THE COURTESAN’S EYE

THE WINTER LILY SERIES

BOOK 1

KATE HYERS

J.C. SMITH

A Conquest Publishing Original

Conquest Publishing

https://conquest-publishing.com

Copyright © Kate Hyers and Jessica Smith 2025

Cover Design: Annalise

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

DEDICATION

To Brett & Jason

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book was coauthored by two friends, but in reality, it took far more people than that to bring it to life. First and foremost, we’d like to thank Brittany, who championed our story from the beginning. Conquest Publishing has been an exceptional partner through this process, and we couldn’t ask for a more enthusiastic collaborator. And thank you to the entire Conquest and Wild Ink family for always having our backs!

Prior to Brittany’s support, however, we received the guidance and motivation of three incredible writers. Anne, Hope, and Kree: we wouldn’t have gotten to this step without you. How lucky we are to be able to meet every week with three of the most gifted wordsmiths in the world. (Kate also acknowledges her own good fortune in having Anne as a cousin. Annie, your infinite talent is overshadowed only by your infinite generosity of spirit.)

To our dear friends who took the time to read, critique, and listen to us blather on about this book for years on end—Kat, Mackenzie, Ryker, Tegan, Theresa, and so many others—we love and adore all of you.

Annalise, we are forever in awe of your skill as an artist, and we are immeasurably grateful that you took on this project. Thank you for bringing Cordè, Aelus, and the rest of the gang to life with care and consideration.

Now for our individual thanks, starting with Kate. I have three people in my life who got me to this point. My mother, Laurie, and my brother, Kyle, have only ever given me their full and unwavering encouragement. I believe in myself because they have always believed in me. And lastly, Jason, my partner and my person: I am the absolute best version of myself when I’m with you. Thank you for being the line to my kite. I love you.

From J.C.: All I am starts with my families, the one I was born into and the one who embraced me as their own. Their support pushes me to sharpen my skills, accept my flaws, and to love what I love with abandon. To Brett—my love, my joy, my foundation. You’ve kept me from crumbling and kept me laughing throughout all the doubt. Thank you for everything. Love you forever and always.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

About the Author

ONE

Don’t. Move.

Cordè stilled as the dying groan of the floorboard beneath her foot fell into a soft, reverberant silence. She heeded her own warning; she didn’t move, didn’t even breathe.

Her client shifted, mattress creaking beneath his weight, and his rolling snores hitched.

Cordè tensed. If he awoke, he’d find his hired courtesan hand-deep in the pocket of the overcoat he’d hurriedly shed the night before.

Don’t. Move.

She waited, clothed only in the pale blue rays of dawnlight pouring through the slats of the nearby jalousie window, and counted.

One second. Two seconds. Three.

The Mercànt de Beaugency’s snores started again, and Cordè released a pent-up exhale. She snatched the folded parchment from her client’s coat and began to read.

The text was a cipher using letters not from the common alphabet, but elvish—Cordè’s mother tongue, as luck would have it. And a rather obscure language for a mere pearl mercànt to have learned.

Keep to your task. Linnaea Nivae’s voice rang in her ear, whiplike and unforgiving. The mercànt will know if the note goes missing.

A writing desk sat not three paces from the foot of the bed; surely one of its drawers contained a scrap of paper she could use to copy down the message. Cordè eased the first compartment open, wincing as a bottle of Hilaraan liquor rolled forward and struck the front of the drawer with a dull clink. But de Beaugency’s snores continued to toll, steady and strong.

Pushing aside the other contents—a compass, an inkwell, a string-tie journal with a four-strand braid of leather around its middle—she snatched up a spare sheet of parchment, a grouse feather quill pen, and began to write.

Hurry, child, her mentor’s voice warned.

As soon as she finished, Cordè returned the quill to the desk and the letter to the appropriate pocket. Then she retrieved the faerie-pink chiffon dress she’d tossed on the floor, tugged it over her backside, and cinched the first few strings of her corset.

She left the rest for Talat to finish.

Cordè swept her thick bundle of blonde hair over her shoulder and knelt by the bedside. Sleep had smoothed away a decade of stress from the mercànt’s features, making him almost boyishly handsome in a way he would not be described in daylight.

Gaeton de Beaugency hadn’t been the worst of her clients, neither demeaning nor possessive, and what he lacked in basic skill he made up for in ardent enthusiasm.

“I’ve never had an elf before,” he’d panted above her mid-thrust—and he’d said it with wonder, not derision.

Yes, she concluded, if the mercànt asked Linnaea for a second night of Cordè’s company, Cordè would gladly accept.

As if summoned by the thought, Gaeton started to rouse. He gazed up at her with bleary appreciation, and she pressed her lips to his. “I have to go,” she said against his mouth.

Gaeton smiled a sleepy, contented smile. “You’re worth your weight in gold, Winter Lily. If I were as rich as the Emari family, I’d have you warm my bed every night.”

“If you were as rich as the Emaris, you’d have your own harem of courtesans at your beck and call. And you’d forget all about me.”

“Never,” he said earnestly. “I’d never forget.”

And for Cordè’s part, she believed him.

She stood and gathered her cloak. “I look forward to hearing from you again, my lord.”

“I’ll light a candle to Illüne in your honor.”

Cordè paused at the doorway, lines of the coded letter still flitting through her mind. Then she dipped into a brief but graceful curtsy and slipped into the hall.

The faint stirrings of morning activity echoed from deeper within the bowels of the villa, coupled with the wafting scent of caffe and toasted bread—but the corridor outside de Beaugency’s bedchamber remained perfectly quiet. In fact, the only sign of life was the slender, black-coated figure sitting cross-legged on the bench opposite the door.

His eyes were closed, face shrouded by a swath of dark, unruly curls, and he did not move. If not for his breathing, he very well could have been dead.

Cordè smacked his knee. “Falling asleep on the job, are we?”

Talat’s eyes remained shut, spine rigid and straight against the wall. “May the Eyes of Reneir remain ever vigilant, ever watchful, ever alert. By His Gaze.” One lid cracked open, revealing the pitch-black iris beneath. “Are you questioning my devotion to my god?”

She snorted, the last remnants of decorum vanishing from her demeanor. “Of course not. I’m questioning your devotion to me.”

Talat clutched at his heart, twin swords slapping his thighs. “You wound me, my lady. I’d shield you with my body and my life.”

Cordè tried to scowl, but her mouth twisted into a wry grin instead. “Yes, well, it doesn’t seem like this assignment”—she jammed her thumb at the mercànt’s door— “put your dedication or your skills to the test.”

Without waiting for another snarky comment, she set off toward the foyer.

“We were successful, then?” Talat asked, jogging to keep up.

“We?”

“Yes, ‘we.’ You’re alive and smiling and full of smartass remarks while my swords remain clean. Blessings all around.”

An unsurprising opinion from someone oathbound to ensure her safety—yet his words stoked a coil of anxiety in her belly. Had she put the letter in the right pocket? Refolded it properly? What if…?

Talat gave her shoulders a comforting squeeze and fastened the rest of her dress. “I’m sure Linnaea will be pleased with your⁠—”

His reassurances were cut short by a loud bang behind them.

Before Cordè could react, Talat shoved her back, yanked his swords free, and sank into the familiar defensive posture she’d seen him practice each morning in the garden.

The mercànt rushed toward them, shirt untucked and unbuttoned to his navel.

Cordè’s stomach plummeted, and the copied note she’d shoved in her bodice burned against her flesh. He knows. Somehow he knew she’d rifled through his things, seen the coded letter, had used him and his affections⁠—

“You forgot this, my lady,” Gaeton said in a rush, arm outstretched. In his hand was the satin shawl she’d worn the evening before.

For a moment, neither she nor Talat moved. Then Cordè put on a wide smile.

“You caught me.” Ducking past Talat, she accepted the shawl with a flutter of lashes. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice right away, so you’d be forced to call on me again.”

“You don’t need to rely on such trickery for that.” Gaeton kissed her knuckles. “Safe travels, both of you.”

Cordè didn’t exhale until Gaeton disappeared into his room, taking the tension with him.

Talat sheathed his swords. “That man’s got to be three times your age.”

“Yesterday was his fiftieth birthday, so no, not three times. More like two and a half.”

“Sounded like he had quite the celebration.”

She shot Talat a withering look. “What have I told you about listening in on my sessions?”

“Linnaea hired a celibate bodyguard from the Order of the Faithful to ward her very vocal courtesan. Can you blame a man for taking what small pleasures he has at his disposal?”

No, Cordè could not blame him—would never blame her Talat, her Eye, her protector. The man was the least virginal twenty-eight-year-old virgin she’d ever known, and she loved him despite his quips and jabs. Perhaps even because of them.

A shrill whistle sounded outside, and through the paned glass Cordè spied the Nivae carriage pulling up to the villa. Without needing a cue, Gaeton’s butler opened the front door and bowed as Talat escorted Cordè into the crispness of daybreak.

Mirroring the butler’s bow, but flavoring it with his own sardonicism, Talat helped her into the carriage. He took the seat opposite her as the carriage began its wide turn around the villa’s porte-cochère.

“So, did you compose any more poetry during your eavesdropping?” Cordè asked. “The women of Val’dora must be starving for stanzas about their painted lips and heaving bosoms.”

“In fact, I dedicated my latest verse to you, beloved muse. My elven damsel, of flaxen hair and sweet, rounded ass⁠—”

“Flaxen?” she interrupted. “Couldn’t you come up with something more lyrical? Snow-frost, perhaps?”

“Only one person in this carriage was born with the heart of a poet, my love. And it’s not the one serving as a plaything for shriveled old aristocrats.”

Ever the font of maturity, Cordè stuck out her tongue.

The mercànt wasn’t old. He was…sophisticated. Established. And, judging by his estate’s impressive acreage, clearly capable of affording another night of Cordè’s company.

The de Beaugency estate sat on the edge of the city’s Artificer district, a hub of consignment and trade. Despite the early hour, Val’dora’s streets were already stirring with commotion as vendors organized their roadside wares. The carriage drove through a dust cloud as a shopkeeper swept their front stoop. Cordè fanned herself and gave a delicate cough while Talat scrawled away.

An octave higher than the city noise, a waterfowl’s coo—followed by a mate’s answering trill—sounded outside Val’dora’s encircling stone wall. Beyond lay the Dredaire River, the country’s main artery to the vast, treacherous ocean.

“Talat,” Cordè said, cupping her chin in her palm, “why haven’t you taken me to Porderli yet? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“I doubt my hometown could survive a visit from you,” he said without looking up.

“But you’re depriving me of culture. ‘No view compares to the western shore,’ right?”

“I know what I said. And I’ll happily give you a tour once Linnaea arranges an assignment for you on the coast. Perhaps with one of our esteemed fishermen?” Cordè’s nose wrinkled. “I imagine it’d be rather romantic, rutting away on a bed of freshly caught trout, the ocean air mingling with the scent of⁠—”

She interrupted him with an exaggerated gagging sound.

“Excuse you.” Talat pointed a finger at her in faux indignation. “The hardworking people of Porderli deserve access to quality coitus, same as any Valdoran deviant.”

Not too far away, the top of Val’dora’s new clock tower—a stunning piece of architecture designed by Artificer engineers—poked above the roofs of other buildings. Its copper dome caught the sun’s rays like a forge, and in its shadow lay the Legion of the Rose. Cordè’s home.

She knew they were close once the honey-sweet scent of wisteria tickled her nose. Right on cue, the carriage passed beneath a drapery of white petals and perfume. The bricks comprising the buildings in this particular district had a redder hue, matching the Legion’s color scheme, and flowering ivy clung to signposts and windowpanes.

Cordè smiled and sat up a bit straighter. Finding Gaeton’s letter was her first mission, her first real mission as Linnaea’s courtesan spy. She had done precisely what was asked of her—a first for the self-admitted hellion—and her mistress would be so proud.

Cordè’s focus slid to Talat’s satchel and the bundle of quill pens visible therein.

…Perhaps Linnaea would be even prouder if the message arrived already translated.

“Dearest. Hand me a pen, would you?” Cordè pulled the now-crumpled note from her bodice.

Talat eyed her before tossing one over. “Linnaea didn’t ask you to do that, did she?”

“I’m being helpful.”

“You’re being nosey.” He grinned in casual defiance, his mop of black curls thrashing in the springtide breeze. The equally black irises beneath his smooth brow sparkled as if reflecting the magic they contained. He told her once they’d been a handsome olive-green color before he’d undergone the Blinding some five years earlier, making him an official Eye of the Order.

Speaking of which⁠—

The sudden chime of a handbell shattered the silence just as Cordè put quill to paper. She peered out the window and spotted what had become an increasingly common sight on Val’dora’s street corners: a black-cloaked, stoop-backed man ringing a bell with one hand and distributing pamphlets to annoyed-looking pedestrians with the other.

Talat followed her gaze and groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“They’re your people. Can’t you reign them in?” Cordè refocused on her translation, though not before casting a judgmental look at her Eye from beneath thick brows. “I hear they’re real mood killers at the local brothels.”

“Of course, darling. I’ll be sure to have a word with the Seers next time I visit. ‘Pardon me, Seer Herzin. If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, could you stop trying to proselytize the heathens of Val’dora? It’s making it difficult for them to maintain their erections.’”

Cordè smirked, mostly because it amused her to hear a celibate say the word “erection,” then went to work. The translation flowed out of her without second thought, as effortless as reciting old nursery rhymes. In her periphery, she was aware of passing landmarks like the bloodstone statues of old godsforged heroes and Raven’s Rest, the district’s most popular alehouse. Cordè, however, ignored the Raven patrons’ enthusiastic waves; her work had fully apprehended her attention.

The carriage had just started slowing to a crawl when she paused to scan the latest line.

Four cups of amaranth flour.

…Four cups of amaranth flour?

“Well?” Talat’s voice was distant as she stared at her writing. “What does it say?”

…crushed spring almonds…mix until thoroughly combined, then⁠—

Cordè’s shriek of realization harmonized with the squeal of braking carriage wheels. She scrambled over Talat’s legs and half-hurried, half-tumbled onto the sidewalk.

“Linnaea!”

A bone-rattling bang of wood against stone emphasized Cordè’s shout as she thundered into the foyer. Farren, the household’s half-elf steward, stood by and said nothing; they were a portrait of impassivity, having witnessed enough Cordè tantrums to be rendered entirely unfazed.

“Linnaea!” Cordè hurled her cloak at Farren’s torso. “I would like a word!”

Talat brought up the rear, sending Farren an apologetic nod as he followed Cordè to her mistress’s study. Nine times out of ten, it was where Linnaea could be found.

Cordè rounded the corner, preparing to shoulder her way inside, when the study door opened. But it wasn’t Linnaea passing through the doorframe.

Parsyn de Valle, Head of the Legion of the Rose, peered down his nose at Cordè, dark eyes doing an unimpressed sweep of her haphazard appearance.

Cordè lowered into a stiff curtsy. “Lord de Valle.”

Not a muscle on his sleek, angular face twitched as he smoothed his already-slick black hair and called over his shoulder, “Linnaea, I believe your ward wishes to speak with you.”

“Send her in.”

With an exaggerated bow that curled the edges of his red cape, Parsyn waved the pair inside. “Always a pleasure, Winter Lily.”

Cordè didn’t wait for the door to shut before fuming, “He doesn’t get to call me that.”

Lady Linnaea Nivae sat behind her ornate desk at the far end of the room draped in a thick, woolen caftan. “Winter Lily is your sobriquet.” She adjusted her tiny wireframe glasses as her eyes rose to meet Cordè’s. “You want people to know that name; it heightens your appeal.”

“I have no desire to appeal to the likes of Parsyn de Valle.” Cordè rolled her shoulders in an exaggerated shudder at the mere idea. “But it seems your good friend, the Mercànt de Beaugency, enjoyed my sobriquet a great deal.”

Linnaea sent Cordè a mild look.

“So, would you care to explain”—Cordè tossed the translated note onto the desk, where it flitted to rest like a falltide oak leaf—“what the fuck this is?”

“I believe that’s a recipe for sugared almond tarts.”

“…Sugared almond tarts.”

“You wouldn’t think by the look of him, but Gaeton works magic in the kitchen.”

Cordè glanced at Talat, but he raised his palms. Not getting involved, the gesture said.

She scowled and turned back to Linnaea. “This was supposed to be my first mission. You said I’d be helping you, helping the Rose, that he had a copy of some stolen missive, and⁠—”

“Yes, that was a lie.”

Linnaea said it so offhandedly that Cordè blanched. Linnaea saw it, as she saw most of Cordè’s reactions, and softened somewhat. “Child, you know I deal in lies. They’re a necessity.”

“Not with me.”

“Sometimes with you.”

The two women studied one another, probing the familiar slopes of each other’s features. There wasn’t any face in all the realm Cordè knew half as well as Linnaea’s. Over the past twelve years, she’d memorized the specific angle of Linnaea’s small beak nose and the exact shade of her wide brown eyes.

Cordè likened her mentor to a bird of prey—and, like a bird of prey, one could never overestimate Linnaea’s powers of observation.

“De Beaugency was a test,” Cordè said, voice dull with realization.

“Yes. I wasn’t about to throw you to the wolves without assurance you could handle it.”

“Handle it? You’ve been throwing me to these so-called ‘wolves’ for two years. I’m a member of the Rose, same as you. I thought I would’ve earned your trust by now.”

“This isn’t about trust; it’s about safety. Your safety. Duseran politics are a dangerous game. There are some, even among your clientele, who’d celebrate the downfall of our Legion. Remember,” Linnaea tapped a talon-like nail on her desk, “everything we do is for the Rose.”

For the Rose.

Linnaea was right, like she usually was. As one of the highest-ranking members of their Legion, she knew better than most how many secrets the Rose needed to protect.

The Legion of the Rose sat at the heart of Duseran politics, its ranks filled with charismatic diplomats who wielded beauty and wit as tools of power. Members of the Rose valued art and culture, using them to craft alliances and manipulate their rivals. The other four legions—the Blade, the Première, the Triumvirate, and the Artificers—completed the country’s quintet of power, each controlling their own orbit of influence.

As an elven courtesan for Dusera’s principally human upper class, Cordè was neither a traditional member of the Rose, nor a traditional elf. Thanks to her mistress’s tutelage, Cordè could read and write each of the four languages, had a passing knowledge of the Old Tongue, could suss out a lie with ease—and, most importantly, knew how to draw information from even the stiffest of lips.

Last night was hardly a testament to her skill. But even though Gaeton had been a test, she’d done what was asked of her. What she’d been trained for. And she’d done it well.

Anger receding, Cordè sagged into Linnaea’s spare armchair, one leg dangling over the arm. Her foot bounced in rhythm to a deeply buried melody. “What was dear Parsyn doing here at such an early hour?”

“Just checking in, as he’s wont to do.”

The relationship between Linnaea and Parsyn was a delicate, complicated situation. Although Linnaea had both age and experience over Parsyn, he’d stolen the title of Legion Head after evicting her from the Rose some fifteen years prior. Pretty words went a long way in Duseran politics, after all, and few possessed the oratorical skill to rival Parsyn de Valle. Rumor had it he’d secured the necessary unanimous vote from the other Legion Heads with naught but a compelling two-minute speech.

Now, a decade and a half later, Linnaea had returned from her exile and loyally served as Parsyn’s Second. A tentative truce existed between them—though Cordè suspected those timeworn wounds hadn’t truly healed, at least not for Linnaea.

Judging by Linnaea’s eye twitch, it would be best to avoid the topic altogether.

“So, the mercànt works for you?” Cordè asked. “Another one of your contacts?”

“Gaeton is an old friend.”

“You mean an old client?”

Linnaea leveled Cordè with a steady, unblinking gaze.

That’s a yes, then. Of course he was an old client. Linnaea’s reputation as Dusera’s finest courtesan persisted, even decades after her retirement.

“Is that a problem?” Linnaea asked.

“No. I just….” Cordè sighed. “I thought I was doing something important last night.”

“You were doing something important. And tomorrow, you can celebrate your success.”

Tomorrow. Illüne’s Day, the nation’s most festive holiday, which ushered in the warmth of springtide. Cordè typically celebrated the occasion in one of Val’dora’s taverns, shoes lost beneath a table as she danced with attractive strangers—while Linnaea spent her Illüne’s Day at the city’s capitol surrounded by Dusera’s leaders and lawmakers.

Linnaea knew of her ward’s annual tradition, and what’s more, Cordè knew she knew: but they both played the fool, if only to keep a semblance of harmony in the manor.

And so it was with but a modicum of dramatics that Cordè said, “Yes, Talat and I will be sure to have ourselves an uproarious time. Maybe this year we’ll raid your wine cellar.”

The corner of Linnaea’s lips lifted. “I thought you might enjoy sampling the more exotic offerings at the Capitis Cor Meum.”

Cordè blinked.

“Though if you’d prefer to raid the wine cellar, I completely understand.”

The octave of Cordè’s shriek rattled the decorative glass vases. She scrambled out of her chair and threw herself at Linnaea, squeezing those delicate shoulders with unabashed fervor.

“Thank you! Thankyouthankyouthankyou. I promise, I won’t embarrass you! Right, Talat? We won’t embarrass her.”

Talat grinned before ducking his head in agreement.

Linnaea drew back but kept Cordè at arm’s length. “I’ll hold you to your word.”

“Did you arrange any gala assignments for me? Maybe with a member of the Première?”

“No assignments. But, as always, your eyes and your ears are to remain open, and⁠—”

“My legs are to remain closed?”

“At least until after the toasts have concluded.” Linnaea released Cordè, expression taking on a more serious tone. “Tomorrow night is about being seen, so try to resist disappearing with the first pretty face that strikes your fancy.”

Cordè nodded. “Right. Wait until the toasts.”

“After the toasts.”

By now Cordè was only half-listening; her mind swirled with the new, endless possibilities tomorrow held. And what would she wear…?

“Cordè.”

With a start, she refocused on Linnaea.

“This is an opportunity for you to meet foreign dignitaries,” Linnaea said. “Ravethin will have representation there, as will Tharon and Aahilar. These countries have different customs than we do, and their emissaries may not appreciate your…forwardness.”

“Tharonians can marry as many people as they want, and Hilaraans wear see-through garments. I doubt a courtesan would shock them, unless I decided to waltz in completely nude.”

Cordè didn’t remark on Ravethin, Dusera’s northern neighbor and the only other country on the continent of Nemè. Ravethinian culture was quite conservative, comparatively speaking. Cordè would know; it was her homeland.

“Be that as it may,” Linnaea continued, “I’m asking you to be a little less you.”

“Less ‘me.’ Understood.”

Linnaea’s eyes flicked upward as if sending the Nemèan gods a prayer for patience. “Now, leave me be. Since no one other than the Order is willing to work on a holiday, I have a dozen meetings to conclude before tomorrow.” She waved at the door. “Out, out, out.”

Cordè placed a grateful kiss on Linnaea’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“One last thing.” Linnaea’s voice rooted Cordè in the doorway. “There’s a surprise waiting for you on your bed.”

Cordè grinned. She thoroughly enjoyed surprises.

Thirty seconds later, she burst into her bedroom with enough force to jostle the pieces of colored glass that dangled from the ceiling’s wooden joists. She bypassed the clothes draped across random pieces of furniture, making a mental note to tidy things up—or rather, tell her handmaid, Ysabelle, to tidy things up.

A musky-sweet odor tickled her nose. The scent was familiar: it meant one of her many potted plants was dying. Truth be told, she wasn’t particularly skilled at keeping things alive. She had no incentive to do so since Ysabelle replaced any of Cordè’s wilting flowers with two new ones from the garden out back.

Cordè pushed back the bed’s draperies, grinning like a child at the long white box atop her pillow. She gathered the package into her lap as Talat leaned against the doorframe.

“That woman spoils you rotten.”

Cordè ignored him, instead lifting the lid and peering inside.

It was a dress.

She ran her fingers reverently over the folds of sheer fabric, tracing the lace roses stitched to the bodice. Standing, she let the crimson and cream skirts pool around her ankles.

“Tertia’s tits,” she swore in a breathy murmur. “Is this not the most glamorous thing you’ve ever seen?”

Talat let out a low whistle as she spun, hem billowing like the bell of a horn. “Quite the ensemble,” he said. “Especially since you plan on discarding it in some hidden corner of the Capitis Cor Meum.”

Cordè sent Talat a teasing simper. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you, dearest. Besides, it’s not my fault you follow a god who watches instead of participates.” She studied herself in the mirror, admiring the way the dress’s cut would highlight the dramatic curve of her waist. “Maybe you could take a break from Reneir and give Tertia a try. No more standing, kneeling, standing, kneeling….”

This wasn’t the first time Cordè expressed bewilderment over Talat’s chosen faith. She found Tertia and the rest of the elven pantheon—deities of things like pleasure and luck and dreams—infinitely more appealing than the four Nemèan gods. Particularly Reneir the Watcher.

The men of Reneir’s Order believed themselves to be warrior priests, oathbound to protect their wards and the citizens of Dusera. In reality, the Eyes of the Order were outdated, unnecessary, and dull: a dying breed whose duties were better undertaken by the Legion of the Blade. Talat was an exception to this rule, and Cordè liked to think she had something to do with that.

“While I can’t say I’m not tempted by Tertia’s wiles,” Talat said with his signature crooked grin, “I think I’ll pass. Let’s not forget elves can’t hold titles or positions of authority, can’t be elected to the judiciary, can’t join the Première⁠—”

“Pfft. Who needs those things anyway?”

“You are in a pleasant mood, aren’t you?”

“Exuberantly so.” She tossed the dress aside and loosened her corset ties.

Talat glanced at her open window. “You’re trying it on? Now?”

“Why not? Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”

He hesitated. “My god wishes me at your side, my lady, so that’s where I shall be.”

“You’ve checked the sun’s position twice since we came up here. What’s gotten you so anxious? …Or who? Are you to meet one of your lady friends?”

“You are my only lady friend, my love.”

Cordè knew this to be true. After all, members of the Order were unequivocally forbidden from the “carnal defilement of the body, in either thought or action.” Something about not wanting to distract from an Eye’s all-consuming dedication to his god. So, while Talat was notorious for his risqué sonnets, there was no actual intention behind them.

With a final yank, Cordè shimmied out of her dress and turned to address him, naked and unashamed. “What about your most recent fount of poetic inspiration? The strawberry-haired woman with ‘legs longer than the shores of the Dredaire’?”

Something gleamed in Talat’s black, black eyes. Then it was gone.

He cleared his throat. “It’s a Blinding ceremony. Later this afternoon, at the Mithraeum. I promised I’d go.”

A Blinding ceremony, where the Order turned its acolytes into Eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, you stupid lout? I would’ve dismissed you as soon as we got home. Ysa can help me dress.” She brushed past Talat to call for Ysabelle, but he stopped her.

“It’s fine, I still have a couple of hours. Give that poor girl a few minutes to herself; she always has her hands full.”

After two years of serving as both Cordè’s bodyguard and her ever-present companion, Talat was as skilled with a corset lace as he was with a sword. His fingers braided the strings with ease, pausing for her to navigate her backside into the skirts. Linnaea knew Cordè’s measurements, but she always seemed to underestimate her charge’s “sweet, rounded ass.”

Cordè held her hair aloft as he secured the fabric at the base of her neck. Then she let her blonde tresses tumble free and studied her reflection.

It would do. It would more than do.

Cordè turned to Talat with a proud grin. “How do I look?”

She expected him to tease her, as was his first instinct in any interaction. But instead, he cupped her heart-shaped face in his hands and kissed her forehead.

“You are stunning,” he said affectionately, “and any man or woman at that party would be lucky to have you.”

“Why should I have to choose?”

He tapped the tip of her nose. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you wouldn’t change a thing about me.” She did the same to him, with an additional wag of her eyebrows. “Now, get going. And don’t forget to tell those dusty old brutes you saw a naked woman’s tits this morning.”

“Yes, surely that would put me back in their good graces,” he said in farewell. “Should I put it to verse? But soft! Thine rosy peaks, thy shriveled nipples of my maiden fair….”

She hurled a pillow at him, laughing as it smacked against the door.

Once he departed, however, her expression softened into something dreamier. She turned back to the mirror, body swaying back and forth to a long-hidden melody she was only half-aware she was humming.

TWO

Talat smirked and sent the plain, boring expanse of rock known as the Mithraeum a sarcastic salute. “Hello again, you big, beautiful bastard. Miss me?”

The towers looming on either side of the bridge seemed to darken with disapproval.

He tugged at his vambraces, nose wrinkling at the pungent scent of wet earth. After two years in the Rose district, returning home made his skin crawl. The vaulting halls of the Mithraeum lacked the Rose’s natural beauty, instead exhibiting the Order’s virtues: strength, pride, devotion. Strength was hammered into every pillar, pride carved into sweeping ceilings hundreds of feet high.

And devotion?

Talat snorted. The Seers adored their sermons about devotion, often requiring acolytes to memorize the transcriptions. Talat hated those sermons. But he supposed he should be grateful: dramatic recitations were his and Cordè’s favorite entertainment when they were drunk.

His lips split into a droll grin that quickly vanished. He’d returned for a reason, best not be late. With a hurried brush through his curls, Talat adjusted the package strapped to his back and entered the Mithraeum proper.

The bridge and the towers’ gloominess leaked into the courtyard, for even on the sunniest of days it lived entirely in shadow. No gardens or greenery survived here, other than the pair of trees opposite the stables. Those were sacred: twin oaks representing Reneir the Watcher and his sister, Illüne. They spiraled toward the heavens, branches densely intertwined, their trunks wider than twenty men linked arm-to-arm. Their roots dug into the cracked stone, crawling down the unwalled cliffside like veins. And every day a Seer would draw water from the underground springs to feed the sun-starved wood.

The Mithraeum’s position near the peak had been strategic and symbolic; any force entering the river valley would be spotted before crossing the Dredaire River, and the Order’s miles-high perch kept them safely separate from Val’Dora and its “tainted legions.” As if sequestering themselves in the sky made them immune to corruption. Untouchable, in a way.

This hubris manifested in the unmanned towers on either side of the bridge. Rarely had Talat seen the entryway guarded, especially during ceremonies.

Today, the only signs of life were the god-trees and a group of gossiping acolytes huddled beneath the canopy of crimson, emerald, and saffron leaves. The boys’ backs were to Talat, and it looked as if they’d purposefully kept to the shadows in case a Scholar—or worse, a Seer—charged out and dragged the acolytes in by the nape.

Both the Scholars and the Seers would do precisely that, no doubt, if they weren’t busy organizing the day’s Blinding ceremony. But Talat saw no reason to inform the acolytes of such, not when they presented a perfect opportunity for mischief.

Plucking a rock off the ground, Talat bounced it in his palm, aimed⁠—

“I see your time at the Rose has failed to tame your impish nature.”

Talat whirled to see a weathered old man with ebony skin and regal golden robes. “Imalu!” He rushed forward and gathered his former teacher in a bone-crushing embrace.

Quick to laugh and spryer than most of his students, Scholar Imalu was a respected archivist with a proud love for ancient lore, cartography, and flute music. He was, perhaps, the most open-minded man Talat knew—a rare quality among the Faithful—and the closest thing Talat had to a father.

“By His Gaze,” Imalu said, the Order’s formal greeting muffled by Talat’s pauldrons.

“May We See.” Talat gave him an extra squeeze, savoring the nostalgic scent of wax and fresh ink. He pulled back to give Imalu a critical once over, and a tinge of worry sparked as he noticed Imalu’s cheeks looked a tad gaunter than usual. Oh gods. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine, thank Reneir.” Imalu sobered. “Though we were hit hard this week. Our Etherian sisters report the bloodrot took six new souls.”

Six? Last week it’d been seven. And the week before that, four.

No one knew the origin of the mysterious illness that’d been claiming the lives of Eyes—and only Eyes—for nigh a decade. And, worse yet, no one knew a cure.

“May the Eyes be found worthy to join Reneir’s Final Watch,” Talat murmured with uncharacteristic sincerity. Then, because somberness suited him about as well as one of Cordè’s whalebone corsets, he gave a quick, sharp roll of his shoulders and grinned. “How’re your classes going? Still teaching the little blossoms the way of the world?”

“When the Seers let me.” Imalu’s pitch-black eyes, twins to Talat’s, twinkled with genuine delight. Without warning, he gave Talat a resounding thwack on the forehead.

Talat yelped.

“Your senses grow dull,” Imalu admonished. “I snuck up on you.”

“I was concentrating.”

“On scaring your fellow brothers?”

“What’s life without a little lighthearted horseplay? Besides, you have only yourself to blame for my antics. You encouraged them.”

“I did no such thing,” Imalu said. But then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he snatched Talat’s abandoned stone and let it fly.

Crack! Reneir’s tree barely shivered from the impact, yet the noise sent the paranoid acolytes scattering like bees. Talat cackled as Imalu innocently slid his arms inside his sleeves.

“So,” Imalu said, “how’s life in Val’dora?”

“I’m fed pastries and wine every afternoon, and the closest I come to using my weapons is handling a steak knife at dinnertime. Probably not what the Seers imagined when they banished me to the Rose.”

“Banished” was a bit dramatic, but not altogether untrue. Most Eyes, those not assigned to defend the general populace, were available for hire; however, only the wealthiest, most important Duserans could afford their services. So, when a former courtesan of the Rose contracted an Eye to protect her elven charge, Talat had quickly been selected as a candidate in hopes a “demeaning” position would tame his insubordination.

To everyone’s chagrin, it hadn’t.

Imalu chuckled, rueful and rich. “Yes, Aelus has taken to reading me your letters during lunch. I suspect he saves the more colorful ones for himself, though.”

Talat’s grin softened. “How’s Aelus doing?”

“Anxious, as always. But excited to see you.”

Outside of Imalu, only Aelus could convince Talat to step foot on these grounds. He was Talat’s brother-in-arms: not related by blood, but a dedicated companion who’d sworn to protect Talat with his life. Every member of the Order had a brother-in-arms, as their pacts lasted until death—or, rarely and shamefully, excommunication.

“How are things with his father?” Talat asked. “I prod Aelus for details, but all I get is the same vague answer.”

“Seer Nevander cares about his son’s wellbeing,” Imalu said evenly.

“Funny. That’s the answer Aelus gives me.”

Aelus’s parentage remained a controversial subject. The Seers were meant to lead the Order, embody the Watcher’s will, yet Nevander had broken his oaths by fathering a child. Aelus’s arrival had caused an upheaval, and since then the Faithful had treated Aelus like some sort of mutated frog. They were never rude—not outwardly, at least—but neither were they kind.

It was part of the reason Talat had been so determined to befriend Aelus.

“Nevander feels for the boy,” Imalu said. “But Nevander is also one of our most exalted Seers. His atonement process is…complex.”

Talat snorted. “And in the meantime, Aelus suffers for his father’s sins.”

“Talat—”

“Nevander’s the one who broke his oaths. Yet, instead of punishing him, they slap his wrist and tell him to ignore his bastard son.” Talat scoffed. “Gods save the next Seer who runs off; maybe they’ll come back with the pox instead of a child.”

“Talat.” Imalu caught Talat’s arm. “You may not live in the Mithraeum any longer, but your impiety reflects poorly on everyone, including Aelus.” He tapped Talat’s forehead. “Mind your jaded notions, my son, lest they bring unintentional hardship upon your fellow brothers.”

Shame fell upon Talat’s shoulders like a shroud. “Forgive me. I’m just…worried about Aelus.”

“I know. And he loves you for it. But others, like the Seers, won’t appreciate your forwardness as I do.”

“You always did love a challenge, didn’t you?” Talat teased gently.

“Yes, well, I didn’t expect you to be the difficult one. You used to be shy.”

“Lies and slander from a Scholar? Lock this man up, he’s lost his marbles.”

Imalu’s lips quivered as he attempted a frown. He failed, of course—and, grinning broadly, cupped Talat’s cheeks and kissed his brow. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Promise me, no matter what happens, you and Aelus will keep your oaths.”

Talat swallowed. “Imalu⁠—”

Deep within the mountain, bells tolled, sorrowful and strong. Bong. Bong. Bong.

The Blinding. It was time.

Imalu straightened, robes rippling like molten sunlight. “Come. Sit with me.”

“By the rest of the Scholars? You sure they won’t toss me off the mountain?”

A spark of mischief glinted in Imalu’s gaze. “I’m the Chief Archivist.” He flicked the ruby-encrusted pin above his breast. “They’d need my permission first.”

Talat laughed, then accepted Imalu’s proffered arm and escorted him inside.

As they were swallowed by the mountain’s shadow, Talat glanced at the huge black flag affixed to the Mithraeum’s exterior. There, emblazoned on its heart, was the Order’s symbol: a single, weeping eye against a backdrop of night. It glared, sightless and judgmental.

I see you, Talat Jonquil, it seemed to say. And I know what you’ve done.

Silence did not exist inside the Mithraeum—not when a ceremony was at hand.

Faithful of all ages and ranks flooded the grand entryway, the woody, resinous tang of cypress oil and the sweet scent of gardenia petals hanging heavily in the air like perfume. Bowl-shaped lanterns dangled from decorative spandrels ten feet overhead; they swayed noisily, bellies full of lothryas blooms that, when lit, produced an eerie, pitch-black flame that seemed to absorb light rather than emit it.

Imalu at his side, Talat followed the lanterns and flower petals to the Great Hall: the Mithraeum’s center, its gathering place.

If the opening vestibule was the Mithraeum’s throat, and the labyrinth of subterranean chambers its intestines, then the Great Hall was its stomach. All told, it could easily fit the mountain’s five thousand occupants with room to spare. A dozen doric pillars lined the nave’s length like lamp posts, drawing the eye to the far apse and its three massive stained-glass windows. The western window, a kaleidoscope of green and sapphire hues, depicted Reneir the Watcher scaling the summit that would later become the Mithraeum, while the easternmost image showed Reneir anointing nine hooded men amidst a sea of kneeling Faithful.

The center scene, however, stood in stark contrast to the others. Colored entirely in shades of red, it portrayed a single Faithful—arms chained, surcoat stripped—pleading for deliverance from Reneir as an ocean of daemons prepared to drag him into the abyss.

A warning, though not by any standards a subtle one.

Swells of acolytes swarmed Talat with breathless “hellos” and enthusiastic hugs, the threat of bloodrot forgotten if only for a few hours. He indulged their questions—yes, Val’dora is as crowded as they say; no, I don’t maim people daily—then returned to an amused Imalu.

“We’re up near the altar,” Imalu said, patting Talat’s arm. “Left-hand side.”

Gold-wrought and massive, the altar perched on the dais like a crown, the windows’ polychromatic light giving it an otherworldly luminescence. Aside from the stained glass, it provided the only spot of color in the Great Hall. Everything else was black, black, black. The rugs were black, the pews were black—even the candles had been dyed black. It was all a tad overbearing for Talat’s taste. But black was sacred to the Order, as it represented purity of focus and of spirit, with the absence of color signifying the absence of distraction.

A shallow explanation, in Talat’s opinion, but he’d long given up finding logic in the Order’s decrees.

The bells continued their melodic song as he and Imalu claimed pews by the altar. Without the overbearing shine of sunlight on gold, Talat could see the panoramic carving wrapped around the altar’s sides: an image of Reneir covering the right half of his face with a palm, his left eye open and exaggerated in size. Stacked against the altar’s sides were dozens of folded black surcoats, cleaned and pressed with gardenias while atop it sat nine gilded cups, a leatherbound book, and a vial filled with a viscous substance that looked like melted obsidian.

Talat grimaced as a phantom pain stabbed his skull.

“Reminiscing about your Blinding?” Imalu asked. Shouted, more like. The smooth basalt walls amplified the bells’ deep resonance tenfold, rattling Talat’s bones like saltshakers.

“Unfortunately,” Talat said. “Can’t say it was my favorite experience.”

“Nor mine.”

Talat unstrapped his package and leaned it against the pew while Imalu greeted colleagues. Unsurprisingly, none of the Scholars spoke to Talat. They were rigid rule-followers, men who’d rather shear off their tongues than risk irritating the Seers. Hells, not even Imalu would defy the Seers—though at times, Talat wished he would.

The bell’s song stopped mid-ring, and Talat drew in a breath. Here we go.

Simmering silence fell upon the room as nine somber figures entered the Hall. They wore hooded ebony cassocks, simple yet elegant in design, with chunky golden necklaces draped over their stiff mantles.

The Seers. Leaders of the Faithful.

Few differences existed between them: they were equally powerful, equally unyielding, though Aelus’s father was perhaps the most unyielding of the lot. Talat had never met a more hard-rooted man, nor a more regimented Faithful. Each of Nevander’s features—from his rigid nose and coarse dark beard to his bull-like frame—belied strength, pride, and devotion.

Behind the Seers trailed a line of a hundred acolytes clad in simple black tunics, loose pants, and matching somber expressions. But beneath their veils of humility, excitement bubbled, manifesting in twitching fingers and fire-bright eyes.

Only one individual did not seem to share their eagerness.

Talat hid a smile as a ginger-haired giant with flushed cheeks ducked to make himself small among the Eyes-to-be. Aelus had changed these two years past. Like his father, he towered over everyone in his group, but during the final stages of Aelus’s training, he’d sloughed off any remaining softness, replacing it with nearly fifty pounds of muscle. Even his face seemed older, more rugged. The type of face Cordè might stop and notice.

Inspired by Aelus’s transformation, Talat crafted a quick verse. Arms thick as an evergreen’s wizened trunk, freckles outnumbering the ocean’s pebbled shores—a mountain walks, tall and stiff as the cocks our Watcher forbids us to use.

As if sensing he were the subject of Talat’s poetry, Aelus’s gray eyes parsed through the sea of robes and armor. But there were too many Faithful, and Aelus did not yet have the Sight.

Talat pressed a fist to his mouth and coughed, almost bursting into laughter as Aelus’s head popped up like a cockatillion’s feather crest.

Told you I’d make it, Talat mouthed.

Aelus, always the more law-abiding of the two, did not respond—though his shoulders visibly slumped in relief.

The parade continued for ten minutes, the Seers’ love for a good procession dragging the ceremony beyond what Talat considered endurable. Once the acolytes arranged themselves appropriately, Imalu clasped Talat’s shoulder, then stepped forward.

Imalu’s footfalls echoed as he ascended the stairs, Reneir’s painted eyes following him from every angle. He stopped at the altar and raised his hands. “By His Gaze.”

As one, the audience replied, “May We See.”

“By His Everlasting Grace.”

“May We Lead.”

“By His Side.”

“May We Serve in life, in death, and beyond.”

Imalu pressed his palms together. “Kneel, faithful servants of Reneir—kneel as we remember our god, the blood he spilled for us, and his commitment to the Beloved Illüne and their siblings, Khastus the Enlightened and Haal the Challenger. Watcher be our Guide.”

Talat’s lips scarcely moved as he repeated the saying and lowered himself to the floor.

“Let us now recite the opening passage from The Watcher’s Principium.”

Talat peeked at Aelus as the monotonous rumble of chanting filled the Great Hall. True to form, Aelus was the picture of servitude: he knelt, motionless and serene, face obscured by a curtain of copper hair. He was a devout Faithful, always seeking solace through prayer, always practicing humility though he rarely received praise. Talat, on the other hand, preferred swordplay and poetry, which often meant he was the cause of Aelus’s never-ending slew of⁠—

“Watcher, be our Guide,” Imalu concluded.

Talat joined the repeat a half-beat behind the rest. “Watcher, be our Guide.”

“Please rise for Seer Nevander as he leads us through our sacred ritual.”

Imalu returned to his seat, but not before warmly clasping Nevander’s shoulder.

“Acolytes of Reneir,” Nevander began, voice low and strong and commanding. “Today, more than ever, we need your aid to redeem Dusera’s Legions. They’ve turned away from the Watcher and embraced abominations. It is precisely because of their godsforged propaganda that the Watcher has punished us with a plague. Forgive us, oh Watcher.”

Murmurs of assent echoed throughout the hall, and Talat shifted.

Nevander continued. “So, I ask you, our acolytes, our hope, our future—will you aid us in guiding Dusera’s wayward Legions back to the arms of the Watcher and His everlasting purity?”

They responded with a resounding yes.

“Then swear the following oaths by repeating after me:

I will put no other person, god, or ideal before the Watcher and his Order.

I will devote my life to protecting the innocent.

I will deny all earthly pleasures that might distract me from my duties, and I will strive to be ever watchful, ever vigilant, and ever alert. By His Gaze.”

Nevander gestured for his fellow Scholars to distribute the surcoats. “May these adornments remind you of your new vows.” One by one the acolytes accepted their new surcoats and reverently fastened them over their tunics. Nevander gestured again, this time at the Seers. “Let us bear witness to our god’s benediction upon his new Faithful.”

He distributed cups to the Seers as they filed by. They received the offering with bowed, hooded heads, plucking metal needles from a nearby basin along the way. Nevander went down the line, cradling the vial as he poured the obsidian liquid into the awaiting cups.

The first wave of nervous acolytes approached. Murmuring a quick prayer over the cups, the Seers dipped the needles into the black liquid and held them over the acolytes’ eyes.

A single drop fell from its tip.

With agonized gasps, the acolytes doubled over, eyes steaming.

Talat winced. He remembered the sensation well: an itch at first, light and teasing like centipedes skittering across his cornea. Then it became a blistering burn that seared his retinas, hot enough to bring bile, and the remnants of Imalu’s famed peppercorn jerky, to his throat.

Once, months ago, Cordè had asked if he regretted his Blinding.

“Never,” he’d said with uncharacteristic sincerity. “The Blinding both literally and figuratively opens our eyes. Once we’re given the Sight, we can see the veins of a leaf over a mile away or spot a dagger’s gleam in the dead of night. And if someone is stupid enough to attack us”—he grinned—“our Sight slows things in midair. We can catch arrows, pebbles. I even heard of an Eye who caught a bee by its leg, with his teeth.”

Cordè had snorted at that. “So, that’s what you boys do, catch bees and stick needles in yourselves? You know one of those is a fetish, right?”

Talat snickered at the memory, earning a seething glare from a nearby Scholar.

Groaning, the acolytes picked themselves off the ground. Nevander raised his arms. “Join me in welcoming our newest Eyes.”

Reneir’s newly anointed congregated by the fireplaces amidst vigorous applause, congratulating each other with toothy smiles and matching black irises.

Nevander motioned to the next wave of acolytes. “Approach.”

The process repeated, each rendition creating a new set of Eyes to add to the Faithful’s fold. Talat clapped and hollered accordingly, but reserved the bulk of his celebration for Aelus, who’d been placed in the very last group.

