"We?" Corrival repeated, his eyes narrowed just a little. In his experience, anyone who referred to themselves in the plural were either insane or possessed. The layman familiar with horror stories might even assume Remnant, but Corrival knew better. In the first place, it would be a cold day in Hell before Anton Shudder let even one Remnant out of his Hotel. In the second, Remnants like to believe they were the people they possessed. They never used the plural.

That didn't mean there weren't other things that didn't. Corrival just hadn't known they existed on the Tir. That could be a problem. The old soldier made a mental note to let the governor know.

"Tir Tairngire," Corrival said, the Irish rolling off his tongue. He was speaking a little slower, not as if he thought the stranger wasn't understanding, but more in caution. "They call it the Tir for short."

There was no way the man could have gotten onto the city without knowing what it was. Each of the four entrances were guarded, both inside the city and out. No one entered the city without the authorities knowing, because there was no way for it to happen. It was built in a dimensional rift, for God's sake.

"What's your name, lad?" Corrival's voice wasn't precisely gentle, and it was curious, but mostly, it was amiable. No need to let on how odd this was, if the man didn't already know it.