Lee Roth. This place was its own entity entirely, with high polished surfaces that seemed to exude quiet luxury. All the attendants spoke in low, hushed tones, as though speaking louder would break some kind of social contract. 

Roulette tables sat in the middle of the room, spinning in quiet perpetuity. No one hollering out when they won. Card tables lined the outer walls with silent games. It felt more like a library than a casino.

A library to greed. [Oooh that is good. I should trademark that. Someone probably already has.] 

Reynie assessed and scanned the room without seeming to. He gave Ellie's arm the lightest pressure, guiding her not toward the obvious power centers, but to a smaller Pai Gow table nestled near a pillar, offering a clear sightline to the secluded, beaded alcove where Maim Chalak held court. Ellie gave him a look, how was this the bumbling detective she knew. 

“Let's warm up the engines, darling,” he said, his voice pitched to carry just enough for nearby ears, layering on the persona of a wealthy, careless playboy. He pulled out a chair for Ellie, so she could not make a round of the room.

As she sat, the crimson dress a stunning splash of color against the dark upholstery, he leaned in as if to whisper an endearment. His breath ghosted her ear.

“Two o'clock. The beaded curtain. That's the vipers’ nest,” he murmured, his tone utterly different from his performative one. "I need a reason to get an invitation. Stay with me here. They’ll notice if you wander. Start here. Win a little. Lose a little more. Make them notice the money, not the man.”

He straightened up, flashed a brilliant, empty smile, and tossed a heavy, platinum gaming chip onto the table. “Let's see what the fates have in store, shall we?”

For the next hour, that's what they did. Reynie played with a careless flair, winning just enough to seem lucky, then losing with a good-natured shrug that suggested the loss meant nothing. All the while, his attention was on the comings and goings at Chalak's alcove. He noted the faces, the body language of those who entered and, more importantly, those who left. Ellie said nothing, her expression staying detached. But her presence was magnetic. Eyes drifted to her in the red dress that seemed tailored for distraction, and then to the man beside her, who seemed too frivolous to be a threat. It was the perfect misdirection.

Finally, the opportunity came. A squat, agitated Tellarite stormed out from behind the beaded curtain, his face flushed with fury. He slammed a fist into his palm with a meaty thud and stalked off toward the bar.

Reynie caught the eye of the Pai Gow dealer and nodded toward the vacant spot at Chalak's table. “Looks like there's an opening. Think our luck's good enough for the big leagues?”

The dealer gave a slow, noncommittal nod. Reynie stood, offering his hand to Ellie. “Come on, darling. Let's go see what all the fuss is about.”

The beaded curtain fell shut behind them, sealing them in a pocket of pressurized silence. The air in the alcove was even cooler, smelling of expensive spirits, polished wood, and the metallic tang of pure, unadulterated avarice.

Maim Chalak’s table was a hive of scum and villainy, but of the most refined, most lethally quiet sort. Chalak himself sat at the head, the queen at the center of a spiderweb. His Bolian features were placid, but his eyes were ancient, dark pools that seemed to absorb the light. Perhaps even holding the secrets of everyone they fell upon.

To his immediate right was a Romulan, he did not even bother hiding his disdain for them. Clearly, he was looking for the best place to stick a shiv in them. He was here for the sport of it, the joy of outmaneuvering lesser minds. Across from him, a hulking, scarred Nausicaan with knuckle-dusters built into his gloves grunted as he tossed a card onto the felt.. Next to him, a Ferengi with lobes so large they brushed his shoulders leered, his eyes constantly darting, calculating the net worth of every person and piece of information in the room. He was the broker, the middleman of misery. And finally, there was the human. A man with a politician's smile and a killer's eyes, his suit as expensive as Reynie's but worn with a casual lethality that suggested he'd never had to ask for anything twice in his life.

All conversation died as Reynie and Ellie entered. Every eye turned to them. The Nausicaan’s gaze was a physical weight. The Romula’s was a taunting, intellectual challenge. The Ferengi’s was an appraisal. The human’s was a direct threat.

The empty seat, still warm from the furious Tellarite, sat between the Nausicaan and the politician.

Reynie gave a lazy, confident smile, completely unfazed by the gallery of predators. “Evening, gentlemen,” he said, his gaze sweeping over them and deliberately including the Romulan. “Heard there was a seat open. Don't mind if I fill it, do you?”

He did not wait for an answer. He pulled out the chair and sat, the sensible shoes a stark contrast to the unspoken violence in the room. He gestured for Ellie to take the observation seat slightly behind him.

Maim Chalak finally spoke, his voice a soft, oily ripple in the silence. He did not look at his cards. He looked only at Reynie.

“The game is five-card stud… Captain Aralim Reynard. Late of the 9th Orbital Drop Battalion, the ‘Hellhounds,’ if my memory serves. The siege of Veridian III. A messy business.” He smiled, a thin, bloodless expression. “The ante here is rather more significant than what you are accustomed to. Are you prepared to play?”

Chalak’s gaze flicked up as though to say, I have more intelligence than cards.