Fists clenched but unshaking, Aelus knelt in front of his father. The pair regarded each other: one formal and reserved, the other trying desperately to appear the same. Then Nevander dropped the liquid into Aelus’s eyes.

Aelus pitched forward with a cry, back muscles quivering once, twice before going slack.

The pressure in Talat’s throat eased. It’s done. Grinning, he readied his applause as Aelus heaved himself up, turned, and⁠—

Acolytes, Scholars, and Seers alike gasped. Talat froze, mouth agape. How?

Slowly, visibly, Aelus paled as he came to realize the cause of the growing clamor was him. Horror dawned. In a panic, Aelus reached for his father, but Nevander backed away, color draining like he’d seen death itself.

The crowd pressed in, buzzing and claustrophobic. Aelus started to hyperventilate—and it was the glassy, shattered look on his face that broke Talat from his stupor.

Talat lunged forward, dodging Imalu’s interceding hand. “Don’t touch him!”

A wall of Scholars blocked Talat’s path. Helpless, he watched one of them raise a gnarled finger and point at Aelus’s eyes.

Aelus’s wide, terrified, gray eyes.

Not black, but gray. Gray as a summertide storm.

His Blinding had failed.

THREE

The lock to Talat and Aelus’s boyhood room was rusty, old, and terrible for picking.

It took Talat a solid minute to wrench the pins apart: an impressive time considering Cordè had just started teaching him the skill. Though he bet she never imagined he’d use it here, at the Mithraeum.

Quietly, he twisted the knob and slipped inside.

As expected, Aelus was alone and brooding on his bed. His new surcoat lay inside-out on the floor as if he’d clawed it off in a hurry. A stick of lavender incense smoldered nearby, filling the space with a calming floral aroma that immediately conjured memories of sore muscles and daily ablutions.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Aelus said, forehead plastered to his palms. “The Seers want me to reflect in solitude.”

“After two years, is that really how you greet your oldest, wisest friend?”

Instead of responding, Aelus sank deeper into his mattress to pray.

Keenly aware that disrupting Aelus would lead to an even darker mood, Talat leaned his cargo against the doorframe and inspected his old quarters.

Not much had changed, though nothing in the Mithraeum ever did. The room reminded Talat of a rabbit burrow: roughly-hewn and cold as frost with just enough space for a wooden bunk bed and a prayer mat. A pair of long ledges, one on either side of the entryway, had been sculpted out of the speckled basalt, too shallow to house anything except candles and a small ritual bowl.

But in the two years since Talat’s departure, Aelus—whose burly appearance hid the heart of an aesthete—had turned this boring gray shell into a comely hollow.

In place of a window, he’d covered the far wall in charcoal sketches of chrysanthemums and lilies like a landscaper tending his own little art garden. A stack of alphabetized books stood beside the gallery, and Talat spied more than a few extracurricular texts intermingled with the prescribed religious tomes. Unsurprising, given Aelus’s cerebral nature; he had a particular fondness for Khastian riddles, so named for the Nemèan god of curiosity and insight.

Next to the books hung the woolen tapestry Talat gifted Aelus some months back, strung up with rope, clothes pins, and a dollop of wood tar for glue. The weaving depicted sunshine and apple trees and wheat fields that Aelus said made him think of home.

Most prominently displayed, however, was an inked portrait of Aelus’s horse, Daphne.

A crooked grin played on Talat’s mouth. Aelus adored Daphne; he’d feed her, bathe her, even insisted on talking to her like she was a person. But Daphne was the one subject Talat never teased him about.

Unlike the other acolytes, Aelus entered the Order at the age of thirteen, seven years past the traditional age of acceptance. This meant he had memories of a real childhood—specifically a mother, whom he’d loved with his entire being. It was Elaina who’d encouraged his love of pretty things, not his cock-stiff father, Nevander. Daphne had been Aelus’s last gift from his mother before her death.

Talat eyed a line of perfectly folded shirts on the top bunk. “Well, well, well. Look at these masterpieces. I leave for a few years, and suddenly you’re civilized?”

“If you’re here to poke fun, then please go.”

“You can’t blame me for trying to lighten the mood, can you?”

No reaction: just heavy, ragged breathing.

Talat tried again, dropping the sarcasm. “We’ll figure this out.”

“How? The Order’s existed for centuries and never once has a Blinding failed.” Aelus gave a hollow laugh. “Maybe it’s for the best. I’ve never fit in here. Everyone knows it.”

“That’s not true. You’ve more than earned your place.”

“Apparently not.”

“Look at it this way,” Talat said. “Now you don’t have to worry about dropping dead with burning black tar leaking out of your ocular orifices.”

All right, perhaps it wasn’t the best move to make light of an incurable disease, but Talat hated seeing his dearest friend in such a defeated state. He shifted closer, trying to tease Aelus’s dull gaze away from the floor. “Wanna try and look up at me for a second?”

“I wish you still lived here,” Aelus said, as if Talat hadn’t spoken at all. “I wish the bloodrot didn’t exist. I wish you’d never been sent to guard some Rose⁠—”

“Hey. My ward’s innocent. Leave her out of it.” A pause. “Will you please look at me?”

“…No.”

Talat threw his hands in the air. “Tertia’s tits, Aelus. I swear your stubbornness is going to be the death of you.”

Aelus’s expression darkened, but it was those bright, unchanged irises that gave him away. He was scared.

Talat’s frustration dissipated. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “First, I happen to like my assignment at the Rose. Second, have you considered your Blinding failed because maybe, just maybe, you’re good enough without it?”

Aelus’s scoff was so violent Talat feared he’d popped a lung.

“I’m serious,” Talat insisted. “Maybe Reneir thinks you don’t need his blessing. I mean, you completed your training four years early. No one’s ever done that either.”

“You did.”

“By one year, not four. Besides, didn’t you knock me on my ass the day of my Blinding?” Talat snorted. “You could’ve pretended to let me win. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Aelus’s bearded face hardened, and for a moment, Talat worried he’d be thrown out by the ear.

“Enhancing your vision doesn’t change how you practically announce where you’ll strike next,” Aelus muttered.

Talat buried his sigh of relief. “I don’t announce.”

Aelus’s brows jumped.

“I don’t.”

“Now who’s stubborn?”

“You rubbed off on me. Just please tell me you’ve picked up some of my charm.”

“Charm?” Aelus’s lips twitched as he tried to maintain his scowl. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

The silence deepened as they gazed at each other. Then they burst into laughter, Talat’s cackle a perfect accompaniment to Aelus’s rumbling bass.

“Ah, my poor, sweet friend,” Talat said. “I’ve missed you.”

Aelus’s smile dimmed. “Sorry I haven’t written more.”

“I figured it was Nevander’s doing.” Talat shoved Aelus’s bulky frame to make room on the bed. “He always loved making you pray for repentance. Even when you had no reason to.”

“Talat.”

Talat raised his hands in surrender. “All right, all right.” He toyed with bringing up a different subject—history, maybe, since it was Aelus’s favorite—when he felt a shudder. “Hey.” He gripped Aelus’s shoulder. “You’ll be okay. You’re stronger than you think.”

Another shudder racked Aelus’s frame, but he nodded. It was something, at least.

Giving his friend an encouraging squeeze, Talat stood and grabbed the package he’d carted for over seven miles.

Dull curiosity gleamed in Aelus’s eyes. “What’s that?”

With an unnecessary flourish, Talat unfurled the binding to reveal an opulent sword. The weapon sported a feathered pattern along the shaft with a black sheepskin hilt that complemented the three-and-a-half-foot steel blade.

Talat threw back his head and laughed at Aelus’s astonishment.

“It’s beautiful,” Aelus breathed. “How much⁠—?”

Talat quieted him with a flick of his wrist. “I do have a salary, you silly oaf, and I decide who to spoil with it.” He lifted the sword, admiring its perfect balance before offering Aelus the hilt. “Its name is Nightbane, and it belongs to you. Treat it well.”

Aelus’s fingers trembled. “I will.”

“Good.” Talat backed toward the door. “I better leave before someone questions Imalu too hard about my absence. I’ll check in again soon, okay?”

“When? Tomorrow?”

The earnestness in Aelus’s voice made Talat swallow hard. “I⁠—”

The chamber door burst open, cutting Talat off as Seer Nevander barged in, unhooded and fuming. He glared at the pair. “Explain yourselves.”

Talat knew he should answer; Eyes were supposed to cater to the Seers’ will. But this was the man responsible for so much of Aelus’s heartache—and that was something Talat would not, could not, forgive.

Nevander stepped forward, obsidian irises ablaze.

“Wait.” Aelus dumped Nightbane on his bed and, ignoring Talat’s gesture to stay out of it, planted himself between Talat and Nevander. “Seer, please, he⁠—”

“Kneel.”

Aelus obeyed, bone meeting stone with a hollow smack.

Then it was Talat’s turn. With a damning finger, Nevander pointed to the floor. Kneel.

It was a battle of wills, a high-stakes gamble. If Talat knelt, he’d be submitting, something he hadn’t done in a long time. But if he didn’t….

The planes of Nevander’s chiseled face hardened, and Talat balled his fists. Fuck.

Slowly, slowly, hating the motion with every fiber of his being, he sank to the ground.

Nevander folded his arms, countenance blank as glass. “Aelus Mireau, you were to remain alone, to reflect and think on your failure. You disobeyed.”

Aelus looked ready to vomit.

Talat interceded. “He didn’t disobey; I refused to leave. Blame me.”

“Oh, I do,” Nevander said. “Your weak example threatens to lead many astray, and your constant need to contravene orders begs yet another consequence.”

“Was sending me to the Rose not consequence enough?”

“Your poor choices are what led to your predicament. Yours and yours alone.”

Your choices. The anger Talat worked to suppress surged to a boil. “Forgive me for not heeding the word of a man who sired a son, then abandoned said son for his own gain.” Talat’s lip curled as he gestured at Nevander’s golden necklace. “Those chains of yours look heavy, Seer.”

Nothing shifted in those frigid black eyes. Not even a flicker.

The temperature seemed to drop as Nevander stepped around Aelus, reached a claw-like hand beneath Talat’s jaw, and jerked the Eye’s head skyward.

“The next time you transgress, you will be brought before the Seers.”

Talat froze. “You would make me Unsighted?”

Unsighting was the Order’s most heinous punishment. It began with needles and ended with the accused being flung from the Order, never to return. The penalty was rare but feared above all others, as it forced former Eyes—the Unsighted—to scrape a living off the streets or die a nameless victim of the bloodrot.

Nevander dug his clipped nails into Talat’s flesh. “Pray to the Watcher for guidance, lest you betray your oaths.” He released Talat and gestured at the doorway. “By His Gaze.”

“Wait.” Talat jolted to his feet. “What about Aelus?”

“By His Gaze.”

It took effort, monumental effort, for Talat to keep himself leashed. His instincts screamed for him to grab Aelus and get the hells out, but that would damn Aelus as surely as it would damn himself. So instead Talat jerked his head in a stiff bow. “May We See.”

And before Nevander could forbid otherwise, Talat clutched the back of Aelus’s neck and pressed their foreheads together, skin to skin, as he had the day they became brothers-in-arms.

“I’ll come back for you,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Then he released Aelus and, with a white-hot glare at Nevander, stalked into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.

I promise.

FOUR

Never before had Cordè endured a wait that felt as long as the twenty-four hours leading up to the gala at the Capitis Cor Meum.

Now, finally, the festivities were underway.

Cordè stood at the base of the capitol’s grand staircase, columns of dancing flames washing the red-carpeted path in radiant whiteness and drowning out the moon overhead. Conversation buzzed around her, the springtide breeze flush with excitement.

This was Illüne’s Day, the celebration of the goddess of light and healing.

Votive candles dotted the streets like stars in the heavens, held aloft by Etherians: not humans, not elves, but entities entirely their own. These women—and they were all women—could trace their magical bloodline to Illüne herself. Cordè recognized the otherworldly gleam of their skin, which reflected light like whorls of oil on water, iridescent and sublime.

“Cordè!”

Linnaea’s voice echoed down the steps, and Cordè rushed to accept Talat’s awaiting hand. Her Eye wore a polished ensemble: black leather vest, matching boots and, taking the place of his dual swords, a sleek silver dagger that hung from his hip.

Cordè shot him a smile, which he returned halfheartedly.

“Perk up, dearest,” she said as they ascended. “You look rather morose.”

He had seemed distant as of late. Distracted, perhaps?

Then a shine returned to Talat’s eyes, and he grinned. “Morose? How could I be morose amidst such a glorious spectacle?”

Cordè followed the arc of his arm to the dozens of impeccably dressed guests funneling into the Capitis. Most wore formal attire with subtle undertones of their Legions’ colors, but some had chosen bolder, more risqué designs—including the handsome stranger staring at her from atop the stairs.

She blinked. Yes, he was definitely staring. Hilaraan, probably, judging by his russet skin, though his eyes were the most striking shade of blue she’d ever seen. He winked at her just as another wave of partygoers passed between them.

By the time they dispersed, the Hilaraan had vanished.

Cordè gave a disappointed sigh and, after a tug from Talat, kept moving.

The Nivae party reached the stairs’ peak where the lively orchestra music beckoned guests forward. “Here’s where we part,” Linnaea said. “Remember, be seen and conduct yourself appropriately.” She looked at Talat. “Both of you.”

“I hate to leave you by yourself,” Cordè said, not actually hating it one whit.

“No need to worry about me, child. I’m in good hands.”

As if on cue, the blue-eyed Hilaraan slipped from the crowd to cup Linnaea’s elbow. This time, instead of winking, he gave Cordè a courteous nod.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Linnaea said. With a dismissive wave, she and the mysterious stranger disappeared inside.

Mouth agape, Cordè turned to Talat. “Did you know she had a date?”

“Your mistress is a secretive woman. And she may be almost seventy, but she cuts quite the attractive figure. Did you see the back of that dress?”

Shaking her head, Cordè dismissed thoughts of her mentor and, like a wave in the Ember Ocean, lost herself in a swirl of capes and petticoats. A teasing peek over her shoulder confirmed Talat’s presence; she wagged an eyebrow before crossing into the hall.

“Must you make my life so very difficult?” he called, struggling to stay at her side.

Swells of music greeted them, symphonic and merry. Be it training or her elven nature, Cordè’s footfalls became lighter, more rhythmic, intrinsically tied to the hypnotic tempo. The entryway’s polished marble gleamed with the brightness of a dozen suns, its ivory perfection underscored by subtle veins of rose gold between each flawlessly cut slab of stone.

A platter appeared in front of Cordè, carried by an elven waiter bearing the Rose’s elegant, thorned, vaguely vulvic insignia. With a brief glimpse at his ear tips, Cordè turned her attention to the food: brirre nut bread topped with seared kappafish and garnished with spicy caviar.

She picked two of the larger pieces and returned to Talat, offering him half the bounty upon a flattened palm. “I swear to you,” she said, mouth full of kappafish, “fresh seafood prepared by a competent chef is better than any sex I’ve ever had.”

“I’m not an expert, but it feels like that reflects more on the quality of your partners and less on the quality of the food.” Talat grinned and popped the snack in his mouth.

The music increased tenfold when they entered the ballroom, as if the merriment took place inside a private bubble. Beneath the vaulted ceiling, the air tasted of expensive perfume and fizzy tephrosia wine. Cordè snagged a glass of the aforementioned drink from a passing tray. She tossed it back, stomach warming with the effects of the alcohol and her own nervous excitement.

Never in her twenty years had she witnessed such a blend of color and language and style: not only Duseran fashion but also the heavy furs of Ravethin and the gauzy silk robes of distant Aahilar and Tharon. Cordè wanted to see it all, experience it, taste it.

Her eyes rose halfway up the ballroom wall to the crystal clock the size of a horse: eight o’clock. The toasts would begin at ten, then she was free to do as she pleased.

A pair of fair-haired Ravethinians passed in front of her, thickly built and freckled.

Or who she pleased.

The capitol was full of beautiful people tonight. She only needed to pick one. Maybe two.

Talat put his hand on the small of her back. “Ready?”

She tipped back another flute of tephrosia wine and, with a pearly white grin, linked her arm with his. Together they circled the dancefloor, pausing for conversation with peers and colleagues as they went.

It wasn’t until their second round that Cordè encountered someone of genuine interest: a pale, statuesque woman of middling age with a curtain of caffe-colored hair. More eye-catching than her beauty, however, was her gown—silver at first glance, but when the light hit it just right, the silver became a pulsing prism of color that purled around her long legs like liquid metal.

“Myrra Velta,” Cordè muttered to Talat.

Everyone knew Myrra Velta, or at least knew of her. She was, after all, a prominent fixture of the Triumvirate Legion, Dusera’s white-robed magistrates who lorded over the country’s rigid justice system. Although her career began in education, Myrra had discarded her professor cloak in favor of pursuing a more glamorous role: the newly vacated third seat of the Triumvirate’s legal bench. She was in the midst of an aggressive campaign, outpacing and outspending candidates with actual judicial experience—and, based on the wide circle of adoring onlookers around her, she was succeeding.

Talat touched Cordè’s elbow. “Shall we keep moving?”

He kept his tone light, but Cordè understood his meaning. Myrra had centered her campaign around returning Dusera to “moral order.” As a country, she believed they’d “strayed too far from their founding gods’ intentions” and “abandoned virtue in favor of the mortal realm’s pleasures.” Which was all well and good, except Cordè’s livelihood depended on the mortal realm’s pleasures, and she happened to be rather fond of them.

However, she imagined chiefest among Talat’s concerns was Myrra’s position on elves.

“What are you…?” Talat whisper-called to Cordè as she made her way over to Myrra and her retinue of admirers.

“Lady Velta.” Cordè curtsied, low and deep and a bit flourishing.

Myrra’s bubbling brook of a laugh trailed off to its natural conclusion, though hints of amusement still twinkled in her gaze as it fell upon Cordè. “Yes?”

“Apologies for the intrusion, but I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted.” She put on a smile to rival Myrra’s practiced simper. “I’m Cordè Cyra of House Nivae.”

She sensed Talat hovering nearby, his palpable, anomalous anxiety keeping her tethered. It’s not like she’d been planning on tossing a glass of tephrosia wine in the woman’s face—but she’d resist causing a scene, if only for his sake.

Tonight is about being seen, Linnaea said. And, really, what better way to accomplish that goal than strolling up to Dusera’s fiercest anti-elf advocate and asking them to dance?

Cordè extended a hand. “Would you like to lead, or shall I?”

Myrra glanced down at Cordè’s awaiting palm while the rest of the entourage looked on. A woman near Myrra’s left shoulder held her fan to her face and whispered something to the person next to her. They broke out into chittering, acidic giggles that would have cowed someone with a brittler backbone than Cordè.

Myrra, for her part, reacted with barely more than a lift of her eyebrows. Then, to everyone’s shock, she placed her long-fingered hand in Cordè’s. “Lead on, Miss Cyra.”

Miss, not lady. Still, Cordè cast a fleeting look at Talat before doing as Myrra suggested. They settled in line near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the capitol’s gardens. The view was exquisite, yet Myrra’s height made it difficult for Cordè to perceive anything beyond the hint of cleavage inches from her nose.

She craned her neck to meet Myrra’s blue-gray gaze. “I’ll admit, I’m surprised you agreed to a dance, Lady Velta.”

“Oh? And why would that be?”

Myrra knew the answer; Cordè saw it plainly upon her face. It was a dare, to say the reason aloud.

“I didn’t think you cared overly much for my kind.”

“As it happens, I have quite a few elves in my acquaintance. Lovely people, all of them.”

“I meant whores.”

A beat, then Myrra uttered another one of her charming laughs. “My, you are a bold one! Who did you say you worked for?”

“I’m Lady Nivae’s protégé.”

“Ah. I should have guessed. You share Linnaea’s cheekiness.”

It was the first of Myrra’s statements to take Cordè by surprise. “You know Linnaea?”

“In passing.” Myrra raised her arm, the hem of Cordè’s dress spilling out in a radial bloom as she twirled. “She must care for you a great deal, your employer, to have hired an Eye on your behalf. And for you two to be so close, considering….”

“My profession?”

Cordè followed Myrra’s line of sight to Talat as he hovered along the periphery. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder (rather, shoulder-to-mid-bicep) with a tall, mustachioed Eye who watched Myrra with a severity that bordered on fearsome.

“To Talat’s credit,” Cordè said, “he certainly challenged my presuppositions about the Order. He’s creative, funny, open-minded⁠—”

“Perhaps he is those things because of the time he’s spent with you.”

In any other situation, Cordè would have taken this as a great compliment. But a faint note of accusation in Myrra’s tone made Cordè think it was not intended as such.

“Please don’t take this as a slight,” Myrra continued, “but I fear your Eye is merely the latest victim of our world’s increasing secularity. I see more signs of the Legions’ corruption daily: alehouses on every corner, brothels filled to bursting, heretics spouting nonsense about godsforged and end times.”

Godsforged: an odd little piece of Nemèan theology that Cordè only vaguely understood. While the elven pantheon was more a collection of abstracts and apotheoses, Nemèans believed their gods had physically walked the earth once, living among the humans, bestowing blessings where they saw fit. From those blessings sprang the godsforged, mythical warriors and heralds of the Nemèan gods…or something of that ilk. Cordè typically tuned out right around that point in the conversation.

“I’m curious what Linnaea said to convince them,” Myrra said.

Cordè shook herself from her mental tangent. “Sorry?”

“I’m curious what Linnaea said to convince the Order to protect an elvish prostitute. Apologies, courtesan.” Myrra tilted her head to the side. “It runs rather counter to their beliefs.”

She wasn’t wrong; the Order had no love for sex workers or elves, and they had zero qualms about vocalizing those opinions.

“I think it had less to do with words and more to do with numbers,” Cordè said.

“Hmm.” Myrra gave another little hum, this one harmonizing with the swell of the waltz’s bridge. “Funding is a necessary evil, I’m afraid. Especially in our flailing society. Take the Etherians, for example. Lovely, benevolent people… but benevolent people who would be unable to perform their healing duties without the proper means.”

“Lucky for them, a humble benefactor has arrived to champion their cause.”

“I champion multiple causes, dove. Like eradicating the bloodrot. Horrible disease, that—made all the crueler by the fact it only affects the Faithful.” Once again, Myrra looked toward Talat and her Eye. “I pray you never witness it up close.”

Cordè paused. “That isn’t your first Eye, is it?”

Myrra’s expression had softened, drawn inward. “It’s funny,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard Cordè at all. “You wouldn’t think of immunity as a curse, but it is. And while I wouldn’t presume to question the gods’ will, I do sometimes feel a bit resentful.” She sighed. “I can’t erase the bloodrot—but I can help those who try.”

It would have been a pretty speech, Cordè thought, were it not preceded by all the dogmatism. So, instead of being taken in by saccharine words falling from beautiful lips, she only arched a brow. “You wield sympathy well. For a moment, I almost forgot how bigoted you are.”

Myrra’s smile remained perfectly in place. But Cordè, trained in the art of reading the microscopic shifts of a single facial muscle, watched Myrra’s laugh lines loosen ever so slightly, the skin between her brows and eyelids lifting just a touch.

Distantly Cordè heard the music change from a bright major key to a darker natural minor in preparation for its sweeping conclusion. Myrra, however, maintained her intense eye contact. “I’ve rather enjoyed our time together, pet. Your company is…stimulating.”

Her tone danced the line between derision and—was that flirtation?

Cordè did not return the smile. “Well, no one’s ever asked for their money back.”

The waltz arrived at its final chord, and Myrra abruptly tipped Cordè into a backbending dip. They stayed like that for a beat, the pair of them, as Cordè struggled to blink beneath the weight of Myrra’s magnetic stare.

Up close, the color of her eyes appeared more complex than a mere mix of blue and gray. Cordè saw bands of emerald in their depths, and violets, and even a shimmer of opalescent silver. And then she saw nothing at all, because Myrra had leaned in and kissed her fully on the mouth.

It was over as quickly as it began.

Myrra pulled Cordè to standing, and the sudden lack of contact made Cordè’s skin go from flushed to cold in the span of a blink.

“Until next time, dear Winter Lily.” With that, Myrra departed, the scent of honeysuckle wafting in her wake.

It wasn’t until she vanished into the crowd that Cordè wondered how Myrra had known her sobriquet.

The toasts began at the stroke of ten. Ten lifts of the glass for the five Legions, the four Nemèan gods, and a final toast to Dusera itself. Once the ritual concluded, the gala’s tone shifted: guests stripped off their satin gloves, chuckles heightened into peals of laughter, flutes of wine were replaced by tiny crystal glasses of spiced liquor.

Near midnight, Cordè caught her first glimpse of Linnaea since they’d parted ways; she was dancing with the blue-eyed Hilaraan as well as a second handsome young courtier.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, with the exception of Cordè’s own Legion Head. Parsyn de Valle hovered at the mouth of the rotunda, arms folded stoically over his slight frame. His fashion sense was, as always, impeccable: signature crimson cape overlaying a double-breasted burgundy suit. Yet despite his finery, he looked downright miserable.

Cordè wasn’t surprised. The only smiles she’d ever seen Parsyn wear were cold ones, and they never reached his eyes.

Ignoring her Legion Head’s melancholy, she steered Talat further into the capitol’s labyrinth. The marble walls muffled the ballroom’s symphonies, but the sounds of merriment didn’t diminish—if anything, they grew louder. More intimate.

The deeper they explored, the more brazen guests became in their coupling. Hands slithered into unbuttoned trousers or wriggled beneath skirt folds while onlookers hooted their approval. Cordè even caught Talat watching, though he pretended not to be.

She elbowed him in the ribs. “Looking to join in?”

Talat studied the writhing couples before turning back to Cordè with a faint blush. Impossible; Talat never blushed because blushing required shame.

Then it was gone, and she was certain she’d imagined it.

“They wouldn’t know what to do with me.” He grinned. “I’m just astounded you haven’t gone off to do the same. Overwhelmed by your buffet of options?”

In truth, it was not the buffet distracting her but the echo of Myrra Velta’s kiss. And the lingering look in her eyes.

Cordè shook her head. She needed to refocus. Needed to mingle.

“How about that one?” Talat nodded at a posh gentleman whose glamorous silver-streaked bouffant added three inches to his height.

She side-eyed the man’s expensive cobalt cloak and flashy maroon accents. “I refuse to sleep with anyone who’s better dressed than I am.”

Talat sighed and scanned the perimeter. “What about them?”

Cordè followed his finger to the room’s most recent arrivals—and choked on her liqueur.

Legion Première. Dusera’s first legion, and its most elite. Theoretically they were the country’s bankers, though Cordè had only ever seen them behave like socialites.

All three newcomers wore purple, their Legion’s signature color, with the two at the front boasting stunning violet brooches affixed to their chests. Not just any Première, then. These were the Emari siblings, Janvier and Nessare: children of the wealthiest Legion Head in the country. Dusera had no royal families, but titles aside, the pair was nothing short of a prince and princess.

A swarm of Eyes occupied the archways, watching their wards from afar while Nessare chatted with the third, unknown Première and Janvier sipped his wine.

Cordè leaned toward Talat. “Remember my rule about not sleeping with people who are better dressed than me? I’m breaking it.”

She abandoned her glass and followed after the Première—reaching, with carefully timed precision, for a new snifter of liqueur at the same moment as Nessare Emari.

“My apologies!” Cordè gave a radiant smile. “Please, go ahead.”

“No no.” Nessare raised a gloved hand. “I prefer the wine.”

Cordè lifted her drink in an informal toast. Up close, the siblings’ relation became more obvious. They’d been blessed with the same straight, elegant features, though Nessare’s were framed by beautiful auburn ringlets. Cordè, however, found it hard not to ogle the elder Emari: clean-cut and sandy-haired, Janvier radiated a dignified poise that drew attention without demanding it.

The third member of their party was a pale-eyed, vulpine-faced woman whose lips twitched with amusement, as if she knew precisely what Cordè was about.

Cordè refocused on Nessare. “You’re Lady Emari, aren’t you?”

“I suppose the brooch does give it away. And you are…?”

“Lady Cordè Cyra of the Rose. This is my Eye, Talat Jonquil.”

“You’re an elf,” Nessare said, studying Cordè’s exposed ears.

Thrown by Nessare’s bluntness, Cordè glanced at the others before putting on another smile. “So it would seem.”

Janvier cleared his throat. “Have we met, Lady Cyra? Your face is familiar to me.”

“I imagine I’d remember that encounter, my lord.”

Their eyes locked, and a welcome warmth settled in Cordè’s belly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce everyone. How rude of me.” Nessare gestured to her companions. “This is my brother, Janvier, though I suppose you already knew that, and this is Kiran, one of my ladies-in-waiting. My other one seems to have wandered off.”

“I believe Serasha’s with her husband,” Kiran said, “sharing the good news.”

“Good news?”

It took Cordè a moment to recognize Talat as the interjector; truth be told, she’d assumed he had already tuned out.

“They’re expecting a child,” Nessare said. “Surprised it took her this long. Serasha’s well into her thirties, and Philip’s nearly twice that. Still very handsome, though. I feel gray hair exudes a sense of dignity and poise. Wouldn’t you agree, Kiran?”

Kiran’s focus never strayed from Cordè. “Personally, I’ve always been partial to blondes.”

A corner of Cordè’s mouth curved upward.

Nessare, either oblivious to the chemistry or indifferent to it, said, “Oh, how funny. I believe my brother is as well. Aren’t you, Jan?”

An odd thing to say about one’s sibling, Cordè thought. Janvier cleared his throat again and didn’t answer.

Kiran held up her empty wine flute. “Can I top you off, Lady Cyra?”

It was her voice that did it as much as anything: smoky and unhurried with a huskiness that set Cordè’s blood ablaze. Cordè handed Kiran her glass and watched Kiran drift toward the nearest tray of alcohol—where she set the glass down, cast a meaningful look over her shoulder, and moved into another wing of the Capitis Cor Meum.

Any debate about Cordè’s next course of action vanished from her mind. With a departing curtsy, she headed toward the adjacent corridor.

“Cordè, wait.” Talat’s hand snatched the crook of her elbow.

Surprise gave way to indignation as she yanked her arm back. “Wait? Why? The toasts were two hours ago. I can do what I please, and right now ‘what I please’ is staking out the nearest corner for us to⁠—”

“Cordè.”

Something in his tone made her stop. “What in the hells has gotten into you?”

“I….” He raked his fingers through his curls. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Did you seriously just lie to me? To me?”

Talat’s jaw clenched, unclenched. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

“Well, if you’re not going to explain yourself, then I have no reason to stand here, do I?”

“You’re making this difficult.”

“Making what difficult?”

“My job.”

“I’m making your job difficult,” she repeated flatly. “We’re in the Capitis Cor Meum, surrounded by drinks, food, and music, and you’re complaining about your job?”

The prominent ridge in the center of Talat’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Then he held up his hands. “You’re right. Everything’s fine. Go have fun with whatever her name is.”

He was lying again. Cordè knew it, he knew it. But instead of inquiring further, she tossed her hair. “Fine. I will.”

She brushed past him and disappeared around the corner.

At first the shadowed hall felt empty, and she worried Talat had robbed her of a proper gala tryst. Then a low whistle echoed from further down the corridor. Kiran watched Cordè’s approach from an arched doorframe, faint light from a nearby sconce reflecting in her eyes.

A heavy beat stretched between them before Cordè tucked an errant brown lock behind the shell of Kiran’s ear.

“So it’s true?” Kiran asked as Cordè’s fingers drifted down her neck. “You do this for a living?”

“Not this specifically, no.” Cordè leaned in, smiling when Kiran’s pulse jumped in excitement. “This, I do for myself.”

The kiss was abrupt and not as gentle as Cordè expected.

The power dynamic shifted almost immediately, with Kiran seizing control by pushing her tongue between Cordè’s lips. Artistry and instinct warred for dominance, but as soon as Kiran’s palm groped her backside, Cordè happily surrendered to the latter.

A shrill giggle pealed down the hall, making them freeze.

Cordè smirked against Kiran’s mouth. “Usually I’m not opposed to an audience,” she said as she fumbled with the doorknob. “But tonight I’m feeling selfish.”

The knob turned. Cordè pulled Kiran inside and closed the door behind them.

FIVE

Should’ve told Cordè.

The thought clung to Talat’s brain like a festering wound as he returned to the ballroom. He should have told Cordè—but instead, he’d lied, pushed her away. Why? Because he lacked the courage to tell her the gods-damned truth.

Shots of amber liquor glinted from a tray atop a nearby credenza. Desperate to clear his mind, he snatched two glasses and drained them dry. The Hilaraan alcohol burned like a mouthful of embers, but it did the trick. He rolled his shoulders. No more distractions, no more dwelling; he had an appointment to keep.

Midnight. Third floor, eastern wing, fifth door on the left.

A clock chimed, a single bong signaling the half-hour. Thirty minutes to go. He found the nearest stairwell and headed to the mezzanine. Lit braziers lined the archways, and the air took on a smokier quality as guests indulged in shimmering powder housed within velvet pouches. They lifted white-dusted fingers to their noses and inhaled sharply.

Illim. Highly potent, highly illegal. The only reason Talat knew about the drug was because of Cordè’s personal mission to try everything at least once. Sometimes twice.

An ear-piercing crash interrupted the revelry.

“Damn you to the hells, you black-eyed bastard!”

With a muttered curse, Talat skirted a group of gossiping Artificers and beheld the scene. Two figures stood at the center of the commotion: a female member of the Blade whose navy blue tunic was soaked in wine, and an Eye. A telltale flush of drunkenness stained the Blade’s cheeks as she stomped her broken wine glass to dust and lurched forward.

“Apologize,” she hissed. “Now.”

The Eye folded his arms. “No.”

She drew back in shocked outrage, then launched into a vulgar tirade.

Gods above. Talat rubbed his neck as he overheard a fellow onlooker whisper to her companion, “This feud of theirs is going to destroy us all, mark me.”

The woman’s statement had merit. Tensions between the Order and the Blade were at an all-time high. Both organizations had been installed to protect the country, with the Blade serving as Dusera’s military and the Triumvirate Legion’s enforcers. But between the Order’s increasingly aggressive evangelism and the recent leadership change at the Blade, the subtle dislike had erupted into outright hatred.

This was the tenth public standoff Talat had witnessed this month, and neither faction seemed interested in disciplining its respective members.

Talat gave a wry shake of his head. No doubt the Blade’s Senior Officer would smooth things over. Theophane Suvau wasn’t the Blade’s Head or even its Second, but everybody knew she was the only one with real authority.

Sure enough, Talat spotted a regal, dark-haired woman cutting through the crowd on his left, a squadron of expressionless Blade soldiers at her heels.

Uninterested in getting caught up in the drama, he ascended the nearby stairwell.

The third floor of the Capitis was quiet. Empty.

Midnight. Third floor, eastern wing, fifth door on the left.

Talat stood, hand on the fifth door’s knob, the thrum in his belly tightening to an uncomfortable squeeze. He should’ve snagged another drink—hells, maybe he should’ve tried illim. Anything to uncoil the nameless emotion writhing beneath his skin.

Talat pulled in a calming breath and stepped inside.

The room was nondescript: a dignitary’s office, he assumed, or a meeting space for Legion business. Leather-bound books lined the shelves, spines cracked and gathering dust. Unlit candelabras dotted decorative side tables. Artwork filled the blank space between bookcases, each painting worth more than his yearly earnings. The floor beneath his feet was carpeted, and he was grateful for it; his steps were silent.

Silent enough to hear the click of heels echoing down the corridor.

Fast as a hummingbird, Talat plastered himself against the wall as the clacking stopped outside the door. He held his breath, lungs burning, and watched the silver knob turn.

“Hello?”

It was a woman’s voice, velvet and smooth.

Talat’s shoulders slumped in recognition. He rapped his knuckles against the wall, then waited as a purple-clad figure with strawberry hair slipped into the room.

His breath lodged in his throat. “Serasha.”

The moment the door closed, he strode over, took her face in his hands, and kissed her.

Serasha responded instantly, body melting against his. She dug her nails into his back, yanking him closer, closer, as if the thin thread of space between them was too much.

…with her husband, sharing the good news…

The whisper he’d suppressed earlier invaded his thoughts, but he shoved it aside. Instead he focused on Serasha’s lips, her warm brown skin, her insistent fingers and tongue. Talat slid his palms to her waist and pushed her against the door, smiling against the underside of her jaw as she released an mmf of surprise.

…with her husband, sharing the good news…

He froze, and she tugged his curls impatiently.

…expecting a child…

…a child…

“Is it true?” he blurted.

Serasha paused, chest heaving. “What?”

“Are you pregnant?”

Her expression didn’t change, yet he saw the answer in the dilation of her pupils, the slight hitch in her breath. He stepped back, hands at her waist. “How long have you known?”

“About a month.”

“A month? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to risk Philip finding out about us.”

Her husband. Philip Yvon, a glorified bookkeeper for the Première. Talat had never met the man, but reputation made him out to be a braggart, a cad—and utterly unworthy of Serasha’s affections.

With shaking fingers, Talat cupped her cheek and grazed his thumb over her lower lip. “The baby….” He swallowed thickly. “Is it mine?”

Tears gathered along her lashes. “No.”

Talat’s insides knotted. Of course it wasn’t his. Serasha was married, and although she no longer loved Philip, she still shared his bed.

The sheen of Serasha’s eyes brightened. “I’m sorry.”

He kissed her, deep and fierce. “It’ll be okay,” he murmured against her mouth. “I tucked away some salary for the necklace you wanted, but I’ll use it for the baby instead.”

Her face shifted. “Talat⁠—”

“I’ll contact some Etherians. Make sure you’re taken care of.”

“Talat.” She stared at him, umber irises shimmering. “We can’t meet anymore.”

“What? Why?”

Serasha didn’t respond.

An idea seized him, frantic and unformed. “Come away with me.”

“What?”

“Come away with me. Damn Philip, damn the Order. We’ll sail to Aahilar or Tharon. Hells, we could try the Etherian homeland, be the first Nemèans to glimpse their sacred pools.”

For a moment, she looked tempted. Then the spark dimmed. “I can’t. Neither can you.”

She was right. They had obligations to their respective Legions, to the Order. And if he up and left with Serasha, neither Cordè nor Aelus would forgive him. Perhaps Talat had gone mad; how else could he consider abandoning his ward, his brother-in-arms, his life?

Talat considered the woman in his arms—the feelings she’d awoken, how he felt when he was around her, in her—and pressed his forehead to hers. “Serasha.”

He flinched as she pulled free, gutting him with those wide brown eyes. “I have to stay with Philip,” she said. “It’s the right thing to do. I made vows.”

“So did I. And I broke them all for you.”

“I never asked you to do that.”

“You sure as hells didn’t stop me.”

She stiffened. “Please, try to understand⁠—”

“Understand what? How difficult it is to keep a secret?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were shining again, but these weren’t tears of grief. They were tears of frustration. Anger. “This baby is depending on me to keep it safe. I won’t risk that. Not even for you.”

A red veil draped over Talat’s vision. Before he could stop himself, he spat, “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before opening your legs for a line of poetry.”

He didn’t see the slap coming, not until the magic in his eyes pulsed. Bum-bum. Serasha’s hand halted six inches from his face, hovering like a fly stuck in amber. Bum-bum. Two seconds had passed. Bum-bum. Three.

At five, the world would resume.

Bum-bum.

Talat studied Serasha’s frozen features and numbly raised his hand.

Bum-bum.

Reality returned with a sickening rush, accompanied by a fleshy smack as Serasha’s wrist hit Talat’s palm. Her hand quivered, trapped in his grip.

They studied each other in terse, heartbroken silence. His fingers loosened, allowing her to pull back and smooth her skirts. Wipe her glistening cheeks. Cleanse all traces of Talat from her person in a few efficient strokes.

And because he didn’t know what else to do, he watched.

With a dead, listless gaze, he watched Serasha slide that perfect political mask into place and raise her chin: a respectable lady-in-waiting for the Première once more.

“Goodbye, Talat.”

She shut the door behind her, leaving Talat alone in the dark.

Although the Capitis Cor Meum’s roof lacked the compelling grandeur of the interior, it possessed a quiet, solitary tranquility. An ideal place for Talat to clear his head.

The glow from the capitol’s floor-to-ceiling windows cast a golden aura on the grounds below his feet: an immaculately manicured courtyard framed by rose bushes and sky lotuses and thistle poppies. It was a dazzling scene. Picturesque. Romantic.

But thoughts of romance nauseated him, so rather than admiring the greenery, he huddled deeper into the umbra of the nearest gargoyle and picked at his fingernails.

He had perched himself on the roof’s ledge, far enough away that the revelry below seemed an illusory dream. Beyond the capitol dome, the moon’s glare lit up the Mithraeum’s craggy outline.

This is what becomes of those who break their oaths, the mountain seemed to say.

A bubble of rotten laughter stuck in Talat’s throat. Broken oaths were the least of his concerns. Maybe you should’ve thought of that before opening your legs for a line of poetry. Talat shut his eyes. There was no excuse for his behavior, and it served him right to spend his evening stewing in his own misfortune.

A sigh of movement beneath his feet made him start.

He peered over the roof’s edge at the balcony jutting from the wall a few yards below.

Serasha? No, that was absurd. She’d left long before him.

Drawing his legs up and over the ledge, Talat leaned against the stonework and angled closer—close enough to hear the murmurings of a conversation not meant for prying ears.

“What’s so urgent?”

“There’s been a development. They have a weapon.”

Talat’s nails bit into the granite ledge. Weapon? Who? Who had a weapon? And why was that second voice so familiar to him?

“Explain,” the first voice ordered.

“That’s all I was told.”

“So, once again, you’re coming to me with problems rather than solutions. If the Order has a weapon, find out what it is and how they got it.”

Talat frowned. What in the hells was going on? Were these Blade? If so, they were sorely misinformed. The Order didn’t have a weapon. They didn’t need one. Besides, it wasn’t like anything dangerous or dramatic had hap⁠—

His stomach dropped. Oh fuck. Could they be talking about yesterday’s Blinding?

Just then, he heard footsteps at his back.

Shit. In his single-minded desire to avoid being seen, he’d forgotten the most basic rule of Order training.

Always watch your back.

Talat’s hand flew to his dagger as something heavy and corded with muscle—an arm?—looped around his throat, yanking him away from the edge and into the shadows of the hulking gargoyles.

A surge of adrenaline flooded Talat, and the magic in his eyes activated.

Bum-bum.

The world plunged into a standstill, freezing the breeze, the motes of dust, the winking of stars. And the unshakable arm around his neck.

Bum-bum.

Talat couldn’t move. The limb was locked around him like a vise. If it were actively flying toward him, he could do something, but if he was already ensnared….

Bum-bum.

Fuckfuckfuck. He needed to get his dagger. It was his best chance.

Bum-bum.

One second left. Talat strained for his hilt. As soon as time snapped back, he could kick at the gargoyle. Use the momentum to knock his attacker off balance. Seize control. Win.

Bum-bum.

The moment the world returned to normal, Talat lashed out with his leg, aiming for the gargoyle’s chest. But instead of striking rock, he struck air as his torso was wrenched to the side. A hand curled around his skull, just below his chin.

No. He knew that move. Had used it numerous times against Aelus during training.

The pressure intensified, spots of light bursting before his eyes as his air was cut off.

Nonono. Talat launched into a stream of defense tactics. All of them. Every single one he knew. He scratched. He bit. He clawed. He even tried driving his elbow into his attacker’s crotch. It didn’t work. Whoever was choking him had a grip as unbreakable as steel.

Talat gurgled as his attacker shoved him into the crook of their arm and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until the feeling drained from Talat’s limbs.

Gods, he needed to breathe. His lungs were burning, burning like the sun. Hotter.

A jagged wheeze slipped from his lips as his legs were kicked out from beneath him. He fell to his knees, still suffocating, still dying, every part of him shrieking get out get out get out.

Talat tried to rip free, snarling weakly, but his hands were batted away.

Please. His vision flickered and started to fade. Please, not like this.

Something moved on the balcony below, the sound muffled as if he were leagues beneath the sea. A voice rang out: a woman’s voice, cold and hard and lethal.

“Kill him.”

Though Talat was barely cognizant, could barely see beyond muddled glimpses of light and shadow, he felt himself being dragged across the ground. Felt his deadened limbs thump against his sides as he was hefted up.

Then, a miracle occurred. Talat began to fly.

Gods above, he was flying. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he should be going up, not down—that the screaming in his ears was wind, not whoops of joy.

But he wasn’t afraid. How could he be?

He was flying, he was⁠—

SIX

“Happy Illüne’s Day.”

Kiran leaned against Cordè’s knee and kissed her inner thigh, eyes bright with the aftermath of pleasure.

Cordè released a triumphant exhale and sagged further into the leather chaise.

The room they found themselves in (a politician’s private suite, presumably) couldn’t have been better suited for a spontaneous gala romp. The chaise served nicely as makeshift bedding, though Cordè had preferred the plush carpet.

Bracing herself against Cordè’s knees, Kiran stood and gathered their abandoned garments. Cordè admired the view, fingers trailing through the now-ruined hairstyle Ysabelle had so painstakingly designed. In the heat of the moment, Cordè hadn’t paid proper attention to Kiran’s smooth ivory skin, her delicate hands, the tiny gap between her two front teeth.

“—of the Rose?”

“Hmm?” Cordè asked, realizing belatedly that Kiran was talking.

“You said you’re a member of the Rose, right?”

“Couldn’t you tell by my disarming wit and obvious weakness for beautiful things?”

Kiran smirked at the compliment and pulled her black silk outfit up over her body. Perhaps it was Cordè’s imagination, but Kiran seemed to be taking her time, letting the material melt over her limbs and subtle curves like an exquisite oil.

Cordè watched, appreciation burning in her gaze. Kiran might not have been an Emari, but by the gods, she was magnificent.

Once Kiran finished, she held up Cordè’s dress. “Would you like help with this?”

The gown’s complicated laces were no match for Kiran’s skilled fingers. She cinched Cordè into her outfit with masterful efficiency—at about twice the speed Talat had managed the day before. And unlike Talat, she included flitting, flirtatious touches across the sensitive backs of Cordè’s arms.

Cordè felt the final tug of laces and turned to draw Kiran down for a kiss—but was interrupted by a distant scream.

They paused. This was a party, after all; rowdiness was to be expected.

There came another shout, and this time there was no question: it wasn’t revelry they heard, but shock.

Cordè didn’t wait to see if Kiran followed; in a few long strides, she crossed the room, yanked open the door, and scanned the hallway beyond.

Darkness greeted her, empty and still. Tomblike.

