The argument had started quietly.
It never stayed that way.
Vane stood with his arms folded, posture so perfectly straight it looked practiced rather than natural. Jaxon lounged against one of the worktables as if he owned the room, spinning a throwing knife across the backs of his fingers with effortless precision.
Silas had made the mistake of thinking they were discussing philosophy.
Five minutes later, he realized they were discussing each other.
“The law exists,” Vane said evenly, “because someone has already paid the price for discovering what happens without it.”
Jaxon caught the knife by the blade. “No. The law exists because someone powerful wrote it down.”
“There is a difference.”
“Not one I’ve seen.”
Silas quietly continued sharpening his hunting knife.
Experience had taught him that interrupting too early only extended the argument.
Vane exhaled through his nose.
“If stealing medicine is illegal, then the correct course is to change the law.”
Jaxon laughed.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The luxury of having time.”
Vane’s brow tightened.
“If a child dies tonight because the paperwork takes three months, I’m stealing the medicine.”
“And if everyone decides for themselves which laws matter?”
“They already do.”
“They should not.”
“They always will.”
The room settled into an uncomfortable silence.
Jaxon pushed himself upright.
“You know why people like me survive? Because reality doesn’t care whether your principles are internally consistent.”
“And people like you,” Vane replied, his voice cooling further, “are why principles become necessary.”
Silas winced.
There it was.
The point where neither of them was arguing about ideas anymore.
Jaxon’s smile flattened.
“You think you’ve never done the wrong thing.”
“I think,” Vane answered carefully, “that once someone convinces themselves the ends justify the means, there is no line left.”
“There is.”
“Where?”
“The outcome.”
“The outcome changes.”
“So does the situation.”
“The law does not.”
“It should.”
“It cannot.”
“It has to.”
The knife stopped spinning.
Jax onlooked almost disappointed.
“You’ve never had to choose between following the law and keeping someone alive.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough.”
Vane took one measured step forward.
“And I know what happens when every criminal believes they are the hero of their own story.”
Silas sighed.
Loudly.
Neither of them noticed.
“Every smuggler.”
Nothing.
“Every mercenary.”
Still nothing.
“Every revolutionary.”
Jaxon opened his mouth.
Silas pointed the whetstone at him.
“No.”
Jax blinked.
“I wasn’t even—”
“You were.”
Silas looked toward Vane.
“And you.”
“I have not—”
“You were about to.”
Both of them fell silent.
Silas set the knife down.
“I’ve buried people who followed orders.”
His voice wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
“I’ve buried people who broke every rule in the book.”
The workshop became still.
“I’ve watched guards refuse to open a gate because procedure said no.”
He looked toward Vane.
“They were following the law.”
Then toward Jaxon.
“I’ve also watched men burn villages because they decided they knew what justice looked like.”
Silence.
“The law isn’t sacred.”
Vane frowned.
“But neither is your conscience.”
Jaxon’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
Silas continued.
“The law gives you consistency.”
He nodded once toward Vane.
“Your way prevents chaos.”
Then he turned.
“Judgment gives you flexibility.”
A nod toward Jaxon.
“Your way prevents stupidity.”
He leaned back against the table.
“The problem starts when either of you thinks your tool solves every problem.”
Neither answered.
Silas wasn’t finished.
“You know what keeps people alive?”
Jax crossed his arms.
“What?”
“Having someone nearby who disagrees with you.”
That earned a pause.
“If I only traveled with people like Vane,” Silas said, “I’d eventually die waiting for permission.”
Vane looked faintly offended.
“If I only traveled with people like Jaxon, I’d eventually wake up wanted in six kingdoms.”
Jaxon actually smiled.
“And if either of you traveled without me…”
Silas let the sentence hang.
“…you’d both probably survive.”
They stared at him.
Silas shrugged.
“But your stories would be a lot shorter.”
For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then Jaxon laughed.
Not the polished laugh he used when manipulating people.
A real one.
Vane rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“I dislike how often your arguments make sense.”
“I know.”
“And I still disagree.”
“I know.”
Jaxon sheathed his knife.
“For what it’s worth…”
Both men looked at him.
“…I’d rather have someone trying to stop me than someone agreeing with everything I do.”
Vane considered that.
After a long moment, he gave a single nod.
“I can accept that.”
“Good.”
“It does not mean you’re right.”
Jaxon smirked.
“Wouldn’t know what to do with myself if you ever admitted it.”
Silas picked his knife back up.
“There.”
“What?” Jaxon asked.
“You’ve reached today’s quota.”
“Quota?”
“One philosophical debate.”
Silas resumed sharpening the blade.
“The next one costs both of you firewood.”
Jaxon looked toward Vane.
“I think that’s targeted.”
“It almost certainly is.”
Silas smiled to himself.
They still disagreed.
They probably always would.
But arguments between men like these weren’t dangerous because they disagreed.
They were dangerous because both of them cared enough to believe they were protecting something worth keeping.
One protected the rules.
The other protected the people the rules sometimes failed.
Neither was entirely wrong.
Neither was entirely right.
Which, Silas reflected as the whetstone whispered across steel once more, was probably why they made such an effective team.