For a fraction of a second, the mask of the careless playboy slipped from Reynie’s face, replaced by the cold, focused stare of a soldier assessing a threat. Then, the smirk was back, but it was tighter, more dangerous.

He met Chalak’s gaze and tossed a heavy, iridescent chip into the center of the table. It landed with a definitive thunk.

“Veridian was a picnic,” Reynie said, his voice dropping to a conversational, yet deadly, purr. “And I’ve always had a taste for the significant. Deal me in.”

A tense silence fell over the table. The dealer, a pale, silent figure who seemed more automaton than man, collected the ante chips with a fluid motion. The deck in his hands was the one from the center of the table, its nebula-black and gold backs seeming to swirl in the low light.

The first card slid across the felt to each player, face down. The hole card. Reynie didn’t touch his, merely resting a single, ring-adorned finger on its back.

The second card followed, dealt face up.

Reynie received the Three of Clubs. A few places down, the Romulan revealed the Queen of Diamonds. The Ferengi got the Nine of Hearts. The Nausicaan grunted at his Two of Spades. The human politician smiled thinly at his King of Hearts.

“King of Hearts to Mr. Sloane,” the dealer intoned.

Sloane pushed a small stack of chips forward. “Let's set the tone, shall we? Five thousand.”

The bet moved around the table. The Nausicaan folded. The Ferengi called. The Romulan called.

All eyes fell on Reynie and his measly Three of Clubs.

Reynie didn’t look at his cards. He looked at Sloane. “Trying to buy the pot early? That’s not very kingly.” He pushed his chips forward. “I’ll see your five. And I'll raise you another five.”

A flicker of surprise went around the table. Sloane's smile tightened, but he called.

The dealer burned a card and dealt the third street card, face up.

Reynie received the Three of Diamonds. A pair… of threes.

He allowed a slow, confident smile. “Well, now. Look at that. The universe provides.”

The betting continued. Reynie, holding the only visible pair, led the betting.

The fourth street card was dealt.

Reynie received the Three of Spades.

Three of a kind. The air in the alcove grew tighter. This was no longer a lucky fool's story. This was a potential massacre. He made a strong, confident bet. Sloane, who had paired his King with a King of Clubs, and the Romulan, who now showed Queen, Ten, called. The Ferengi folded with a pained squeak.

The final card, the river, was dealt face down.

Reynie didn’t peek. He looked across the table. “Gentlemen,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure.”

He pushed a tall stack of chips, a small fortune, into the center of the pot. “All of it.”

Sloane studied him, then let out a soft sigh and folded his two Kings. “Too rich for my blood, Captain.”

The Romulan, however, stared with contempt. “You play like a human. All noise and bluster.” He matched the bet, pushing his entire stack forward. “I call.”

The pot was now colossal.

“Show your hands,” the dealer said.

The Romulan turned over his hole card, the Queen of Spades. A full house, Queens over Tens. A triumphant, cruel smile spread across his face. It was a hand that won almost every time.

All eyes swung to Reynie.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and flipped his lone, untouched hole card.

It was the Three of Hearts.

A four of a kind beat a full house. 

The Romulan's smile vanished. His face went slack with disbelief. The sheer, astronomical odds of it were insulting.

Reynie did not smile. He did not reach for the mountain of chips. He let the stunning victory hang in the air for a moment, a testament to his impossible luck.

Then he leaned forward, his eyes locking on Maim Chalak, his voice dropping to a deadly calm.

“The chips are yours to keep,” he said, nodding to the stunned Romulan. “I didn’t come here for the latinum.” His gaze was a laser on the Bolian. “I came for a ‘King’ myself.”

The silence in the alcove was definitive. The sheer audacity of throwing away a fortune to ask a question left the other players frozen. The Romulan stared at the mountain of chips as if they were a poisonous insect, or perhaps pondering if he could make off with them himself. Maim Chalak did not flinch. He steepled his blue fingers, his expression one of mild, academic curiosity.

“A ‘King,’” he repeated, the word a soft, oily echo in the quiet. “There are many kings at this table, Captain. Sloane plays the part well. The Romulan thinks himself one. Even you, with your four little princes, just claimed a throne of sorts.” He gestured vaguely to the discarded winning hand. “You will have to be more specific.”

“Don't play dumb. It doesn’t suit you. I’m not here for a playing card. I’m here for a man. A Starfleet agent. His last word was ‘King’ before he vanished from this very establishment. You’re going to tell me what happened to him.”

He was no longer the careless gambler or the charming playboy. Ellie smirked. He was regaining that Reynie swagger that recklessly accused everyone. Chalak considered him for a long moment, then gave a slow, deliberate blink.

“Ah,” he said, as if recalling a minor piece of trivia. “Him. A most… unfortunate player. He overestimated his hand. He saw a king and thought it made him one.” Chalak’s dark eyes glittered. “In this game, Captain, the king is not a piece to be won. It is the dealer.”

As he spoke, his hand rested possessively on the deck of nebula-backed cards. The implication was clear, and chilling. The agent had tried to challenge the house—to challenge Chalak—and had lost.

“Where is he?” Reynie's voice turned low, but still audible. 

Chalak's placid smile finally returned. “Why, Captain. He folded.”