“Talat?”

No response.

She was confused by the loudness of her own heartbeat. And although she had no reason to be alarmed, she couldn’t shake the feeling something was very, very wrong.

“Talat?”

The clicking of her heels bounced through the corridor’s granite walls as she returned to the more populated part of the Capitis Cor Meum. The energy was much the same as it’d been earlier, but also…not. A few heads turned toward the first landing, where the sounds of addled confusion began to echo at greater volume.

Still no sign of Talat.

Cordè cast a cursory glance over the other partygoers and, seeing only strangers, pushed her way through the crowd toward the commotion’s source.

Why was her pulse racing?

She hurried down the grand staircase to the main floor where she’d waltzed with Myrra Velta only a few hours before. No one danced anymore, though. Most guests had clustered near the floor-to-ceiling windows, peering out into the night as they talked urgently amongst themselves.

Did you see what happened…

…the courtyard…

…a body…

Cordè wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of those words. This was the Capitis Cor Meum, the very heart of their city. It was Illüne’s Day. Surely the worst thing that would happen tonight was a drunken fistfight or a scandalous tryst.

So why was the word on everyone’s lips the same?

Body.

The inside of Cordè’s head was full of angry hornets, like her skull was a nest that had been kicked. She shuddered, the fine white hairs on her forearms standing at attention. And quite suddenly, the sensation of unfamiliar flesh against hers was unbearable. There were too many people here, and they were stealing all the air from the room.

Where was Talat?

The ground was moving, everything was moving, too slow yet too fast for her to keep up. Cordè pushed past fellow partygoers, following the crowd’s flow out into the garden and around the back of the capitol.

“Talat!” The name burst from her lips as she lost her footing and slammed onto the floor. Someone’s heel trampled her hand, and she cried out, drawing the attention of a stranger who helped her off the ground. Part of her knew she should thank them, but instead all she did was shout, “Talat!”

Where was he? He always found her, always kept her within view. She called for him again, struggling to raise her voice above a breathy yell as she searched and searched and searched, needing just the sight of his crooked grin, something.

Nothing. No wild curls, no hand on her shoulder, no comforting words in her ear.

Panic set in, crawling up her legs, coiling around her belly, writhing like a thousand little claws beneath her flesh.

Then Cordè saw Linnaea, saw the back of her beautiful dress and thought perhaps she’d called out Linnaea’s name instead, because Cordè watched her mistress turn and pin her with an expression she’d never seen before.

“Get an Eye over here!” someone yelled.

Linnaea ran to her—though Linnaea never ran, she only ever walked at her own elegant pace—and pulled her in for a forceful embrace. “Don’t look, child, don’t look.”

But of course, Cordè looked.

At first what she saw confused her more than anything, like there was something inherently wrong with it.

They’d been saying it was a body, but what she glimpsed between guests looked more like a sack of foodstuffs dressed in clothing. It was lumpy and strangely-angled with limbs splayed out from its resting place.

Cordè’s eyes followed, seeing but not seeing, the inky liquid seeping along the cobblestone path. Black, she thought, or maybe it was a trick of the moonlight.

She studied the figure itself, wondering why it seemed…familiar…?

A springtide breeze caught a wisp of dark curls, tossing them across the face.

“No.”

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

She looked at the curls again.

Really looked at them.

She heard another shriek, cutting and disjointed and much closer this time, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew it had come from her own lungs.

Linnaea’s arms wrapped tighter around her, but Cordè only knew that because she was trying to pull away. She couldn’t actually feel Linnaea; she couldn’t actually feel anything.

With a final wrench, she yanked herself from Linnaea’s grasp, clamored to her unsteady feet—why was she on the ground? When had she collapsed?—and staggered closer to the semicircle of people crowding the pavement.

Stop it, she wanted to say. Not to the onlookers, but to him.

Stop playing around, I want to go home.

On some level, she was aware of people turning in her direction, peering down at her (had she fallen again?) with confusion, or maybe pity.

Someone crouched beside her. Cordè looked up, expecting Linnaea.

“Oh, child,” Myrra Velta said, cupping Cordè’s cheek with unexpected tenderness. The touch was warm, but also cold.

Cordè’s focus flitted between those blue-gray eyes. “But he’s….” The syllables tangled together on her tongue.

“Hush now. Breathe. Just breathe.”

Cordè did as she was told. She breathed, the scent of honeysuckle seeping into her senses as Myrra brushed her hairline in languid, sweeping strokes.

With effort, Cordè pulled her attention from Myrra and gazed at the mess of flesh and blood and clothes.

The body had a face; she knew because it was staring at her, staring at her despite the disjointed angle of its neck. It stared at her with blank, blank eyes that didn’t blink when a curl touched their glassy surface.

She knew those eyes. She knew them.

The eyes of her Eye.

With a hitching breath, Cordè fell to all fours and began to scream.

SEVEN

Grief was colder than Aelus expected.

He’d grieved before, when his mother died, but this was different. The news about Talat left Aelus numb, numb enough he didn’t feel his nails slicing his palms until blood dripped onto his bed. He winced, not because of the sting, but because he’d need to wash his sheets later.

Watcher’s Tears, what was wrong with him? Talat was dead, and Aelus was obsessing over little things. Not just little things, but stupid things like cleaning bed sheets.

His throat constricted. He needed to pray. Needed to focus.

Tying a makeshift bandage around his leaking palms, Aelus retrieved his bowl of water, a black rag, a pouch of dried gardenia petals, and a vial of cypress oil. After arranging them carefully atop his prayer rug, he settled into the cramped yet familiar position of penitence and began the purus rituilas.

First, he dipped the clean rag in the water and scrubbed his hands raw three times, once for each oath. “I cleanse my hands of sinful deeds.” Next, he dumped a cupful of the snowy petals into the bowl and touched his damp fingers to his mouth. “I cleanse my lips of unholy expressions.” Finally, he dabbed the cypress extract on his forehead. “I cleanse my thoughts of base desires. Watcher be my⁠—”

Commotion in the hall: footsteps, heavy and powerful and moving with haste.

Fearful if he stood the Seers would assume he hadn’t spent the proper time reflecting, Aelus remained kneeling with his back to the entrance. The door opened, and a single set of footsteps approached.

Aelus stiffened. He knew that particular gait.

Cotton rustled as Nevander drew back his hood. “By His Gaze.”

“May We See.”

“Rise.”

Aelus obeyed, bones squeaking in protest, and turned to look at his father.

As always, Nevander’s salt-and-pepper hair and beard were combed to perfection. Every rugged slope and ridge of his countenance bespoke “authority,” but beneath the hardness were features identical to Aelus’s. Except for the eyes and hair, of course. Those Aelus had stolen from his mother, and Nevander had never forgiven him for it.

“How go your ablutions?” Nevander asked.

“I feel….” Not cleansed. Renewed? “Resolute.”

“Mm.”

Aelus shifted—nervous, confused—as Nevander circled him, fingers clasped at the base of his spine. “There has been much deliberation about you, Aelus Mireau. Some Seers believe your failed Blinding is further proof of the Legions’ impiety. Others feel it is a punishment for your unusual circumstances.”

“And you?” Aelus couldn’t help but ask. “What do you think?”

A muscle ticked in Nevander’s stone jaw, and he brushed a thumb over his golden necklace as he continued. “Chief Archivist Imalu insists your loyalty to the Order is second to none. But you’re an anomaly, and anomalies can be dangerous. Therefore, we’ve arranged a task for you. A chance to prove yourself.”

“Name it.”

“The Triumvirate ruled Talat Jonquil’s death a suicide. We believe they’ve been misled.”

“Misled?”

Nevander paused. “We think Talat was murdered.”

Murdered. The word rang in Aelus’s skull like a host of the Mithraeum’s bells. It didn’t seem possible. Talat was—had been—an Eye. A well-trained, clever, efficient Eye. He couldn’t have been murdered. It didn’t make sense.

Then again, neither did suicide.

“Who killed him?” Aelus asked after a beat.

“We are unsure. We’ve heard reports of Blade aggression toward a Faithful on the night in question. And we know their Head, Medôn Guitelet, was unaccounted for at the time of Talat’s passing.” Nevander’s expression darkened. “If the Blade has escalated from harassment to violence, war could be inevitable. We must be vigilant.”

Vigilant, like in the Prayer of Observance. May the Eyes of Reneir be ever watchful, ever vigilant….

“What must I do?” Aelus rasped.

“Lady Linnaea Nivae has requested a replacement, so a replacement she shall have. You will assume Talat’s role in her house. Follow Lady Nivae’s commands, protect your ward, but use your training to uncover the truth.” Nevander fixed Aelus with a soul-deep stare. “Be warned: the Blade will not give up any information willingly.”

An ominous tingle skittered down Aelus’s neck like a handful of ants. “I understand.”

“Report back in a week’s time. Until then, the Mithraeum is at your disposal. Take what you need, pack, prepare. You’re expected at Lady Nivae’s estate at high noon.”

High noon was in five hours. Five hours for Aelus to say his goodbyes, strengthen his resolve, and navigate the sprawling expanse of Dusera’s capital city. Seemed reasonable. If he hurried, he might make it to the Rose in under three, assuming he could take Daphne.

Aelus opened his mouth, the question leaping to his tongue, when Nevander said, “Remember the oaths you’ve taken. May they help guide your journey, Eye of Reneir.”

Eye. Eye? Watcher’s Tears, did that mean⁠—?

“We’re entrusting this responsibility to you, Aelus,” Nevander said. “Do not fail us.”

Aelus shook his head, near speechless. “I won’t. I swear it.”

With a parting bow, Nevander put his hand on the doorknob.

“Wait, Seer?” Aelus hesitated. “Can I take Daphne with me? Please?”

Something glimmered in Nevander’s coal-black eyes. And for a second, Aelus saw a shadow of the man he’d once lovingly called “father.” The one who’d taught Aelus how to string a fishing reel, not the man who’d abandoned his family. Not the man who’d neglected to visit Aelus’s ailing mother instead sending Imalu and an Etherian healer in his place.

Not the man who hadn’t even returned to bury the mother of his child.

The softness vanished, but the memories did not.

Nevander sent him a stiff nod. “Daphne was given to you. Do with her what you will.” He flicked his cowl over his head, darkness blanketing his features, leaving only a pair of disapproving lips and a stiff chin.

“By His Gaze.”

One hour and twenty-two minutes later, Aelus had his armor and surcoat on, Talat’s sword attached to his hip, hair tied in a half-knot, his meager belongings neatly tucked into his satchel and was en route to the stables.

Various acolytes stopped to give condolences. Even the Scholars sought him out, catching him off guard with their unexpected sympathies. Their fingers dug into Aelus’s skin, clinging to him like bruises. They were marks of grief, but also hope, hope he would succeed. And gods, the weight of it all, the pressure, threatened to send him to his knees.

A high-pitched whinny emanated from the farthest stall, and his lips slanted upward.

Bits of icy numbness thawed as he entered Daphne’s pen, the earthy scent of leather soothing and strong. He patted Daphne’s neck. “Hey, girl. Sorry I haven’t been in sooner.”

She nipped his beard.

“Ow!” Aelus rubbed his chin. “You know the rules: no biting.” Daphne shoved her nose against a pouch on his belt, nearly knocking him against the wall. “All right, all right.” He withdrew a few crumbling sugar cubes from the pouch. “Here you go.”

Daphne dove in with a happy neigh, and he chuckled. “Good girl.”

Almost by force of habit, he plopped his satchel by the stall door, grabbed a brush off the barrel, and began cleaning her deep russet coat. In his earlier days as a Faithful, he’d spent hours brushing her while recounting his ruminations and tribulations. Perhaps that was why it came as no surprise, to him or to Daphne, when he slipped into that same pattern now.

In a low, rumbling whisper, he told Daphne about the past three days: the Blinding, his conversation with Talat, the following days in isolation, receiving news of Talat’s death, and, lastly, his assignment.

Loosening a jagged exhale, Aelus set the brush aside. “I don’t know if I can do this, Daph. Find Talat’s murderer. Investigate the Blade. I’m an anomaly, a Faithful who failed his Blinding. How am I supposed to—?” The world blurred as tears pricked his eyes. Desperate, he clutched Daphne’s mane to steady his choked breathing, but it didn’t work. The pricking in his eyes became a fierce burn. And when Daphne nuzzled him, he buried his face in her coat and cried.

Emotion poured out of him in a torrential flood, drowning him in loneliness—just like the day his mother died. Except now it was Talat who was gone, murdered, remains cremated and catacombed beneath the Great Hall, leaving Aelus without a grave to remember him by.

“Aelus?” Imalu’s soft storyteller voice echoed down the hall.

“In here.” Aelus hurriedly wiped his cheeks and pretended to fiddle with equipment as Imalu pushed open the sablewood door, leather bag in hand.

“How’s our girl?” Imalu asked, patting Daphne’s flanks while she sniffed his light dusting of snow-white hair.

“Hungry, as always.”

“I see.” Reaching into one of his many pockets, Imalu withdrew a nice juicy apple. Daphne snapped it up, and Imalu let loose a silver peal of laughter. But Aelus had known Imalu for over a decade, and he could tell when the Scholar’s cheer was false.

“Come.” Imalu motioned at Aelus. “Let me look at you.”

Flushing slightly, Aelus obeyed, rotating so Imalu could smooth his black surcoat and adjust the chainmail underneath. Imalu’s brows jumped as he noticed the steel sword—Talat’s sword—at Aelus’s waist.

“I didn’t know we’d commissioned a weapon for you,” he said.

“Talat gave it to me the day of my Blinding.” Confusion danced across Imalu’s dark, leathery features, and Aelus explained, “He, uh, broke into our room.”

“Ah, yes. That makes…perfect sense.” Some of Imalu’s congeniality dimmed. Then he shook himself. “I brought you some things,” he said, opening his bag. “Peppercorn jerky and ginger-cardamom panè, plus a map of the city.”

Chest tightening, Aelus tucked the items into his saddlebag. “Thank you.”

The telltale sheen of tears in Imalu’s gaze grew brighter, and he kissed Aelus’s brow, right atop the dry cypress oil. “Have care, my son. Remember your training. Be watchful. Be⁠—”

“Vigilant,” Aelus finished with a sad smile. “I will. I promise.”

I promise.

The heavy silence afterward left little room for words, so Aelus and Imalu opted for the familiar. Working together, they prepped Daphne for the trip: securing her bridle, checking the straps. Once everything was in place, Aelus led her into the courtyard.

He paused, savoring the floral springtide air as he gazed up at the endless blue skies. A breeze started, lifting strands of his ginger hair and tossing them like maypole ribbons.

Daphne quivered, tail swishing with excitement as Aelus hoisted himself onto her back, saddle groaning beneath his weight. He glanced over his shoulder to see Imalu raise a hand, lips moving in silent blessing. The sun’s reflection gave Imalu’s golden robes an almost painfully bright glow. Above him flew the Order’s symbol, the weeping eye. It stared at Aelus, watching, waiting. Eager to see if he would fail or succeed.

Aelus cracked the reins.

To Val’dora.

EIGHT

When Aelus and Talat had been acolytes, they’d entertained themselves by clamoring up the Mithreaum’s god-trees and pretending to cup distant Val’dora in their palms. It’d been a game back then, to see who could cradle the most buildings. A game Aelus had always won, thanks to his mammoth-sized hands.

Well, he couldn’t cup Val’dora in his palms now. The walls alone put the vastness of the Great Hall to shame, reminding him that while the Mithraeum housed thousands of Faithful, Val’dora was home to almost a million citizens. Just a fraction of the city’s occupants would make the mountain burst at the seams.

Watcher’s Tears. Two hours might not be enough time to find the Nivae manor. And if Aelus was late for his first assignment, he could very well be sent right back up the mountain.

Patting Daphne’s sweat-covered shoulder, he urged her forward.

Val’dora’s northern entrance bustled with mercànts, travelers, and Legion members. Five flags framed the curved aperture: a fiery longsword representing the Blade, three androgynous faces for the Triumvirate, a decorative coinhead for the Première, a thorn-covered flower for the Rose, and a gear and sickle for the Artificers.

Stationed below the flags stood a series of heroic-looking figures carved into seventy-foot stone walls: the godsforged, ancient warriors said to have wielded the power of the gods.

Aelus shifted, discomfited. Supposedly the godsforged had ceased to exist after the gods’ disappearance; no more gods, no more godlike powers. Still, there were portions of the populace who sought signs that a godsforged had been born, claiming such an event would herald the return of all four gods and the dawn of a new age in Nemè.

Heresy. Unsubstantiated hearsay.

Only the Faithful had been blessed by Reneir. There was no need for him to seek someone else, meaning all talk of a returning godsforged was a Legion-concocted conspiracy: the very thing the Order was trying to eradicate before the bloodrot consumed them.

Straightening in his saddle, Aelus guided Daphne toward the gates. Four squads of heavily-armed Blade manned the entrance, their bodies like pencils compared to the statues’ bulk. Aelus was unsurprised to see their caped figures. The Blade had built the city’s defenses centuries ago and, in the years since, had refused to let anyone interfere with their duty to “guard and protect.”

Aelus stiffened as the sentries honed in on his sigil, their expressions haughty and accusatory: exactly the attitude he expected to see from the Blade.

Vigilance, Aelus. Any one of them could be the killer.

Giving the Blade what he hoped was a casual nod, he entered Val’dora proper.

Dirt roads gave way to cobblestone streets, and Dusera’s vast, rolling hills condensed into cramped buildings of sandstone and cob and wood. Midnight blue banners greeted him, accompanied by the sounds of rowdy laughter and metalworking.

The Blade district. Not exactly Aelus’s ideal entry point.

Hand high to block the overhead sun, he guided Daphne south while attempting to blend into the sea of bodies. To his chagrin, he was quite simply too large to go unnoticed.

Be it luck or the Watcher’s grace, the Blade let Aelus travel through the district with naught but scowls and, on one occasion, a meaningful glance at an imposing structure at the center of the district. The Citadel: the Blade’s cheap copy of the Mithraeum, distinguishable by its massive bastions and spindly, spiked turrets.

The blue banners and smoky air lessened once Aelus crossed a sizable stone bridge to the neighboring district: the Triumvirate. Everything was sterile and white, like visiting a mausoleum, and the pedestrians were eerily quiet. It was as if, in marking this the center of law and justice, travelers had to maintain a rigid sense of decorum. Even the statues—whose faces held the likeness of Khastus, the Nemèan deity of curiosity and insight—made Aelus acutely conscious of the grime sticking to his skin.

Eager to leave the district and its unnatural cleanliness behind, Aelus nudged Daphne down a well-worn street packed with schools and skimmed his map. Val’dora resembled a warped lily pad, circular in nature, with the western flank built along a rocky ridge and the eastern flank cradling the Dredaire River.

Frowning, he tried to retrace his path. On paper, it was fairly straightforward: the division between districts was obvious, and the streets favored a grid pattern, making directions easy. What the map did not account for, however, was the height and density of the surrounding architecture, the dizzying glare of sunlight, and the overwhelmingly new sensation of navigating a place Aelus had only ever seen from afar.

He needed to regain his bearings. Find a central location, like the marketplace. He craned his head, trying to peer around the Triumvirate’s imposing buildings. But all he could see was white and marble and⁠—

There, through the thinnest of gaps, he spied a gleaming golden dome perched atop a hill.

Illüne’s temple, one of many scattered across the realm. Designed by architects of the Order centuries ago, the temples were meant to be the first point touched by dawn’s light; as such, they were always located at the easternmost point of a city.

By that logic, if he aimed due east for the temple, they would hit the city’s center in about a mile or so. Easy enough.

A couple accidental wrong turns and several belligerent whinnies later, he and Daphne were spat out into a massive arena full of vendors and color.

Unlike the previous two districts, the marketplace was airy and spacious, a perfect circle cut into the heart of Val’dora. Here, the architectural styles separating the districts were on full display: roughly hewn sandstone for the Blade, marble for the Triumvirate, purple flourishes for the Première, red bricks for the Rose, and, lastly, elaborate copperwork for the Artificers.

To his right was the Capitis Cor Meum, a creative marvel made to host the Legions’ various galas and summits.

Aelus shivered. He didn’t want anything to do with that place. Talat had died there.

“Watch it!” a mercànt shouted, arms full of hot glazed buns. Both Aelus and Daphne inhaled greedily, savoring the aroma of fresh bread mixed with cinnamon, cloves, and icing.

Later, Aelus reprimanded himself. There’d be time to indulge later.

Since the marketplace wasn’t claimed by any one Legion, it was full of bits and pieces of each: twisted metal trinkets built by young Artificers, squawking peacocks to lure tourists to the Première’s exotic zoos, even honey-and-myrrh perfume from across the Ember Ocean. Valdorans hungered for it all, as demonstrated by the wealthier shoppers who haggled for things like sundials and furs while their Eyes stood guard.

A jingle of bells, higher-pitched and much more uneven than the ones in the Mithraeum, pulled Aelus’s attention to the spread of red brick buildings on his left.

Several Scholars stood guard by the wisteria-curtained entrance to the Rose. Black ensembles splotchy with red dust, two of them passed out flyers while the third, a fresh-faced lad too lanky for his robe, rang his hand chimes with gusto. “Renounce your impure ways—return to the Watcher’s gaze!” he called over the market’s humdrum.

The Scholars hailed Aelus as he approached on Daphne. “Careful, brother,” one warned, dark eyes aglitter. “Heathenism abounds in the Rose.”

Aelus nodded, steeled himself, and pushed through the curls of aromatic greenery.

Past the wisteria lay a lush and vibrant paradise. Stained-glass windows dotted the buildings like kaleidoscopic eyes, coloring everything a pleasant shade of apricot. Music and laughter floated on the fragrance-heavy breeze. Couples in delicate springtide fabrics giggled beneath parasols and lounged on balconies shrouded in sweet-smelling ivy.

Aelus exhaled. It reminded him of faerie tales from childhood, of pleasant dreams and forgotten songs. No, he realized with a thrum of heaviness. It reminded him of his mother.

Slowing Daphne to a languid walk, Aelus tore his gaze from his surroundings and consulted his map. The Nivae manor was on Lavender Lane, a main artery populated with taverns and enclosed gardens. Easy to locate on paper. In reality, it was a nightmare.

Between navigating the ivy-covered signposts and skirting the boisterous late-morning crowd, spotting a wattle-and-daub manor amidst countless other wattle-and-daub manors seemed nigh impossible. By the time they found the proper house, an hour had elapsed. And Aelus, who’d become hopelessly distracted by the district’s charm, almost missed the engraved Nivae Estate plaque affixed to a wrought iron gate.

“Finally,” he breathed. “Now, let’s get you fixed up in the stables.”

Daphne tiredly tossed her head as Aelus hopped down and led her to the adjacent building. Inside he found a congested space occupied by hay, tools, a gilded carriage, and two beautiful black stallions.

Aelus scratched Daphne’s ears. “Look, Daph. Friends.”

She chuffed, unconvinced, and Aelus grinned.

“Can I help you?”

A woman emerged from behind the haystacks, huge and lumbering with broad, strapping muscles and hands that looked like they could crush rock. She scanned him with murky blue eyes, thin lips fixed in a glower.

Aelus bowed. “Good afternoon. Are you Lady Nivae?”

Wordlessly, she gestured to her filthy attire. He flushed. Of course she wasn’t. Why would the lady of the manor be in the stables, wiping her hands on a rag?

Focus, Aelus. “What should I call you?”

“Ro.” Her eyes flicked to Daphne. “That a langeschkira?”

He nodded. Daphne was indeed a langeschkira, a Ravethinian breed known for its strength and endurance. Aelus’s mother, an accomplished traveler and botanist, had always been fascinated by Ravethin and its assortment of hardy beasts. As had Aelus, though his fascination had stemmed from hers.

Ro grunted in response, finger-brushing her chin-length hair behind her ears and running her palms down Daphne’s flanks.

“Careful picking up her leg,” Aelus said. “Her ankles are sensi⁠—”

With gruff, almost callous efficiency, Ro lifted Daphne’s heel and poked at the soft flesh of Daphne’s hoof.

Aelus darted to intervene. “Perhaps I should take over?”

Ro paused, Daphne’s foreleg planted against her thighs, and met Aelus’s affronted gaze. A lock of wheat-colored hair clung to her sweaty cheek. “Excuse me?”

“Daphne is more comfortable when things are done a certain way.”

“Is she now?”

Aelus’s nostrils flared. “Yes.”

“Well, is Daphne also more comfortable when there’s a piece of brick in her shoe?”

He glanced down. Sure enough, something sandy and pink and sharp was jammed beneath the hard steel.

Ro’s brow quirked. “Anything else you’d like to ask?”

Oh, he had plenty of things he wanted to ask. Like why Ro moved with the efficiency of a trained soldier, and why her eyes kept drifting toward Nightbane with scarce-concealed interest. Instead he shook his head. Then, after handing over an extensive list of Daphne’s needs, he gave Daphne a pat goodbye and headed for the manor an hour ahead of schedule.

As he left, however, Ro piped up. “Take the rear entrance. Farren isn’t back yet.”

“Farren?”

“The house steward. Thin, white hair, dressed like an usher. They operate the gate.”

Aelus nodded in thanks and, following Ro’s unexpected guidance, circled the house until he stumbled upon the manor’s private garden: a pared-down version of the ones scattered throughout the district, rife with so many plants he’d need a month to learn them all.

No, half a month. He already knew most flowers, thanks to his mother.

Focus. He trailed the garden’s brick path to the back door and, finding it unlocked, frowned and entered the kitchen. Silence greeted him, making his frown deepen. If there were unlocked entrances, someone needed to be standing guard. Not doing so was risky. Unsafe.

Making a mental note to inform Lady Nivae of the concern, Aelus explored the kitchen, marking safety hazards as he went. It was a comfortable space filled with barrels of food, dried herbs and spices, and a large unlit fireplace. Two doors in and out. One transom window facing west, which was good—easy to spot an intruder in the garden.

Aelus took the second door into a narrow hall. Decent area, defendable.

He moved further in and blinked against a sudden influx of light and ferns and hickory smoke. Scanning the area for the source of smoke (fire hazard), Aelus noted the ornate furnishings: leather couches (a possible barricade), a wall of peach-tinted windows, an oval table made of polished jade, an assortment of decorative glass bottles (good for throwing or creating a distraction). To the north was another hallway, and to his left was a stout mahogany door decorated with carvings depicting a masked woman flanked by two panthers.

Curious, Aelus stepped closer. The carvings looked foreign. Ravethinian, maybe?

A crisp voice emanated from behind the door. “Perhaps you’d like to come in instead of bumbling about like a drunken bull?”

Embarrassment warmed his cheeks. Clearing his throat, he nudged open the door and stepped inside. The retort had originated from a fragile-looking woman seated behind a wide desk featuring a crystal paperweight, a single white lily, and an impressive array of quill pens. She wore a high-collared olive dress and was bent over a clutch of papers stamped with various seals.

Aelus sank into a deep bow. “Lady Linnaea Nivae, I presume?”

He expected her to greet him, or at least acknowledge his presence, but she did neither. And so, rather than stand around awkwardly, he did as he’d been taught. He observed.

The study was small and dark, a burgundy womb nestled deep into the estate’s core. At Linnaea’s back rested a cellaret filled with bottles of what Aelus assumed to be wine. Along the wall to his left was the sole source of the room’s lighting: a glass block window overlooking the gardens. To his right, shelves bulged with books about Nemèan history, religion, military strategy—books he’d expect to see in Imalu’s library, not here in the heart of the Rose.

Yet, despite the ornamentation, nothing of Linnaea’s personality existed within the room. It seemed to resemble a stage more than an office, as if she kept specific set pieces squirreled away, ready to be used depending on which character she played.

“Finished snooping?” Linnaea asked.

Aelus straightened. “Forgive me for not announcing myself upon entry, my lady. I’m⁠—”

“Aelus Mireau, son of Seer Nevander Bonnaire and Miss Elaina Mireau. Yes, I know very well who you are. But why you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re a twenty-six-year-old Faithful, a bastard son of a Seer and, by all accounts, still an acolyte. So, why would the Order send you?”

Caution clutched Aelus’s gut. He didn’t trust Linnaea, didn’t trust anyone outside of the Order. And though Nevander hadn’t expressly forbade Aelus from mentioning his mandate to his new employer, he assumed his father wanted him to be discreet.

“I don’t know,” Aelus lied.

Linnaea’s lips quirked. “Young man, if you’re going to try and deceive me, you’d do well to hide your blush.”

Aelus’s flush deepened. This was not going as planned.

Shuffling papers aside, Linnaea braced both elbows on her desk and leaned forward, eyes glittering like pebbles. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? Your job is to protect my girl, Cordè. She’ll visit her clients, and you’ll ensure she remains unharmed. Any decisions and questions go through me. Are we understood?”

“Yes, my lady. Though, what exactly is my ward’s occupation?”

“She’s a courtesan.”

The word did not ring a bell, though Linnaea’s nonchalant tone seemed to indicate “courtesan” was an everyday job, like a mail carrier or a garden trimmer. However, the only like-term Aelus could think of was courtier. “So, I’m to accompany her as she…attends people?”

“Yes,” Linnaea said. “A word of warning, however”—Aelus sucked in a breath—“Cordè will hate you. She doesn’t like being confined or told ‘no,’ and she lacks the maturity to understand it’s for her own good.”

“I’ll keep her safe,” he vowed.

“See that you do.” Linnaea adjusted her half-moon spectacles. “Have care, Aelus. Rarely will you encounter a Valdoran who is upfront about their intentions.”

“Like your stablehand?”

A curtain of genuine surprise washed over her features. With slow, deliberative movements, she steepled her fingers beneath her diamond-cut chin—a new character falling into place. “You’re nothing like Talat, are you, Aelus Mireau?”

Aelus did not appreciate the naked curiosity in her owl-like gaze, nor the pointed manner in which she’d said Talat’s name.

Linnaea’s attention flickered over him again, lingering on his eyes. Then she relaxed into her high-backed chair. “Go upstairs and follow the landing to your right. Cordè’s loft is at the top of the spiral stairs. The room at the base of the steps is yours. Settle in. We’ll discuss further details tonight.” Not a wisp of hair escaped its elaborate nest as she bent to resume writing. “Ysabelle will be waiting outside.”

Aelus bowed, this one a touch stiffer than his first, and departed.

True to Linnaea’s word, on the other side of the door stood a tawny-haired young woman clutching a crystal water pitcher. Her large doe eyes widened when he bowed.

“Miss Ysabelle?”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Aelus held up his palms, thinking he’d frightened the poor girl. “Forgive me. I was told someone named Ysa⁠—”

“Yes, that’s me,” she said in a rush. A blush bloomed on her cheeks, and she raised her ruby skirts in a curtsy, unpainted lashes aflutter. “Follow me, my lord.”

He thanked her, and she rewarded him with a dimpled smile before ushering him upstairs.

Like the rest of the manor, the journey to his ward’s chambers was fraught with windows and plants. He counted them (six windows, thirty-three plants) and kept careful track of all exits until Ysabelle paused by a door at the end of the hall. His door, if he recalled correctly. But as she opened it, he stopped her. “I’d like to present myself to my ward first, if that’s all right?”

“Certainly, my lord.” A line of worry creased Ysabelle’s otherwise smooth forehead. “She might be a bit out-of-sorts.”

“Were she and Talat close?”

“Very.”

Aelus frowned. Talat had made it seem like their relationship was strictly professional. Ysabelle’s expression said otherwise.

“My ward’s name is Cordè, right?” Aelus asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Is that Ravethinian?”

“My lord has a keen ear. Yes, Cordè hails from Ravethin. Lady Nivae rescued her from the colonies, on account of what was going on with the elves.” Ysabelle started up the circular staircase to the top floor. “Lady Nivae cares deeply for the plight of elves and supports them when she can. Our steward, Farren, is half-elf.”

Aelus couldn’t recall having met an elf before, or a half-elf. His childhood village had been small and isolated, and the Order would never allow an elf to step foot on the Mithraeum’s soil, let alone join their ranks.

“I look forward to meeting Farren. And everyone else.”

Ysabelle’s smile widened. “This is a small estate, my lord. It’s just me, Farren, Ro, and Haniel.”

“Haniel?”

“The cook, my lord. He’s abrasive…but also obsessed with cats.”

Despite himself, Aelus chuckled. “Noted.”

They arrived at the top of the stairs. “In here,” she said, gesturing with the water pitcher. He reached for the knob, but she raised a diminutive palm for him to stay. “Cordè?” Ysabelle opened the door with a gentle push. “Linnaea asked me to⁠—”

“Set it by the bed and leave.”

Feeling like an invasive weed, Aelus fidgeted with his sword as Ysabelle tiptoed inside. She reappeared a moment later, empty-handed.

“Good luck,” she murmured, holding the door ajar.

Uncertainty gripped him, and he debated abandoning this impromptu meeting. But he was an Eye. Cordè was his ward. It was time to put aside his grief, his comfort, and do what he’d been trained to do.

Wiping his chapped, dirt-stained hands on his trousers, Aelus stepped into the room.

Cordè’s bedchamber was a wreck. Wrinkled outfits hung over every piece of furniture. Dead plants wilted in clay vases, their decaying scent musky and prominent, and dangling pieces of glass sent prisms of color across the bed’s tangled sheets.

Something thumped against the carpeted floor beyond the gauzy drapes. Cautiously, he followed the sound to its source.

There, surrounded by empty bottles and nursing a cup of wine, was a young woman. An elf, as demonstrated by her pointed ear tips, each about the length of Aelus’s thumb. She lounged barefoot on a sundrenched chaise, a pair of houseshoes—the source of the thumps, he guessed—lay abandoned at its base. Warm rays highlighted her golden curls and vivid, honeyed eyes, and her lips arched into a natural pout, complimenting her upturned nose.

They were sharp features, sharp yet soft and distinctly not human, for he’d never seen a human face that was so…so….

“I take it you’re my new Eye?”

Her gaze flitted over him in a quick, analytical sweep as she sipped her wine. A few scarlet drops fell onto her robe—her very short, very sheer robe, he couldn’t help but notice.

Aelus swallowed and inclined his head.

“Fine,” she said. “You can leave now.”

He fidgeted but did not retreat. “I wanted to introduce myself.”

A long sigh followed a rustle of hair. “All right. What’s your name?”

“Aelus.” He searched Cordè’s countenance for a glimmer of recognition, of proof Talat had spoken of him like he’d spoken about Cordè.

Nothing.

“Aelus.” Cordè drew out his name like uncooked dough. “Wonderful. We’ve met.” She lifted her glass in a mock salute. “Goodbye.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but I hoped we could discuss security. The Order⁠—”

“Fuck your Order.”

“E-excuse me?”

“I said, fuck your Order. And fuck Reneir, too.” At his aghast expression, her smirk broadened. “What? Hasn’t anyone ever talked to you like that before?”

“No.”

Cordè snorted. “Then you’re in for quite an education, Eye.” She swung her legs over the side of her chaise, feet bouncing like a pair of cat’s paws. “You’re not a drinker, are you?”

“No.”

“Do you waltz?”

“No.”

“And gods know you don’t fuck.”

Aelus’s nostrils flared, and Cordè drained her cup, eyes dancing with satisfaction as the obnoxious sound of her lips sucking in wine filled the space between them.

“Well, aren’t you just a stunning conversationalist?” she said, abandoning her goblet on a nearby table. Her silk robe shifted to expose a sliver of warm rosy-beige skin below her collarbone. “Do you always hulk and stare and respond to intelligent questions with one-word answers?”

Aelus refused to be baited. But he also didn’t hide the bite in his voice as he said, “I swore oaths to protect you, and I do not take that lightly. You and I are bound.”

“Bound?” With a toss of her hair, Cordè stood and approached, not stopping until she was an arm’s width away. “Listen. Linnaea may have fed you pretty lines about duty and safety, but the fact of the matter is this: I go where I want, when I want. The sooner you understand that, the better off we’ll be.” She arched a thick brow. “Got any more one-word answers, Aelus? Or are we clear?”

He glanced toward the door again, the temptation to leave an ever-present heartbeat. But then a stern voice resonated in his head. Remember why you’re here.

Aelus straightened, pulled forth the last dregs of his willpower, and closed the gap between them. “The Scholars say Reneir challenges us after we are chosen: challenges our devotion, our strength of mind and fortitude of spirit.” His voice dropped, pitching so low his chest rumbled. “Where you go, I follow. Rain, snow, over mountains and seas⁠—”

“Tertia’s tits, I liked you better when you didn’t speak.” Her honey irises blazed like hot metal as she crossed her arms and glared in silent challenge.

Aelus did the same, lowering his chin to meet her shorter, fierier scowl.

Ten seconds passed.

Twenty.

A bird chirped, oblivious to their battle of wills.

Ten more seconds passed.

She broke, cursing at him under her breath as she stomped back to her chaise. Aelus hid a smile, believing he’d won, until she began fumbling with the silk sash around her waist.

His nostrils flared in panic. “Cor—my lady.”

“What? Are you planning on helping me dress as well?”

Her shoulder was completely bared, smooth skin glowing in the sunlight.

Aelus’s throat went dry.

“Well?” Cordè asked, fingers twitching in poignant meaning.

Her threat snapped him from his stupor. With a frustrated grunt, Aelus bowed, muttered “By His Gaze” through gritted teeth, and marched for the exit. As his fingers brushed the knob, however, Cordè pushed in front.

“Ysa!”

Ysabelle, who’d been standing directly on the other side of the door, blushed and jumped backward. She peeked at Aelus, eyes softening in silent apology, then looked at Cordè. “Yes?”

“I need you. Now.”

Cordè smacked Aelus with the curve of her hip and gestured to the end of the hall. “There’s your damn post. Now, go away.”

Aelus acquiesced. Slowly.

Shooting him the single most hateful look he’d ever seen, Cordè yanked Ysabelle into the bedchamber and slammed the door in his face.

NINE

“He’s very… large,” Ysabelle whispered.

“Large?” Cordè didn’t bother keeping her voice down. “He’s a fucking bear.”

The new Eye had been at the manor for three days, three days, and already his proximity galled Cordè. As if sensing her ire, the hulking shadow beneath the gap of her bedroom door shifted, making the floor’s wooden planks creak.

Scowling, Cordè aggressively brushed out her hair. “Q’ilyce help me if I ever need to move through a crowd unnoticed.”

Ysabelle said nothing, which meant she objected to Cordè’s attitude but didn’t want to say so aloud. Her handmaid’s immediate approval of the new Eye surprised Cordè; Ysa had adored Talat, so the swift change in loyalties felt like a betrayal.

With a huff of frustration, Cordè tossed the brush on her vanity. “Hand me that pin. No, the other one.” Ysabelle parsed through the glittering baubles for the one made of pearls and affixed it to Cordè’s hair.

“What do you think?” Cordè tilted her head to highlight her best angle.

“Very pretty, my lady.”

Cordè’s scowl lessened. She found quiet moments like this helpful, as the past week had been blanketed with a strange sort of grayness—a grayness that hadn’t been lifted by sleeping, or having Ysabelle comb her hair, or drinking to excess.

In her careless need for self-medication, Cordè even considered soliciting a stranger, or worse, a client. Linnaea expressly forbade Cordè from seeing any patrons outside contractual obligations (something about not wanting them to “sample the goods for free”). But that hadn’t stopped Cordè from writing a letter to the beautiful, middle-aged wife of a minor Rose lordling: the only one of Cordè’s clients who could make her laugh even on the brink of orgasm.

Fear of Linnaea’s reprimand had compelled her to toss the note in the waste bin; that, and the invitation for afternoon tea with the Mercànt de Beaugency.

Once Linnaea assured her of the invitation’s authenticity— “No more tricks,” she’d insisted—Cordè allowed herself to look forward to the distraction. The mercànt wasn’t a thrilling conversationalist, but he was doting and sweet. And truly, Cordè needed a reason to leave the manor. Too often she’d turned a corner expecting to see dark curls and a pair of laughing eyes.

“What about this one?” Ysabelle pulled yet another gown from Cordè’s closet, her sixth suggestion for the day’s assignment. She held it against herself and twirled. “Seems a waste to have worn it just that once⁠—”

“Give that to me.”

The only reason Cordè knew she’d gotten to her feet was because she heard the chair legs squeal against the floor. She thrust out her palm, eyes ablaze. “Now.”

Ysabelle offered her the dress, flinching as Cordè snatched it away and bundled it against her chest. “You can’t touch my things like they’re yours,” Cordè said. “This is mine. This is….” The words lodged in her throat. “I can do this on my own,” she snapped. “Get out.”

Ysabelle hesitated.

“Get out!”

With a small squeak, Ysabelle scampered out of the room.

After a few seconds of heavy breathing, Cordè noticed Aelus hovering awkwardly in the doorway. She’d forgotten he was in the hall.

Cordè took a menacing step forward. “What part of ‘get out’ do you not understand?”

His cheeks flushed. “By His Gaze,” he bit out. Then he shut the door.

The silence rang in Cordè’s ears like the echo of a scream. She collapsed into her chair and studied the gown in her hands, fingers tightening into white-knuckled fists.

“You are stunning,” Talat had said with a kiss on her forehead.

Her shoulders curled in on themselves, and she buried her face in her Illüne’s Day dress. The memory of his lips felt cold on her skin, cold as the blankly staring eyes that had watched her from a pool of blood in the capitol’s courtyard.

Leapt from the roof, the Triumvirate inspectors had concluded. The explanation rang hollow for Cordè, yet all she could picture was his expression during their last conversation.

He’d wanted to tell her something. Had tried to, and she’d dismissed him.

Cordè shook her head, hoping to jostle Talat from her mind, and looked in the mirror.

Her reflection was a dim replica of her normal self. The soft angles of her heart-shaped face were the same, as were her bow-like lips. But her eyes were dull, shuttered—like a mourner at a funeral. Certainly not the beguiling young woman she wanted to present to the mercànt.

Mechanically, she began adding color to her features with brushes and powders.

And with each stroke, the grayness returned.

Cordè hated riding in the carriage.

It’d been tolerable with Talat, but this new Eye wasn’t Talat. He was never going to be. She just hadn’t thought he’d be so very not Talat.

The new Eye sat across from her, sword flat across his thighs, his immensity making the carriage tip precariously to one side. He looked like he was trying to tuck himself into the corner but was failing miserably. Instead, he stared out the window while she, in turn, stared unabashedly at him.

Once she dragged her attention from his bulk—an incredible feat, as she’d never met anyone so massive—her focus flitted from his coarse, strangely woody-scented beard to his surprisingly dainty nose to the long ginger lashes framing a set of ash-colored eyes. Not black.

Part of her wanted to ask why his eyes hadn’t changed, but she’d been avoiding conversation with Talat’s replacement. Aelus. She had in fact heard the name mentioned once or twice in passing, though she had no intention of telling Aelus that. Then he might want to talk or share feelings when all she wanted was to be left alone.

Her grief was heavy enough; she didn’t think she could bear anyone else’s.

As if sensing her attention, Aelus’s not-black eyes darted in her direction. Cordè raised her chin, pretending she hadn’t been watching him, and fiddled with her lacy neckline.

She’d settled on a light seafoam-colored dress similar in shade to the mercànt’s bedroom furniture upholstery. The hue was bright and cheery and made her amber irises gleam an almost golden-olive. Most importantly, the fabric was breathable, perfect for her tepid elven blood.

They’d nearly reached city limits by the time she glimpsed de Beaugency’s moss-draped roof and wide, weeping willows. Passing through the wrought iron gates, the carriage circled the courtyard and stopped outside the portico. Ro hopped off her driver’s perch and opened Cordè’s door, face stony with boredom.

“Don’t embarrass me,” Cordè told Aelus before exiting the carriage.

“Winter Lily!” Gaeton de Beaugency emerged, not from the entryway, but from a side garden hidden behind a curtain of verdant branches.

He swept off his wide-brimmed cavalier hat, its trim accented with a larger version of the grouse feather quill Cordè had borrowed from his desk. She also noted, with an odd sort of clarity, the leather hat band was a four-strand braid, much like the tie around his journal.

“My lord mercànt,” she purred, ducking into a low, respectful curtsy.

“You’re as radiant as ever.” Gaeton’s grin faltered, however, as he took in Aelus’s vast stature. “Sweet Illüne. Is this your new Eye?”

Cordè hid her glower and took Gaeton by the crook of his burly arm. “If his presence is bothersome, he can stay with the carriage.”

“With respect, my lady,” Aelus said, “I’m oathbound to remain by your side.”

It took all Cordè’s self-control to resist jamming her heel into Aelus’s stupid black boot. The only thing stopping her was the fear it would do more damage to her shoe than his foot.

Chuckling, Gaeton patted her hand. “I’d expect nothing less,” he said to Aelus. “Feel free to hurl me into the gardens at the slightest sign of disrespect.”

Gaeton led them to a comfortable veranda where a canopy of greenery shaded a two-person table from the glaring afternoon sun. No sooner had she taken a seat than a pair of waitstaff approached with tea and tiny sandwiches: swirled crocotta breads and canapés and moonbuns filled with braised meats and aged cheeses.

“I had my chefs prepare a sampling of dishes,” Gaeton said with obvious delight. “Have as much as you’d like. You too, Eye. My home is yours.”

Aelus gave a deep head bow, then stationed himself near the entryway.

“He doesn’t talk much,” Cordè said.

“And why should he? People who wish you harm would take one look at him and run.” A guffaw punctuated Gaeton’s words as another waiter approached with a smaller, more decorative tray. “Thankfully, I wish nothing but the best for you. Here.” Gaeton picked up a coin-sized puff pastry dusted in sugar. “This is schekloss, snow cake, imported from the heart of Ravethin.” He offered it to her, seeking permission with his eyes.

Cordè leaned forward and let him place the pastry on her tongue.

Gaeton beamed. “Delectable, no?”

“I’ve never tasted its like.”

“Really? I thought Linnaea said you hail from Ravethin.”

“Ah. Yes, well, Lady Nivae brought me here from the colonies when I was scarce a child. I don’t remember much of my life before Dusera.”

The lie fell, light and easy, from her lips. She certainly did remember life in Ravethin’s southern colonies—she just chose not to think on it. Being an elf in Dusera was sometimes unpleasant; being an elf in Ravethin was often fatal.

Then again, as a human, Gaeton had no reason to know that.

“I find Ravethinian culture fascinating,” he said, a boyish zeal brightening his countenance. “The music, the literature. And the hunting! Did you know in northern Ravethin they have elk the size of houses? They call them, eh…moströs, I believe.”

Cordè knew the word, knew he’d butchered the enunciation, but she gave an encouraging nod, so he continued.

“Maybe you could join me there during Wintertide’s Crest? We can stay in a mountain cabin, take a sleigh ride through the pine forests. Next year, perhaps?”

“Why not this one?”

Gaeton’s expression dimmed. “My trading partners tell me trouble’s brewing in Ravethin.”

Cordè nibbled another pastry while mulling his words. Ravethin was a cauldron of trouble, as religious zealotry had found its home there generations ago. The country was wholly dedicated to Haal, the Challenger god, the most militant Nemèan deity.

“Must be serious,” she said, sucking a bit of schekloss sugar off her thumb, “but not too serious if Queen Saewine hasn’t called upon Dusera for assistance.”

“Internal conflicts, nothing more. I believe the colonies are making another attempt at independence. Started calling themselves ‘Sollund.’”

Sollund. The word tickled the back of Cordè’s mind, like a dream that escaped her the harder she tried to remember it. Perhaps Linnaea mentioned it in passing?

“Could I ask you something, Lady Cyra?”

Gaeton’s voice snapped her from her thoughts. Her lashes fluttered as she refocused. “Please, call me Cordè.” She smiled. “Ask me anything you’d like.”

“You said you don’t remember Ravethin, but do you remember your culture?”

“What do you mean?”

He hesitated. “My new trade route cuts through the southern colonies, so I find myself encountering elves far more frequently these days. I’ve been hearing the most wondrous stories about how your kind builds temples in the trees and worships your gods through fire and song.”

Not the line of questioning she anticipated. “I can’t say I’m familiar with those rituals.”

“And your blood?”

Cordè blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Forgive me.” His bronze cheeks darkened in a flush. “I’m being rude.”

She laid her hand atop his. “You caught me by surprise. Go ahead, ask.”

“According to tales of old, people used to drink elf blood. They thought it possessed magical properties, like the ability to stay young forever.”

Cordè grinned. “Sounds like someone confused elves with Etherians. Regretfully, my dear mercànt, my people have no magic. Elves are simple beings with simple pleasures. We worship art, nature, beauty. We even have a deity of laughter.”

“Mm, yes. Siønid, youngest of the elven gods.” He pronounced it “Si-oh-nid,” and she didn’t correct him. “You must pray to them every day; your laughter is like a song.”

“My lord must be the god of flattery.”

“There’s a god of flattery as well?”

“Ah, no. I’m just teasing.”

They fell into a silence that hovered between comfortable and awkward. Cordè sipped her tea, which tasted of citrus and herb. She took care not to drain it all in one go.

“I had dinner last night with an acquaintance of yours,” Gaeton said. “Lord Locke?”

Cordè began coughing, having accidentally aspirated tea, and Gaeton pushed his chair back in alarm. Aelus also hovered nearby, hand on his sword—like that was going to help—but she waved him away mid-cough.

“Are you all right?” Gaeton asked.

Cordè smiled tremulously, eyes watering. “I’m fine. How is Lord Locke?”

Lucian Locke, Head of the Artificers. Hardly an acquaintance; she barely knew the man. But he was the father of her oldest friend, her first love.

Her only love, as it were.

Gaeton summoned a waitstaff, little eyes full of worry as he settled into his chair. “Lucian’s doing well. It’s a busy time for the Artificers.”

“And his daughters? How are they?”

“The younger one was with him. She’ll be finishing her studies soon.”

“She’s a smart girl. I’m sure she’s leading her class.” Cordè paused, trying to exclude any hint of heavier emotion as she added, “And his elder daughter? Did he mention her?”

“Briefly. Said she’s headed back to the city. Something about traveling for work?”

The waitstaff arrived with water, and Cordè took a sip to calm her palpitating heart. She hadn’t seen Orien Locke since last falltide, and still the mere mention of her put a flutter in Cordè’s belly. Their last encounter had ended poorly: lots of tears, lots of yelling. Lots of things said in anger that weren’t really meant.

But now was not the time to be thinking about ex-lovers, not with such an amiable client sitting across from her. She ran her thumb over Gaeton’s knuckles. “Thank you for the schekloss. And for inviting me today.”

Unexpectedly, the emotion thickening her voice wasn’t an act. The Mercànt de Beaugency was a kind man—too kind for the likes of her.

As the afternoon progressed, Cordè endeavored to be overly attentive: laughing at his jokes, touching him when at all appropriate. In her periphery she saw Aelus’s posture slowly relax; near the end of teatime, he even accepted an offering of schekloss.

Part of her wished to spend the day in the mercànt’s easy, adoring company. But a courtesan’s time was measured in coin, and he hadn’t paid for those particular pleasures.

When she stood to leave, however, Gaeton caught her hand.

“Winter Lily,” he said softly. “Linnaea told me of your household’s tragedy. I didn’t bring it up for fear of upsetting you, but I wanted to express my condolences.” Gaeton opened a small box from his pocket. Inside was a bracelet: three individual strings of pearls joined by a small silver clasp. Each string had a dozen tiny pearls, with the two outer strands tinted a pale blue, the center an opaline pink.

“Ulaari pearls gathered from the southern colonies. Rare and highly sought after. Like you.” He fastened it around her wrist. “My pearlers say they bring good fortune.”

Cordè’s throat closed. She ducked down and kissed his temple, the bristles of his hair tickling her nose. He’d cut it short to hide the fact it was thinning, and she thought the style suited him.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“As the client, shouldn’t I be thanking you?”

“Not this time.” Cordè kissed him one last time before departing.

Aelus dogged her heels as she climbed into the carriage. She leaned against the window and watched the willow branches dance in the breeze. The leaves were an especially vibrant shade of green; summertide was around the corner, she could feel it in the heaviness of the air.

“That’s it?” Aelus’s voice drew her from the view. “That’s what you do for Lady Nivae? Luncheons and conversation?”

Cordè stared. “Yes. I drink orange juniper tea for a living.”

He looked skeptical, like he wasn’t sure if he should believe her. She raised her eyes to the ceiling with an incredulous tch of her tongue.

Talat would’ve laughed at her response, would’ve offered a witty retort in return.

She tried summoning a memory of him—his grin, his voice, his laugh, loose and wild like his curls—but nothing came to her.

So instead she sank into her seat and let a new wave of grayness settle over her as they began the journey home.

TEN

Aelus had never seen a sunset from inside the city before.

True, he’d been at the manor for several days now: memorizing the three-story layout, creating escape plans, hiding weapons in case of emergencies, befriending the staff. But he’d yet to appreciate the simple wonders, like a setting sun. Or, more recently, schekloss.

Scratching his scruffed jaw, he admired the crimson-and-peach sky. It’d been an odd afternoon. Not unpleasant, just not what he’d expected. Gaeton had been a generous host with a clear passion for gardening. However, generous though Gaeton was, he’d sported a four-stranded braid around his hat—and it was that four-stranded braid that gave Aelus pause.

He peered sideways at Cordè. “Are all your clients godsforged supporters?”

She blinked at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The four-stranded braid. Wearing one means you believe the godsforged are coming back. Four strands for each of the four gods.”

The tiniest divot appeared between her thick brows as she seemed to consider his words. “I’m sure plenty of my clients have bizarre beliefs,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “What makes a godsforged supporter any stranger than, say, someone who uses a needle to stick black gunk in their eyes?”

Indignation shot through Aelus like a jolt of adrenaline. “Godsforged propaganda is part of the reason the bloodrot exists. That alone makes it different from our holy rituals. And it’s not ‘black gunk.’ It’s a blessing from Reneir.” Aelus paused. Then, unable to help himself, he added, “Also, it’s a common misconception that we’re stabbed by needles during the Blinding. What actually happens is….”

“Sorry, I think you’ve mistaken me for somebody who’s even a little bit invested in the details of your mountain men wank f⁠—”

Her retort was cut short as the carriage jerked to the side, rocking Aelus and Cordè against the far wall. He winced and clutched his shoulder, more out of shock than actual pain, as Ro brought them to a jumbling, screeching halt.

Quick as he could, Aelus gathered Nightbane and checked on Cordè. Her heart-shaped face was pinched, and a couple stray alabaster tresses had fallen loose.

She glared toward the driver’s seat. “What the fuck, Ro?”

But Ro had already hopped down, cursing as she bent to examine the front-left wheel.

“Stay here,” Aelus told Cordè. “I’m going to help Ro.”

“I will not⁠—”

He stepped onto the street.

The cause of the accident, and Ro’s ire, was immediately apparent. A trio of drunk Valdorans—minor lordlings, judging by their fashionable attire and spicy cologne—were in the process of heaving their giggling friend to his feet. Two other members of their inebriated party stumbled toward the carriage: one clutched a beer stein like a spear while the other had his arm draped over the shoulders of a curvaceous, rose-complected woman.

“Sorry about our buddy,” said the man with the female companion. “He holds his liquor like a Tharonian holds their lance.”

The rest of the man’s speech blurred into a smear of unintelligible words that Aelus didn’t hear on account of the woman’s exposed cleavage. Blushing furiously, Aelus forced his attention elsewhere: first to the gaggle of drunkards in various states of undress, then to the rowdy patrons on the establishment’s wraparound porch.

A wisp of floral-tinged air made the painted sign above the door creak. The Rutting Steed.

Oh gods. They’d crashed in front of a brothel.

“Need some help with your carriage?” asked the curly-haired man with the beer stein.

“No! No, it’s fine. No harm done.”

“Wrong,” Ro interrupted. She shoved herself to standing with a sneer, fingers coated in oil and muck. “Bastard made me blow the brakes on some bricks. We’re going to need repairs.”

The second lordling removed his arm from the woman’s shoulders and bent down, adjusting his oversized glasses as if trying to inspect the carriage wheel. “Sounds serious.”

“That’s ‘cause it is, you clod.”

The bespectacled man threw up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. We already apologized, lady. What more do you want?”

“Venati,” she said, pointing at his coin purse. “So start coughing some up. Now.”

Aelus quickly intervened. “I’m sure we’ll work something out. For now”—he tipped his chin at the brothel—“why don’t you lot return to your, uh, activities while we take inventory?”

For a single, anxious beat, he feared his suggestion would be ignored. Then Spectacles grinned and gave a sloppy, two-fingered salute. His gaze trickled down Aelus’s surcoat to the unblinking eye of the Order. “Wait. You’re one of them purity folk. A Faithful?”

“I am.” Aelus’s stomach churned, and he belted Nightbane around his waist as a grumbling Ro checked the rear wheels.

“Don’t often see your kind on Camellia Court,” the curly-haired man said. “Not never, though! Man’s gotta eat, am I right?” Curly elbowed Aelus conspiratorially, or at least tried to.

“... No.”

“Say, you ever played Seer’s Submission before? Hells, it’d make anyone a believer.” Curly nudged Spectacles’s lady friend toward Aelus, who hopped back like she had the bloodrot. “Go on, love. Give him a little taste.”

Aelus’s blush deepened to a furious scarlet as he took several strides backward. Up on the brothel’s porch, a golden-skinned, fair-haired elf leaned the top half of his lithe body over the railing.

“Is that the Nivae carriage I spy?” he exclaimed with a worrying amount of familiarity. “Come to join the revelry, Lady Cyra?”

The carriage curtains swished open. “Yes,” Cordè called back. “I purposely crashed here in front of this specific establishment so I could have a drink with you, Beni.”

“Fuck me,” Curly said, “the Faithful was already getting busy in his carriage. Thought you lot hated elves.”

“We’re not…she’s…no,” Aelus stammered, wishing for all the world that Spectacles’s lady friend would put on a shawl or a jacket or something so Aelus could concentrate.

Curly snorted while the other three lordlings, led by a barrel-chested man with shiny gold cuffs, fanned behind him like a peacock’s train. “What’s the matter? Tight purse strings?” he asked, fingers dancing across the bare shoulders of Spectacle’s lady friend. “Don’t worry, elves cost half as much as the regular goods since they only count as half a person.”

Any discomfort vanished in a wave of righteous scorn. Cordè might’ve been more infuriating than a needle beneath his fingernail, but she did not deserve their bigotry.

Hand on Nightbane, Aelus planted himself between the carriage and the five men, predicting—correctly—that Cordè would want to throw herself in the midst of the fray. “It’s time for you all to leave,” Aelus said as Cordè battered the door. “Now.”

The drunkard with the gold cuffs sneered. “No need to be surly, Faithful.”

“Yeah,” Curly agreed. “We’re just doing our civic duty, clearing the streets of filth.”

The carriage door burst open, and Cordè stormed into the confrontation, jamming her finger at Curly’s puffed chest. “The only filth I see is the loud-mouthed drunks pretending they’re Première lords.”

Curly snarled, canines glinting. “Say that again, and we’ll see how quickly I can shave off those eartips, she-elf.” He lifted the flap of his velvet blazer, exposing the hilt of a curved dagger. Everyone else, with the exception of Aelus, was unarmed.

At that moment, a blur of movement—two movements—snagged Aelus’s attention.

One was Ro. Having left the encounter early enough to have been forgotten, she now used Cordè’s arrival to slink around the carriage and out of sight. The other movement occurred a couple streets down, where a Blade patrol was crossing a bridge into the Artificer district.

They were fairly far out, and judging by their leisurely pace, they hadn’t noticed the commotion. But they would; the carriage was half-in the street, and if the escalating threats were any indication, the drunkards were a hair’s breadth away from violence.

Ignoring the lordlings’ leering, Aelus grabbed Cordè’s wrist. She writhed like a wildcat on a leash. “Get. Off.”

“There’s Blade nearby,” he said, voice firm. “Let it go.”

“But—”

“Cordè.” His stare deepened in an effort to show that while yes, he knew she’d been repeatedly insulted, instigating a fight meant risking criminal charges from the Triumvirate. Or, at the very least, an overnight stay in a prison cell.

Aelus loosened his hold but maintained his stare. “Let it go,” he repeated, softer.

Her eyes narrowed, irises burning like twin flames. She nodded.

Satisfied, he turned to the drunkards and, channeling the cold, indomitable expression his father wore so well, said, “We’re done here. Return to the Rutting Steed and do not bother us again.”

Gold Cuffs pressed closer. “And if we refuse?’”

Aelus didn’t say anything, instead letting his armaments and size speak for him.

Gold Cuffs released a braying scoff. “Fine. You win. Pointy-eared bitch isn’t worth it, anyways.”

Cordè hissed but stayed put.

Aelus, meanwhile, kept the drunkards in sight until they retreated a safe distance. He turned to Cordè. “You should wait in the carriage⁠—”

“Look out!” Ro yelled.

Cordè gasped as Aelus yanked her to his chest, shielding her with his body an instant before something jagged and hard—a brick? —slammed into the back of his skull.

Pain engulfed Aelus’s senses like a sunflare. He staggered, groaning, as a thick warmth trickled down his neck. Squinting against the afternoon brightness, he looked up to see the inebriated lordlings charging the carriage.

Aelus sucked in a shallow breath and shoved Cordè behind him. “Don’t interfere.” Pivoting, he sank into a loose, defensive stance.

Fists only. Buy time until the Blade arrive.

The patrol wasn’t far. Two, maybe three minutes out. Fewer, if they noticed the action and started sprinting.

Head throbbing, Aelus homed in on his target: Curly’s dagger, unsheathed and glinting like a fishhook.

A guttural war cry punctured the erratic thudding of boots, and Aelus whirled to see Ro vault across her carriage seat and slam a huge fist into the leading drunkard’s cheek. Blood spurted from his mouth along with something small and white. A tooth.

He collapsed without a sound.

The remaining men staggered, and with a grin, Ro launched herself at her next victim, the one with the oversized glasses. Together they fell, Spectacles screeching the whole way down.

Aelus seized the opportunity to go for Curly’s knife, but Curly saw him coming and hurled his stein at Aelus’s face. Aelus ducked, frothy liquid splattering his hair as the mug sailed harmlessly overhead.

Curly scowled, then he grabbed Gold Cuffs and another companion by their fancy collars and shoved them into Aelus’s path.

Gold Cuffs, to his credit, at least tried to punch. Wild and desperate, it missed Aelus’s chin by a good six inches. Swinging gracefully to the side, Aelus cocked his fist and, with swanlike ease, punched Gold Cuffs in the ribs.

Gold Cuffs keeled over, gasping, and Aelus slammed his elbow into his skull, knocking him to the cobblestone road. Gold Cuffs’s companion followed a half-beat later.

Mouth agape, Curly looked at his unconscious friends. Gone was the self-assured slant of his shoulders, the arrogant arch of his brow. His dagger fell from his limp fingers, and he stumbled backward, almost tripping over himself as Aelus advanced.

“W-wait,” Curly stammered. “We didn’t mean it⁠—”

The rest of Curly’s words disappeared in a hngf as Ro bounded over to kick his legs out from under him. He landed on his back, and her foot appeared atop his chest, pinning him flat. When he continued to squirm, she dug her heel in deep, making him release a piggish squeal.

“You want to join your friend?” She jutted her thumb at Spectacles, who was sprawled on the ground like a ragdoll, glasses shattered at his feet.

Curly paled and shook his head.

“Thought not.” Ro kept her massive foot parked on Curly’s ribcage as the Blade thundered in, barking orders to the crowd and cuffing the semi-conscious drunkards.

Aelus staggered into the shadow of the carriage. Gods, his head was pounding. He gingerly touched his wound, bile rising when his palm came away red. The ground swayed beneath him. Or maybe he swayed?

Ro grabbed his shoulder to steady him, but he waved her off. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You got hit by a brick.” She gestured at the high-rise buildings to the east. “There’s an Etherian neighborhood just over that ridge. Go to their sanctuary. It’s tall and steepled and has a bunch of stained-glass windows. Take Lady Cyra and go while I tell the Blade what happened.”

Aelus paused. Confrontation resolved, he now had an opportunity, his first real opportunity, to pursue his appointed task of finding Talat’s killer. His fingers curled as he watched the Blade drag the cuffed drunkards off the street and reassure the crowd.

Are these the ones? he wondered. Are these the Blade who killed Talat?

He didn’t realize he’d lurched forward until Ro slapped a palm against his chest, halting him mid-stride.

She scowled. “What the hells are you doing?”

“I need to talk to the patrol.” Ask them where they were the night of Talat’s death, if they’d seen their Head, Medôn, that day. If they somehow knew Talat, knew who⁠—

She shoved Aelus against the carriage. “You need a healer.”

“I’m fine.”

Ro ignored him and instead turned to Cordè, who surveyed the scene with a frown.

“You said you’d talk to the Blade?” Cordè asked. Ro nodded. “Okay. I’ll take Aelus to the Etherians; once they’re done, we’ll head to the manor. If you’re not back by then, I’ll send Farren.”

Aelus’s jaw worked. He didn’t need healing. He needed answers.

Before he could protest more, however, Cordè grabbed his surcoat and yanked him down to eye level. “Whom do you protect?” she asked, tone sharp as needles.

“... You.”

“Which means you go where I go, yes?”

Aelus’s nostrils flared. “Yes.”

“Well then.” She smiled a tight, authoritative smile. “To the Etherians.”

ELEVEN

Cordè was no stranger to Etherian healing.

Etherians offered their services to anyone in need, and while some Duserans addressed their ailments with science, many still preferred the comfort and convenience of magic. Linnaea was one of the latter: she’d brought Cordè to Etherian healers when Cordè had shattered her wrist climbing out her window. And for the persistent fever that left her bed-ridden as a teenager. And that awful morning when Haniel’s cat scratched her in the eye.

Yet no matter the vague familiarity of these streets, Cordè still felt disconcerted by the strange spirituality that lingered in the streets like morning mist. She found it unnerving, as if the residents possessed a secret source of serenity not privy to the likes of her.

As Cordè and Aelus moved further into the Etherian neighborhood, however, a jarring new scent interrupted the peaceful scene. Thick and earthy and sickly sweet, it reminded Cordè of spoiled milk, but heavier—heavy enough to taste on her tongue. Decay.

“Bloodrot,” Aelus mumbled.

She looked over just in time to see him sway on his feet. A thin rivulet of red ran down his neck, and when he blinked, one eye closed a half-beat after the other.

“Tertia’s tits.” She grabbed his forearm, but instead of using her for balance, he braced himself against a wall.

“I’m fine.”

He most assuredly was not fine.

And he might’ve been dull, and annoying, and a bit of a self-righteous prig, but Cordè certainly didn’t want him to die his first week on the job. With a huff, she tore off a piece of her lacy skirts and handed it to Aelus. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”

He pressed the fabric to his wound, and Cordè grimaced as the seafoam color turned an ugly shade of puce.

She slung his arm over her shoulder. “Come on.”

The Etherian sanctuary was exactly as Ro described: narrow, steepled, far less flashy than the golden-domed temple of Illüne. A sloped rampway led to the sanctuary’s entrance—a small blessing, since Cordè doubted she could’ve navigated Aelus up a flight of stairs on her own.

“Almost there,” she grunted. “Just a few more steps.”

The sanctuary door creaked open, and a young woman stood in the entryway.

All Etherians were born with an iridescent sheen to their flesh, though their skin tones varied in color, same as humans and elves. This Etherian’s complexion was warm and rich and brown, overlaid by an ever-shifting gleam of violet and indigo. Her eyes were wide, dark circles that matched the bundle of box braids spilling over her shoulders like a mantle.

She was, without question, one of the most beautiful people Cordè had ever seen.

“Illüne’s light restore you.” The Etherian’s smile waned as she noticed the makeshift bandage around Aelus’s head. With a wave, she beckoned them inside.

In the receiving chamber beyond, Etherians dressed in airy robes and strands of beads drifted between arched doorways. Their soft footfalls echoed throughout the sanctuary’s vaulted ceiling: plain gray stone punctuated by crisscrossing beams of ancient-looking wood, rendered hazy by curls of white-gray incense.

Beneath the spicy shock of perfumed air lingered the same spoiled milk stench.

The Etherians are treating bloodrot-infected Faithful, Cordè realized.

Resisting the urge to gag on the smell, she instead turned her attention to the Etherian who’d greeted them. “My Eye was involved in a bit of a scuffle.”

The Etherian looked him over, concern etched onto her delicate features. She made a humming sound, then called to her sisters in a language Cordè didn’t recognize.

Three Etherians came forward. An elderly woman with pearly, papery skin brushed the others aside and reached for Aelus’s face. “A Faithful?” She tugged his eyelid up, inspecting the ashen iris beneath curiously. “No crimson veins. No red corona around the irises.” A sigh of relief escaped her ancient lips. “Don’t worry, brother, you’re in capable hands.”

“Matron Zenzi will see he recovers,” the Etherian who’d greeted them said, touching the older woman’s shoulder. “She’s one of our most accomplished healers.”

The Etherian called Zenzi tutted, “And Xillah is one of our most accomplished flatterers.” Still, an appreciative smirk played along her wrinkled lips.

Aelus’s nostrils gave a feeble flare. “I’m not leaving my ward.”

Cordè lifted her eyes to the ceiling while the first Etherian—Xillah? —patted Aelus’s arm. “I swear to you, your ward is safe in this place. She will be right next door, in my office.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he let Zenzi and the other two pull him away.

Once they departed, Xillah fluttered her fingers toward an adjacent doorway. “Shall we?”

Xillah’s office felt homier, and smelled better, than the receiving chamber, with walls draped in tapestries that depicted featureless figures dressed in white, black, gray, and gold armor. The airiness of the decor gave the room the same ambience as a Hilaraan desert tent, complete with a cluster of colorful hassocks in the far corner.

“Please.” Xillah gestured at the seating. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Cordè picked the softest-looking one, a coral cushion that felt like a summertide cloud, as Xillah lit another stick of incense with a gentle sktch. Drawing her gossamer skirts around her dimpled thighs, Xillah settled onto the teal hassock beside Cordè.

“Have you visited our temple before?”

“Not this one, no.” Cordè did another quick scan of Xillah, noticing for the first time the number of strands in her box braids. “I didn’t know Etherians were godsforged supporters. Especially with the Order being so….”

“Particular?” Xillah gave a bright yet throaty laugh. “Yes, well. It is one of the few points we disagree on.”

Cordè supposed it made sense. If the arrival of godsforged meant the return of the Nemèan gods, she could understand why Illüne’s daughters would look forward to seeing their missing goddess.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Xillah asked, head cocked to the side like some sort of iridescent spaniel puppy.

“That’s…kind of you. But I’m not injured. Or sick.”

Xillah’s smile deepened. “Actually, I’m a lünaden of the Beloved. A soul-healer. Where Zenzi and her ilk mend bodies, I am trained to mend minds.” Her calm mahogany gaze flitted between Cordè’s eyes. “I sense a shadow of loss hanging over you. Recent, but deep. With your permission, I can try and lessen its hold.”

Cordè glanced from Xillah’s outstretched hand to her round, pretty face, then back to her hand. Xillah had short but nicely shaped nails, clean and even, and Cordè wasn’t sure why, but it made it easier for her to give a nod of assent.

Leaning forward, Xillah touched her first three fingers to Cordè’s forehead, lips moving in soundless whispers. A warmth started emanating from Xillah’s fingertips while, simultaneously, an intense chill ran down Cordè’s spine. Those clashing sensations, the heat and the cold, felt familiar in a way she couldn’t identify.

Cordè’s eyes drifted shut, and without conscious intent, she matched Xillah’s breathing.

Release.

Cordè’s eyelids flickered, but she didn’t open them.

Release.

The voice was Xillah’s, the same rolling vowels and rounded consonants. But instead of being spoken aloud, the word vibrated through Cordè’s frame like a drumbeat.

Release. Release.

Then… RELEASE.

Cordè’s eyes flew open, because the voice had morphed into something different: a male voice, cheeky and lined in laughter.

Tears gathered along Xillah’s lashes. “I’m sorry. He must have been very dear to you.”

Cordè swallowed, throat tight and uncomfortable. “I don’t feel any different.”

Even as she said it, though, she recognized it wasn’t wholly true. The grief was still there, alongside the anger and resentment, but the gray shroud that had been suffocating her these last few days receded a little.

Xillah laid her hand atop Cordè’s. “My magic is not a cure. It alleviates the pain of a fractured soul, but it cannot put you back together. That you must do on your own.”

A sharp, efficient rapping interrupted them.

With a murmured apology, Xillah headed to the door, opening it just wide enough to address her visitor. Cordè picked her cuticles and tried not to listen to the conversation.

Strangely, though, she only heard half of the exchange.

“I’ll be done soon,” Xillah murmured. A pause, then she spoke again. “No, this one wasn’t on my schedule.” Another beat. “Don’t worry, I won’t miss it.” Something must have amused Xillah, because she released a melodic, flutelike laugh. “I think you can handle yourself, my love. You’re a captain, after all.”

Captain.

Xillah was speaking with a captain of the Blade who communicated nonverbally.

Cordè shot to her feet. “Orien?”

Xillah stepped back as the door opened to reveal a familiar cloud of billowing hair, a lithe yet muscled frame, and a pair of devastating, almond-shaped eyes.

Headed back to the city, Gaeton had said of Orien Locke. And now here she was.

“You know each other?” Xillah asked.

Orien gaped at Cordè before answering in a series of hand movements.

An early childhood illness had ravaged Orien’s vocal cords, and despite best efforts by Lord and Lady Locke—including daring surgical procedures performed by Artificer physicians—their firstborn never regained the ability to speak. Orien believed, or at least joked, her mutism was the gods’ divine effort to keep her from ruling all of Dusera. “They wanted to give everyone else a fighting chance,” she’d teased, tracing the words into Cordè’s palm.

Now Cordè watched Orien spell out letters—C, O, R—into Xillah’s palm instead.

Xillah’s brows jumped. “You’re Cordè?”

Cordè thought (hoped?) her identity as Orien’s ex-lover would’ve been met with shocked jealousy. But Xillah’s mouth stretched into a genuine smile. “I’d prayed we’d meet soon. Orien refers to you often, and with great fondness.”

Great fondness. Cordè might as well have been one of Gaeton’s ulaari pearls plucked from a Ravethinian oyster based on that two-word description.

Before she could remedy the offense, Orien stepped inside. “What’s going on?”

“Zenzi’s finishing up with her Eye,” Xillah said.

“Talat’s not sick, is he?”

Cordè felt her color drain away. She hasn’t heard.

Comprehension blossomed in Orien’s eyes. “The Eye at the Capitis. That was…?” Something must’ve shifted on Cordè’s face, because Orien’s hands stilled. “Oh, Cordè.”

Only this time Orien didn’t spell out her name; instead she signed the single-gesture nickname she’d given Cordè. Petal.

Orien crossed the room and folded Cordè into a protective embrace.

It felt good. Gods, it felt good. Under better circumstances, Cordè would’ve stayed in Orien’s arms for hours. She hadn’t been touched since Illüne’s Day, not really. And sweet Q’ilyce, how she wished she could savor it now. But although Orien was still Orien, she was no longer Cordè’s to hold.

Cordè stiffened her jaw, shoved down her tears, and pulled away.

Xillah swept in, all silk and beads. “Perhaps you and your Eye could stay for dinner? We’re preparing fresh ranjala prawns, and Orien mentioned you love seafood.”

Cordè almost refused. Quite honestly, what she wanted most was to sprint for the door, find the nearest tavern, and drown in a Hilaraan liquor bottle. Then she looked at Orien, eyes skating along the strong angles of that much-loved face, and the refusal withered.

“All right.”

Xillah beamed again, and Cordè hated her a little for it.

Despite having spent her adolescence learning how to behave at frilly dinner parties with politicians, diplomats, and foreign emissaries, Cordè found herself utterly unseated by the familial intimacy of an Etherian supper.

Two dozen chairs surrounded the massive banquet table, and each chair was occupied by an Etherian: some on the brink of adulthood, others shriveled and ancient. The hum of chatter was punctuated by the occasional exclamation or pealing laugh while platters of food—thick stews and sticky dumplings and steamed crustaceans from Porderli—were carted to a buffet-style sideboard along the far wall.

Cordè and Orien sat side-by-side, their matte skin looking exceptionally dull amidst all the shimmer and glow, with Cordè keeping a halfhearted eye out for Aelus. No sign yet.

Sighing, she sipped her…well, she wasn’t sure what she was drinking. It was rust-colored and vaguely acidic with a fruity sweetness tempered by a subtle bite of ginger.

“I’m sorry you found out about Xillah this way,” Orien signed beneath the table.

Cordè glanced at the adjoining kitchen where Xillah gathered dishes, cheeks aglow with pleasure as she chatted with her sisters.

She finished her juice, all the while wishing it was wine. “How long have you been together?”

“Six months.”

That would’ve been within weeks of Cordè and Orien’s fateful conversation last falltide. Cordè swallowed. “I’m happy for you. She seems…”—beautiful? Gracious? Warmhearted? Stunning in both character and appearance? — “nice.”

Orien, ever perceptive of Cordè’s underlying tones, stared at her impassively.

“Cordè!”

As if summoned by the topic of discussion, Xillah headed toward the pair. “Orien told me you enjoy spicy food. Have you tried errsu? Legend says Khastus himself planted the first seeds in the fiery depths of the Volcanic Barrier, as a gift for Illüne.”

She held out a bowl of bright orange peppers that deepened to an intimidating shade of red near the stem. Each errsu was about the length and width of Cordè’s smallest finger, and they emitted a sharp fragrance that stung Cordè’s sinuses.

Orien winced. “My love, I think they’ll be too much for Cordè.”

Cordè’s hesitancy vanished in a puff of indignation. Fixing Orien with a look, she snatched up a pepper and bit it off at the stem.

Xillah gasped. “You’re not supposed to eat it all in one go!”

Cordè opened her mouth to retort but instead began to wheeze. Flames ignited on her tongue, tears springing to her eyes as she spluttered. The heat worked its way down her throat, inch by blistering inch, landed in her stomach, and radiated outward.

A distressed-looking Xillah handed her a cup of the sweet-and-bitter juice. “I’m so sorry, I’ll fetch some water. Or maybe the cream stew would help?”

Through the blur of tears, Cordè noticed Orien’s lips twitch in a suppressed grin. Before Cordè could comment, however, two figures appeared in the dining chamber doorway.

In a room full of Etherians, a man stood out like coal amongst diamonds. The fact that the man was Aelus, already too large for any room he occupied, only heightened the contrast.

He seemed…better, Cordè supposed. He still wore a head bandage, though this one was crisp and white and not ripped from one of her favorite dresses.

Matron Zenzi was at his side, hand at the crook of his arm. She tugged his sleeve, and he leaned down so she could whisper something. Then they parted ways, with Zenzi sitting at the opposite side of the table while he headed for his ward.

Aelus stopped, focus narrowing in on Cordè, and she realized her face was streaked with residual tears from the errsu.

Cordè hastily wiped them away. “Peppers,” she croaked.

He blinked, mouth opening—then his focus slid to Orien, and his mouth snapped shut.

For two years, Cordè had been spoiled by Orien and Talat’s cordial relationship. They’d appreciated one another, built up a mutual respect despite Order and Blade tensions. But Aelus was not Talat, and judging by the intensity of his gaze, a similar cordiality was not to be expected.

Orien studied Aelus’s pale, unchanged eyes, then stiffly inclined her head.

Aelus returned the gesture. “Captain.”

“‘Lady,’” Cordè corrected. “Orien is the daughter of the Head of the Artificer Legion. She’s a captain and a lady.”

Cordè could almost hear the gears in Aelus’s mind grinding as he puzzled through how a child of the Artificers became a captain of the Blade. Truth be told, it’d been a messy family affair, but Cordè had no wants to share the years-old story with her Eye.

“My lady,” Aelus amended politely. Too politely.

Beneath the table, Orien took Cordè’s hand. “He’s too big to be a decent fighter,” she signed into Cordè’s palm. “I don’t like him.”

Cordè snorted and twined her fingers briefly with Orien’s. A force of habit, mostly—touching Orien took no more effort than breathing air. Without thinking, Cordè ran her thumb over the familiar crescent-shaped scar at the base of Orien’s index finger, right near the knuckle. Her “secret wink,” Cordè had called it, since it looked a bit like a blinking eye.

Orien squeezed her hand, then pulled away.

“Everyone, be seated as we honor the Beloved.” Zenzi’s voice carried over the din of conversation, the colorful beads woven into her white hair catching the chandelier’s firelight.

Aelus spilled gracelessly into the empty seat on Cordè’s right as Zenzi continued, “Blessed Illüne, goddess of all, you are the Light to Haal’s Dark, the first defier, and mother to our beautiful community. We love you. We raise up our ailing brothers, and also our sisters—both present and not—to your healing Light.”

Zenzi touched her index and middle fingers to her lower lip, raised them to her forehead, then lowered her hand palm-up in front of her. The Etherians around the table mimicked the motion, eyes closed in reverence.

Cordè looked at Orien. “What does she mean, ‘both present and not?’”

“One of their lünadens went missing a few weeks ago.”

“Went missing?”

“We believe so, yes,” Xillah said around Orien’s shoulder. “But we’re unsure.”

“I don’t follow.”

Matron Zenzi spoke up. “Sweet girl, we’re wanderers by nature. We travel, we make pilgrimages to our homeland. But never for very long, and not without sending word.” She frowned. “All in all, we’ve lost track of about a dozen sisters.”

A dozen? Cordè turned to Orien. “You’re a Blade captain. Can’t you launch an investigation?”

“Hard to do that without proof. I’ve combed streets, talked to potential witnesses. All the leads are weeks old. There’s nothing to track.” Orien exhaled heavily through her nose. “Our Senior Officer wants to help. Without evidence, though, Theophane’s hands are tied.”

“Perhaps you should’ve contacted the Order instead.”

A dozen sets of eyes swiveled in Aelus’s direction. Zenzi stared the hardest, her wrinkled folds of skin half-hiding the steady, pondering look she fixed on Aelus.

“Xillah did,” Orien signed, Cordè translating. “I don’t see Faithful here, though. Do you?”

“I’ll tell them myself. I report to the Seers in four days. With permission, I’ll share what’s transpired.”

Xillah gifted Aelus with a radiant smile that pulled a light shade of pink to his cheeks. “Goddess bless you for your aid, Aelus. It is Aelus, yes?”

He nodded hesitantly.

“I don’t want to interfere with your commitment to your ward, but if you’re able, there’s something else you could help us with.” Xillah ignored Orien’s disapproving look. “Around the time our sister went missing, Orien overheard an exchange between a Triumvirate inspector and an Eye at the Hall of Justice.”

Here Xillah dipped her chin toward Orien in a silent bid for her to continue the story.

“It sounded like the Eye had witnessed something to do with an Etherian,” Orien signed while Xillah interpreted. “Of course, when I asked for details, he refused to speak to me. Hard for him to see past the blue cape, I guess.”

She arched a brow at Aelus, who glowered.

“If you could persuade your brother to share what he saw,” Xillah added, “we’d be most appreciative.”

“Name the day, and you and I⁠—”

“I’m coming too,” Orien signed.

Aelus’s nostrils flared. “Is that necessary?”

The Faithful and the Blade eyed one another, daring the other to break first.

“Tertia’s tits, it’s like watching the world’s most boring round of Elf Ante,” Cordè said.

Aelus glared at Cordè.

Xillah, meanwhile, ladled herself some steamed farro. “I think it’ll be quite the learning experience if all three of us traveled together. We could even stop by the Gilliflower Tearoom for cocoa. I hear they have the most delicious Ravethinian pastries.”

“Including schekloss?” Aelus asked, and Cordè lifted her eyes to the ceiling.

Xillah grinned. “I’m sure we could find some, if that’s your desire.”

His expression softened. “I should have time next week.”

“Thank you. I believe I speak for us all in saying you’re always welcome at our table.”

A fierce blush rose to Aelus’s cheeks amidst a stream of grateful murmurs and arm pats.

Cordè dug into her ranjala prawns, wishing she was anywhere other than here. Orien, whose aura radiated a similar disgruntlement, squeezed her knee beneath the table.

Then Xillah’s face appeared around Orien’s shoulder, a platter of spicy orange peppers in hand. She offered them to Cordè with a beaming smile. “More errsu?”

TWELVE

“Only a week in and already you’ve visited our Etherian sisters?” Imalu’s eyes glimmered jovially as he escorted Aelus out of the Mithraeum’s Great Hall. “Quite the dramatic beginning.”

Aelus winced. “It was not intentional, I assure you.”

“But you’ve recovered, yes?”

Aelus nodded—though in actuality he had yet to fully heal, despite Zenzi’s best efforts. Perhaps the potency of Etherian healing had been exaggerated. Or maybe Aelus didn’t take to it well.

“At least you’re safe,” Imalu said. Aelus sent him a quizzical look. “From the bloodrot.”

“Are we sure?”

“You do not have black eyes like the rest. How can you be affected?” Imalu slid a dark hand into the crook of Aelus’s arm. “Come, walk with me.”

“I can’t. I need to return to the manor.”

“You’d deny this old man a chance for fresh air?”

“No, it’s just….” Aelus blew out a sharp breath. “I’m afraid if I stay, I’d be tempted to never return to Val’dora. My ward’s not fond of me, or the Order.”

“Give her time.”

“Time? For what?”

“To get to know you. One week is but a finger-snap in the larger scheme of things, and given your nature, you’ve likely been spending your days in here”—Imalu tapped Aelus’s forehead—“rather than in conversation.” He smiled gently. “Give her time.”

Aelus sighed. Imalu was right, as always. But thanks to the Seers’ ambiguous yet urgent orders, time was quickly becoming a luxury Aelus couldn’t afford.

As expected, news of the missing Etherians sent the Seers into various states of distress. The Order cherished their Etherian sisters, supported them, protected them like Reneir protected Illüne. Provide aid where you can, the Seers had instructed Aelus, but watch this captain of the Blade. We’ll assign more Eyes to the Etherian neighborhood.

Aelus grimaced. Working with a Blade? He’d rather guzzle spoiled goat’s milk or be beaten with a brick three times over. But he wasn’t doing this for himself, he was doing it for Talat. And for Talat, Aelus would work with a dozen, a hundred Blade, if need be.

Imalu gave Aelus’s arm an understanding pat and led him outside. Morning fog fell over the courtyard like a misty veil, eidolic and serene. Swaths of golden sunlight made the dewy stones glisten and the god-trees’ crimson canopies glow. And there, beneath the spiderweb of branches, a group of young acolytes sat, legs tucked tight against their chest, while a Scholar scribbled lessons on a drawing board. It was a familiar scene, and the sheer normalcy of it, of home, leached the tension from Aelus’s bones. For the first time in days, he inhaled without restriction, letting his lungs fill with the scent of earth and rain.

A clattering of hooves cut through the calm atmosphere. Curious, Aelus followed the sound to the bridged chasm, where a cream-colored carriage ambled toward the Mithraeum.

Imalu hummed. “Ah, the Seers’ next appointment approaches. And she’s early.”

She? The Seers rarely hosted guests, let alone female ones. In fact, the sole woman they seemed eager to invite was⁠—

“Lady Myrra Velta,” Imalu greeted.

Aelus froze. He’d heard stories of Myrra Velta’s humanitarian exploits with the Etherians, how she’d lost her first Eye to bloodrot, and how it’d spurred a change of careers from teacher to politician. Among the Faithful, she was a uniquely well-regarded member of Val’dora’s Legions.

Frankly, Aelus had always pictured a female version of the Seers: hard features, penetrating stare, cold demeanor. The woman in the courtyard possessed none of these things. Her features weren’t hard, they were refined. Beautiful. And rather than being harsh or unapproachable, she offered an inviting smile and glided over to kiss Imalu’s hand.

“I’m Chief Archivist Imalu,” he said in introduction. “A pleasure to meet you at last.”

“Likewise.” She turned to Aelus, and the sweet, heady smell of honeysuckle tickled his nose. Her smile broadened. “And who might this handsome young Faithful be?”

Thrown by Myrra’s forwardness, Aelus blushed. “My name is Aelus, my lady.”

“Call me Myrra.”

“… Myrra.”

She laughed, the sound high and light like a nightingale’s trill, and gestured to the Eye hovering at her shoulder. “I believe you know my protector, Radrin Halle?”

Aelus shook his head, awestruck. He’d never met Radrin Halle. Radrin was a decade older, having been made an Eye after Aelus arrived. But, like Myrra, Aelus knew of him.

Radrin’s history was an oft-repeated tale of dedication and skill. He was a prodigy, a gifted warrior whose prowess with the blade was bested only by his shrewd mind. After his Blinding, he’d even been offered the chance to become the youngest Scholar in Order history. But he’d refused, choosing instead to serve Dusera as an Eye, where he’d made a name for himself again, this time by capturing Ellisar Fehr, an Eye charged with killing his own ward. The ordeal, and Ellisar’s subsequent Unsighting, made for an infamous chapter in Order history—complicated further by the fact Ellisar had been Radrin’s brother-in-arms.

In the years since, Radrin’s name had become a source of inspiration for new acolytes. “Keep to your studies,” Scholars would say, “and you may very well become the next Radrin Halle.”

Now, here he was, shaking Aelus’s hand while Lady Myrra Velta stood by and smiled.

It was all rather overwhelming.

Imalu swooped in to Aelus’s rescue. “Aelus is one of our newest Eyes. He serves Lady Nivae’s household.”

“An Eye?” Myrra’s brows knitted prettily as she focused in on his irises, and Aelus winced. “How very interesting.” She paused. “Wait, you mentioned Nivae. Wasn’t their Eye⁠—?”

A jagged lump formed in Aelus’s throat, and Imalu gave his arm a comforting squeeze.

“We’re thankful for the time we spent with Talat,” Imalu said in a somber tone. “It was too short, but when is it not?”

“Indeed.” Myrra bowed her head as if offering up a silent prayer, chestnut hair curtaining her face. When she looked up, Aelus was surprised to see her eyes bright with unshed tears. She took Aelus’s hands in her own, thumbs sliding over his knuckles like warm honey. “Please, express my condolences to your household. It’s a unique pain, losing one’s protector.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Aelus instead gave a solemn nod.

“Actually”—she looked at Radrin, as if wordlessly exchanging thoughts with him— “if I may be so bold, I would like to personally offer my condolences to your employer. At present, I’m busy preparing for my upcoming rally, but there’s an opera at the Mèlore four days hence. Perhaps all three of you would like to attend as my guests?”

“All three of us?”

“You, your employer, and your ward—Cordè, wasn’t it?”

Bewildered, Aelus glanced at Imalu, who merely watched the scene unfold with his hands tucked in his sleeves.

Aelus cleared his throat. “I’d…I’d be honored, my lady.”

“Myrra,” she corrected teasingly. “I’ll send an official invitation this afternoon.” A pause, then she squeezed his hand one more time. “I do hope to see you, Aelus. And now, Chief Archivist, if you’d be so kind?”

She released Aelus and, holding out an arm, allowed Imalu to escort her into the belly of the Mithraeum, Radrin at their heels.

It wasn’t until the doors closed Aelus realized he forgot to say “By His Gaze.”

True to her word, Myrra’s invitation arrived just after lunch, sealed with white wax and stamped with a “V.”

Linnaea, to her credit, didn’t question the circumstances. Cordè, meanwhile, expressed her disbelief quite vocally— “Why would Myrra Velta be interested in Aelus?”—before pulling Ysabelle away to choose an outfit for the event.

The opera, La Rébellis et Deorum, was scheduled to be performed at the Mèlore, the Rose’s grandest theater, four days hence. Not a lot of time for Aelus to scout, but between Ysabelle and Haniel’s working knowledge of the district (Ysa often ran errands for Cordè, and Haniel had a deep, abiding love for ballet), Aelus collected the necessary information: two thousand seats, multiple levels and entrances, no guards aside from a volunteer group of retired Blade. Clearly the theater was not designed for security.

Frowning, Aelus picked cat hairs off his freshly-washed surcoat as a low giggle emanated from Cordè’s room. Then: “Ysa, where’s my cloak?”

Aelus blinked as Cordè strode into the hallway. She looked…nice, he supposed. Her honey eyes were rimmed in kohl, ears decorated with a half-dozen tiny silver studs, and her tresses spilled down her back in a waterfall of tumbling blonde curls.

Ignoring him, Cordè buttoned her cloak over the plunging neckline of her sapphire dress, then glanced up. “Ready?”

Although night had fallen, the Rose district seemed to repel the darkness. Strings of teardrop-shaped lanterns hung amidst the natural greenery, glittering like golden stars, while songs and merrymaking echoed from candlelit marble bathhouses and fenced-in parks. The sidewalks swarmed with fashionable cosmopolites toting wine glasses, furry handbags, or pets. Theater guests, Aelus assumed.

Assumed correctly, it turned out. In fact, the closer they got to the Mèlore, the more adventurous people’s styles became: diamond-encrusted bodices, snakeskin boots, flowering headdresses several feet high.

The instant Ro brought the horses to a stop, Aelus swiftly clambered out and offered Cordè and Linnaea his hand. As expected, Cordè brushed him aside. Linnaea, however, accepted the gesture with a prim nod and led the party into the sparkling nebula of elegance and cologne.

While everything in the Rose embodied the term “beauty,” the Mèlore Theater existed in a realm all its own. Ribbed pillars ringed in creeping ivy supported the three-tiered structure, each level stacked like one of Haniel’s cakes. Statues of dancers lined the perimeter, limestone faces angled toward the Mèlore’s curtained depths.

The theater was truly exquisite—and far, far too dangerous. Too many hazards, too many spaces for threats to slip in unnoticed. And that was just the outside. The interior was even worse. Here, guests converged like flies on a carcass, laughing, smiling, clasping hands. Yet the edges of those smiles seemed too keen, the trill of merriment too hollow to be genuine.

Unease rippled down Aelus’s spine.

Maybe he was overreacting. Overthinking, as he so often did. This wasn’t a trap, this was a theater. Filled with Eyes guarding their rich, fancy wards. But even his brothers’ presence failed to provide a semblance of comfort, because wasn’t this how Talat spent his final evening? Surrounded by people and lights and glamor? Eyes had been present then, too, yet he’d died all the same.

Aelus strengthened his grip on Nightbane, still mulling his worries, when Cordè skidded to a halt.

Frowning, he peered over her mass of thick curls and froze.

A svelte, well-postured man approached, dressed in a velvet cape that trailed behind him like a river of blood. Candlefire reflected in the gleam of his hooded eyes, emphasizing his artfully cut features. His movements, though quick, were purposeful. Calm. And he had an unsettling air to him, an oily slickness Aelus found disconcerting.

This was Parsyn de Valle. Of that, there was no doubt.

Slipping closer to Cordè, Aelus kept a steady hand on his blade and noticed, with passing curiosity, that Parsyn walked unaccompanied by Eyes. Odd.

“Lord de Valle,” Linnaea greeted.

“A pleasure to see you again, Linnaea.” Parsyn’s voice mirrored his suited appearance: controlled, polished. He leveled an unblinking stare at Cordè. “My sympathies for your loss.”

Cordè bowed her head, expressionless. “Thank you, my lord.”

But his attention had already returned to Linnaea. “I trust you’re still able to connect with the Ravethinian diplomat?”

“We’ve arranged to meet in Karnath.”

“Karnath?” Parsyn’s faint brows jumped.

“The diplomat admires the Fête d’Azalée,” Linnaea explained.

“Ah. My wife has long wished to visit the city’s open-air markets, and I promised an adventure for our tenth anniversary. When do you leave?”

“Nine days hence.”

“Excellent. We’ll travel together; I have the perfect lodgings in mind.”

Linnaea cleared her throat. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable⁠—”

“I insist.” Parsyn’s smile sharpened, became lethal. “It’ll be like old times.”

A chime rang from deep within the Mèlore, and conversations dimmed as elven attendants began extinguishing the lanterns.

“I believe that’s our cue.” Parsyn straightened, gaze flitting over Aelus before returning to Linnaea. “Enjoy the opera.”

The moment Parsyn was swallowed by the crowd, Cordè whirled to Linnaea.

“You’re letting him come?”

“Hush, child.” Linnaea dug her manicured nails into Cordè’s arm. “Do not speak ill of our Head. Not here.” Another bell sounded, and Linnaea gestured to the gauze-and-lavender wrapped railing. “Let’s not keep Lady Velta waiting.”

Three more chimes filtered through the marble atrium as they climbed to the top level. Unlike the well-lit entrance, the upper floors were shrouded in darkness—a hindrance that wouldn’t have been a hindrance at all if Aelus had received the Sight. But he hadn’t. And the reminder chafed as he trailed Linnaea to the curtained alcove at the end of the hall.

He halted her entry with a raised hand. “Allow me.”

Cordè lifted her eyes to the painted ceiling in exasperation as he cautiously stepped into Myrra’s box.

Quiet stillness greeted him.

He frowned and moved further inside. Decent space between boxes, no threats, no sharp objects to be used as weapons.

And no Myrra.

The curtains swished open, nearly startling Aelus out of his skin, as Cordè sashayed to the four high-backed seats near the front.

His nostrils flared. “I didn’t give the all-clear.”

“It’s a twenty-foot by twenty-foot box with nothing in it except screwed-down seats and a coat stand. How many possible dangers could it hold?”

“Plenty.”

“Enough.” Linnaea shot them a look deadly enough to wither steel and claimed the chair to Cordè’s left. “I will not have bickering be the first thing Lady Velta hears when she arrives.”

Aelus hesitated. “She will come, yes?”

“Myrra is a woman of her word. Now, hush, the opera’s about to start.”

Aelus positioned himself near the rear as a low drone sounded from the pit, quiet at first, then steadily, as more and more instruments joined in, the drone brightened to a feverish hum. Once the attendants quenched the final lanterns, the stage’s curtains reeled open and La Rébellis et Deorum began.

The opera was a familiar tale, depicting Illüne’s rebellion against The Father, god of all gods, half a millennia ago. It followed Illüne’s subsequent banishment, alongside her three siblings and their human followers, and their journey across the Ember Ocean to the distant island of Nemè. Through arias and recitatives, ensemble pieces and choruses, the play presented the whole of Nemèan history: settling the land, educating the primitive elves, pioneering a new and enlightened civilization.

Aelus glanced at Cordè during Illüne’s dueling duet with Haal. He wondered if she appreciated Illüne’s selfless defense of the elves, even as Haal sang of righteous conquest. But if Cordè had a reaction, she didn’t express it, at least not in a way Aelus could see while stationed behind her.

The duet concluded with a rageful, discordant note from Haal as the curtain abruptly dropped. A pause, then the atrium lanterns relit, signaling intermission. Low murmurs buzzed from below as the audience scoured their programs, as if attempting to guess the plot of act two.

Aelus didn’t need to guess. Every Faithful knew the gods’ story by heart: Illüne would mysteriously vanish, Haal would blame elves and take up arms, the brothers’ alliance would fracture, and Nemè would bear the cost. Haal, cutting a bloody path north, would go on to create Ravethin, while Reneir stayed behind to establish Dusera. And Khastus⁠—

The box’s velvet curtains fluttered open, bringing with them a scent of honeysuckle.

“Forgive my lateness,” Myrra Velta said as the lights reignited for intermission, a solemn-looking Radrin at her heels. “I had some Première administrators insisting we finalize my rally’s venue.”

Linnaea and Cordè nodded in unison to Myrra while Aelus and Radrin clasped arms.

“By His Gaze,” Aelus said.

“May We See.” Radrin inclined his head, dusky lamplight emphasizing the foxlike angles of his mustachioed face.

Myrra dangled a lace-covered hand for Aelus to kiss. “So pleased you could attend.”

“As am I, Lady V—” He caught himself, and she grinned. “Myrra.”

Niceties concluded, Myrra’s smile lost its luster. She sank into her chair, smoothed her silver taffeta dress, and sighed. “As Aelus might have mentioned, I want to extend my deepest condolences for your loss. Though I didn’t know Talat well, I sensed how much he cared about his duty. And about you,” she said to Cordè, whose mouth twitched into a brief, close-lipped smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “But I must apologize for the false pretenses.”

Linnaea crossed her legs. “Your condolences aren’t the only thing you wish to express, I take it?” Her pleasant demeanor never wavered, though her voice had grown sharp. Thorny.

To her credit, Myrra did not wince. “I assure you, my sympathy is entirely genuine. But you’re right; there is another matter I wish to speak on.”

“Are you offering us tickets to your rally?” Linnaea asked dryly.

Myrra’s expression didn’t shift a muscle. “I don’t believe Talat jumped off the roof, and I suspect neither do you.”

Aelus stiffened.

“A dangerous statement,” Linnaea said neutrally. “I assume you have evidence to contradict your Legion’s verdict?”

“... I do.”

“I see.” Linnaea relaxed into her chair, nails drumming against the armrests like talons. “And what would a woman of your particular beliefs want from a member of the Rose?”

“Your vote at the summit,” Myrra said simply.

“An expensive request—one that’s not within my power to give, as you well know.”

Myrra dipped her head in affirmation. “After hearing so much about Parsyn’s shrewd handling of Ravethin during their elf crisis, I expected him to be more forward-thinking. Alas, I found him rather…myopic. I expect his Tharonian wife might be to blame for that.”

“Your ties to the Order are well known, and Parsyn cares little for religious propaganda. I imagine he didn’t think much of your offer.”

“He did not, no. Though he certainly enjoyed my cabernet.”

“So, you sought me out instead. I’m flattered,” Linnaea said, tone indicating she was anything but.

“Though you play the supportive role well, everyone knows your intellect is wasted as Parsyn’s Second. True, the Rose hasn’t suffered under Parsyn’s leadership, yet neither has it flourished. And I can’t help but wonder if that isn’t a little intentional on your part.”

“You’re either very confident or very desperate to be so forthcoming.”

Myrra swallowed. “My Eye—the Eye I had before my dear Radrin—was killed by a disease that pushed warm blood out of his tear ducts. It was grotesque, a fate second to none save cold-blooded murder. People are dying, and the only way I can avoid feeling helpless is to do something about it…a frustration I’m sure you can relate to.”

Linnaea’s glass-like expression didn’t change, though the air around her shifted a bit. “What exactly is your plan?”

“I need information. The kind that might derail Parsyn’s political aspirations. Permanently. Once he’s out of the way, I imagine you would take his place. And,” Myrra gave a coy little smile, “dare I hope, cast your vote in my favor as the Rose’s newly-elected Head.”

Linnaea leaned over and ran her fingers in a contemplative manner along her chin, the motion echoing the one she’d done after first meeting Aelus some three or four weeks ago.

“If I do this⁠—”

Cordè’s protest burst out of her like a horn. “You can’t be serious!”

“Quiet, girl.”

Both Cordè and Aelus blanched at Linnaea’s caustic tone. Ward and mentor stared at each other, as if they were having a conversation Aelus wasn’t privy to. Then Cordè broke away and slouched in her seat with a spiteful huff.

Myrra, who’d observed the entire interaction without comment, now tilted toward Linnaea like she was about to spoil a secret. “You know, ever since the ball, I’ve wondered why a woman such as yourself would endure so much trouble to raise an elf as your ward. It must have been a terrible headache getting her through Duseran customs.”

“I bought Cordè for the same reason Parsyn paid a handsome dowry to marry one of Tharon’s thirteen heiresses: politics.”

Aelus stared very hard at Linnaea, who did not seem to care.

“Now,” Linnaea said, “I’ll need time to gather blackmail on Parsyn.”

“The vote isn’t until the summertide solstice. You have until then.”

“And Talat?”

Myrra gave another one of her simpering smiles. “I recommend you look into a Première maid, Serasha Yvon. Apparently, she convinced the lead investigator to falsify the report.”

Cordè’s expression shifted, just a little, but enough for Aelus to notice. The name rang a bell for her, of that he was certain.

Straightening, Aelus did his best to feign disinterest as Linnaea murmured her thanks.

Radrin cleared his throat. “Myrra, the letter.”

“Ah, yes.” She motioned to Radrin, who pulled a folded slip of paper out of his surcoat. “Call it a token of good faith.”

Linnaea took the missive and, to Aelus’s chagrin, held it so only she could read its contents. “You’re certain?”

Myrra nodded.

Not a muscle twitched as Linnaea tucked the letter in her bodice. “Is that all?”

“Not quite. There is one more thing.” Here, Myrra turned and reached not for Radrin, but for Aelus. “Forgive my trickery.”

Aelus regarded her, conflicted. Good intentions or no, being manipulated made his flesh crawl. But she’d brought them valuable information, albeit at a cost, and the Seers held her in high esteem. Plus her regret seemed genuine.

He offered her a deep bow. “All’s forgiven.”

Myrra’s grateful smile lit up the otherwise gloomy box. “If you have a need, Aelus, send for me. Though I expect you’ll hear from me soon; there’s a matter I wish to discuss with you. And if you would like tickets for my rally”—her smile took on a cheeky sparkle—“you need only ask.”

Down below, the lanterns started to wink out, and a chime pealed through the hall. “Ah, perfect timing.” Myrra settled into her seat. “Would you care for a refreshment, Lady Nivae? I’ve heard the great drama between Haal and Reneir is best enjoyed with champagne.”

Linnaea’s brows rose. “Great drama?”

“Oh, yes.” Myrra nodded at Radrin, and he left to fetch drinks. “Twin brothers who blame each other for the fate of their lost sister. It should be quite the production. I was told they even bought pig’s blood.”

Aelus blinked. Pig’s blood?

With that, the curtains split, and the second act began.

The blood, as it turned out, was a prop. It added realism to Reneir and Haal’s climactic duel and made the battle sequences far more gruesome than Aelus anticipated. But once the fighting concluded, so did the opera. And as everyone applauded, Myrra quietly took her leave. Linnaea, Cordè, and Aelus followed soon after, moods far more somber than before; even Linnaea, whose expression always seemed caught between pleasant and superior, looked grim.

The strange rift between Linnaea and Cordè continued all the way to the carriage. Once the door clicked shut, however, the coldness melted.

Cordè made a sharp tsk sound with her tongue. “What a horrible woman.”

“You did well.” Linnaea placed a hand on Cordè’s knee—and maybe it was Aelus’s imagination, but he thought he saw Linnaea’s face soften in silent apology.

“You planned that, didn’t you?” Aelus asked. “The whole play-act thing?”

Both Cordè and Linnaea stared at him as if the answer were obvious.

Swallowing the urge to pout like a sullen child, Aelus laid Nightbane flat across his thighs and fiddled with the scabbard. “So, what next?”

“I suppose now we should investigate this…Serasha,” Linnaea said.

Aelus turned to Cordè, efforting to keep the accusation from his voice. “You know her?”

“I know her employer,” Cordè said pertly. She turned to Linnaea. “What about Parsyn?”

Parsyn. A new suspect, one who’d soon be accompanying them to Karnath. Aelus knew about Parsyn—the Scholars insisted every acolyte learn the current Legion Heads—but he didn’t know him. Not like Linnaea and Cordè did.

“I’ll reach out to my contacts,” Linnaea said. “Have them keep an ear out.”

Cordè perked up. “I could visit Beni later this week. If he’s still dealing illim to the de Valle steward, I could⁠—”

“No.”

“No?” Cordè stared at Linnaea, gold irises burning in the dark. “I’ve been sitting on my ass for weeks. I can’t keep doing nothing while you help an anti-elf activist get elected judge.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Helping Myrra?” The passing lanterns made Linnaea’s spectacles flash starwhite. “I thought you knew me better than that, child.”

Aelus cleared his throat, one last question hooked on his mind.

“What about Myrra’s letter?”

Linnaea’s brows rose. “What about it?”

Aelus hesitated. Though Linnaea’s tone was still wrapped in silvery ribbons, her expression spoke volumes: she did not intend to tell him about the letter’s contents, and the particular look she wore made him feel embarrassed for asking. So, he let the matter lie.

The rest of the journey passed in taut silence, broken periodically by bouts of merriment outside, the rhythmic clopping of hooves, and the restless rat-tat-tat of Aelus’s fingers on Nightbane’s hilt. When they arrived home, however, they were greeted by an immaculate Farren holding a stamped missive in their gloved hand.

“A letter arrived while you were away, my lady. From Captain Locke.” Cordè rushed forward, but Farren snatched it away. “…for Master Mireau.”

Frowning, Aelus cautiously opened the envelope.

Eirene’s Tavern. Day after tomorrow, third chime. Don’t be late.

—O

THIRTEEN

“Refill, my lord?”

“Hmm?” Aelus tore his gaze from his new book.

The tavern attendant smiled, a splash of white teeth amidst a young, freckled face. She gestured at Aelus’s empty mug with her soapstone pitcher. “More honey caffe?”

“Oh, yes. Please.”

A bittersweet aroma wafted up Aelus’s nose as she filled his cup and set a porcelain caster of creamer next to his crumb-covered plate. A full sugar caster followed.

“Would your horse care for another biscuit?”

Aelus spared a wry glance at Daphne, who was tied to the horse’s post two feet from his veranda seat. She perked up, ears flicking back and forth, and chuffed excitedly.

“It appears so,” Aelus chuckled. “And a hazelnut éclair as well. My ward is ill.”

Tsking in sympathy, the attendant cleared the table of empty dishes as Aelus propped his feet on the opposite chair and reopened his book. He’d bought the tome at the almshouse-turned-library next to Eirene’s Tavern, and it was as good as he’d hoped: full of Hilaraan pîerat adventures featuring a reluctant yet determined hero and their merry band of chaotic misfits. Definitely not Order-approved.

Aelus read another chapter while periodically skimming the crowded streets. No sign of Orien or Xillah.

Apprehension curdled in Aelus’s belly. Had Orien forgotten? What if Xillah had lost track of time healing the bloodrot—or worse, another Etherian had been taken?

The Artificer clock tower chimed. Bong. Bong. Bong.

Two people turned the corner just as the final peal dimmed: one clad in leather armor, the other draped in light, creamy fabrics and gleaming like a pearl.

Orien and Xillah. Right on time.

Aelus stood and strapped on his sword, attention falling to the coiled whip at Orien’s waist. She hadn’t worn it during dinner. In fact, she hadn’t worn any weapons at all. Now she had a whip, a falchion, a dirk strapped to her thigh, and a wicked-looking throwing knife tucked into her vambrace. Apparently, she expected trouble. So did Aelus, though he’d hidden his stiletto inside his boot instead of displaying it out in the open.

Xillah waved. “Illüne’s Light restore you. Have you been waiting long?”

“I got here early to see what was around.” He bowed to Orien. “Captain.”

Orien returned the greeting, the motion every bit as rigid as his. Her attention flitted to Aelus’s mount, and a vein on her forehead started to throb. She raised her hands to chest-level, fingers weaving those same strange patterns she’d performed during dinner. “You brought a horse?” she signed, Xillah translating.

He stiffened. “Daphne is well-trained and capable of accompanying us wherever we go.”

“She’ll slow us down.”

“No, she won’t.”

Xillah cut in, voice soft as cotton. “Friends, how about we put grudges aside and enjoy some orange scones?” She offered up a basket, a sweetly citrus aroma emanating from its depths. “Besides, we all want the same thing here, yes?”

Aelus sobered slightly. Xillah had a point—and those scones smelled divine.

Offering Orien a quick albeit stiff smile, he thrust out a hand. Orien’s lips thinned, but she took it, though not without giving him an unnecessarily tight squeeze.

Xillah beamed and, after a nod of confirmation from Aelus, gave Daphne a pastry as well. Daphne devoured the treat, all the while eyeing the strange, glowing woman, then nuzzled Xillah’s curls. Xillah laughed, bell-like and lovely.

The knot inside Aelus’s gut loosened. Daphne had good instincts.

The attendant returned, paper-wrapped goodies in hand, and Aelus handed her three gold venati in thanks. Her eyes went as wide as saucers. “Th-thank you, my lord.”

When he turned back around, Orien was already halfway across the street.

Aelus’s anxiety spiked. “Wait!” He shoved his belongings in his saddle bags and unhitched Daphne. “Where are we going?”

Orien halted, shoulders squared with obvious impatience while Xillah smiled and said, “The Hall of Justice.”

Aelus grimaced. He’d seen the Hall of Justice from afar during his initial walkthrough. But, eager to escape the Triumvirate’s sterile streets, he’d left before getting the chance to study it. Now, as he gazed up at the behemoth-sized Hall from the bottom steps, his original malaise returned, along with that feeling of smallness. Aelus turned away from the brilliant whiteness and tied a disgruntled Daphne to the horses’ post. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmured before jogging to catch up to Orien and Xillah.

The Hall, a keyhole-shaped marble monstrosity, lorded over the blinding sea of snow-white buildings like a king on his throne. Light poured through the fence of gold-rimmed pillars, catching on the smoke-thin banners that bore the Triumvirate’s three androgynous faces.

Size-wise, this Hall rivaled the Mithraeum’s Great Hall. As with all other aspects of this district, everything here was ordered, logical, and sparing with its use of rococos and arabesques. The building had three main atriums laid out in a perfect line: the Chamber of Discernment, where the three Triumvirate Heads sat and bestowed judgment; the Chamber of Law, where the magistrates gathered and deliberated; and the Chamber of Education, where professors, educators, and even students could request texts and other resources.

The stairs deposited Aelus, Xillah, and Orien at the doorstep of the Chamber of Law, the largest of the three and the building’s midpoint. A series of pillared arches branched to the east and west, and through the gaps winked glorious Val’dora and its bustling crowds.

Xillah tugged on Aelus’s chainmail sleeve. “Look.” She indicated the four 50-foot statues spread about the atrium like points of a compass. “Aren’t they splendid? That one in the center is Illüne. The twins, Reneir and Haal, are on her left and right. And Khastus, god of insight, is on the far side of the Hall, presiding over the Chamber of Law.”

Aelus studied the marble faces. Of the four, he found Illüne’s depiction closest to his imaginings; Haal seemed too kind, Reneir too soft, Khastus too imposing. But Illüne’s likeness was perfect: beautiful, but not haughty. It was regal and soft and compelling. Like Myrra Velta.

“Have you met Lady Velta?” he asked Xillah—shouted, more like, as the howl of wind and the surrounding din of conversation threatened to drown out his voice.

Xillah smiled. “Oh, yes. She visits the neighborhood often, helping lünaden with the bloodrot, having errsu with the matrons.”

“Does she seem…genuine?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does she actually want to help or is she just pretending?”

Xillah’s brilliant grin dimmed. “Her zeal to cure the bloodrot is second to none, save the Order’s. I’ve seen her cry with dying Eyes, hold their hands as they vomit gore on her skirts.”

The description made Aelus’s throat tighten, and he swallowed against a surge of involuntary memories. He remembered a newly-anointed Eye, not a friend but an acquaintance, collapsing in the courtyard, his face a mess of pus and crimson. He remembered a Scholar stopping mid-lesson because he didn’t feel well, then dying halfway to the Etherians.

And after Talat’s death, Aelus remembered thinking, fleetingly, that maybe being flung off a balcony was better than aspirating blood.

“Is there any hope for a cure?” Aelus asked.

A ripple of sadness distorted Xillah’s soft, round features. She shook her head. “All we know for certain is that the bloodrot isn’t contagious—either through blood, fluids, or air—and that Eyes remain the sole victims.”

“I was hoping there’d been progress,” he said. “Imalu said the Seers are contemplating sending acolytes to join the Scholars. Try and cover more ground.”

Xillah paused, and when she spoke again, she seemed to be choosing her words with care. “While I respect our brothers’ beliefs, I am not sure the Legions are to blame.”

“If not the Legions, then who?”

Instead of replying, Xillah patted his arm. “Come. Let me tell you about our goddess.”

Xillah continued to feed Aelus snippets of Etherian lore as Orien led them through the eastern archways: everything from their extended life span to their distant homeland, Elusia, and how its sacred pools chose matrons to bear new life. Some bits he already knew, but he let Xillah’s narration go uninterrupted. He enjoyed her warm, rhythmic accent and found her company soothing.

Aelus followed Orien’s blue cape around a chatty tourist group and into another, grander atrium. Unlike the previous chamber, this one did not boast an open ceiling and instead featured locked bronze doors shrouded in gigantic swaths of white silk.

Orien gestured to the four armored Eyes cloistered by a pillar on the opposite side of the room. “The Eye we’re after has white hair and a golden earring,” Xillah translated. The aforementioned Eye was not familiar to Aelus, but the Mithraeum housed several thousand Faithful; it’d be impossible to know them all.

“I’m going to stay here,” Orien signed. “I doubt I’d be warmly received.”

Aelus nodded and, keeping Xillah tucked safely against his side, headed toward the Eyes.

Thanks to Xillah’s magical skin, they were spotted at once—by the white-haired Eye, no less. He nudged his companions, and the chatter gave way to a chorus of “By His Gazes” and cheerful arm clasps that Aelus accepted with a grateful smile.

“A pleasure, brothers,” Aelus said. “Fresh from patrol, I take it?”

They nodded. A younger Eye, one with glossy golden hair and a scar marring his sandy complexion, asked, “What brings you to Val’dora?”

“Urgent business from the Seers.”

The Eyes stilled, and Aelus gestured to the Eye Orien had pointed out earlier. “May I speak with you? In private?”

The white-haired man’s forehead wrinkled. “What’s this about, boy?”

“Just have a couple questions for you, Brother⁠—?”

“Whitman. Regarding?”

“One of your reports.”

Whitman’s forehead crumpled further. “You said the Seers sent you?” Aelus nodded, and Whitman frowned but gave his consent.

Xillah stepped forward, basket in hand. “Would anyone like a scone?”

It appeared not even full-fledged Eyes were immune to the power of pastries; as Aelus led Whitman across the room, the remaining Faithful eagerly swarmed around Xillah.

Once Whitman and Aelus came within earshot of Orien, Aelus stopped and bowed. “I⁠—”

“Mind telling me the truth now?”

“I-I’m sorry?”

“Seers don’t send acolytes to talk to Eyes, and they certainly don’t send acolytes with Blade. Or did you think I’d miss that blue cape of yours, missy?” Whitman glared at Orien’s pillar, then fixed Aelus with a flinty look. “I may be old, boy, but I still have the Sight.”

Orien emerged from her cover, arms folded, expression unapologetic.

Whitman gave her a dismissive scan and jerked his bearded chin at Xillah. “So, what unites a Faithful, an Etherian, and a Blade?”

Aelus glanced at Orien. She nodded. Tell him.

“About two weeks ago, an Etherian lünaden went missing. We think you might have seen something that could aid us in our search.”

“A lünaden? Wait.” Whitman scanned Orien again, more thoroughly this time. “You tried talking to me earlier, didn’t you? Why’s the Blade interested in a missing Etherian?”

“Because it’s not just a lünaden who’s gone missing,” Aelus said. “There are others.”

“That so?” Whitman scowled at Orien, who scowled back. “Care to explain?”

The harsh accusation made Aelus stiffen. He had no love for Blade, but Orien wasn’t the one responsible. “Orien’s with us,” he said. “She’s trying to help find who’s taking Etherians.”

“Well, she won’t have to go far. Your missing lünaden was taken by Blade.”

Aelus blanched. “What?”

A noise of protest escaped Orien’s throat. And while Xillah wasn’t around to interpret Orien’s frenzied finger-dancing, Aelus got the gist.

Liar.

“You’re sure?” Aelus asked Whitman.

“Sure I’m sure. Blue capes, leather armor, moving like their asses were on fire. Remember thinking it was odd their hoods were up, being nighttime and all. Never suspected they were doing anything nefarious ‘til I heard about the missing lünaden. Then it dawned on me: I’d seen ‘em right on the edge of the Etherian neighborhood.”

“Could it have been mercenaries?”

“Dressed as Blade? Seems unlikely. Besides, everyone knows the Blade has it out for us. Never thought they’d stoop so low as to steal our sisters, though.”

Orien lurched forward.

A glowing hand stopped her as Xillah slipped into the conversation with ease, iridescent skin scattering color along the floor like fractured diamonds. She sent Whitman one of her brilliant smiles. “Forgive the interruption, but your brothers need you.”

Sure enough, Aelus spied the Eyes waiting by the silk-draped entrance.

Whitman harrumphed. “So they do.” His gruffness faded as he tipped his chin at Xillah and Aelus. “By His Gaze.” Then, ignoring Orien, he left to rejoin his companions.

The moment the Eyes vanished beneath the silk, Xillah’s smile dropped. “What’s wrong, my love?”

Aelus absentmindedly scratched his neck as Orien filled Xillah in.

Xillah frowned. “I see. That is…troubling.”

Orien’s fingers flitted another second or two.

“No, of course not. You’d never allow it.” Xillah cupped Orien’s cheek gently in her palm. “I’m sorry, ‘Rien. I know this wasn’t what you expected. But in a way, Whitman’s news is good: if a Blade is responsible, you’re the best person to find out who and why.”

Orien nodded, lids fluttering shut as she touched her forehead to Xillah’s.

After they broke apart, Aelus studied Orien. “Can you think of any suspects?”

Her eyes dulled, and she shook her head.

“Could Medôn have organized the kidnapping?”

Orien snorted. “Doubt it. He’s no leader—not like his grandfather was.”

“Is Medôn capable of murder?”

Something on Aelus’s face must’ve made it clear he was referencing Talat’s death, because Orien’s composure changed. She straightened and fixed Aelus with a razor-sharp glare that sliced him to the bone. “Your Order thinks a Blade killed Talat?”

Too late for Aelus to backtrack now. “Yes.”

“Based on what?”

“Medôn was missing at the time of Talat’s death.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“That’s it?”

Indignation ignited in Aelus’s veins. “There wasn’t a lot to go on.”

“No shit.”

Aelus’s nostrils flared. Clearly Orien had decided she wasn’t going to be helpful. “Perhaps I should return to my ward.”

Orien folded her arms and thrust out her chin. Fine, her expression said. Go.

“Wait. What about schekloss?” Xillah asked.

Tempting, but all the schekloss in Nemè wasn’t worth enduring Orien’s spiteful stare. “Thank you, but it appears I’m no longer welcome.”

“At least let me escort you out. Please?”

Aelus readied a refusal. Then Xillah’s face crumpled inward, and the sight twisted his heartstrings so thoroughly he couldn’t say anything except, “All right.”

Xillah’s pearly glimmer brightened. She handed her basket to Orien, took Aelus’s arm, and led him out. They walked in silence for a time, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts. Halfway through the Hall, Xillah squeezed his elbow.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Uh. Fine, I suppose.”

“Really? You don’t look fine.”

He eyed the world beyond the Hall’s pillars, avoiding Xillah’s compassionate stare as he chewed on his response. Finally, he admitted, “I’m frustrated. I should have answers by now.”

“About Talat?”

Aelus nodded. “Everyone’s counting on me, and I have nothing to show for it except a bigger pile of questions. I thought Orien might help but, well… you saw how that went.”

“Have you asked her for help?”

“I inquired about Medôn⁠—”

“Asking if one’s Head is responsible for murder is not the same as asking for help.”

Aelus flushed, and Xillah strengthened her grip around his elbow. “I won’t excuse Orien’s behavior or her prejudices. They’re hers to learn and overcome. But I will say this: she’s no stranger to loss or hardship or expectations. After her mother died, Orien left the Artificers because she wanted to protect people. Like the Faithful do. Like you do.”

He fell silent. Truth be told, he hadn’t paid Orien’s origins much heed—she hadn’t given him reason to care. But now a single thread of commonality existed between them, a heartbreak he would not wish upon even the wickedest of Blades.

It wasn’t until they reached Daphne’s post that Xillah spoke again. “You know, as a lünaden, I’m well-trained in healing others’ emotions. If you like, I can attempt to heal yours.” She raised a plump hand.

After a moment’s consideration, he acquiesced, kneeling so Xillah could reach his brow.

The second she touched his skin, his eyes fluttered shut of their own accord. It seemed Xillah’s magic, the magic of a lünaden, was different from Zenzi’s. The older Etherian had infused her magic into ingredients—honey, crushed quartz, herbs—before switching to a basic salve. Xillah, by comparison, used naught but her fingertips.

Aelus breathed, opening his senses as a tepid pressure wrapped around his head, hugging but not entering. It felt distant. Muffled. Like someone was yelling across a mile-wide chasm.

“Strange,” Xillah murmured.

Aelus opened his eyes as Xillah withdrew. “What’s strange?”

“My magic can’t reach you. Your emotions, I mean.”

“Has that happened before?”

Instead of answering, her troubled expression deepened. “I should return to Orien.”

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” A glimmer of Xillah’s usual radiance returned as she cupped his bearded face and kissed his forehead. He soaked in the contact, however small. “Goddess guide you, Aelus. We’ll see each other again soon.”

With that, she departed—leaving Aelus with a lot to mull.

He checked the sun’s position. Half past five, give or take, which meant Haniel was just starting dinner. And if there was one thing Aelus knew for certain, it was that Haniel refused to save food once it was already cooked.

“Let’s head back,” Aelus said to Daphne. “Cordè will be missing her pastry.”

Daphne nickered, and he patted her mane. “Yeah, I hope she’s feeling better, too.”

FOURTEEN

In Cordè’s defense, it hadn’t been a lie. Not really. She had woken up with an awful headache—likely a souvenir from last night’s wine indulgence—but it’d dissipated by mid-afternoon. So, with nothing else to do, she’d decided to take a walk.

In the direction of Camellia Court.

And she had, quite accidentally, forgotten to tell Linnaea.

Prior to the carriage crash, it’d been months since Cordè visited that part of the Rose. Camellia Court skirted the district’s perimeter along the city wall, far enough away from the bustle of downtown as to not offend Val’dora’s more demure denizens. Not everyone appreciated having their metropolitan soundtrack underscored by groans of pleasure or airy, erotic sighs.

A clatter of bells interrupted the gentle murmur of late-afternoon activity. Cordè went on her tiptoes to see over a fellow pedestrian—and groaned. An Order evangelist stood at the mouth of the Court, his black robe a dreary stain upon the otherwise colorful scene.

“Renounce your impure ways or witness the bloodrot’s spread beyond the mountain!”

Cordè wondered if it was coincidence or deranged confidence that placed the poor man at the entrance of the city’s pleasure playground. He certainly didn’t seem to be having much luck in his proselytizing.

“Renounce the godsforged, lest the Watcher drown us all in blood!”

With a swish of her cherry-chocolate skirts, Cordè sidestepped the bell-ringing evangelist and started down Camellia Court.

The smell was what hit her first. Whereas neighboring avenues decorated their lampposts with gallberry blossoms and lavender sprigs, the Court used but one bloom: the vermillion vesper, a maroon orchid with a heady, erotic scent. Its aphrodisiacal petals served as garnish in the brothels’ apéritifs or could be ground into a fine powder and smoked through a pipe.

Halfway down the street, Cordè stopped outside a pleasure house that in no way stood out among the proximate stonefront buildings. Its only identifying detail was an artfully decorated sign featuring a pair of butterfly wings overlaid by looping script: Madame La Fay’s.

Humans unfamiliar with elven lore often equated Cordè’s people with faeries and sprites and other such mythical beasts. People like Madame La Fay capitalized on that by playing up the stereotypes, hence the wings. Even her name was a misnomer; Madame La Fay was really Madame Floding, born and raised in Val’dora, not a drop of elf blood in her veins. But her establishment catered to patrons with a predilection for elves, and Madame La Fay wasn’t the type to let a silly thing like authenticity interfere with profit.

Inside, wafts of amber and sandalwood erased the vesper’s floral aroma. The foyer furnishings were as offensive as Cordè remembered: decorative vines and primitive torches and wall hangings meant to be exotic but in reality were gaudy and cheap.

At the host stand sat a shapely older woman wearing heavy makeup and a wide, performative smile.

“Is that the Winter Lily gracing my doorstep once again?” Madame La Fay’s voice was throaty and strong, like she was pitching it to the back of a theater. Her bangles clinked as she spread her arms in welcome.

Cordè had no intention of embracing this woman. She curtsied instead.

Madame La Fay liked anything contiguous to nobility, so the curtsy delighted her. Her smile grew, and she held her chin higher, as if a crown rested atop her graying locks.

“Where’s that lady friend of yours? The quiet one with the enormous hair?”

In years past, Cordè had dragged Orien to Madame La Fay’s—not for brothel purposes, but because it had the best dance hall in the city. Some of Madame’s employees were quite bendy, and they’d perform extraordinary routines to onlookers’ roaring approval. Talat even tagged along once or twice; Cordè remembered the way his brows nearly brushed his hairline at the sight of a woman contorting backward between her legs.

But then Orien joined the Blade and could no longer consort with illim-peddlers and other lawbreakers. And Talat….

Shaking her head, Cordè refocused on Madame. “Just me today. Is Beni available?”

“I believe he finished with his client, yes.”

Cordè slid four gold venati onto the host stand. “I’d like a half-hour of his time.”

“You know which one’s his,” Madame la Fay said, motioning toward the stairs.

Beni’s was the last in a long corridor of bedchambers lined up like rooms in an inn. Cordè knocked twice and, without waiting for an answer, stepped inside.

The room was small and deceptively cozy, its decorative molding pinned with gossamer drapery similar to Cordè’s bedposts. She couldn’t remember who had copied who in that regard.

An elf sat at a table in the corner, shirt half undone as he shuffled a deck of cards. He didn’t acknowledge Cordè’s presence, so she took a moment to admire him. Beni was, after all, a sight to behold: big upturned eyes, a sharp nose, sinewy limbs that moved as if through water. He had a glowing copper complexion that paired oddly with his hair, which was nearly the same shade as Cordè’s—a color he manufactured using saffron and lye—and his lips curled into the kind of smile that made a person feel self-conscious for reasons they couldn’t verbalize.

It was precisely that smile he wore when he looked up and saw Cordè at his threshold. “Twice in one week?” He cut his card deck. “What have I done to deserve such a gift?”

Among his many talents, Beni had also mastered the art of sarcasm—to the point where Cordè often couldn’t tell when he was employing it. Instead of responding to what might have been a sincere greeting, she closed the door behind her and fixed him with a hard look. “You’re moonlighting at the Steed now? Can’t imagine your madam would be amenable to that.”

Beni shrugged. “I’m sure she wouldn’t be, if she knew.” He tipped back his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “How’s Linnaea?”

“I’m here on my own.”

“Are you now?” The shift in Beni’s demeanor would have been subtle to anyone who didn’t know him, but to Cordè, he might as well have ripped off the rest of his shirt.

However, that was not the reason for her visit. “I need information.”

He frowned. “Regarding?”

“Myrra Velta.”

Beni let out a bark of laughter. “You think that shrew has darkened any doorways within a dozen blocks of here?”

“Neither has Parsyn, but you’ve delivered plenty of information on him to Linnaea.”

“Fair point.”

All told, Linnaea had formed connections at seven of Camellia Court’s ten major pleasure houses; the other three remained untouched by House Nivae on the suspicion that Parsyn had spies in their ranks. While Beni wasn’t the only brothel worker on Linnaea’s payroll, he was arguably the most useful, simply because he managed to slither his way through an array of social circles. In a single night, he could wine and dine minor lordlings at the Rutting Steed then broker deals with petty illim dealers in Camellia Court’s back alleyways.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Beni said, “but the only piece of news I’ve heard about Myrra Velta is she’s planning a massive rally next month, and strangely, she neglected to invite any elves.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

Cordè paused. She liked Beni, enjoyed drinking with Beni, occasionally slept with Beni—but she did not trust Beni. Not fully, anyway. And certainly not to the extent of sharing secrets the size of Linnaea’s partnership with Myrra.

“I had an interesting conversation with her at the Illüne’s Day gala,” Cordè said instead.

“Oh? Did she call you a heathen and say you’d make a pretty slave for Ravethin’s High Commander?”

“She kissed me.”

Beni’s brows jumped. “Huh. Not what I would’ve expected, but then again, it’s not like she’d be the first powerful person who secretly enjoyed fucking the people she publicly vilified.”

“I heard she’s trying to get Parsyn’s vote,” Cordè said carefully. “Even visited him at his manor, but he said no. Did the de Valle steward mention that at all?”

“Alas, Savon’s been rather unhelpful as of late. He’s asscrack-deep in illim orders.”

“Anything useful there?”

“In the illim world? Not particularly. Though a little bird told me the toddlers running the Blade have become quite fond of the stuff.”

Unsurprising. Medôn Guitelet, Head of the Blade, had inherited the position from his capable, established, well-liked grandfather. As Cordè understood it, Medôn received the votes he needed on name alone, but in the two years since had only managed to demonstrate how very not his grandfather he was.

Hearing he spent his time gallivanting about Camellia Court with powder up his nose did little to alter Cordè’s image of the man disdainfully nicknamed “The Boy-King of the Blade.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Beni hesitate before reaching for her hand. “Savon also told me about Talat. I’m sorry.”

Cordè swallowed the familiar shard of ice that instantly formed in her throat. It still jarred her, having Talat’s name dropped into conversation so casually. Even when someone as beloved as Orien⁠—

A thought cut through the haze of heartache. Orien hadn’t known Talat was the Eye who’d been killed. Gaeton only knew because Linnaea informed him of such.

“Wait. Savon mentioned Talat by name?” Cordè asked in a rush. “Who told him? Parsyn?”

Beni’s brows furrowed. “I think he said one of Lady de Valle’s friends mentioned it. Apparently they were there.”

“At the gala?” Cordè demanded. Beni shrugged. “What’s the friend’s name?”

“You’d have to ask her. But good luck with that; Dionisia de Valle is a busy little bee.” He paused. “As is your mistress, by the by.”

“What do you mean?”

Beni bit his lip in a way Cordè knew drove his clients mad. “Nothing major. But the other day, Madame La Fay complained to me about feeling like Linnaea’s messenger mule. That’s not especially noteworthy; Madame’s always complaining about something. But she had a letter in her hand as she said it, and I swear I saw the Sollunese sovereignty crest printed at the bottom.”

Cordè, whose mind had already begun to swirl with Parsyn-shaped suspicions, batted away this new information like an annoying gnat. “Linnaea lived in Ravethin for nearly a decade. Of course she’s still keeping tabs on the place.”

“Sure, keeping tabs on Ravethin is one thing. Sending messages across the border about a brewing rebellion is quite another.”

Cordè wanted to argue, wanted to tell Beni to stop spreading lies in order to feel important…but hadn’t Gaeton just mentioned Sollund earlier in the week? The colonies are making another attempt at independence, he’d said.

She lifted her chin in defiance—of what, she didn’t know. “It doesn’t matter. You and I are Duserans now.”

“Not according to people like Myrra Velta.”

It was time to put an end to this topic of conversation. “Do you have anything else of interest for me?” she asked.

“I don’t.” Beni held up his deck of cards. “But the gods might.”

Cordè realized the cards he’d been shuffling earlier weren’t part of a regular deck used for Parlay or Four Pair. They were oracle cards, a staple in any elven household. Arranged in a specific layout, the images revealed the course of a person’s destiny as chosen by the gods.

“I have to get back,” she said.

“Come on. Aren’t you a little curious what they have to say?”

Cordè wasn’t, in fact, curious. But she recognized the look in Beni’s eyes; he wanted her to indulge his flight of fancy. And if sitting through one silly round of fortune telling kept her on his good side, she supposed it was a small price to pay.

She slid into the seat opposite him as he flipped over the top card and placed it horizontally in front of her. Three gold coins. Reward.

“Good one to start,” he said. “Something profitable is headed your way.”

“More information?”

“Possibly.” The connecting card showed a grinning face with a dagger clenched between its teeth, and Beni grimaced. Betrayal. “Ouch.”

“Should I be worried?” She eyed him from beneath the curtain of her lashes.

“The cards think so.”

The third image was of an opening oyster shell. She and Beni let out harmonizing snorts. Intimacy. No need to interpret that one.

The fourth card was Offering, a chained person of indiscriminate gender laid out on a pedestal. “I’ll be damned. You might get what you’re looking for after all.” Beni flipped over the fifth and final card, diagonal to its predecessor. “Or maybe not.”

Cordè flinched.

Consequence: a man plunging toward the ground, features warped by hideous laughter. Black feathers sprouted from his arms, his back, his torso. He was transforming into the moar d’inari, a daemon from elven lore that appeared as a magpie and denoted ill fortune. A harbinger of peril.

The thudding in Cordè’s chest quickened as she studied the figure’s dark curls.

She put her hand over the card. “As tremendously helpful as this has been, I do have to go.”

“Well, you certainly weren’t my most exhausting client of the day, that’s for damn sure.”

Cordè gave a reluctant huff of amusement. Then, as an afterthought, she slid Beni a venati from her purse.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

“A down payment. Keep an ear out for Parsyn; I’ll send Ysa by next week to collect anything you’ve uncovered.”

Beni tucked the gold into his pocket. “Want me to keep an ear out for Linnaea as well?”

Instead of answering, she stood and kissed him near the corner of his lips. “Thanks, B.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m not being selfless.” A cheeky gleam highlighted the deep mahogany of his eyes, and he rotated to swiftly kiss her mouth. It lasted just long enough for her to consider pulling him into bed, as she had so many times before, but she could think of better uses for her remaining coin.

She broke away, brushed her fingers along his jawline, and headed for the door.

“Careful climbing up that tree,” Beni called after her.

Sneaking back into the manor was always trickier than sneaking out.

Usually, Cordè was aided by the cover of night, but today she returned home a half-hour before dinnertime, and the sidewalks were busier than usual. And so it was with great care she slipped through the back alleyway to the side garden with the flowering pear tree.

It always looked taller from the base than it did from the window.

Slipping off her heels and hitching up her skirts, she hoisted herself onto the lowest branch. Her plait was loose and her forehead damp with sweat by the time she spilled into her room.

“Learn anything of interest?”

Linnaea sat on the foot of Cordè’s bed, legs crossed daintily.

“Of a sort.” Cordè tossed her shoes toward her closet with purposeful nonchalance.

“I thought we’d cracked this habit of yours. Sneaking out, even during the day, is reckless and immature.”

It was Linnaea’s tone that did it, like she was chastising a child instead of a twenty-year-old woman. The anger came, prompt and corrosive, flooding Cordè’s mouth as she spat, “And I thought you and I were a team.”

“You’re my charge, not an associate.”

“I’m an asset, and you’re wasting my skills. I want to do something, figure out if Parsyn⁠—”

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re not ready.”

“I know how to get information.”

“And yet, if a patron caught you in a similarly compromising position, would information spare you from a blade’s sting?” Linnaea lifted her head. “Subtlety is everything—and it’s the difference between someone like you and someone like Parsyn.”

Cordè folded her arms and looked away.

“You will stay in your room,” Linnaea instructed. “You will not sneak out, you will not run amok, and you will not subvert your new Eye.”

The insolence burning in Cordè’s chest swelled into abrupt, horrible despair. “You don’t care, do you? About Talat. My best friend died, and you don’t care.”

Something dark and unreadable fell over Linnaea’s visage. “Sit down.”

“You—”

“Sit. Down.”

Cordè’s molars sawed back and forth before she slowly, stiltedly sat on her chaise.

“Twelve years ago,” Linnaea said, “a girl nicked my purse. She was young, foolish, brash. But beneath all the dirt and destitution, I saw a fighting spirit. Curious, I followed this little thief to a rundown shack along the shore, where I found an exhausted mother unable to care for her four children. So, I offered to take the little thief away, give her a better life, raise her as my own. Love her as my own.” Her tone softened. “I care, dearest. More than you know.”

Cordè folded her arms again—less an expression of defiance than a self-soothing hug. “I miss him.”

“As do I. He was a clever man. A good man. And he adored you.”

A tear dripped onto Cordè’s cheek, and she pushed it away with the heel of her palm. After an extended beat of silence, she looked over at Linnaea, who gazed unseeing out Cordè’s bedroom window. “What is it?”

“Talat was watching the Order for me.”

“What?”

“He came to me a few months ago, told me the vitriol he’d been hearing from the Mithraeum lately had gotten…desperate. More dogmatic. So I asked him to keep me informed of the goings-on.”

Cordè stared. “Is that what got him killed? Is Talat dead because he was spying for you? Did the Order do it?”

Linnaea reached over and squeezed Cordè’s arm, effectively pausing her escalation toward a frenzy. “No, my love. I’ll admit, at first I had wondered the same. But it seems the Order is just as determined to find out what happened to Talat as we are.” She withdrew a familiar letter marked with a “V” and handed it to Cordè.

Myrra Velta’s script was immaculate and precise: …under good authority your newly employed Eye was tasked by his Seers to identify Talat Jonquil’s murderer….

“The Order sent a spy to a household full of spies?” Cordè asked incredulously.

“As I said, the bloodrot is making them desperate, and they need someone, anyone, to blame. Like the Blade, elves⁠—”

“And the godsforged.” Cordè saw Linnaea’s brows rise in question. “Aelus noticed Gaeton wore a four-stranded braid and asked if I knew what it meant.”

“Ah, yes. Our dear mercànt is indeed a believer. After all, most people who work closely with Ravethin would support the idea of a united Nemè.”

“That’s what ‘godsforged’ means? A united Nemè?”

“In some circles, yes.” Linnaea watched Cordè process this information. “Returning to the matter at hand, however; we should effort to keep our new Eye close. He is, interestingly, the son of a Seer. It would be foolish to waste that resource.”

“Son of a Seer? But Faithful aren’t supposed to….” Cordè made a crude hand gesture.

“Special arrangements were made, as far as I can tell. For now, we’ll see what Karnath holds. And what Serasha says.”

Cordè blinked. “What?”

Linnaea smiled for the first time during their conversation. “Someone might’ve let it slip to Nessare Emari that her favorite Ravethinian designer is being featured at the Fête d’Azalée. She left Val’dora this morning, family and staff in tow.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“The Emaris visit the same set of shops at week’s end, one of which happens to be owned by a certain mercànt who deals in pearls.”

Gaeton. Cordè smiled and ran her fingers over the ulaari pearls on her wrist as, distantly, she heard the clatter of chainmail shuffling through the front door.

“Parsyn and I will be busy for most of the trip,” Linnaea continued, “so you and Aelus will have time to explore, shop⁠—”

“Have random encounters with people we didn’t know were already there?”

“So long as you remember: subtlety.” With an air of finality, Linnaea stood, kissed Cordè’s forehead, and headed for the door. “No more sneaking out. Are we clear?”

Cordè nodded.

“Good. Now, let’s see what Haniel’s made for supper.”

Linnaea entered the hallway, Cordè at her heels, just as Aelus appeared on the landing, a small paper bag in hand.

…Right. Cordè had asked for a pastry.

Linnaea swept past in a casual cloud of lace and indifference while Aelus took in Cordè’s disheveled appearance, her attire, her obviously healthy state.

His eyes went wide.

Cordè plucked the bag from Aelus’s limp grip—hazelnut, she identified from a quick, greedy inhale—and gave a small but victorious smile.

“Thanks for the snack.”

Her hair whipped his shoulder as she tossed her head and sauntered downstairs.

FIFTEEN

Summertide fell heavy upon Val’dora the week leading up to Karnath.

Soft, blue springtide mornings preceded erratic storm clouds each afternoon. The flowering pear tree’s white blossoms dropped, replaced by vivid greenery that tapped on Cordè’s window, beckoning her outside.

Ysabelle took it upon herself to shuffle Cordè’s wardrobe around, drawing forward airy silks and burying heavy Ravethinian furs away for wintertide. By week’s end, those airy silks had found a new home in Cordè’s travel bags; while the trip itself would only last four days, it was Cordè’s philosophy that, in matters of fashion, one could never be over-prepared.

The Fête d’Azalée was the first of a dozen yearly festivals that made the port city of Karnath such a popular tourist attraction. Visitors crowded the streets dressed in pinks, oranges, and yellows to celebrate a rare late-blooming flower that grew along Dusera’s eastern shore. The weeklong fête culminated in an extravagant display of fireworks and petal showers and music.

Assuming House Nivae left Val’dora at dawn, they’d arrive in Karnath around nightfall on the third day of festivities.

Cordè thoroughly despised travel: the smell of horses, the bumpy roads, the uncomfortable seats, the monotony. If it weren’t for the fact Karnath was one of Dusera’s most luxurious vacation destinations, she would’ve looked upon the trip with utter disdain.

Plus, if they played their cards aright, they’d return with answers about Talat.

The morning of the excursion didn’t bode well for the next four days. After oversleeping (not unusual) and doing a mad dash to finish her last-minute packing (also not unusual), Cordè flung open her bedroom door and collided headfirst with Ysabelle, who shrieked and dropped the breakfast tray she’d been holding.

“Ysa! How many times have I told you to stop standing right on the other side of the door?” Cordè screeched, travel cloak now covered in a mess of honey-and-berry porridge.

It took Cordè nearly an hour to track down a secondary travel cloak. Still, she’d managed it, with Ysabelle’s help—and with three minutes to spare before Parsyn and his wife arrived at Linnaea’s front door.

The de Valles looked like they’d stepped away from a portrait commission. Parsyn wore highlights of his Legion’s color across his dark suit and floor-length cape. Dionisia, gently curved in all the places her husband was sharp, sported a low-cut emerald gown paired with a string of incredible jewels. Tharonian diamonds, Cordè suspected, to signify her homeland.

The crimson and the green of their clothing made for a jarring, almost harsh visual. Cordè wondered if the ill match was intentional.

“Lord de Valle,” Linnaea greeted.

“Linnaea.”

There was something off about Parsyn’s demeanor. Even in her morning mental fog, Cordè recognized his smile was…strange.

Tertia’s tits, was Parsyn happy?

As if sensing her attention, Parsyn turned to Cordè. “Winter Lily.” He cast his gaze skyward, hands tucked behind his back. “Pleasant weather for a carriage ride.”

Dionisia stayed silent, looking like she’d gotten a whiff of something foul.

It was going to be a long, long day of travel.

“—of course the overture was long-winded, but the maestro is notoriously loquacious.” Parsyn paused to take a bite of his apple. “That said, I felt act two was where the ensemble truly shined. Haal’s requiem almost moved me to tears.”

In truth, it was Cordè who found herself near tears—of tedium. Parsyn had been rambling about the opera for nigh two hours, and Linnaea was the only person indulging his monologues. Dionisia had yet to speak, nose buried in a tawdry romance novel, while Cordè stared out the window, stared at the ceiling, stared at her shoes.

“What say you, Linnaea?” Parsyn asked. “Were you a fan of the requiem?”

“I preferred Khastus’s lament.”

“Oh?”

“I found the maestro’s interpretation of Khastus the most relatable of the four. He wielded his godhood with a discerning hand, never interfering in human affairs.”

Cordè sighed. She’d take a conversation about operatic structure over religion any day. Khastus and his ilk were far less interesting than the elven pantheon she’d prayed to as a child. Tertia and Siønid—along with their siblings, Q’ilyce, Ênye, Rhosyn, and Vaeril—lorded over concepts like art and pleasure while their Nemèan counterparts preached celibacy and inspired war.

It explained why humans were so gods-damned serious all the time.

“Did you happen to notice the actors were all wearing four stranded braids?” Parsyn asked. “A bold sentiment, wouldn’t you say?”

Linnaea studied him overtop her glasses. “The godsforged movement is becoming increasingly popular, but it’s just that: propaganda. The only ones it’s upsetting are the Order.”

“The Order could do with a good upset. I can’t seem to walk more than a block or two without seeing black robes and ‘repent now’ pamphlets.”

“Yes, well. The Order believes anything not associated with Reneir or purity is directly responsible for their incurable bloodrot.”

Parsyn rotated his apple, fingers sliding along the fruit’s smooth green skin. “Meaning everyone but them is an enemy.”

“Except, apparently, Lady Myrra Velta,” Linnaea said, tone deceptively light.

“Yes. Interesting development, that.”

Linnaea’s brows jumped in a way that was believable to everyone except Cordè. “Is it? I thought you said she wasn’t anyone to worry about.”

“She wasn’t…until she lost her Eye and found a new calling.”

A pause. “Would you like me to monitor her?”

“I’ve got it handled. After all, isn’t it my job as Head of the Rose to stay apprised of all those pesky political proceedings?” His eyes smiled, the expression a few steps removed from gloating. “That rally of hers should prove entertaining, if nothing else.”

This was punctuated with a sharp snap as Parsyn sank his teeth into the apple’s flesh.

Cordè shared a fleeting glance with Linnaea, cognizant they shared the same concern: did Parsyn know about their meeting with Myrra?

Linnaea squeezed Cordè’s knee. Later.

Cordè turned her attention to the view beyond the carriage. She didn’t often travel this far outside Val’dora, and even though Dusera’s rolling landscape did not alter significantly from coast to coast, she did still notice the small things. The mountains surrounding the capital city shrank to rolling hills, which mellowed further to golden-green wheatfields and, later still, yawning vineyards as they drew nearer to the shoreline.

Aelus trotted alongside the carriage astride that monstrously large horse of his, a boyish grin plastered on his face. His joy made him almost unrecognizable, like he’d been holding his breath for the entirety of his stay in Val’dora and now, for the first time, had allowed himself to exhale. There was even a glow of pleasure in his ruddy complexion—though of course that might’ve been the onset of a sunburn.

“How have you not already melted?” Cordè called to him.

“How have I what?”

“How haven’t you melted?” She flicked her wrist at his armor. “Under all that⁠—”

“What?”

She abandoned her efforts with an exasperated tsk and slumped against her cushion.

“Let the poor boy enjoy his time alone,” Linnaea said. “He spends nearly every waking moment in your company, and Illüne knows that can be….”

Cordè’s brows rose in premature offense.

“…taxing.”

Cordè pouted but didn’t argue, choosing instead to snack on the dried fruits Haniel had packed. She popped a few gallberries in her mouth while listening to Parsyn with half an ear.

“And what of our friend, the Ravethinian diplomat?” Parsyn leaned toward Linnaea, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Can we expect good news this time around?”

“Doubtful. Rumors suggest the southern colonies are planning another insurgence.”

“Ravethin’s queen would do well to follow her late uncle’s example. Herd the elven rebels into the mines and be done with it.”

Cordè bit down hard on a gallberry, snagging her tongue along with it.

“Not everyone in the colonies is a rebel.” Linnaea put a deceptively casual hand on Cordè’s knee and gave another squeeze. “Or an elf.”

“But they are all citizens of Ravethin, are they not?” Parsyn replied. “And I, for one, would prefer to avoid another massacre. Wouldn’t you?”

Linnaea hummed in response. Cordè said nothing.

The discussion withered as the afternoon heat sank in, with Cordè spending the lunchtime hour working her way through the foods Haniel had prepared. After that, she took to sketching lewd pictures on the backs of discarded papers. Breasts were her specialty, in all shapes and sizes; it took her an hour to draw a pair as lifelike as she could manage amidst all the bouncing.

When she finished, she held it against the window for Aelus’s approval. “What do you think? Did I get the nipples’ shading right?”

Aelus’s nostrils flared, cheeks flushing scarlet beneath the sunburn.

“Mind if I take a look?”

Parsyn smiled almost pleasantly from his seat opposite her. Cordè weighed her options, then showed him the paper.

He squinted in thought. “Not bad. May I?”

Parsyn plucked the drawing from her hand and, pulling a quill from his inner pocket, began adding his own ink. “Needs a bit more contrast.”

Cordè’s jaw worked as she realized he was, in fact, correct.

“I didn’t know you were an art aficionado,” Linnaea said.

Parsyn didn’t look up from the parchment. “I took a few portraiture classes in my youth. My tutor said I was a natural when it came to capturing the human form.”

“But not the elven form?” Cordè asked before she could help herself.

The sktch of Parsyn’s quill against parchment never faltered. Rather than answering her, he changed subjects. “How long has your new Eye been with you?”

“About a month,” Linnaea said.

“And what an exciting month it’s been for your household. Altercations in Camellia Court, visits to the Etherians….” Parsyn paused, attention flitting between Linnaea’s and Cordè’s matching expressions of surprise. “What? I’m the Head of the Rose; I’m notified of any legal circumstances involving my Legion. Including you, Winter Lily.”

Cordè scowled.

“So, did the Order give you an explanation?” he asked Linnaea, gesturing at his eyes with his quill feather. “About the gray?”

“No. But rarely do the Seers explain anything.”

“You could always ask the boy himself. Though he seems more reserved than your former Eye.” Parsyn’s forehead scrunched. “What was his name again?”

“Talat.” The word fell from Cordè’s lips like a stone into a pond. “His name was Talat.”

Parsyn held her gaze as evening’s first shadows fell across his countenance. “Of course.”

Another round of silence settled in, prickly and uncomfortable as the summertide heat.

The sun continued its descent toward the horizon, a smattering of stars extending from the east in its wake. Cordè knew getting some rest would hurry along the journey, but sleep was hard to come by on these ill-kept roads. She closed her eyes, fully anticipating restlessness even as the carriage swayed with the rhythm of horses’ hooves⁠—

Cordè didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until a forceful jostling shook her awake.

Vision bleary, she peered out into the unexpected brightness beyond. Karnath gleamed back at her, radiant and inviting: a sprawling cityscape of cylindrical towers and squat, square dwellings. Although night had long since fallen, Karnath’s luster cast a golden halo above its jagged profile, lanterns and lamplight creating a geometric constellation along the skyline.

“It’s bigger than I thought it’d be,” she breathed.

Parsyn watched the buildings draw nearer, expression neutral. “Karnath has had a prosperous few years.”

Entering through the city gates felt like stepping into a waking dream; the sounds, the colors, the atmosphere itself took on a fantastical surrealness. Exhaustion blurred the edges of Cordè’s thoughts, yet the revelry still called to her, beckoning her for a night of indulgence.

“It will still be there tomorrow,” Linnaea said.

Cordè was tempted to balk—but Linnaea’s eyes flicked briefly, tellingly toward Parsyn.

No matter; luxuriating in a fancy inn would be almost as fun as an alcohol-fueled fête.

They stopped outside a grand five-story building. Like most structures in Karnath, the inn was off-white sandstone, the same color as Ysabelle’s caffe after she diluted it with cream. It felt at once ancient and modern, as if the gods had built it by hand then preserved it from the world.

“Hôtel d’Ilanna,” Parsyn said with the sort of pride typically reserved for introducing one’s firstborn. “Grandest lodgings on the east shore.”

“Modeled after Tharonian ostels.” Dionisia looked the building up and down with a sniff. “Not as impressive as my patér’s, but adequate for a long week’s end.”

And while Cordè found the grandeur stunning, particularly the sweeping foyer and its massive crystal chandelier, all she could think about was Hôtel d’Ilanna’s downy beds. Porters hauling luggage and stablehands tending horses became smudges of peripheral activity as Linnaea handed her a room key. If Cordè had had her wits about her, she would have been amused by Aelus’s shock when he realized he had a high-class room all to himself. However, the most she managed was a halfhearted wave, then she stumbled through her doorway.

She was asleep before she removed her second boot.

“I don’t understand how you’re so tired.”

Cordè didn’t look at Aelus as she spoke, instead examining the silks hanging from a marketplace awning. “I slept like a newborn babe.”

In fact, she hadn’t awoken until lunchtime, half-dressed and half dangling off her mattress. Any residual aches from their journey had been soaked away after an hour marinating in her claw-footed tub. Aelus, meanwhile, had purplish circles beneath his eyes, and beneath the scent of cypress she’d come to associate with him, he smelled of horse and fatigue.

“You really should’ve taken a bath.” Her nose wrinkled. “Doesn’t your room have one?”

“There were too many…levers,” he said, voice tight as if she’d yanked the admission from his throat, making her childish urge to goad him all the stronger.

Then Linnaea’s voice crept into her thoughts: We should effort to keep our new Eye close.

Cordè refocused on the silks while Aelus wandered over to inspect a swath of cashmere. Unlike the Blade’s dark, drab shades of midnight blue, the material Aelus admired was bright cobalt, like the waters along Dusera’s southern beaches.

It would’ve been easy to tease him about his apparent fondness for pretty things—but once again, she withheld comment.

A proud smile touched her lips as she inwardly praised herself for her maturity.

Cordè shielded her eyes as she scanned the promenade. Like a watercolor painting come to life, the market bustled with a charming, almost romantic energy. The pops of color reminded her of flowers in a field, with lacy parasols and silk bonnets taking the place of larkspur peonies and skyblossoms.

The pier upon which the promenade had been built was nearly a quarter-mile in length, jutting into the ocean with a hubris only a human-born construct could muster. It seemed to Cordè a temptation of fate, as if Karnath’s architects wanted to prove they could tame—or at least politely intrude upon—the shoreline’s churning waters.

Beyond the market’s pristine white railings and the gentle waves that lapped its pebbled beaches, the ocean stretched into oblivion. Distant ships dotted the borderline between sea and sky, tiny white blemishes on a canvas of blue. It occurred to her—suddenly and very much against her will—that, based on the hour and the sun’s position, she was facing due east.

…Which meant that a hundred leagues away from this exact spot lay Ravethin’s southern colonies. Sollund. Her homeland.

Frowning, Cordè returned to her search. The inn’s bellhop had told her that “anyone who was anyone” visited the marketplace, eager to buy overpriced jewelry, sip sparkling wine, and taste exotic street foods.

By Cordè’s estimation, no one was more “anyone” than the Emari family.

For the fifth time that afternoon, Cordè spied a purple skirt or jacket, only to be disappointed by a stranger’s face atop it. She popped another rissole in her mouth and chewed aggressively. The Emaris weren’t here.

Lips pursed, she held out her last rissole to Aelus. To her surprise, he accepted the offer, turning the ball of fried fish and dough in his fingers. “Eat it all in one go,” she said, still searching the crowd. “Otherwise you look like a tourist.”

“We are tourists, though.”

She ignored this, once again distracted by a vivid violet cloak. It was the same cloak she’d seen an hour ago, on the shoulders of a child being held by her father.

“Come on,” Cordè said to Aelus, bitter discouragement licking her words.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Hm?”

“You keep studying people, then frowning like they’ve offended you.” He jogged to keep up as she strode past a table of apple tarts. “If you’re searching for someone, maybe I can help.”

She mulled his offer while pretending to peruse some flower arrangements.

We should effort to keep our new Eye close.

“I’m looking for the Emari siblings,” she said at last. “Nessare is small and thin with bright auburn hair. Likes lacy gloves for some reason. And her brother Janvier is sandy-haired with a strong facial structure and a lovely set of turquoise eyes.”

“Like him?” Aelus pointed to a random passerby who bore a passing resemblance to Janvier. Not nearly as handsome, though.

“Splendid,” she said. “Well done. You found him.”

“Really?”

“No.” Cordè gave an impatient huff before allowing herself to be diverted by a food vendor peddling heavenly smelling honey quail on a spit.

“Is that them?”

She stopped digging for coins and followed Aelus’s finger.

Four strikingly beautiful people, all dressed in purple, stood at the mouth of the promenade amidst a swarm of Eyes. Cordè instantly recognized the tallest figure as Janvier, broad-shouldered and sunkissed. His sister was at his side, her brilliant white smile glinting against the backdrop of sky and sea.

Nessare squinted as sunlight burst through the cloud cover. A parasol popped up behind her back, held aloft by a willowy woman with deep brown skin and a bundle of red-gold curls.

Serasha.

SIXTEEN

Cordè’s first instinct was to sprint forward and throttle the woman until she gave up everything she knew about Talat.

Resisting that urge, Cordè instead looped her arm with Aelus’s and began pulling him, quickly but casually, toward the promenade’s archway.

“What are you…?”

Cordè cut Aelus off with an impressively well-acted sneeze, followed by a dainty wave of the handkerchief she kept tucked in her bodice. Then, with an equally well-acted “oh!” of surprise, she released the handkerchief and watched it flutter in a perfect arc into her targets’ path.

Janvier Emari ducked to retrieve it, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Cordè gifted herself a fleeting glance of his lithe, royal form bent over in such a way.

He straightened, and their eyes locked from a half-dozen paces away. “Lady Cyra,” he greeted, approaching with zeal in his step. His smile was a warm, natural thing that would have come across as practiced on a less appealing face.

“Lord Emari.” Cordè curtsied. “What a lovely surprise.”

“Lovely indeed.” He spared a cursory glance at Aelus, scarcely seeming to notice this was a different Eye than the one from Illüne’s Day. Cordè supposed that for people like the Emaris, bodyguards were interchangeable—even ones Aelus’s size.

Janvier returned his full attention to Cordè. “I believe you dropped this?”

Their hands touched when she reached for the handkerchief, and he slid his index finger along the delicate juncture between her thumb and wrist.

“Lady Cyra!”

Nessare’s buoyant call interrupted the moment, her flaming curls bursting onto the scene with all the restraint of a lit firecracker. “I had no idea your household was attending the fête! How grand! It’s about time I ran into someone who knows how to have fun. Everyone we’ve met so far has been an absolute bore. Oh, speaking of, I don’t think you met my lead lady-in-waiting.” She flapped a gloved hand dismissively at the woman by her side. “Don’t give me that look, Serasha, I just meant you haven’t been any fun since you got pregnant. Anyway, like I said, this is Serasha, and that’s her husband, Philip, our bookkeeper. They’re expecting a baby come wintertide.”

Blood pounding in her ears, Cordè let her attention drift from Nessare to Serasha. Dark eyes, like twin pools of ichor, stared back at her, framed by coiled, golden-red curls. The color of strawberries, Cordè thought, a memory of words spoken in Talat’s voice.

The face that held those eyes was smooth and dewy and wholly, completely blank.

“Who are you?” Cordè wanted to scream at her. “What did you do?” Instead, she put on a warm smile and inclined her head in greeting. “The Beloved’s blessings to you both.”

“Beloved?” Philip Yvon’s hazel gaze darted over Cordè’s features, lingering on her eartips. “I wasn’t aware elves worshiped Illüne. I thought you had your own collection of deities of wine and sex and the like.”

“We have no deities of wine, my lord,” Cordè said wryly. “But my mistress is a gods-fearing woman who instilled in me a great respect for the Nemèan deities.”

A lie. Linnaea was hardly more religious than Cordè, but the words sounded pretty. More importantly, they sounded believable.

“Of course,” Cordè added as she took a bewildered Aelus by the arm once again, “having an Eye on staff reminds us to give thanks to Reneir as well.”

At the word “Eye,” Serasha met Cordè’s gaze again—and in that moment, Cordè knew they recognized one another and the connection that tied them together.

Janvier cut in. “Have you attended the Fête d’Azalée before, Lady Cyra?”

“I’ve been begging my mistress leave to attend for years. This is the first time our schedules have permitted it.”

“Ah. You’re in for a treat, then. So much color and dancing and entertainment⁠—”

“Entertainment of all sorts,” Philip interrupted, voice slippery like grease. He was leering now, leering in a way that set Cordè’s teeth on edge. “Perhaps Janvier and I could get you into Karnath’s more exclusive soirees?”

“Oh, Lady Cyra wouldn’t be interested in those sorts of parties,” Nessare said. “And anyway, we must get going; it’s almost time for the tea ceremony at the Balcon d’Anémone. Maman had to write to the restaurateur personally to get us seats.” She wiggled her fingers at Cordè, a spark of mischief in her turquoise eyes. “Poor Kiran will be so disappointed to have missed you. I’ll pass along your well-wishes.”

Cordè inclined her head in wordless thanks as Nessare took up her parasol and drifted further into the marketplace.

Janvier took Cordè’s hand. “If you find yourself in need of a guide, don’t hesitate to come find me. We’re staying at the villas along the southern shore. You can’t miss them.” He kissed her knuckles. “I look forward to our next encounter, my lady.”

Cordè’s pulse thrummed to its own excited cadence as she watched Janvier follow after his sister. Over his shoulder, Philip took his wife by the arm.

Serasha cast Cordè a final, fleeting glance, and Cordè’s dancing pulse skittered to a halt.

Her expression was one of desperation.

Once the Première’s backs were turned, Cordè dove into her cloak pocket. No quill, no kohl. She tried the other pocket, where she found a tube of lipstick. Using Aelus’s cuirass, and ignoring his blatant confusion, she scribbled five words in bright scarlet onto her handkerchief.

“Lady Serasha!” Cordè called, hurrying to catch up with the Emari party. “It would appear that blasted ocean breeze is determined to snatch away all our kerchiefs.”

Serasha looked down at the white cloth, secret message hidden from view, then back up at Cordè. “Thank you.” Her expression remained neutral, even as she took the offering and turned to follow her companions.

Cordè felt rather than saw Aelus arrive at her side. “What did you write?” he asked once the Emaris had disappeared from view.

“Tomorrow. Dawn. Illüne’s temple.” A breeze picked up a lock of Cordè’s hair and tossed it across her forehead. “Talat.”

“And Lady Nivae made no mention of when she’d return?”

“No, miss.”

Scowling, Cordè turned away from the Hôtel d’Ilanna’s host stand. At least the concierge had been cordial in his utter lack of helpfulness; still, it wasn’t enough to earn him even a cursory nod as Cordè stalked back to her room. She’d hoped she and Linnaea could strategize for tomorrow’s sunrise interrogation of Serasha Yvon. But Linnaea was nowhere to be found.

Probably meeting with the Ravethinian diplomat, Cordè reckoned with a twinge of annoyance. She hated feeling excluded—from plans or otherwise.

Cordè shoved her bedchamber door shut, only realizing Aelus was at her heels when he released a muffled grunt. “Sorry,” she muttered, heading to the room’s wide window. Far below, crowds moved like undulating tides as she searched for a pop of silvering hair atop a birdlike frame.

Nothing.

Knock knock knock.

Before Aelus could touch the knob, Cordè launched across the room and flung open the door. “Where in the hells were…?”

“Winter Lily,” Parsyn de Valle said. “Mister Mireau.”

Cordè blinked. “Linnaea’s not here.”

“I’m not here for her. I’m here to invite you to tea.”

Tea? “I’m⁠—”

“Searching for an excuse to reject my offer?” Parsyn held out a hand. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather us dispense with the animosity. It rings hollow and bears Linnaea’s handiwork. Let’s you and I simply…be.”

Cordè blinked at his palm. It felt unwise, borderline foolish to accept the invitation, yet she struggled to formulate a valid excuse. She glanced at Aelus, who didn’t offer any conducive advice.

With a huff, she brushed past Parsyn and stepped into the hall.

They emerged into the bustle of Karnath, the late afternoon sun dyeing the festival preparations a bold orange. The streets had begun to fill with fête attendees, sidewalks packed with merrymakers eager to spend their coin. Shopkeepers set up stands outside their storefronts to draw in tourists, a tactic Cordè found tasteless—right up until it worked on her.

She paused by a row of fine fabrics embroidered with sunflowers and ship sails and snakes.

“Silks from Aahilar.” Parsyn unpinned one and offered it to her. “Finer than any in Dusera, and as light as air.”

Cordè looked between the silk and Parsyn’s unreadable face. Hilaraan silk dancers were a common fantasy for clients who delighted in the see-through material and gyrating hip twists. But Parsyn wasn’t a client. He had no sexual interest in her; she could tell by his body language, the sharpness of his gaze.

So what was he playing at?

Parsyn draped the silk over her head then stood back, examining her as if she were a piece of art. “The red brings out the gold in your eyes.”

Aelus watched the interaction with a frown.

With two fingers, Parsyn summoned the vendor and handed him six gold venati.

Cordè stiffened. “My lord⁠—”

“I insist. It’ll be a token, commemorating our trip together.”

“Where’s yours, then?”

“Oh, I’m keeping an eye out.” He continued down the street, hands clasped behind his back. “I just haven’t found anything to satisfy me yet.”

“I’m not sure being satisfied is in my lord’s character.”

“And I’m not sure you know me well enough to pass that judgment.”

“I know enough.”

“You know what your mistress has told you. Nothing more.”

Cordè stopped mid-stride, nearly making Aelus barrel into her. “So it’s not true? You weren’t the one who took Linnaea’s original Lilies?”

“I didn’t take her Lilies; I dismissed them. They were working outside their purpose.”

“Which was?”

“Entertainment.” He turned, his slight frame managing to tower over hers. “They were supposed to charm emissaries, not sell secrets to the highest bidder. Especially in the midst of a delicate political situation. I did what I had to do to keep our Legion safe. To keep Dusera safe from Ravethin’s warmongering gaze.”

Cordè’s lip curled. “You sent Linnaea’s Lilies to die in those mines.”

Parsyn grasped her elbow, and Aelus’s hand flew to his sword.

“We were on the edge of a knife,” Parsyn said, ignoring Aelus’s reaction as he pulled Cordè aside. “If we had tipped to the right, we’d have offended Ravethin’s mad king and started a second war. If we had tipped left, our Legion would have been disbanded. Members of the Rose are meant to be diplomats, not blackmailers. Your mistress never understood that.”

Cordè opened her mouth, but Parsyn cut her off.

“Believe it or not, I genuinely respect Linnaea. Deep down, I think our motivations are the same: maintaining order in the midst of chaos. And she also knows how to survive, even in a place as cruel as Ravethin. It’s why I let her reenter the Legion.”

“Because she’s cleverer than you?”

“Because she sees things other people miss. Like you.” Parsyn gestured to Cordè with a flick of his wrist. “Tell me, who would you be if your mistress had left you in the marketplace? A Sollunese rebel? A beggar? A dancer in Ravethin’s tanzannas?” Impossibly, a small smile crossed his face. “I’d have taken one look at you and walked away—and be poorer for it.”

Cordè wasn’t sure which she liked less: the fact Parsyn had paid her a genuine compliment, or the fact she’d appreciated it.

Six chimes sounded in the distance, signaling the evening hour.

“Shall we continue?” Parsyn asked.

Cordè considered him. “Only if you’re paying for the tea.”

His smile deepened. “Done.”

It took until dawn the next morning for Cordè to erase Parsyn’s indecipherable smile from her subconscious. And even then, she’d simply been too tired to ponder it further.

Daybreak rarely found Cordè in her best form, and in retrospect, she regretted offering to meet Serasha so early. She could’ve just as easily said high noon, but at the time she’d thought sunrise would make it easier for Serasha to leave the Emaris’ undetected.

By the gods, Cordè regretted that generosity come daylight.

The sky had adopted a mystic blue hue, announcing the sun’s impending arrival as Cordè and Aelus headed to the temple’s tell-tale golden dome. They walked in silence, both tangled in their own threads of thought.

Cordè nestled deeper into her cloak to ward against the cool sea breeze and wistfully eyed Aelus’s heavy armor. Given the opportunity, she’d gladly wear those bulky metal plates, and he could struggle with layers of insufficient cotton and cambric.

Illüne’s temple stood a story higher than any other building, the gleam of its roof louder than a trumpet. Cordè stopped at the stairway, suspense churning like nausea as her eyes followed the steps up, up, up to the mouth of the shrine. Much like the Etherian neighborhood, Cordè felt unsettled by the temple’s overt sanctity.

She also felt like she was being watched.

Giving the nearby buildings a surreptitious but thorough scan, Cordè began the trek upward, pace increasing as she neared the top. Aelus matched her speed, equally quiet amidst the reverent stillness, before they came to a harmonized stop in the entryway.

Rolling her shoulders against the gooseflesh prickling her arms, Cordè stepped inside.

Gone was the ominous thrum of a grave; the interior of the temple was wide and spacious and echoing. The cavernous ceiling caught even the smallest of breaths, bouncing the sound around the hall’s slender marble spires. And while the outside had been a blank canvas of white, the inner walls were full of pastel-colored frescoes depicting the dark, dazzling face of Illüne.

A figure knelt at the altar of the otherwise empty chapel, radiant curls catching the dawn’s light.

Serasha finished her prayer by touching her fingers to her lips then her forehead. It was the same gesture Matron Zenzi had performed during the Etherian dinner; Cordè had seen Ysabelle do it when she was feeling overwhelmed, and when Haniel was preparing to eat dinner. Hells, Cordè had witnessed it from a devoutly religious patron after she’d disrobed.

But she couldn’t recall ever seeing it done with such sincerity.

The temple’s optics made it impossible for their presence to remain undetected. Serasha’s shoulders tensed, and she turned, eyes immediately landing on Aelus and his Faithful insignia.

Her cheeks turned ashen. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I shouldn’t be here.”

“My lady.” The sound of Aelus’s voice made Cordè jump, having not heard it since leaving the hotel. He held out a hand to Serasha. “Please. I know you’re scared, but we aren’t here to hurt you. We just want to talk.”

Gingerly, Serasha allowed Aelus to guide her to a nearby bench. Cordè and Aelus took their seats opposite her, studying her with varying degrees of wariness.

Serasha bit her lip as she glanced at Aelus. “You knew Talat?”

“I did.”

“Did you know him…well?”

The inflection cradling Serasha’s question made Cordè’s heart beat faster.

“We were brothers,” Aelus said. “In almost every sense of the word.”

Serasha looked down, palm resting on her belly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Cordè’s mouth tightened as she leaned forward. “Sorries don’t help us understand why you bribed an investigator to call Talat’s death a suicide.”

“I was given orders.”

“By who?”

“My husband.”

Cordè studied Serasha, taking in each delicate feature before landing on her coiled, golden-red locks. A sunset, my love, the color of the strawberries I long to press to your lips, Talat had written of his muse’s hair nearly a year earlier.

Cordè swallowed hard, then cast her next query out like a fisher’s line on dark waters. “Did your husband kill Talat? Because he found out about the two of you?”

A look of unfeigned surprise crossed Serasha’s face. “This wasn’t Philip’s doing. I wondered that myself, when I saw….” The words the body hung in the air between them, unspoken and ghastly. “He learned of the affair the following day, through a letter from a business associate. I was there when he opened it; his rage wasn’t an act.”

Her expression shuttered, and Cordè felt an unexpected pang of distress on Serasha’s behalf.

“That letter is how Philip’s controlling my movements. If he were to expose me as an adulterer, Nessare’s mother would throw me out on the streets. I have no family in Dusera, and most of my coin belongs to Philip. So when he told me to pay off the investigator, I did. For the baby’s sake.”

Cordè’s eyes drifted to Serasha’s stomach. “It’s Talat’s, isn’t it?”

Aelus flinched and made a noise, but Cordè shot him a sharp look. Later.

“I don’t know.” Serasha gave a harsh, joyless laugh. “I don’t know if I’ll ever know. I’m sure you noticed the strong resemblance between Talat and Philip.”

Cordè pictured the two men side-by-side. Philip’s olive skin was a shade lighter than Talat’s, his silvering hair a bit less curly—but yes, any child of Philip’s could’ve been a child of Talat’s.

“Did Talat know he might have been a father?” Cordè asked.

“No. I lied, told him the timing didn’t work.” Serasha looked at Aelus. “If he thought there was even the smallest chance it was his, he’d have dropped everything for me. And the Order would have burned him for it.”

To that, Cordè had no response. Serasha hadn’t said it yet, but she no longer needed to: she had loved Talat. It was written on the planes of her face, woven into every sighing breath.

“I had expected to hear from you eventually.” Serasha gave Cordè a sad smile. “He thought very highly of you.”

It was nearly enough to derail Cordè, to throw her to the whims of her own emotions. She could imagine it now, a post-coital conversation in which Talat spoke affectionately of his ward, waxed eloquent about their friendship. It made her want to laugh and sob all at once.

She did neither, instead bracing herself against her knees. “So help me find Talat’s killer. Why did Philip want to bribe the investigator?”

Serasha snorted. “My husband doesn’t discuss business with me. He can barely stand to hold a conversation when we’re alone. I’m little more than an accessory to him now. But there might be another way.”

Cordè leaned closer.

“He wants you.” Serasha’s lips twitched humorlessly. “Philip isn’t subtle; he was asking Janvier about you the whole way back to the villa. And Kiran told me what you do for a living. If Philip knew, he would call on you.”

Cordè considered her. “Would Kiran tell him, if you asked?”

Serasha gave a slow nod. They studied one another, and despite everything, Cordè felt a strange sort of kinship with this dark-eyed enigma. After all, they shared a single but profound bond: they’d both loved Talat, in their own ways.

The moment ended as Serasha looked to the temple’s entrance. She stood, movements hampered by the blossoming pregnancy. “I must go. Nessare’s mother has several excursions planned, and I don’t want to disrupt her schedule. The head of the Première can be quite unforgiving.”

The ominous phrasing formed a bubble of suspicion in Cordè’s gut.

“Would the Emari family have wanted Talat dead?”

“I can’t think of a reason, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one. My husband is a cog in a much larger wheel. I don’t know which master he serves—the Emaris, his business associates. Perhaps someone I’ve never met.”

Serasha pulled her hood up, gaze cast toward the rising sun. Then: “Illim.” Cordè’s brow arched as Serasha looked back at her. “It loosens Philip’s lips. If you’re looking to get specific information from him…that might be the way to go.”

A potential client’s spouse offering advice on how best to seduce her husband. Had the situation been less serious, Cordè would’ve found it terribly funny. Instead, she inclined her head and watched Serasha’s cloaked figure drift toward the mouth of the temple.

SEVENTEEN

As soon as Serasha vanished, Aelus whirled around to Cordè.

“When we return to Val’dora,” he said, hands curling into fists, “I’m turning Serasha over to the Triumvirate for investigation.”

“What? No.” Cordè’s incredulous stare bore through him. “She’s telling the truth.”

“Talat would’ve never broken his oaths. Never. I know…knew him.”

“And you think I didn’t?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aelus argued. “What matters is Serasha is lying.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“Yes, she is.”

“I would love to hear the evidence that has you so convinced.” Cordè waited—arms folded, nails drumming her bicep—while Aelus racked his memory for shreds of proof. Serasha had lied; he knew it as surely as he knew the weight of his own armor. But Cordè wouldn’t accept the gnawing in his gut as validation. No, she wanted evidence.

The problem was, he didn’t have any. And, judging by Cordè’s expression, she knew it.

She stepped closer, close enough for him to spot a blonde freckle on her nose. “Is it really so hard to believe that maybe, just maybe, Talat might’ve been taken in by a pair of pretty eyes and a warm bed? That he might’ve fallen in love?”

“Talat wouldn’t have fallen in love. He didn’t need it. He had the Order; he had me.”

“You? The loyal Faithful tripping over himself to obey his precious Seers’ stupid rules?”

“Those rules were created for a reason.”

“You’re only saying that because you lack the courage to defy them.”

“And you lack the ability to care about anyone except yourself!”

Aelus’s words cracked through the hollow enclave like a thunderclap. Color drained from Cordè’s cheeks, making him regret the callousness of his tone. But he didn’t apologize.

He clutched Nightbane. “Do you know what happens to Faithful who break their oaths?”

Cordè glared: a silent, furious “no.”

“If the Seers had believed Serasha, they would’ve made Talat an Unsighted. They’d chain him down and shove a white-hot Blinding needle in his eyes. Then they’d order everyone to take a turn with the whip until the presiding Seer called ‘stop.’”

Cordè’s fingers tightened around her arms, shoulders drawing up to her ears. “That’s⁠—”

“What would’ve happened.” Aelus swallowed thickly. “I know. I’ve seen it before.”

Once. Seven years ago. Aelus had been nineteen, young and fresh from Imalu’s class, when Radrin Halle had tracked down Ellisar Fehr. Even now, Aelus could recall every horrific detail: the pungent odor of charred flesh, the observing acolytes’ ghostly faces, the slickness of the leather whip in his hand.

And worst of all was Ellisar, slumped and blubbering, with two raw, smoking, black holes where his eyes used to be.

A jagged lump formed in Aelus’s throat. “It’s what would’ve happened,” he repeated.

There was a heavy beat of silence, then Cordè spoke, voice thorny. “If that’s what the Order does, what they are, how the hells can I trust a word you say? You’re lecturing me about how awful it would’ve been, yet you still choose to serve them.”

“They protect people. Protect Dusera. Protect you.”

“They’re close-minded old men who would blind and whip somebody for falling in love. How’s that protecting anything? Outside of their own reputation, that is.”

Aelus lurched forward, jaw clenched. “You don’t know anything about me or the Order.”

“I know you have a father. One who apparently can get away with bedding some girl”—Aelus blanched—“yet still be welcomed back with open arms.” Cordè thrust out her chin. “Why? Tell me why your father can stick his cock wherever he pleases, but Talat couldn’t.”

“She wasn’t ‘some girl.’ She was my mother.”

“What’s the difference between your mother and a lady-in-waiting? Was she a secret noble from a faraway land? A famous singer? A barrister?”

The buzz in Aelus’s ears became a roar. “Stop,” he snarled. “Now.”

“Gods forbid she was a whore like⁠—”

Aelus charged. It wasn’t a conscious choice but rather an impulse, an overwhelming need to keep that sentence from leaving Cordè’s mouth. He hadn’t meant to loom above her, face flushed, hair bristled like a boar. He hadn’t meant to draw his sword an inch from its sheath.

He hadn’t meant to threaten her.

With a jolt, Aelus tumbled back into his skin. His knees turned to water as he saw Cordè recoil, color leeching from her warm complexion.

A choked noise flew from his throat, and he staggered back.

Then he bolted.

“Aelus!”

Cordè’s yell chased him as he sprinted down the aisle, past the frescoes. He burst out of the temple, hand flying up to shield his eyes from the abrupt, searing glare of sun.

“Aelus! Wait!” A red-cheeked Cordè grabbed his arm. “Please!”

He tried to pull away, but Cordè strengthened her grip. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Her words were laced with such sincerity, Aelus couldn’t help but believe her. But he couldn’t get that look out of his mind, the naked fear, the betrayal—all caused by him.

“Aelus.” Cordè was saying his name. Had been saying it, over and over. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to insult her. I was just asking if she was like me.”

“What do you mean, ‘like you’?”

“A whore.”

Aelus flinched. “You’re not a whore. You’re a courtesan.”

She blinked. Blinked again. “What do you think a courtesan is?”

“A companion or advisor for the wealthy.”

“Well, you’re half right. I am a companion, of a sort, though I do far more than talk.”

“What…do you do?” Aelus asked, trying not to stumble over the question.

“Whatever my client wants. Within reason. It’s how Linnaea used to conduct business; I’m just carrying on her legacy.” Cordè settled onto the steps, folding her cloak around herself like a blanket. “It’s not all schekloss and juniper tea on a veranda.”

Aelus frowned, brows furrowing. “You and Gaeton…?”

“Once. I was his birthday gift.”

This was all becoming too much, too fast. With numb fingers, Aelus undid Nightbane, sank next to Cordè, and buried his face in his massive palms.

“When I asked if your mother was a whore,” Cordè said, “I was quite literally just asking. It’s not an insult. It merely is.”

Her words made sense insofar as Aelus grasped their basic meaning. But, like trying to fit an oversized key into a too-small lock, he struggled to understand. For thirteen years, he’d been taught the importance of a virtuous body, a virtuous mind. It was why he wore black: a reminder to keep himself pure from all earthly distractions so he could focus on his divine duty to protect.

Desire—and those who capitalized on it—was the antithesis of this goal. And, according to the Seers, it was one of the primary catalysts for the Legions’ corruption, making courtesans and their like partially responsible for the bloodrot.

Which is why Cordè’s admittance made Aelus’s confusion all the more pronounced.

Why would they send me to guard someone like her? Is this a punishment for my failed Blinding? Aelus didn’t know. His mind grew more mangled the longer he sat and thought. But the one thing he could grasp was Cordè had not intentionally been cruel.

Perhaps that small comfort is what prompted him to profess: “My mother wasn’t a noble, or a singer, or a barrister, or anything like that. She was a botanist. Her specialty was flowers.” He peeled his forehead off his palms, lips twitching. Not a smile, but a ghost of one. “I learned the difference between a delphinium and a lothryas before I ever even heard the name ‘Reneir.’”

Cordè drew her sun-warmed locks over her shoulder, frothy teal waves crashing in the background. “There was a lothryas patch close to our shack. Whenever I was sad, my older brother would pick some for me. Save a few glowing petals to weave into my hair.”

“You have a brother?”

“Two, actually. And a sister. No father. Barely a mother.”

Aelus waited for more, but Cordè stayed silent: a darkness flickered in her eyes, signaling an old, lingering hurt. He knew the feeling; he experienced it anytime his father hovered nearby.

“What happened to her?” Cordè asked. “Your mother, I mean.”

“She died when I was thirteen. A fever.” An everyday illness. Not fatal, except when left untreated. Or when it came on too suddenly to seek aid, in his mother’s case. “We both had it, but I got better and she…didn’t. The day we buried her was the day Imalu took me to the Order.”

“Imalu. Your father?”

Aelus smiled gently. “My mentor. My father’s name is Nevander.”

“And where was Nevander through this?”

“With the Order. He wasn’t around much while I was growing up. He’d visit every couple months, stay for a few weeks, kiss us goodbye. Then one day he didn’t come back. I found out later the Seers had recalled all Faithful to the Mithraeum in case the Sollunese rebellion spilled over the border. I didn’t see him again until after my mother died. That’s also when I discovered my father had kept me and my mother a secret.”

Aelus rubbed his knuckles, agitating a small cut he hadn’t known was there. “Everyone pretty much avoided me the first couple years. Well, almost everyone. Talat didn’t care who my father was.” He swallowed hard. “I loved him for that.”

“I loved him too. And I miss him. And I’m so, so angry at him.”

Aelus looked over, surprised. “Why?”

“Because he didn’t trust me. Didn’t trust either of us, apparently.”

“Maybe he worried the Seers would find out about his…sins. The Seers don’t take insubordination lightly.”

“The Seers don’t seem to take anything lightly.”

Aelus huffed a weak laugh. “No. No, they don’t.”

Quiet lapsed between them while Cordè wound her hair into a loose plait. “I know, by the way.”

“Know what?”

“That your Seers sent you to find out who killed Talat.”

He stared at Cordè, mouth agape. “What? How?”

“Remember the letter Myrra handed Linnaea at the opera?”

Blessed Watcher. Aelus scratched at the stiff scab on the back of head. “I had no idea.”

“I think that was the point.”

Despite the sorrow that clung to him—clung to them both—Aelus smiled, short and fleeting, but genuine. “So. Where do we go from here?”

“Probably the hotel, for starters.”

A chuckle escaped him. “Probably.” He knew what she meant, though: she needed to get back, needed to brief Linnaea about Serasha’s claims. And Talat’s…transgressions.

Some of the previous heaviness returned, though it didn’t overwhelm him like before. In fact, it didn’t even touch his core, because this time he felt it: the strange new bond glittering between him and Cordè. Tentative, but strong.

He stood, smoothing his surcoat with newfound lightness, and offered Cordè his hand. “Forgive me?”

“What for?”

“Being angry.” Yet even as he said it, he knew neither of them had actually been angry; it’d just been easier to scream at each other than scream at the dead.

He ducked his head. “You have my word it won’t happen again.”

“I can’t imagine your Seers approve of Eyes swearing oaths to whores.”

“Definitely not,” he said with a faint grin. “But I vowed to serve you and your household, and I intend to follow those vows through to the end. Plus, Seer Herzin tried to sell Daphne once, so I find his opinions difficult to swallow.”

“Daphne?”

His grin faltered. “My horse.”

They looked at each other. Then, from nowhere, a laugh burst from Cordè’s throat—her first, Aelus realized, since he’d become her Eye.

He liked it, he decided. It suited her.

The laughter died but the lightness remained as he pulled her to her feet. She steadied herself against him, and his attention flickered to their conjoined hands. Hers was so much smaller than his. And warm, very warm. Like holding a cup of fresh hazelnut caffe.

Something jumped a little in his chest.

Cordè let go. “Shall we?”

EIGHTEEN

Linnaea reacted to the Serasha news precisely the way Cordè anticipated—which was to say, she barely reacted at all.

“So, it’s to be a waiting game, then.” Linnaea’s eyes took on a sharp yet distant gleam that made Cordè wonder if Talat had been just as unsuccessful at hiding his secrets from Linnaea as Cordè herself had been.

Linnaea flicked her spectacles a little higher up her beak nose. “How would you gauge Mister Yvon’s interest? Is he, as they say, champing at the bit?”

Cordè readied a response, only to realize Linnaea had directed the question a foot and a half over her head. To Aelus.

“I think so?” Aelus said. “He was watching her the whole time at the market.”

Cordè, who’d felt the first stirrings of indignation after being overlooked, decided he’d given an adequate response.

“Very well.” Linnaea clapped her hands together like a book she’d just finished reading. “With Illüne’s luck, we’ll hear from Philip before week’s end. Go. Enjoy the festival and be ready to return home on the morrow.”

Following a large lunch and an indulgent nap, Cordè awoke to the distant noise of children’s laughter filtering through her open window. Somewhere a band played, its song jolly and playful, accompanied by the crash of waves against Karnath’s shoreline.

A sharp rap-rap-rap sounded at her door.

“Cordè?” Aelus’s low baritone voice rumbled. “Are you up?”

With a groan, Cordè rolled off the bed and opened the door. He took in her ruffled, hair-mussed appearance, then assumed his usual post while she rifled through her suitcase. Ysabelle, ever the meticulous maid, had folded each gown seamlessly atop one another. The handiwork almost made Cordè feel guilty for tearing through them like a wildcat. Almost.

She emerged with two dresses nearly identical in cut and color. “Which one?”

“Are they not the same?”

“This one”—Cordè held up the dress in her left hand— “is more orange than pink.” She held up the other dress. “This one is more pink than orange. See the difference?”

Aelus’s gray irises nearly disappeared as he squinted in concentration.

“That one.” He pointed at the pinker gown, and Cordè smiled. She’d hoped he’d pick the pinker one, as it was the more flattering option.

Preparations without Ysabelle took longer than Cordè anticipated. By the time she was ready to leave the hotel, the Fête d’Azalée’s closing jubilation had morphed from childlike and cheerful to something frenetic and free.

Partygoers celebrated with a wild abandon more befitting the end times than a flower festival. Cordè lifted her skirts and sidestepped a pair of sloppy gentlemen whose arms were thrown around each other’s shoulders, sloshing wine glasses lifted toward the heavens. A stray firework exploded overhead, washing the streets in an evanescent burst of aquamarine.

“How long do you plan on being out?” Aelus called over the merriment, avoiding a puddle of vomit by hopping around it in a funny little dance.

Cordè sipped her own drink and grinned. “Why? Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

“Not especially.”

She offered Aelus her goblet. “Maybe instead of moping, you could try joining in.”

To her surprise, Aelus seemed to consider the offer. Then he shook his head.

Cordè lifted her eyes to the sky. The urge to tease him shriveled as the hairs on her arms stood on end. It was a sensation she knew intimately well: someone was watching her.

A second firework went off over the city center, and onlookers turned toward the prismatic sparks that rained down upon them.

All except one.

Cordè blinked at the stranger whose eyes were trained solely on her. Hilaraan, by the looks of him. And with a jolt she realized the face—smooth, handsome, with bright blue eyes that near-glowed in the dark—was familiar. She’d seen this man before.

He winked at her.

“Aelus, do you see…?”

Her question was interrupted by a pair of boys darting past her on either side, features hidden by papier-mâché masks decorated like sea monsters. One of them ran smack into her elbow, sending a splash of red wine inches from her dress. She whirled around to tell the child off, only to find him sprawled in a heap on the ground.

Aelus stooped to help him up, and Cordè’s heart began to hammer.

The child’s mask had fallen, revealing a bundle of dancing black curls.

Distantly, she heard ringing in her ears, and her hand flew to her throat as her pulse hastened to a gallop. Handsome stranger long forgotten, she gasped at the press of bodies around her; it felt like the crowd was stealing the air from her lungs.

Someone brushed her shoulder, and she flinched.

“Cordè?”

The ringing grew louder, and she struggled to breathe.

“Cordè.”

Her lashes fluttered. Aelus. He was beside her, studying her with concern.

“I’m fine,” she said sharply. She tried again, more gently this time. “I’m fine. I just need some air.”

Aelus nodded and, sticking close to her elbow, guided her toward the shore.

The pathway leading to the sea was rocky and narrow, framed by beach grass nearly as tall as Cordè herself. The weeds swayed in rhythm with the tide, in and out and in and out. She worked to match her breathing to it and found the effort soothing. Brushing the grass aside, she slipped out of her shoes and stretched her toes in the cool sand as Aelus stopped next to her.

“Talat would’ve loved it here,” she said, water lapping her feet. “He always talked about how beautiful his hometown was. A seaside party would’ve been his idea of paradise.”

Aelus crouched and gathered a handful of sand in his massive palm. “I’ve never been to the sea before,” he murmured, almost with wonder. “Talat said he’d take me to Porderli to see the Ember Ocean.”

“He made the same promise to me. Never mentioned you’d be coming along, though.”

A comfortable silence fell over them, and Cordè decided she liked their new dynamic: not quite a friendship, but an allyship of sorts. And it was that line of thought that made her pose the question she’d been mulling since that morning.

“If it turns out Talat was killed because of Serasha, will you tell the Order?”

Aelus hesitated, then stood and studied the white-capped waters. “The Seers suspect it was the Blade’s doing.”

“The Blade?” Her tone rose, drawing the attention of passersby further down the shore. She lowered her voice. “Do they have any reason to think that, beyond their own prejudices?”

“Medôn Guitelet was missing at the time of Talat’s murder.”

“…Is that it?”

“For now.” She arched an incredulous brow, and Aelus added, “The Blade hates us. Deeply. They’ve insulted us, threatened us. It seems only natural they’d escalate to murder.”

To that, Cordè said nothing. The idea seemed ludicrous—it didn’t even factor in Serasha, or the bribed investigator, or Parsyn for that matter—but at the same time, Aelus’s wild theories would do nothing to hamper her own probing. If anything, they could open a door or two.

“So, what’s your next step?” she asked.

“I’m hoping to talk to Lord Guitelet, though I’m not sure how to go about it. I can’t exactly send a letter. Although….”

“What?”

“Myrra promised me a favor.”

Cordè scoffed. “I wouldn’t accept that woman’s help even if I was actively on fire.”

“Xillah said Myrra genuinely wants to help.”

“Of course Xillah would say that. Myrra’s giving them money. She’d probably be singing a different tune if Myrra was hosting an anti-Etherian rally at the end of the⁠—”

“Cordè.” He said her name gently, in the same tone she imagined he used to pray.

She took in an aggravated breath, held it, then exhaled her displeasure. “Fine. Say you reached out to arrange a meeting with Medôn. What then?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you plan to do once you’re in the Citadel?”

Aelus rubbed his neck. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“You can’t just kick the door down and demand answers at swordpoint. You’ll have to be delicate about it. Charming. Charismatic.” Cordè smirked. “Not yourself.”

Aelus seemed ready to argue that point but decided against it. “Do you have any advice?”

Head cocked to the side, she began to circle him. “Stop grabbing your sword. It makes you seem shifty, like you’re itching for a fight.”

Aelus released his hilt and straightened, discomfort radiating from him as she continued.

“Smile more. No, not like that. Fewer teeth. You want to put Medôn at ease. I can already tell you’re a terrible liar, so avoid that route. Or at least pair the lie with a compliment. And control your blushing, your red ears give away your nervousness.”

“You think a smile and some pretty words will get a confession out of him?”

She paused mid-orbit, hands on her hips. “No, I think it’ll get you through the door. I have no idea how you’re going to hold an actual conversation with the man.”

Aelus bit his lower lip.

With a sigh, Cordè rolled her shoulders and adopted the smile she’d tried to encourage from Aelus: soft, coy, with a hint of coquetry. “My Lord Guitelet,” she purred, “certainly a man of your caliber is invested in the pursuit of justice? Your leadership is spoken of so reverently in the Mithraeum. I find it quite”—she danced her fingers along Aelus’s forearm—“inspiring.”

Flushing furiously, Aelus stepped back. “You’re suggesting I seduce him?”

Cordè shrugged, flirtation dropping from her demeanor like an abandoned housecoat. “It’s what I would do if I were you.”

He winced, and Cordè got the impression he was revisiting their previous conversation.

She still wasn’t sure Aelus understood what she did, or why she did it. He had, however, handled the news better than expected; even Talat, with all his open-mindedness and rule-bending, had needed time to get over his initial preconceptions.

Aelus was no Talat. But maybe he wasn’t the intolerable fusspot she’d thought he was.

Her musings were interrupted by distant cheers, boisterous enough to bypass the crashing waves. She dipped her feet in the surf to wash away the grit. “Shall we rejoin the party?”

Aelus gave a resigned grunt and offered his arm for balance as she restrapped her shoes. “If that is what my lady desires.”

My lady. Cordè eyed him, thinking she’d imagined the sarcasm underlying his tone. Then Aelus’s lips twitched, and she blinked in surprise. “I didn’t know you could be funny.”

Instead of defending himself, he released a bark of genuine laughter. It crinkled his eyes and pulled at the corners of his mouth, making him look younger and, dare it be said, happy.

A breeze caught his hair, tugging it from its half-knot, and he casually brushed it away.

Oh gods, Cordè thought with a pang of dread. He’s actually quite handsome, isn’t he?

As if sensing this realization, Aelus’s amusement faded. A firework bloomed overhead, shading his freckled features an ethereal blue. “Perhaps we should retire,” he said. “Linnaea wants to be on the road before daybreak.”

Before daybreak? Cordè shuddered.

“We could just stay up all night, spare ourselves the effort of waking.” No response. “Yes, all right, fine. Back to the hotel, then.”

She was dreaming of Sollund again.

The rocking of the carriage had become the rolling of the tides as she plunged beneath a wave and crested above the churning foam. Her older brother was there, steadying her against the current. Dimly, she heard their mother calling them back to shore, her voice a sharp, grating staccato against the churning surf.

“Cordè!”

She ignored it, instead tugging her brother further into the water. Mama would be cross, but then again, she always was.

“Cordè….”

She awoke, fragments of the dream evaporating like steam from a teapot. Cordè blinked at Linnaea, who smiled gently and laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’re home, my girl.”

With a stifled yawn, Cordè stretched out her joints while the de Valles disembarked.

Parsyn had been far less verbose on the journey home. He’d spent most of his time writing gods-knew-what, while his wife read from her book, Nocti Carnali d’Aahilar.

They didn’t hang around for long, seemingly eager to return to their estate south of Val’dora proper. As soon as their hired carriage disappeared, Cordè exhaled in relief. Now she could relax, wipe the grime off her face, slip between her sheets, and sleep for the next three days.

“Cordè.”

Linnaea stopped her, hand slipping into her pocket to reveal a folded piece of paper with a cracked purple seal. Cordè’s fatigue vanished.

“This was waiting for me at the front desk.” Linnaea raised the note, along with an eyebrow. “It appears our young friend was spot-on in his assessment of Mister Yvon.”

Pulse racing, Cordè snatched the letter and skimmed its spidery handwriting.

“He’s hosting a soiree a week from tonight,” Linnaea said before Cordè finished. “And he’s requested your company.”

“Is it actually an assignment?”

Linnaea tapped the scribbled line beneath Philip’s slanted signature. “I don’t imagine he’s in the habit of offering that kind of money to just any guest.”

Cordè’s eyes widened at the sum. It was a large number. A very large number.

“We’re getting close, my love.” Linnaea’s voice lowered, dropping beneath the sound of Aelus dragging their luggage inside. “We’ve set the trap. Now we wait for it to spring.”

NINETEEN

“Why do you wear your hair in a half-knot?”

Aelus turned to Cordè, who was seated before her vanity, and frowned. “What?”

“Wouldn’t it be more efficient to tie it all up?” She sent him a teasing glance, dawnlight catching in her amber irises as she massaged cream onto her face in small, luxurious circles.

“I suppose it would, yes.”

“So why don’t you? Tie it all up, I mean.”

Unable to articulate the specifics of his hairstyle, Aelus shrugged and resumed guarding her doorway while Cordè muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “stubborn mule.”

A tiny smile crept onto Aelus’s lips. She’d been peppering him with random questions for the better part of a day, and he’d quickly deduced the reason why: she was trying to distract him from his mounting anxieties following the arrival of Myrra Velta’s missive.

Medôn’s agreed to meet you, the letter said. Look for an escort from the Blade.

Cordè, it seemed, had been right about Myrra’s willingness to help—the only caveat being that Aelus was subject to Medôn’s schedule. Thus, Aelus had no other recourse than to accept Medôn’s summons the morning of Philip’s party.

Aelus’s attention drifted to Cordè. She was humming again, eyes half-lidded as she dabbed dollops of cream along her upturned nose. Deep down he wished she could accompany him to the Citadel. Her suggestions had been well-grounded. Clever.

A stern word from Linnaea, however, had dashed any chance of Cordè coming.

“Have you ever tried braiding it?” Cordè asked.

His train of thought fractured. “Braiding? Braiding what?”

“Your hair.” A sharp, minty aroma wafted through the room as Cordè popped open another container. “It’s plenty long. Plus, you have the right bone structure.”

Bone structure? “Braids mean you support the godsforged.”

“Only if you use four strands.” Before he could sink back into brooding, Cordè piped up again, “You know, I still don’t understand the whole ‘godsforged’ thing. Seems a bit convoluted if you ask me. Especially the ‘you must be blessed by all four.’”

“It is convoluted—and fictional.”

“If you say so.” Cordè shrugged, forehead and fingers covered in green goo. “Oh, before I forget.” With a flick of her smallest finger, she opened the bottom drawer of her vanity. She dug around, the clinking of perfume bottles harmonizing with the dangling glass panes above her mattress, then pulled out a circular turquoise container. “Here,” she said, tossing it.

Brows high in suspicion, he twisted it open. A warm, nutty aroma wafted from its contents, and he frowned. “You’re giving me moisturizer?”

“It’s jojoba lotion from Aahilar. I don’t need it, but by the looks of it, your hands do. Just don’t use too much, or you’ll start feeling greasy.”

He stared at her, tiny jar cradled in his massive palms.

“What?” she asked.

“I…thank you.” And he meant it.

A faint rapping from below interrupted the crisp morning atmosphere.

Cordè tilted her head. “Is that⁠—?”

Aelus nodded. His guide had arrived as promised. Hand clenched around Nightbane, he studied the floor as Farren greeted the newcomer with trained politeness.

“Aelus.”

“Hm?”

“You’re fidgeting again. Remember”—Cordè struck a gallant pose, fingers wiggling toward her pearly white smile—“be charming.”

Charming. Right. He took a steadying breath. Then he straightened, peeled his fingers off Nightbane’s hilt, and smiled. It wobbled and was far less brilliant than Cordè’s, but it held.

She beamed. “We’ll make a courtesan out of you yet.”

Aelus inhaled so sharply he almost choked.

“Master Mireau,” Farren called. “Captain Locke is here to escort you.”

Cordè shot out of her chair. “Orien’s your escort?”

Aelus’s stomach churned. Of course she was.

Shedding her robe, a green-faced Cordè sprinted downstairs, Aelus reluctantly trudging behind. True to Farren’s word, standing in the foyer was a familiar, billowy-haired figure in a long midnight-blue cloak. Orien gave Cordè a genuine smile and enfolded her in a fierce hug.

“I didn’t know you were coming.” Cordè wiped at the green goo she’d smeared on Orien’s pauldron. “If you’d told me, I’d have gotten up earlier.”

Orien’s lips twitched in a sly grin, and she traced a flurry of patterns in the air.

Cordè laughed. “I’ll have you know, the process is now four hours instead of five.”

Grin widening, Orien started to sign something else but stopped when Aelus drew closer. All traces of mirth receded like the tide. “You ready?” she asked, Cordè translating.

He nodded.

“Wait.” Cordè clutched Orien’s vambraces. “Can you come by the manor later?”

Orien’s fingers danced in response.

“We’ve barely spoken since you returned. Surely you could spare an hour?”

More finger-dancing.

“Yes, but you’re a captain.”

Orien grasped Cordè’s hands, expression sad yet firm. She brushed her thumb along Cordè’s knuckles in a heartfelt goodbye and headed out. Aelus moved to follow—hesitating, half in and half out of the doorway, at the unnamed emotion in Cordè’s eyes.

You okay? he asked silently.

Whatever Cordè was feeling vanished. She jerked her chin after Orien. Go.

He bowed. “I’ll be back soon.” And, if he was lucky, with answers.

“Don’t forget to smile,” Cordè called.

Though the day was young and damp with morning dew, the city brimmed with activity.

Valdorans strolled arm-in-arm along the sidewalks, walking small pets on leashes, nibbling fresh pastries, twirling lacy parasols on their shoulders. Aelus even saw one or two wearing a four-strand leather braid as a belt. He stiffened. Hopefully, his bell-ringing brethren would be able to slip them a pamphlet.

For good or for ill, they didn’t pass a single Faithful on their way to the market—though they did pass a number of placards posted to building walls, rod iron gates, street signs. Dusera First, Always, they read, accompanied by a picture of Myrra’s diamond-cut, symmetrical face.

Somehow, the picture did not do her beauty justice.

Still, there was a sternness in her ink-print eyes that Aelus didn’t like, nor did he like the accompanying verbiage. Dusera first, always—stand with Myrra Velta for our land, our people!

He did not think Myrra’s rally was one he would want to attend.

Placards also hung in the windows of the Artificer stores he and Orien passed. A pair of shopkeepers noticed Aelus’s lingering attention and tipped their trilby hats.

Aelus bowed back. Orien glanced at the Artificers’ green tunics and quickened her pace.

She left the Artificers because she wanted to protect people, Xillah had said.

Her words had been circulating in Aelus’s head over the past few weeks, along with the outline of an apology. He exhaled, following after Orien’s long strides. Though he’d spent more time on his knees than on his feet in the Mithraeum, apologizing did not come naturally to him. His mother had said he’d inherited that particular vice from his father.

But Aelus was not his father. And he had genuinely acted like a boor, however justified he’d felt at the⁠—

The tender skin of his neck prickled. Someone was watching them.

Aelus’s hand twitched instinctively for his sword, but he resisted, instead shifting toward Orien. “We’re being watched,” he said, voice low. “Someone from your squad?”

Orien’s dark eyes darted to his, confused, and she shook her head.

The prickle on Aelus’s neck intensified. “On three, pretend to fall.”

Orien’s brows shot up. Excuse me?

He didn’t elaborate. Instead he changed course, leading them deeper into the crowd. Then, once they were largely obscured, he counted them down with his fingers. One, two, three.

In a move so smooth Aelus almost believed it genuine, Orien stumbled and fell.

He lunged to catch her, all while searching passersby for weapons or auspicious reactions. Finding none, he scrounged the surrounding rooftops. If he had the Sight, he could parse through the shadows with ease; without it, the most he managed was a cautionary scan.

The tingle along his neck subsided, and he exhaled as Orien dusted herself off.

“Thanks for, uh, playing along.”

Orien shrugged loosely, as if to say it made sense, and withdrew a notebook and a pencil from her pocket. She scribbled something, then thrust the paper beneath his nose.

When did this start?

“Being watched?” She nodded. “Just now, as far as I know.”

Orien frowned, and her perplexity set Aelus more on edge.

He inched closer. “Is it the Etherians? Did someone else get taken?”

The change in her expression was subtle but clear. Waving him toward the line of cramped, dirty buildings, she flicked to a new page and began to write.

The transition from marketplace to Blade happened without warning, like a sudden spurt of springtide rain. One minute he was nodding to on-duty Faithful, the next he was struggling to follow Orien through the suffocating stone alleyways, nearly losing her amidst the forges’ smoky belches. Blade soldiers pressed into him on either side, their thinly-veiled hostility sharper than a dagger’s bite, and he flexed his fingers to avoid grabbing his sword.

Orien cut deeper into the district, weaving through soot and patrols with little effort. Though she seemed engrossed in her writing, she didn’t falter. Not even when hailed by fellow Blade. Strangely, each time this occurred, she covered her pad as if she didn’t want anyone to read it. As if she was suspicious of her own Legion.

A couple blocks later, Orien pulled him into a nearby backstreet. Once they were safely obscured behind a corner, she gave Aelus her notebook.

Zenzi is missing.

Aelus froze. He pictured the white-haired Etherian matron who’d healed him several weeks prior. She’d been kind. Sweet and doting, like a grandmother.

“How?” he rasped. “When?”

Last night. She didn’t return from rounds. No one saw anything. Etherians starting to panic.

“And Xillah?”

Orien waved her hands as if swatting bees. She did it again, this time mouthing: worried.

“Is Xillah taking precautions? Going on rounds with a partner?”

Orien’s lips thinned, so Aelus dropped the matter and returned to her small, loping script. Trying to corroborate Whitman’s claim. Nothing yet, but I believe him about uniforms. Makes sense. Don’t know if it’s Blade still. Theophane⁠—

“Theophane. The Blade’s Second?”

Orien shook her head and scribbled something on a separate page. No. The Senior Officer. She’s one step removed from Second. Orien pointed to the previous paragraph. Theophane thinks whoever has uniforms is under orders to target Etherians.

“Because it’s too organized? I had the same thought.”

Theophane knows about you. She’ll contact Nivae manor in case of emergency. No new information. At standstill.

Standstill? No wonder Orien seemed tense. He returned her pad. She tore the marked pages free and held them up to a nearby torch. The paper ignited, burning to ash.

“How can I help?” Aelus asked.

She pondered, thumb absently rubbing a crescent scar at the base of her index finger. During the meeting, slip in question about Etherians. Don’t say they’re missing. Wait for reaction.

“I thought you said Medôn wasn’t capable?”

Orien shrugged. Can’t hurt to be certain.

Point taken. “Have any theories about who’s taking the Etherians?”

Feels calculated.

“Could it be political?” he asked, recalling Serasha’s comment about the Première.

Maybe. But who? Why?

To that, Aelus had no response. What reason would politicians have to take a matron? Or any Etherian, for that matter? And why one by one?

Aelus sucked in a breath and looked eastward, as if he could spot the Etherian neighborhood from his tiny alleyway. Frustration curled in his chest. Women were being snatched off the street: innocent women, young and old, and no one was doing a blasted thing to stop it. Outside of Orien, apparently.

He touched the eye emblazoned on his chest. One mystery at a time. Right now, he needed to focus on Talat. Afterward, he and Orien and Xillah—and maybe Cordè—could discuss a plan for the Etherians.

Relentless summertide sun beat down upon his shoulders as he and Orien slipped back into the crowd. He raised a hand to wipe away his sweat, and paused as Orien performed a new sign: she tapped her chin and gestured out, like she was offering him something.

Wait, no. Not offering. She was thanking him.

Aelus swallowed. And before he lost his nerve he said, “I want to apologize for how I behaved at the Hall.” Surprise ignited in Orien’s gaze, making him hesitate. “The Order says all Blade are inferior. However, spending time with you has shown me that opinion is perhaps a bit harsh. And judgmental. And not wholly accurate.”

Orien stared at him, stared in a way that made him uncomfortable. Then she inclined her head. Forgiven. And similar to the moment he shared with Cordè on the temple steps, he felt his dynamic with Orien shift into something lighter. Friendlier.

He pointed at her hands. “Can you show me how to sign ‘you’re welcome’?”

A slow smile spread on Orien’s mouth, and she repeated the ‘thank you’ gesture she’d signed earlier: touched her chin, arced it outward.

“They’re the same?” Aelus asked, and she tapped her nose.

He mimicked her, paying particular attention to the arc of his hand. “Like this?” She nodded, smile widening, and his lips curled into a matching grin.

“Teach me another.”

By the time they reached the Citadel’s posterior walls, Aelus had learned “you’re welcome,” “hello,” “goodbye,” “danger,” and “privy.”

Soon, though, the lessons were interrupted—not by sound or spectacle, but by the tinny tang of metalworking mixed with something putrid and organic. Nose wrinkling, Aelus squinted at the muddy sewer below and followed Orien through the portcullis.

The Citadel loomed like a thunderhead, its spiked watchtowers and fifty-foot walls jagged and aggressive like armor. Lines of blue banners stamped with flaming longswords led them into a wide, sandy area that reminded Aelus of the Tharonian gladiatorial pits he’d seen in history books. Throngs of mismatched buildings curved around the arena, each alive with its own brand of activity: blacksmiths clanging away on slabs of heavy steel, archers’ arrows thudding into targets’ straw flesh, groggy soldiers emerging from flat-roofed barracks to begin their patrols.

Truth be told, it seemed a normal, everyday scene. In fact, if one replaced the blue capes with robes and chainmail, it could’ve just as easily been a normal, everyday scene in the Mithraeum.

A passing cadet noticed Aelus’s surcoat and halted. Caught their companion’s arm, whispered in their ear. A Faithful. The activity around Aelus and Orien lulled as soldiers stopped to stare at the brilliant white eye stamped on Aelus’s chest.

A Faithful is here.

The whisper became a low, angry hiss, and a few Blade edged forward, making Aelus flinch. They were all so close. Too close.

A tight, familiar sense of distress sparked in his chest. His breathing quickened⁠—

With a flick of her wrist, Orien bid the Blade to depart and led Aelus to the central keep. Once they were alone, she shot him a concerned glance. You okay?

He nodded, clenched jaw slowly relaxing.

Orien motioned past the entryway to a cold, damp stairwell that cut through the heart of the tower. When they reached the top, Aelus was surprised to find only a handful of Elite Blade dotting the hall, each dressed in new, more fortified gear: plated steel, fanlike helmets, and vicious silver-and-gold poleaxes paired with opal-encrusted longswords.

In unison, Medôn’s Elite turned to fix them—or rather Aelus—with penetrating stares. Their expressions were hidden behind their helmets, and they didn’t move. Not even when Orien knocked on the corridor’s sole door.

For a full thirty seconds, no one answered.

Finally, the door opened to reveal a young, irritated-looking man in a button-down tunic studded with sapphires. He had a scrawny frame, long but undefined, and a mop of mousy curls fashioned into an oiled, gravity-defying pompadour.

He eyed Aelus’s surcoat with disdain. Then he glanced to Aelus’s left.

“Orien?”

She bowed. Aelus did the same. The man studied Aelus again, features sharp and unimpressed, and promptly slammed the door in Aelus’s face.

Aelus peeked at Orien. Medôn? he mouthed.

She shook her head.

Medôn’s Second, then.

The door reopened, and the Second thrust out a palm. “Sword.” Aelus acquiesced, molars grinding as the Second admired Nightbane before tossing it to an Elite. “Dismissed, captain.”

Unease gripped Aelus. He’d assumed Orien would be coming with him.

The Second’s forehead wrinkled in annoyance. “There a problem, Faithful?”

“No.”

“Then for fuck’s sake, hurry in. Medôn’s waiting.”

Sending Orien the sign for goodbye, Aelus entered the Head of the Blade’s quarters.

The sitting room beyond was fit for a king. Gold garnished every surface: the accubita couches, the chairs, the candelabras, even the goblets and pens. A marble statue served as the centerpiece, depicting a nude man with robust genitalia that hung almost to its knee. Averting his gaze, Aelus continued into the side wing, which hosted a smattering of silk divans and liquor cabinets and one huge, impressive, obviously unused desk.

Seated at that desk, legs propped on its glossy surface, was Medôn Guitelet, half-naked and picking gallberry seeds from his teeth.

Aelus’s brows furrowed in disbelief. The Blade’s so-called leader appeared scarcely twenty, with a lean build softened by years of indulgence. His nose was his predominant feature: thick and proud, it emphasized his hairless jawline and clear, hooded eyes. And beneath the plummy scent of alcohol lingered the stench of adolescence, of sweat masked by spicy cologne.

Medôn swept a wine-splattered hand through his cropped hair, staining the blond locks pink as Aelus bowed rigidly. “So, you’re the Eye Huri and Myrra want me to play nice with.” Medôn’s unfocused gaze swept Aelus from head to toe. “You don’t have black eyes.”

“No, my lord.”

“My lord.” Medôn snorted while his Second—Huri, presumably—plodded past Aelus and helped himself to more wine. Eager to share the spoils, Medôn passed his goblet, whacking the pitcher in the process. Bright red wine splashed over the desk and onto the carpet.

“Oops,” Medôn smiled.

Aelus stiffened as the pair collapsed into drunken giggles. This was the Blade’s leadership? He’d have better luck negotiating with priests of Haal than these two.

Be charming.

Rolling his shoulders, he cleared his throat. “I have some questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Medôn snapped, “but Myrra insisted I meet you. Said it’ll help ‘heal the rift,’ blah, blah, blah.”

“I doubt one conversation could fix centuries of animosity.”

“Not our fault your Order is full of shit. You black-eyed bastards don’t know when to shut up and let us do our job.”

Aelus reined in his retort. “My lord, I⁠—”

“Please. You don’t want to call me ‘my lord’ any more than you want to be here.” Medôn reached for some gallberries and tossed one into his mouth, crushing it with a loud squish. “Ask what you will, then piss off.”

Aelus froze. Watcher above, he’d been so concerned about getting the chance to question Medôn, he’d forgotten to craft the questions themselves. He floundered, cheeks aflame while both Blades waited expectantly.

“I wanted….” Wait. No, he couldn’t ask that. It was too accusatory. Too pointed. He tried again. “I wanted….”

“Fucking hells,” Huri muttered. “This is as thrilling as watching ink dry.”

Ink. Books. Library.

An idea materialized, like a boat emerging from the mist.

Aelus offered Medôn a tentative smile. “I wanted to ask you about, uh, you. I’m helping our Chief Archivist, Scholar Imalu, update the Order’s annals. Our entries about you are incomplete, and I’m hoping to fix that. With my lord’s help, of course.”

He was mad, absolutely mad, bluffing his way in like this. What if Myrra already told Medôn of Aelus’s intentions? What if⁠—?

“Fine.”

Aelus blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Medôn’s bleary blue eyes lifted toward the vaulted ceiling. “I can’t have your Order making up shit to fill their pages, can I?”

Watcher’s Tears, his bluff had worked. Aelus covered his surprise with a quick bow, his first question already leaping to his tongue. “How did my lord come to power?”

“I was elected, same as all the rest. Grandfather always said I was born to lead. He made sure Hur and I were trained by the best swordsmen in Dusera.”

Grandfather. Aelus’s attention flicked to the portrait at Medôn’s back, noting the image’s scar-ridden face, expensive armor, and sea-blue eyes.

“You share a strong resemblance.” Aelus motioned to the portrait with his chin.

Medôn glanced over his shoulder, a tinge of wistfulness entering his gaze. “People say he was the greatest commander the Blade had ever seen. Well, second greatest.” He traded smirks with Huri and raised his glass to Aelus, eyes agleam. “Go on. Ask another.”

“What is my lord’s favorite activity?”

Medôn grinned. “Sticking my cock between a wet girl’s legs.” A fierce, hot blush stained Aelus’s cheeks, and Medôn thumped Huri’s shoulder with a laugh. “Aw, look at how red he’s turning! Poor Faithful’s jealous he’ll never know the feeling.”

Determined to stay focused, Aelus plowed forward. “What is my lord’s favorite holiday?”

“All of them.”

“Even Illüne’s Day?”

Bringing up the holiday was a gamble, but it paid off beautifully. Medôn stretched, curling over the back of his chair like a cat. “Oh, yes, especially that one. Fuck, what a riot.”

“You’re referring to this most recent Illüne’s Day?”

Medôn nodded. “Gods, the Rose really outdid themselves. The wine tasted like something straight from Illüne’s glorious tits!”

Aelus balled his fists to hide his shaking. He was close now. Just a couple more questions.

“Does my lord recall the festivities around midnight?” Aelus asked.

Something dark and tremulous flickered across Huri’s features.

“I heard the Rose hired some foreign entertainment from Tharon,” Medôn said around a mouthful of wine. “Wouldn’t know though. I was too busy⁠—”

“My lord,” Huri cut in, steely gaze never leaving Aelus’s face. “I think he’s accusing you of murder.”

Aelus’s blood turned to ice.

Medôn swiveled. “The fuck?”

“He’s asking about the Eye who killed himself at the capitol.” Huri stood, lips peeling back into a snarl. “I heard the Order thinks we had something to do with it. They must have sent this fucker here to find out.”

Medôn bolted from his chair, Huri a half-step behind. Aelus retreated, holding out a supplicating palm. “My lords, please.”

Medôn hurled his cup at Aelus’s head. “Guards! Guards!”

The cup missed by several feet, but it didn’t matter. Medôn was already fumbling for more ammunition while Huri pounded his fist against the wall. A seam appeared beside the portrait as a panel—no, a door—slid open and a trio of Elites emerged, poleaxes at the ready.

Oh gods. Aelus lurched backward, scrambling for the stiletto he kept hidden in his boot, as the Elites parted to allow a regal woman in a thick, decorated cape to pass.

“My lords. What…?”

“Kill him!” Medôn crowed. He flung a vase in Aelus’s direction, where it splintered against the wall. Aelus winced as a stray fragment sliced his cheek. Off to the side, Huri yelped and doubled over, clutching at the shard protruding from his bicep.

The woman stepped toward Huri, expression taut.

“It’s fine.” Huri inhaled heavily through his nose, face white with pain. His eyes widened in alarm as Medôn grabbed another vase. “Medôn, stop! Theophane!”

With feline quickness, Theophane snatched the object from Medôn’s grip.

He shoved her away. “Don’t attack me, you dolt. Attack him.” He pointed at Aelus. “I order you to kill him. Now!”

Before Theophane could respond, Huri yanked the shard out of his arm and flung himself at Medôn. “Look at me. Medôn, look at me. Calm down. No one’s going to hurt you, okay?”

“Kill him now! Kill him now! Kill him now!”

Theophane sidestepped Medôn and Huri and gestured for the Elites to stand down.

Aelus raised his palms to show they were empty. “I didn’t come here to do harm.”

“Bullshit,” Huri spat, sleeve darkening with blood. “He accused our Head of murder.”

“I’ll take care of it, my lord.” Theophane’s voice was smooth, rich like honey. “You and Medôn have more important business to look after.”

Huri’s attention flitted from Medôn to Aelus, who was scarcely breathing by this point, then back to Theophane. “See he doesn’t enter our district again.”

Theophane gave a crisp bow and ushered Aelus to the door.

Once outside, Aelus released a stuttering exhale as his adrenaline faded, leaving the sting of failure behind. He’d had one chance, one glorious chance, and he’d ruined it. The Blade would never speak with him now.

Forgive me, Talat.

Theophane unstrapped Nightbane from the nearby Elite’s belt and offered it to Aelus. “I assume this is yours?”

He nodded, securing the sword to his waist, its weight heavier than before.

Theophane motioned toward the end of the hall. “Come.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“The portcullis. Why? Would you rather we go somewhere else?”

Aelus’s gaze narrowed. “Medôn wants me dead.”

A corner of Theophane’s mouth lifted. “Medôn wants everyone dead at some point or another. His grandfather, great as he was, neglected to teach his grandson how to manage his ego.” Aelus blinked, and Theophane waved at the stairwell’s musty abyss. “Shall we?”

Unsure of this new character, but out of viable alternatives, Aelus accepted.

He studied her as they descended. The Senior Officer of the Blade was tall but not overbearing, lithe but not weak, with a hawkish glint in her forest-green eyes. Her sleek chestnut hair was pulled back, looping around her head like a crown. And while her superiors wore their ranks like ill-fitting breeches, Theophane wore hers naturally, competently. Like she’d been born to it.

“So you’re Orien’s commander?” Aelus asked a beat later.

“Hers, and many others’. This surprises you?”

“You’re just…not what I expected.”

“Why? Because I’m not openly hateful toward Faithful?” She smiled. “The Order and the Blade strive for the same thing. Peace. Security.” Her gaze slid sideways to Aelus. “Protection of the innocent.”

Etherians, Aelus understood. She’s talking about the missing Etherians.

“Did your chat with Medôn prove useful?” Theophane asked.

Aelus’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. Though Theophane had escorted him safely away, and Orien said she was trustworthy, Theophane was still a Blade.

A faint hmm escaped Theophane’s lips, and without warning, she halted mid-stride. “I understand you have no reason to trust me, so let me be frank.” His pulse stuttered as she leaned closer. “I know the real reason for your visit.”

He stilled as a new, different realization slammed him like a punch to the gut: Theophane hadn’t been referring to the Etherians. She’d been referring to Talat.

The panel in the study. She must have been listening.

Aelus swallowed. “I came for research.”

Theophane fixed him with a prolonged, almost pitying stare. “Then I pray you found what you were looking for.” She resumed her march down the stairs.

“Wait.”

Theophane stopped and studied him, brows high as he weighed his options.

“Do you know what happened on Illüne’s Day? With the Eye?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, I was dealing with an altercation at the time”—he sagged in disappointment—“but one of my subordinates saw a woman head to the roof.”

“A woman? Who? When?”

“I don’t know. My subordinate said she wasn’t wearing any Legions’ colors. She headed up around midnight; until now, I assumed she had a rendezvous with a lover.”

Midnight. A Legion-less woman had headed for the roof around midnight.

“Did your people see or hear anything else?” he asked, near breathless. “Anything at all?”

“I’m sorry, but no.”

Aelus nodded and followed Theophane downstairs while, inwardly, he quivered with the thrill of discovery. Watcher above, he had a lead. It wasn’t big, but it was tangible. Real.

A thought struck him. “What made you decide to help me?”

Her answer came quickly, without hesitation. “Because someone was murdered on my watch. Because Etherians are going missing. Because I don’t want this feud to continue. Because I, like you, serve something beyond myself…and I’d do anything to keep my country safe.”

It was a deep, fervent sentiment. Aelus could see why Orien respected her.

The rest of the descent concluded in silence. But as he and Theophane parted ways, he bowed, low and sincere. “By His Gaze.”

She smiled and thumped a gloved fist against her cuirass. “May We See.”

TWENTY

…Bong. Bong. Bong.

Seven bells. Cordè glanced at the foyer’s grand oak timekeeper on her way to Linnaea’s study. There was always a twinge of anxious excitement leading up to an assignment, but tonight she could barely keep from running laps around the grounds.

Cordè paused outside the door, tucking an errant hair behind her ear—Ysa had styled it down, and Cordè was torn on her opinion of it—before letting herself in.

Linnaea stood hunched beside her desk, poring over a map of Tharon’s eastern shoreline. Her spectacles slipped down her nose as she gave Cordè a fleeting appraisal. “Gold suits you.”

Gold did suit her. Cordè smoothed the layers of shining silk, pleased with how they accented the swell of her breasts and the roundness of her backside.

She pulled her shoulders back. “What do you have for me?”

Linnaea handed her a single paper.

Cordè frowned. She’d received a bundle of parchment before meeting Gaeton, detailing his likes, dislikes, connections. Philip’s dossier was just one page, not even front and back.

She scanned the first line. “‘A skilled businessman who came to wealth suddenly.’ From where? Who are his people?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be sending you on this assignment.”

“So, I’m to find out who holds his leash.”

“Yes. The Emaris employ him, but my sources suggest someone else controls his movements: a benefactor, or a blackmailer⁠—”

“Identify my patron’s patron.” Cordè returned the sheet to Linnaea, who held it over a candle. Together they watched the paper curl and blacken, the fluttering flames turning Linnaea’s lenses pure white.

The groan of floorboards overhead interrupted their shared silence.

“When did Aelus get home?” Cordè asked.

“Earlier this afternoon. He’s been in his room ever since.” Linnaea paused. “Check on him. Find out what he learned.”

With an acquiescing nod, Cordè headed to Aelus’s closet-sized nook tucked beneath the spiral staircase leading to her loft. He knelt on the ground facing away from the open door, and she could hear the low murmurings of prayer. A heavy solemnity clung to him, like a shade over a lantern. And even though she’d walked in on what appeared to be a private ritual, Cordè took this rare moment of distraction to study him unseen.

It had been her experience that, when it came to armored men, most looked significantly weaker or smaller after removing their many layers of leather and chain. Aelus, it seemed, was the rare exception. She watched him bow deeper into his prayer, hand rising to his forehead. He murmured something—the words were unintelligible but the tone of it seemed…repentant? Beseeching?—then pushed himself to standing.

“So, did you remember to…?”

Cordè’s jest shriveled when Aelus turned to look at her. A shallow cut followed the angle of his cheekbone, crusty and brown with dried blood. She unfolded her arms. “What happened?”

He combed through his hair again. Gestured for her to sit. Once she settled on his footstool, he told her the whole of it: what had happened since he left that morning.

By the time he finished, Cordè’s knees were bouncing in rhythmic anxiety.

A half-drunk Head of the Blade. Threats and near-rescues. A new suspect in the form of an unidentified woman. And Zenzi was gone.

Something heavy settled in Cordè’s belly.

She hadn’t thought about the missing Etherians much at all, not since the potluck. Her focus was Talat. Always Talat.

Cordè’s first thought was to ask Beni if he’d heard anything, though he’d been frustratingly quiet since her last visit. She’d sent Ysabelle to collect information, as promised, but Ysa had returned empty-handed and skittish, making Cordè assume Beni had been rude.

Maybe Gaeton could be helpful. The Artificer district bordered the Etherian neighborhood, so perhaps….

A sigh interrupted her racing thoughts. Aelus rubbed an impossibly large hand over his face, defeat aging him beyond his twenty-six years.

“Hey.” Cordè stood. “It’s not like you came away with nothing. You got us a new lead—this woman, whoever she is.”

She almost went to him, to put a hand on his shoulder, but thought better of it.

“I’m proud of you,” she said. Gods, that sounded condescending.

He gave a weak smile, backlit by the blood red glow of the evening sun through his window. Beneath their feet, the foyer timepiece chimed the half hour. They’d need to leave soon.

Just before exiting, though, she tapped her own cheek, then tipped her chin at the dry blood on his face. “Probably want to clean that up before we go.”

“Tertia’s tits.” Cordè pressed her forehead to the carriage window and gaped.

Val’dora’s wealthiest district sat atop a hill overlooking the city center, as if these homes were peering down their collective noses at the paupers below. Not even the Capitis Cor Meum’s opulence could compete with the Première’s palatial chateaus, pillared and magnificent and encircled by spiked fences.

Eight-year-old Cordè would have seen those spikes as a challenge. Twenty-year-old Cordè was captivated by their prestige.

Aelus seemed far less enamored with his surroundings. He tugged at his chainmail and scanned each estate as it passed, but not in wonder. His gaze was severe, analytic. Unimpressed.

The Yvon residence was the last in a row of stone terrace houses that faced the Première’s travertine amphitheater, which tonight sat empty and unused. In a few weeks’ time, it would be bursting at the seams with Valdorans eager to hear Myrra Velta use her regal, sensuous voice to spout nonsense about standing up for tradition and returning to moral values.

Ironic, then, that Philip was hosting a party for people like Cordè right across the street.

Strange music seeped from the Yvon residence, sliding into Cordè’s pulse as she accepted Aelus’s assistance onto the sidewalk. Undulating shadows writhed behind window screens, people-shaped yet serpentine in movement.

The front door opened at their approach, and a thin man in a steward’s uniform bowed. “Master Yvon welcomes the Winter Lily into his home and asks her to join his other guests in the parlor”—the steward nodded at the closed double doors between twin staircases—“until her private company is requested.”

Cordè gripped her ruby-encrusted purse a bit tighter, pausing to study the arched underside of the second-floor landing. Perhaps Serasha was up there, sequestered from frivolity while her husband indulged in unsupervised delights.

Unlikely, Cordè assumed. Serasha was probably with Nessare at the Emari estate, and all the happier for it.

The music grew louder as Cordè neared the double doors. Aelus hovered at her side, anxiety wafting from him like the burn of a fever. Without waiting for him to offer, Cordè twisted the knob and stepped inside.

Foreign sounds and smells immediately assaulted her senses: everything was crimson and warm and pulsing. The first involuntary comparison her mind drew was to the inside of a body, like the innards of the deer her brother used to hunt and skin. Guests lounged on plush chaises and sipped from fancy goblets. A few danced, though nothing like the elegant waltz Cordè had shared with Myrra Velta; these were slow, rolling sways timed to the throbbing undercurrent of strings and percussion.

A tray of liquor appeared before her, held by a scantily dressed attendant. His revealing uniform matched the other servers’ attire—all of whom, Cordè realized, were elves.

She reached for a snifter, only to be interrupted by the sound of breaking glass.

Two men had backed a female elf into a corner, blocking her escape with their shoulders. She wielded her silver platter like a shield while crystal goblets crunched underfoot.

A hand touched Cordè’s elbow with gentle urgency. She looked up at Aelus, whose face hardened with discomfort.

Are you sure you want to stay? his expression asked.

No. Aloud she said, “I have a job to do.” Her tone carried a confidence she didn’t wholly feel as one of the men, taller and blonder than his companion, tried to unhook the server’s top.

Aelus stepped forward, nostrils aflare—and froze. “That’s Medôn Guitelet.”

The Boy-King of the Blade. The nickname made more sense after seeing him in person: both Medôn and his companion appeared close to Cordè’s age, but their conduct branded them on the cusp of manhood.

She turned to Aelus. “Maybe it’s best if you stay out of sight.”

“Linnaea hired me to keep you safe.”

“Yes, and that can be done from the perimeter of the room.”

“I’m not leaving you. I swore an oath.”

“Were you expecting to follow me to Philip’s chambers? Hover at the foot of the bed?”

Aelus flushed a dark, unhappy red. Reluctantly he backed toward the outer wall, all the while eyeing Medôn with contempt. “If he gets near you, I’m coming in.”

As soon as Cordè was on her own, a familiar sensation settled over her. Like sliding into bed after a long journey, she’d forgotten the satisfying pleasure she got from being seen. Lingering looks followed in her wake, and a hand or two made contact with the small of her back: deceptively innocent hands pretending to brush past or maneuver her out of the way. She wasn’t fooled, though; the contact was deliberate.

Those touches were why most people hated crowds. Cordè never felt more alive than when she was in them.

She slipped between bodies, casting her gaze out like a trawler’s net in search of acquaintances. Most were too old to run in Cordè’s social circles, as demonstrated by the wizened Triumvirate judge seated along the far wall. His ornate white robe hung open while the hand of a much younger man slid up and down his inner thigh.

Not far from the judge stood Janvier Emari, leaning against a bookshelf and sipping a glass of wine. He was alone and seemed rather uncomfortable in his solitude. Cordè’s heartbeat quickened as she drank in the sight of his elegant features. Part of her wanted to go to him, to smile and banter and share a dance, but she resisted the urge.

She swept the room, purposely avoiding Aelus’s steady stare as she hunted for a head of silver curls. Nothing.

Patience, Linnaea’s phantom voice coached. Sit. Observe.

Giving the parlor a last scan, Cordè settled on a grouping of couches centered around a tray of finely wrapped cigars. The couches’ lone occupant sat with his back to her, enveloped in a cloud of smoke.

Cordè chose a cigar and positioned herself so she could see Philip whenever he entered.

Sktch. Her couch companion offered her a lit match, face awash in an orange glow. Not just any face, however; she’d seen this face before on Illüne’s Day, and again in Karnath.

The blue-eyed Hilaraan.

Cordè blanched, almost dropping her cigar. “Who⁠—?”

He touched his index finger to his lips, casual and smooth. Not here.

“There you are.”

A jolt of recognition shot through Cordè as Dionisia de Valle emerged from the shadows. She leaned over the Hilaraan, dragging a nail along his scruffed chin, and kissed him full on the mouth.

Cordè’s lips parted in mute astonishment.

Once the kiss broke, Dionisia, seemingly unaware of Cordè’s presence, beckoned him with the curl of her finger. Without hesitation, the Hilaraan obeyed.

Cordè watched them disappear into the crowd as she pieced together what she’d witnessed. She was certain, absolutely certain he was the same man who’d been following her halfway across Dusera. Was he Parsyn’s spy? If so, why was he carrying on so brazenly with Parsyn’s wife?

Linnaea had danced with the Hilaraan on Illüne’s Day. Perhaps she⁠—

Cordè’s thoughts fractured as a different man, this one blue-clad and gangly, spilled onto the couch beside her. “I don’t think the waitstaff are supposed to sample the party favors,” the stranger said with a smirk, reaching over to pluck the smoldering cigar from her fingers.

Cordè moved her cigar out of reach. “Do I look like waitstaff to you?”

His pale gaze, which had been focused on her eartips, slithered southward. “Depends on what kind of staff we’re talking about.” If he’d been a client, she would’ve forced a smile at the uninspired wordplay. Instead, she fixed him with a deadpan stare.

He had unremarkable features, clean-shaven and long, and Cordè realized with dawning discomfort he was Medôn Guitelet’s slighter, darker-haired companion. One look at his sapphire pin confirmed her suspicions: Huri Aubefort, Second of the Blade.

She swallowed. “As flattering as your attention is, Lord Aubefort, I’m afraid I don’t have time to chat.”

“Well, that’s not fair. You know who I am, but I’ve yet to make your acquaintance.”

“Lady Cyra of the Rose.”

“Wait.” He snapped his fingers. “Are you their elf? The whore?”

Cordè frowned at his tone.

“Shit. You are, aren’t you? They even gave you a name. Winter Flower?” His attention darted to her ears again. “You must be good. They don’t make just any elf a member of a Legion. Though I could have sworn I’ve seen you scampering around Camellia Court.”

Huri’s hand moved and, anticipating its placement, she jerked her knee away.

Undeterred, he inched closer, thigh pressing against hers. “Did Philip hire you for us?”

“Philip hired me for himself.”

“Bastard,” Huri swore good-naturedly. He skimmed the room before leaning in, voice low. “Listen, he doesn’t have to know. Give me a few minutes in the back”—Huri jammed his thumb at a burgundy curtain trimmed in gold—“then you’ll have a favor owed to you by a Legion Second. That’s a pretty nice position to be in.”

This time he succeeded in capturing her knee, which he squeezed suggestively.

Over Huri’s shoulder, a flash of ginger moved inward from the perimeter.

Fuck.

Plastering on a false smile, she turned to Huri, preparing to distract him while she motioned for Aelus to⁠—

“Lord Aubefort! Indulging already?”

Cordè blinked as Philip emerged from the curtained room Huri had just indicated, sweeping onto the scene like the tide. Aelus skidded to a halt.

Philip clasped Huri on the shoulders and ushered him to standing. “Now, now, don’t fret. I have some new product for you to sample, while I sample some product of my own.” He wagged his brows in Cordè’s direction, then gestured to the back room. “Hurry along before Lord Guitelet blows through the whole shipment.”

Huri’s eyes brightened with a new type of excitement. With a quick, parting look at Cordè, he disappeared behind the burgundy curtain.

Philip sighed the way a brother would fondly dismiss a younger sibling’s escapades. “Those Blade boys have the attention spans of kappafish. But you”—he helped Cordè to her feet with an approving once-over—“you are absolutely radiant.”

He kissed her knuckles and put her hand on his arm. “I have something to show you.”

“Are you offering me ‘product’ as well?”

“Better.” He navigated her toward a lattice door tucked neatly into the corner. They bypassed the curtained room, and through the gap, Cordè caught sight of a hazy cloud of particulate, shimmering and fine.

Illim. Philip’s back room was a drug den.

“Your mistress’s contract included a clause about your guard.” Philip glanced at Aelus, who trailed a few paces behind. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect him to be so intense.”

Cordè also looked at Aelus, eyes flaring in emphasis. Calm down. Stay put. To Philip, she said, “You have to excuse his fervor, my lord. He’s still learning his place.”

Glowering, Aelus stationed himself against the wall—shoulders squared, jaw set—as Philip guided her through the lattice door.

In the half-moment it took to cross the threshold, Cordè imagined what lay beyond: a study, a pool, a stonewalled chamber filled with whips and shackles.

Instead, she found herself in a garden.

The sounds of soiree revelry faded, replaced by the bubbling gurgle of a fountain amidst lush greenery. The garden itself was small yet tastefully tended, illuminated by the unimpeded glow of the summertide moon. A covered walkway encircled the courtyard, each arch accented with flowering vines and torchlight—a small slice of Rose resplendence tucked into the heart of the Première.

It was, frankly and surprisingly, a romantic scene to behold.

“My private sanctuary,” Philip said with a flourish. “I come here when I need to think or get away from prying eyes.”

Cordè was certain those weren’t the only things he did in this garden, but she smiled as if charmed by his depth of character. She stepped out from beneath the alcove into the light of the moon. It caught the shimmer of her dress, muting the gold color and giving it an otherworldly gleam. Her fingertips brushed the phosphorescent petals of a nearby lothryas flower.

“Beautiful,” she murmured.

“Lothryas,” Philip supplied. “A gift from one of the Ravethinian skippers I added to my payroll recently.”

“Looking to expand your business ventures outside Dusera, my lord?”

“Already done. Ravethin might be cold and boring, but it’s not without merit.” He stood behind Cordè, body pressed against hers, and pointed at a patch of feathery blue blossoms. “Those are also from Ravethin. As is this.”

Philip plucked a pale yellow flower from a vine along the fountain’s lip and tucked it behind her ear: a gesture that, under different circumstances, would have been sweet. Then he slid his hand lower, down her shoulder, lingering at the sensitive underside of her arm. The touch became a squeeze. “I’ve never felt skin as soft as yours.”

Cordè turned and lifted onto her tiptoes. “That’s not even the softest part of me,” she said, lips brushing his ear.

She stepped out of his grasp and wandered further into the courtyard, conscious of Philip’s smoldering, impatient attention. Once she was a safe distance away, she snatched her lipstick out of her bag and applied it in quick, purposeful strokes.

At her back, she felt Philip stalk closer, closer.

“Why so coy, little mouse?”

He reached her just as she dropped the lipstick back into her purse. With soft yet insistent fingers, he traced a path down toward the curve of her backside. Before he reached his prize, however, she spun around.

“You prefer a wildcat, my lord?”

Gripping his collar, she pulled him in for a searing kiss. Philip released a muffled mmf, which heightened to a hiss as Cordè bit his lower lip. Hard. A sharp tang of copper hit her tongue, and he jerked back, a drop of blood glistening on his chin. The red looked black in the moonlight, like ichor.

“Bitch.” Anger burned in his gaze, but beneath it stirred something more primal.

“Perhaps I overestimated my lord’s resilience,” Cordè said, stroking his cheek. “Do you want me to be gentle?”

He caught her wrist. “I want you to do what I paid for. Strip. Now.”

Her eyes bounced between his, searching, searching. “As you command.”

Philip held onto her for an extra beat. He tightened his grip, as if in warning, and released her without another word. As soon as his back was turned, she released a shaky breath while he took a seat on a nearby stone bench. He studied her expectantly, with the air of a man not used to being refused.

Cordè lifted one of her shoulders and let the cuff-like sleeve slip down her arm, and Philip followed the movement with a surgeon’s precision.

She did the same with the other sleeve while, behind her back, her fingers moved in a deft dance along the dress’s delicate trail of buttons. The silk peeled open like a ship cutting through water, pooling at the drastic curve of her waist.

The corset she wore was one of her favorites, made of a soft peach satin nearly the same color as her skin. Its ribbon laces crisscrossed up the front of her torso, ending in a neat little bow at the juncture of her breasts.

Philip grinned in appreciation. The torches’ light reflecting off the fountain water cast turquoise shadows on his brilliant white teeth.

She dragged the silk over the arc of her hips. The material resisted, stretched taut, then settled with a sigh at her feet.

Cordè stepped out of the dress, nighttime air kissing her bare legs and buttocks. It should have chilled her, but instead she found it comforting; after all, her blood had always run hotter than most. She approached, focus locked onto Philip.

Searching, searching.

She settled into his lap, straddling his thighs, and kissed him—a deep, consuming kiss. Her tongue pushed between his lips, fingers raking through his hair, and when she pulled back, her lipstick had stained his mouth scarlet.

Cordè steadied herself against his chest, attention darting between the sweat at his hairline, his flushed complexion, the throb of his pulse at his temple. And, finally, his glassy eyes.

There.

His pupils fluttered in rhythm with the heartbeat beneath her palm. Then they expanded, swallowing his hazel irises.

Illim. It loosens Philip’s lips, Serasha had said.

Cordè’s handbag lay abandoned by the fountain, contents safely tucked away—including her favorite lipstick. The scarlet hue made the color of her eyes pop. And, more importantly, it was dark enough to hide the shimmering layer of illim she’d added that morning.

She’d been saving that stash for a special occasion. And tonight was as special an occasion as any.

Cordè rolled her hips, and Philip released a short, hot breath that smelled both acidic and sweet. “I take it this isn’t something your wife would do for you,” she said.

“Serasha does whatever I want.” His voice had lost its keen edge, words lolling about as if caught in the pockets of his cheeks.

“Not well, apparently, if you had to call on me. My lord must be frustrated.”

Philip’s expression was difficult to read, at once enraptured and tumultuous. “She learned her lesson.”

Cordè exaggerated the shocked flare of her eyes and paused her unlacing. “Don’t tell me she spurned you for some stuffy politician.”

“Not a politician, a fucking Eye. Thank the gods he did us a favor and jumped off the roof after crawling between her legs.”

Air lodged in Cordè’s throat, but she passed it off as a feminine gasp.

“An Eye?” she repeated in feigned surprise. “You don’t mean…?”

Philip started yanking at her corset himself, releasing a low mmm before claiming her newly freed nipple with lips and teeth.

She tried again. “My lord must be clever to have figured that out on his own.”

He didn’t reply, too busy drawing her higher on his squirming lap.

“I—”

He lifted his face from her cleavage to pin her with a glazed yet intense stare. “Why’re you so interested in my affairs?”

Fuck. Cordè hoped her smile was appropriately mollifying. “Because, my lord, the Eye who wounded your pride served me, once. He betrayed my confidence. But I wasn’t smart enough to figure out what he’d done. Someone told me.”

“Who?”

“I thought it might’ve been you.”

“Me?”

“The letter I received was unsigned, so I assumed the man my Eye had cuckolded⁠—”

“Cuckolded?”

Philip’s hand tangled itself in her unbound hair and pulled. Angrily. Punishingly.

Cordè swallowed a pained wince. Walk it back.

With another pacifying smile, she reached between his legs and gave him a few smooth, languid tugs through his pants. Philip groaned, grinding against the contact.

“Never sent you a letter,” he mumbled, eyes half-closed.

“Perhaps it was someone on your behalf. A business partner?”

“Doesn’t sound like him.”

Him. Him him him.

“Maybe he thought we could help each other.” Cordè undid his trousers, letting him spring free into her awaiting palm. She ran her hand up and down his length once. Twice. Three times.

A hot stream of air hissed through Philip’s teeth. But he said nothing.

She was close. Gods, she was close. She felt it in the clenching of his thighs beneath hers. All she had to do was push, push just a little more, and the man would tear open his own insides if she asked.

And the illim would make him forget he’d done it at all.

Cordè squeezed his cock before angling her body in a new, readied position.

“I do so enjoy being”—she lowered herself onto him with devastating slowness, taking him to the hilt—“helpful.”

Immediately he anchored her in place, surging into her with abandon. He no longer seemed to notice the artistry of her gyring hips; instead he lost himself in his own thrusting, features taut, teeth bared. She saw a flash of canines, sharp and glinting against his gums.

Cordè leaned in, mouth at his ear. “Who told you about the Eye?”

He gave a strangled moan as she bucked against him.

“Tell me.”

Her fingers gripped his silver-streaked hair, and this time she was the one to yank his head back, exposing his throat.

“Tell me.”

“Parsyn,” Philip gasped as he went rigid beneath her. “Parsyn de Valle.”

TWENTY-ONE

A muffled grunt echoed from beyond the lattice door at Aelus’s back as he obsessively picked his dry calluses.

Philip had been enjoying his private time with Cordè for a while now, judging by the… sounds. It was impossible not to hear the pair; the door might as well be a wedding veil for all the good it did. Every groan, every breathy sigh, seeped through the wooden diamond slats. And Aelus, for all his considerable willpower, could not keep from wondering exactly how Philip managed to elicit such full-throated moans from Cordè.

His fingers slipped, accidentally tearing one of the calluses he’d been picking. Pain welled, along with a ruby spot of blood, and Aelus used the slight sting to recenter himself.

With a sharp cough to clear his throat—and head—he spared a glance at the curtain that’d swallowed Medôn and Huri, then folded his arms and studied the crowd. Of the parlor’s original fifty guests, only thirty-two remained; five were Eyes like him, the rest ordinary citizens who were, at this hour, either deep into their cups or engaged in other things. Like Dionisia de Valle.

She and her Hilaraan partner writhed on a couch, twining like serpents in a tasteless display of wandering hands and vigorous kisses.

Aelus’s cheeks heated. He looked away, to the buffet table, where a blue-caped man was helping himself to a plate of the fresh plums. This particular Blade was shorter than his fellow soldiers, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, with an uncomfortably arrow-straight posture.

There was something striking about that posture. Familiar.

The blood drained from Aelus’s face. Ellisar?

Impossible. Ellisar Fehr was Unsighted. Cast out. Banished.

As if sensing Aelus’s attention, the man turned, revealing an aquiline nose, a prominent lower lip hedged by a roguish ebony beard, and a plain white cloth covering a pair of butchered, unseeing eyes.

There was no mistake; Ellisar Fehr, former Faithful turned outcast, was here. Dressed in the colors of the Blade.

Never before had a Faithful, an Unsighted no less, joined the Blade. Never. It was as heinous as renouncing Reneir to serve his brother-god, Haal, or slaughtering a fellow Faithful. Now Aelus watched—horrified, repulsed, confounded—as Ellisar cheerily clasped his Blade’s companion’s arm in farewell and headed in Aelus’s direction.

Like a leaf caught by the breeze, Ellisar slipped between guests, never once breaking stride. He swiped a lone glass en route, and the crimson light overhead caught the shiny pink veins peeking out from beneath his cloth: remnants of just how hot the needle had been when it punctured Ellisar’s eyes.

Aelus’s focus darted to the faint white line licking the base of Ellisar’s neck, and he wondered, distantly, which of Ellisar’s scars belonged to him.

A smirk touched Ellisar’s lips, and he halted a couple feet away. “By His Gaze.”

Aelus remained silent.

Ellisar’s thick brows rose. “You forget the rest, or are you thrown off by the—?” He gestured at the cloth. “Distracting, isn’t it?”

It was. But the scarring wasn’t the only thing that disturbed Aelus.

He stared at Ellisar’s uniform. “W-why?” was all he could manage.

Ellisar shrugged. “The Order tossed me out, and the Blade offered me sanctuary. Seemed a better alternative than scraping by on the streets, if you ask me, brother.”

“Do not call me brother,” Aelus spat. “You lost that right when you⁠—”

“Killed my ward. I know.” Ellisar sipped his champagne. “A word of wisdom: not everything is as black and white as the Order would have you believe.”

Unbidden, Aelus recalled the conversation in Karnath and his initial denial about Talat.

His hands curled into tight fists. “You killed your ward,” he repeated.

Something dark and rotten sullied Ellisar’s handsome face. With a sharp clunk, he abandoned the glass on a credenza and raised his palm.

There, etched deep into the olive-toned skin, were dozens of short, jagged scars.

“My ward liked to throw things at me,” Ellisar explained. “Small things, like bracelets, hairbrushes, shoes. Then one night, after being rejected by the Triumvirate’s school for magistrates, she used glass. She got a taste for violence after that. It gave her a thrill, I think, to watch me bleed, knowing I couldn’t harm her.”

He tilted his head, pink veins glistening like potter’s glaze. “I reported the abuse to her family, thinking they’d see reason and release me from my contract. Instead they threatened to tell everyone I’d forced myself on their daughter. So for five years, I kept silent, let her pelt me with glass until my scars scarred. Told our sister Etherians the wounds were from training.”

Aelus didn’t want to ask. He didn’t. But it spilled out anyway. “Then what happened?”

“Beat a caged animal long enough, and eventually they’ll snap back.” Ellisar’s smirk went feral. “I’m not a pet, brother. And by the Watcher, I made her regret turning me into one.”

Aelus felt sick. “If all that’s true, why not tell the Seers?”

“You think they cared why I broke my oaths? Our resplendent Seers wouldn’t let a little thing like ‘torture’ interfere with the Watcher’s justice.”

“So, you joined the Blade?”

“I survived. And I’m cautioning you to do the same.”

“I don’t understand.”

Some hardness leached from Ellisar’s features. Back to the crowd, he leaned in, almost cheek-to-cheek. “Don’t trust the Seers. When the time comes, they won’t hesitate to betray you.”

All the warmth fled Aelus’s body in a sickening rush.

Lie. Ellisar was lying. The Seers—Aelus’s father—would never betray their own. Yet Ellisar’s steady demeanor didn’t falter; if anything it deepened, revealing a resigned sort of pity, as if he sensed Aelus’s internal upheaval. As if he knew things Aelus did not.

The back room’s velvet curtain flew open, and a red-faced Huri Aubefort stumbled into the parlor, singing at the top of his lungs. “…and by the gods, her tits were fine!”

Whatever drug Huri was on had stolen his wits; he’d shed his jacket, untucked his tunic, and kept tugging at his flattened pompadour with a wild, manic energy.

Perhaps Huri’s current state was a blessing. Maybe he wouldn’t notice Aelus’s presence.

“Ellisar!”

Or maybe he would.

Heart hammering, Aelus tried tucking his bulky frame into the corner as Ellisar returned Huri’s hail. For a moment, Aelus thought he’d succeeded. Then his elbow bumped against stone, making his chainmail rattle like a dinner bell.

Huri’s mirth vanished. “Fucking hells. I thought I spotted you earlier. Take a wrong turn somewhere?” Without waiting for a reply, he slung his arm over Ellisar’s shoulders and shot Aelus a triumphant smirk. “Medôn wants your head, you know. If he sees you here….” Huri mimed a blade slashing across his throat.

Aelus swallowed hard. “I’m not here to cause trouble. My ward⁠—”

“Ward? What ward? I don’t see any ward.”

“She’s with the host.”

A haze of confusion glimmered in Huri’s gaze. Then he saw the door at Aelus’s back, saw the garden greenery poking through the lattice work, and had a moment of clarity.

“No way. Her?”

Grinning, Huri barged into Aelus’s makeshift sanctuary, filling it with the scent of wine and tangy, bittersweet smoke. “Let’s make a deal, you and I. Give her to me for a night, and I’ll make sure Medôn forgets you exist.”

Aelus’s nostrils flared wide. “No.”

“What if I offered to let you watch? Or, better yet, let you have a turn?”

“No.”

“Surely you’ve been dying for a peek beneath those slinky skirts. Wondered how nice and firm that big, round ass of hers would feel against⁠—”

“My lord.” Aelus’s cheeks blazed as a swell of involuntary images invaded his mind. “I am a devout servant of Reneir.”

Huri snorted.

“Huri? Hur?”

The curtains parted again, and Aelus blanched as Medôn Guitelet staggered into the hall, fumbling with his shirt buttons.

A wicked grin tugged Huri’s lips. He leaned in, the gray flecks in his pale eyes shining like stones in a pond. “Take the deal,” he told Aelus. “Take it, and I won’t call Medôn over.”

Ellisar’s head tilted in his superior’s direction, expression unreadable.

“Come on, Faithful.” Huri patted Aelus’s arm as if they were sharing a joke. “I swear I won’t hurt her”—something vulgar flickered across Huri’s face—“not unless she asks me to.”

Aelus’s breathing grew strangled, and for the first time since meeting Huri, he felt a glimmer of fear. He’d do it, Aelus realized. Huri would make good on his threat to call Medôn over. And Aelus, for all his training and strength and frustration, couldn’t lay a finger on him.

Yet Aelus did not back down.

Huri’s grin soured. “Suit yourself.” He stepped back, arm lifting⁠—

A scarred hand clamped down around his wrist.

Snarling, Huri rounded on Ellisar. “You dare…?”

“Forgive me, my lord, but I believe you’re about to be summoned.”

Sure enough, a flutter of black silk tailcoats indicated the steward’s arrival. Behind him, a grinning Medôn lurched for the entrance, his search for Huri seemingly abandoned.

“Lord Aubefort.” The steward bowed as Huri rubbed his wrist with a scowl. “Your presence is requested at the Citadel.”

“Requested? By whom?”

“Lady Myrra Velta.”

Huri blinked. “Lady Velta sent for me?”

“Yes, my lord. Her instructions were quite explicit.”

Indecision warred on Huri’s wan features, then he nodded. “Very well.” He snapped his fingers at Ellisar. “Attend me.”

Ellisar bowed. “As you wish.”

Once they vanished, Aelus exhaled and clutched the nearby wall. Too close. That had been far, far too close. Before he’d even finished the thought, however, a shadow flickered in his periphery. Someone new was approaching.

He closed his eyes. Watcher, I beg you. Give me a moment’s rest.

“You’re welcome.”

Aelus’s eyes flew open, and he stared, thoroughly bewildered, at the tall, sandy-haired man coming to roost by his side. “Forgive me, Lord Emari,” he said. “I don’t….”

Janvier tipped his glass at Huri’s retreating back. “You’d think someone who was once a poor, scrawny orphan would be more compassionate. Instead, he’s a powerful bully with a thimbleful of insight. Lucky for you, he’s too high to decline a random summons, and Philip’s steward is cheap.” Janvier grinned. “Hence, you’re welcome.”

Some of the tension drained from Aelus’s iron-tight posture, and as he murmured his thanks, he studied his unexpected savior.

Though they’d met in Karnath, Aelus still hadn’t gotten a decent read on Janvier. The man had all the requirements of a noble—proud countenance, tailored suit coat, swarm of Eyes lingering like carrion in the background—without the haughty air that accompanied most aristocrats. Yet beneath the affability and charm, Aelus sensed something else. A dissonance of sorts. Or maybe Aelus was too on edge.

“So Lady Velta isn’t waiting for them?” he asked.

Janvier shrugged. “Who knows? It’s late, and she and Medôn are like a couple of oversexed rabbits. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Wait.” Aelus peered down at Janvier. “What are you talking about?”

“Lady Velta and Lord Guitelet’s affair is one of Val’dora’s better kept secrets. I only found out because Medôn can’t keep his mouth shut when he’s nose-deep in illim. Said something to Philip about ‘tonguing Myrra’s holy oil’ during a bender several months ago.” Janvier smirked, dark humor playing at its edges. “It’s sad. I think the Boy-King’s in love.”

Aelus blinked. Myrra and Medôn were sleeping together. Had been. For months.

Ordinarily, Aelus wouldn’t give an affair a second thought, but the fact that it was Myrra Velta, ally of the Order and staunch defender of traditionalism, sent him reeling.

One of my subordinates saw a woman head to the roof.

A woman. And Medôn had been missing at midnight.

“Is she here?” Aelus’s lips were numb, making it difficult to speak. “Myrra? Is she here?”

Janvier snorted. “If she was, faking a summons would’ve been very stupid.” He paused, wine glass hovering by his mouth. “Are you okay? You look ill.”

“Were you at the Capitis on Illüne’s Day?”

A touch of puzzlement entered Janvier’s sky-blue gaze. “Yes.”

“Did you see Myrra head to the roof around midnight?”

“I saw her head upstairs at one point, but I don’t know where she was going.”

“What about Medôn?”

“Probably with Myrra or getting drunk somewhere.”

“Did you see him go to the roof?”

“I don’t think so.”

Aelus rubbed his jaw so hard the joint popped. So close. He was so close to the truth.

Janvier edged closer, brows drawn. “You sure you’re okay?”

Aelus nodded distractedly while attempting one of Cordè’s confident smiles. Across the room, Philip’s glass timepiece tolled the half-hour.

Straightening, Janvier set his wineglass aside and reached into his pocket. “I hoped to give this to Lady Cyra myself, but alas, I promised to help Maman prepare for the Legion Heads’ midsummer meeting.” He offered something to Aelus: a box. “Could you see that Cordè receives it?”

The parcel was the size of Aelus’s palm, wrapped in rich red silk. “What is it?”

A splash of pink colored Janvier’s prominent cheekbones. “An amori memènto. ‘Gifts of appreciation’ from satisfied clients.” His flush deepened. “Or hopeful ones.”

Aelus eyed the box with a vague frown.

“I’m not asking you to put in a good word for me,” Janvier added. “For now, this is just a gift. What comes after is for Cordè to decide.”

Reluctantly, Aelus accepted.

Janvier grinned wide, like he knew Aelus would agree all along. “Do give her my best.” With an elegant wave of his hand, Janvier departed, leaving Aelus alone to wait.

Three minutes passed. No sign of Cordè.

Aelus drummed his fingers on his sword as more guests trickled out of the parlor.

Five minutes. Eight minutes.

Watcher’s Tears, how long did these things take? An hour? Two? Finally, after ten minutes of waiting, a series of click-clacks emanated from the garden, and Aelus bounded out of the way as Cordè slipped inside.

Gods above, she looked like she’d sailed through a maelstrom. Her sleeve dangled uselessly under her armpit, cherry lips swollen beyond their natural pout, and her alabaster curls hung loose from their pins. A faint smile played at her mouth as she beheld Aelus’s blush, though it faded when she registered his pinched expression. “What happened?”

Glancing around for eavesdroppers, he held his left hand in front of his chest, made a fist with his right, and jabbed his thumb against his sternum. Once, twice. Just like Orien taught him.

Danger.

Cordè’s eyes widened. But instead of commenting, she flicked her hair over her shoulder and spun, golden skirts fluttering over Aelus’s toes. “Could you—?” She gestured at the unbuttoned gap midway down her back, and his cheeks heated; he’d have to touch her to fix it.

With brisk, almost clinical efficiency, he fastened the dress. The moment he tried to snatch his hands back, however, she grabbed his wrist.

“I have something to tell you, too,” she whispered. “In the carriage.”

Their escape was quick and easy. By this hour, Philip’s guests were either too occupied or too senseless to notice Aelus and Cordè’s furtive exit. Aelus helped Cordè into the carriage, then jolted a snoring Ro awake with his elbow. “Time to go.”

She snapped the reins as Aelus relaxed into his seat, sword flat across his thighs. Before he could speak, however, Cordè hunched forward. “Parsyn told Philip about Talat.”

Aelus stiffened. “What?”

“Philip and Parsyn are working together. They have been for a while, dealing illim, I expect. Now they’re expanding into Ravethin.”

“Ravethin? Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because of the rebellion? They could be trying to make a quick profit.” Cordè fixed him with an intense look that both startled and confused him. “I think Parsyn’s our guy. I think he killed Talat.”

Aelus considered her, frowning. He hadn’t thought about Parsyn or his oily words much since Karnath. He’d been too focused on Medôn.

“Why would Parsyn kill Talat?” Aelus asked.

“Jealousy? To get Linnaea kicked out of the Rose again, permanently this time?”

“How would he have even found out about Talat’s—” The word lodged in Aelus’s throat like a thorn, and he swallowed. “About him and Serasha?”

To that, Cordè said nothing. A flicker of frustration crossed her face, and Aelus felt a childish surge of victory for having stumped her. He leaned forward to match her, knees brushing hers in the process. “That’s not all. I found out Myrra Velta and Medôn Guitelet are…together.”

“Together?”

“As in, you know, intimate.”

“Madame Moral Order sleeping with the Boy-King of the Blade? Hardly.” Cordè’s expression, however, left room for the possibility. “Where’d you hear that?”

Aelus wasn’t sure why he hesitated. “Janvier Emari.”

Her brows rose toward her hairline. “My, you certainly were making the rounds tonight.”

“It doesn’t matter where I heard it. What matters is that it’s suspicious. Very suspicious.”

“Really? Lady Holier-Than-Thou might not be what she seems? I’m shocked.”

Ignoring Cordè’s biting sarcasm, Aelus plowed ahead. “Myrra’s the one who told us about Serasha. She has connections with the Order and the Blade, and Theophane said a woman was seen heading to the roof for a midnight rendezvous.”

“I saw Myrra minutes after Talat died. How could she be in two places at once?”

A seed of doubt blossomed in Aelus’s chest. “Who else could the woman be?”

“Literally anyone.”

Aelus rubbed his temples. Myrra had to be involved. She had connections and the means to cover a murder. But Cordè had made some good points.

Like a lothryas left to scorch in the sun, his zeal withered. Gods, what if he was wrong? What if the sole reason he’d fixated on Myrra was not because the evidence proclaimed her guilty, but because he wanted her to be? That deep down, all his surety came not from facts, but from a vague, desperate, childish need to prove himself?

No, he thought stubbornly. His suspicion was valid; he must be missing something.

“What if Talat overheard a potentially damning conversation?” Aelus asked. “One of Medôn’s Elites could’ve⁠—”

“Tertia’s tits, always Medôn, Medôn, Medôn. You’re like a besotted schoolboy. Plus, you have no proof. Only theories.”

Aelus gritted his teeth. “Fine. Let’s go find proof.”

“What, you want me to jump in Medôn’s bed next?”

“No. He’s a pig.”

“I’ve slept with worse.”

Her words shouldn’t have shocked him, but the way she said them—flippant, almost cavalier, like she was remarking on the weather—turned his stomach. Aelus paused. “You’d really do it, wouldn’t you? Go to Medôn?”

“That’s my job, Aelus.”

“Your job is to entertain clients, not potential killers.”

“Philip was a potential killer. But, strangely, you weren’t putting up an argument a week ago. I’d ask what the difference was, except I think I already know.” Her honey eyes slitted. “Stop using others to further your prejudice against the Blade.”

“Better to be prejudiced than profane.”

“Do you actually believe that? Because if so, your Order’s even more fucked than I thought.” Cordè leaned forward, and he was surprised to see a vein of actual anger flash across her features. “Also you asked for my help, so clearly some part of you knows my way of getting to the truth is more effective than yours.” She smiled, though its corners were like razors. “After all, it’s hard to lie with someone’s lips wrapped around your cock.”

The twisting in his stomach became a pit. He didn’t like how that last sentence made him feel—flustered, ashamed, dirty. Perhaps that’s what spurred him to lash out. “You disgust me.”

Cordè flinched, mouth dropping into a flat line, and for once, she did not fire back.

Guilt fell, swift and brutal as a cleaver. He reached out—to apologize or to shake the color back into her, he didn’t know—but she slapped his hand away.

“Don’t,” she hissed, and the rejection stung worse than her slap.

Aware nothing he could do would erase what he’d said, Aelus instead fetched Janvier’s silk box from his surcoat and placed it onto her cushion. “For you.” Aelus’s voice rang hollow in his ears. “An amori memènto from a future client.”

Cordè didn’t respond. And somehow her silence felt as damning as the moment his father left him in the courtyard, newly arrived and soaked through from rain. Imalu had been the one to help Aelus then, armed with a blanket and a warm smile. But here, in this carriage, there were no blankets. No smiles. Only infinite, buzzing quiet.

Aelus rested his forehead against the cool glass and, as the palatial homes slowly blurred into vine-covered bungalows, closed his eyes and prayed.

TWENTY-TWO

Rain pelted Aelus’s hunched figure as thunder crackled and lightning spiderwebbed the skies. He shivered. Poor timing for the first big storm of summertide, but the Seers were expecting him. He did not dare keep them waiting.

The weather grew angrier as Daphne continued her careful trek up the mountain, and he patted her slick neck in encouragement. Since Philip’s party, Aelus had taken to spending more time with her in the stables, partially to avoid Cordè, but also to plan his upcoming report. The Seers demanded thorough, articulate briefings, and even though he’d had three full days to organize a month’s worth of information, Aelus struggled with what to say. And what not to say.

He sank deeper in his cloak. Lies of omission were as damning as bold-faced lies, yet the thought of sharing Serasha’s story felt like a betrayal. To Cordè and to Talat.

Focus, Aelus. With a conscious shove, he pushed his worries aside, spurring Daphne past the unmanned towers. Due to the storm and the lunchtime hour, the usually thriving courtyard stood empty. Hands numb, Aelus guided Daphne to her old stall and rubbed her dry. She nipped his chin in thanks, then hunkered down as he headed inside.

The Mithraeum felt bigger than normal. Quieter too. Like the mountain and its occupants were holding their breath in preparation for a fall. Or lying in wait to strike.

Don’t trust the Seers.

Ellisar’s warning seeped into Aelus’s mind, infecting his thoughts like poison, but he refused to let it linger. Ellisar was an Unsighted, an Oathbreaker. His words meant nothing.

Aelus stepped into the Great Hall. Gone was the previous light and splendor; a dreary grayness filtered through the stained-glass windows, leeching the color from the walls, the fire braziers, and the elaborate gold altar. The carving of Reneir's half-covered face stared at Aelus, the flicker of flames creating an illusion of rapid, sporadic blinks.

And there, stationed around the Hall like spokes of a crown, were eight Seers. Eight, not nine—the youngest was missing. Another bloodrot victim.

They faced the altar, hoods drawn, hands lifted, voices chanting in fervent prayer. None of them acknowledged the drumlike thud of Aelus’s steps, but as he neared, their prayers stopped. As one, they turned toward him, their unnervingly blank visages illuminated by fire and scattered lightning.

Aelus bowed, avoiding his father’s cloaked stare from atop the dais. “By His Gaze.”

Eight Seers responded in perfect, monotone synchrony. “May We See.”

Thunder boomed through the Hall, the vibrating aftershocks nearly masking the side door’s slow groan as it opened. A golden-robed figure slipped inside, and Aelus’s shoulders slumped in relief as Imalu took his place beside Nevander.

“Welcome home, Eye.” Despite his unusually haggard appearance, Imalu gave Aelus a warm smile that lit up the gloom. “Have your ventures been successful?”

“They have.”

Nevander stepped forward, and Aelus tensed. “Report.”

The idea of breaking the deafening silence that followed the instruction terrified Aelus. However, the idea of disobeying his father terrified him even more.

No one moved as Aelus spoke, and somewhere amidst his baritone rumbling, he lost track of time. The storm intensified as he loomed closer to the events of Karnath. Yet as he readied to recount that fateful morning, Cordè’s face slid into his mind’s eye. Soft. Laughing. He thought about their recent carriage ride, the conflicting certainty, the argument. The carefully constructed mask she’d worn to disguise her hurt. Finally, he thought about Talat.

I promise.

Aelus wavered—then he continued, skipping over Talat’s broken oaths to focus on Myrra Velta, the Blade, and the missing Etherians.

Both Imalu and Nevander were frowning when Aelus finished, Imalu’s radiance a perfect foil to Nevander’s inscrutable shadow. “You’re sure whoever’s kidnapping Etherians is acting on orders?” Nevander asked.

“I believe so, yes.”

Imalu rubbed his sagging brow. “Such cruelty. I shudder to think of what our sisters must be enduring.” He turned to Nevander. “Please, allow me to accompany the boy and lend my aid.”

“No. You’re needed here.”

“I understand my counsel is invaluable⁠—”

“I’m not worried about your counsel, brother. I’m worried about your safety. Should the Blade find you alone….” Nevander gave a meaningful pause. “We cannot afford to lose our sisters and our Chief Archivist, too.”

Imalu’s forehead wrinkled, as if he wanted to argue. Then it smoothed. “By His Gaze.”

“Forgive me,” Aelus said, conscious of the Seers’ intense scrutiny, “but I’m still not certain the Blade are orchestrating the kidnappings.”

“They are.” Nevander’s words rang out like steel striking stone: strong, proud, assured. “Between Brother Whitman’s statement about uniforms, your testimony, and Lady Velta’s most recent evidence, the Blade’s guilt is irrefutable.”

“No.” Aelus adamantly shook his head. “We can’t trust Myrra.”

Imalu cut in, voice pillow-soft. “Actually, Aelus, we can.”

At Aelus’s bewildered expression, Nevander explained, “Myrra’s been feeding us information about the Blade. She’s helping us build a case against Medôn, same as you.”

Aelus’s lungs constricted. “Since when?”

“Soon after your first report.”

His first report? That was weeks ago. A lifetime ago. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Because we were testing you, not her. Would you have acted differently?”

No. Yes? Aelus didn’t know. Though if he’d learned about Myrra sooner, he could’ve focused his efforts elsewhere and found something useful. Instead, he was back where he started: lost and empty-handed with only vague suspicions to guide him.

Unexpectedly, he saw his father’s rigid demeanor soften beneath his hood. “Fear not, Aelus. You’ve proven your capabilities.”

“But I’ve done nothing. Found nothing.”

“Your testimony will aid in bringing those cowardly, murderous Blade to justice.”

Watcher, how Aelus struggled to believe that. Just as he struggled to believe his father’s attempt at encouragement was genuine. Even still, something continued to vex him, like a burr in his boots. He rubbed an anxious thumb along his palm. “So, what’s next?”

“We must move quickly,” Nevander said. “The sooner we act, the sooner we can devote all our resources to combating the godsforged propaganda and end this blasted bloodrot.”

Aelus shook his head. “Everywhere I turn I feel like I see four-stranded braids.”

“The Legions’ poison is strong. It will take everyone we have to neutralize it.”

Something in Nevander’s tone gave Aelus pause, like a discordant chord from a harp. “Neutralize it? What do you mean?”

A Seer interrupted them with a pale, ghostly hand. “Nevander, a word?”

Aelus watched his father follow the Seer to the pews, jumping slightly when Imalu touched his forearm. “Eyes high, my son. You’ve done well.”

“What did my father mean by ‘neutralize’?”

“I…I don’t know the specifics. All I know is the Seers are afraid.”

“Of the godsforged? Why?”

“Is it not obvious?” Imalu asked gently.

Aelus didn’t answer, because yes, it was obvious. He’d felt it when he’d entered the Mithraeum, and again in the hall. Desperation. It filled the mountain like smog, making the ninth Seer’s absence feel much more tangible and foreboding.

He scratched his neck, nails threatening to pop skin, as a familiar keening rose within him. “I wish Talat were here, Imalu. He’d know what to do.”

“He is here. Here.” Imalu touched Aelus’s chest, right atop Reneir’s watchful eye. “But you give yourself too little credit.”

“I deserve none. We still don’t know who killed him.” He paused, considering. “What evidence did Myrra give the Seers about Medôn?”

Imalu’s half-moon frown deepened his laugh lines. “I’m unsure. They don’t discuss it with me.”

A different Seer, the one near the western stained-glass window, swept forward. “Our allies’ counsel is for our ears and our ears alone, Eye. Take care to not overstep.”

“But if she knows who killed Talat⁠—”

“What she does or doesn’t know is not your concern.”

“Not my concern?” White-hot anger swelled. “Talat was my brother.”

“Aelus.” Nevander returned, his private meeting seemingly concluded. “Peace.”

Aelus’s nostrils flared as the other Seer’s lips puckered beneath the dark slash of his hood. “Remember, young Faithful, that we, in our unfailing good will, chose to declare you an Eye. Do not mistake our generosity as forgiveness for your shortcomings.”

Though the Seer’s tone never rose above a hushed drone, Aelus swore he detected a hint of malice.

When the time comes, they won’t hesitate to betray you.

The doubt simmering in his chest slithered around his ribs. Bit by bit, it began to squeeze.

Something flickered in Nevander’s shadowy eyes, and he touched his golden chain. “I request a moment to speak to Aelus. Alone.”

His command was immediately obeyed—with Imalu shooting Aelus a worried glance in farewell—until only Nevander and Aelus remained.

The storm outside raged, a quietly violent sound similar to waves crashing on the shore. Embers popped in the fireplaces. And Aelus, who’d never quite figured out where to look when talking to his father, settled instead on the cold, dispassionate etching of Reneir.

He wasn’t sure when the image of his god had stopped comforting him.

Nevander moved closer and drew back his hood. “You questioned a Seer,” he said, features hard yet familiar. Like an older, sharper version of Aelus.

“I did.”

“Explain.”

Aelus fought the urge to shrug like a child. “There’s nothing to say. My brother was killed, yet I’m denied resolution.”

“Is knowing you’ve helped not resolution enough?”

“Talat was the first acolyte to befriend me. He listened to me, protected me when everyone else aban—” Aelus’s mouth snapped shut. He didn’t want to talk anymore, didn’t care to discuss the aching void in his chest. Especially with the man who’d carved it there first.

Regret flickered across Nevander’s unhooded face. And for a shimmering moment, Aelus thought his father would finally, after twenty-six absent years, admit his shortcomings.

Then Nevander tucked his hands into his robes and looked away.

“Mother wrote to you, you know,” Aelus said in a remarkably even timbre. “After you left, she’d lay a blanket near the lothryas you helped plant and scribble away. Sometimes for minutes, sometimes hours. She never let me read them, but I knew they were for you; she always had this look when she was done, like she knew you wouldn’t respond.”

“I did. Once.”

When she got sick, Aelus finished silently. It was easy enough to fill in the gaps.

“Did she….” Nevander’s neck muscles strained, as if fighting to keep the question locked in his throat. “Did she ever receive it?”

“I don’t know.”

Nevander nodded. “By His Gaze,” he murmured. And the note of defeat in his tone suggested he didn’t mean it as a prayer, but a self-directed damnation.

Aelus wavered. He’d lied a moment ago, about the letter’s fate—a pathetic attempt at vengeance, really—and for a beat, he was tempted to confess such. But as Nevander drew his hood down low, the temptation faded. For good or for ill, Aelus’s father had chosen the Order; perhaps, in the end, withholding the truth would be a far greater kindness.

“May We See,” Aelus said, bowing low.

Nevander adjusted his necklace. “May We See, Aelus.”

TWENTY-THREE

“It has to be from him.”

Cordè lifted her chin to catch a better angle in the mirror while Ysabelle hovered near her shoulder. Together they studied the necklace resting at the hollow of Cordè’s throat.

“It has to be,” Cordè repeated, reverently touching the plum-colored gem. “Who else would send me purple jewelry?”

“Maybe it was the lady-in-waiting from Illüne’s Day. She’s Première too, you said.”

“A lady-in-waiting couldn’t afford something this nice.”

Ysabelle huffed. “You know, you could just ask Ael⁠—”

“I’m not giving him the satisfaction.”

Cordè wasn’t avoiding all conversation with her Eye; rather, she was avoiding conversations of substance with him. She’d spoken to Aelus about the weather. And lunch. And the ghastly throw pillows Linnaea had imported from Tharon, because honestly, what had Linnaea been thinking? The color scheme was hideous.

But she did not talk to Aelus about the night at Philip’s.

It didn’t matter. She was certain the necklace was from Janvier.

Cordè touched the gem again, noticing Ysa follow the movement almost wistfully. After a beat of consideration, Cordè dug in her box of baubles and withdrew a different necklace, similar in shade though not as ostentatious. Truthfully she preferred this smaller pendant, but she offered it to Ysabelle with a loose shrug. “I don’t need two purple necklaces. And this one matches the cloak Talat got you for⁠—”

“Miss Cordè,” Farren called through the door. “Lady Nivae will see you now.”

Excitement flared in Cordè’s belly. “I’m arranging your next assignment,” Linnaea said over breakfast. “We’ll discuss it this afternoon.”

Cordè pushed the pendant into Ysabelle’s hands, taking pleasure in the girl’s delighted gasp, and headed downstairs.

Neither she nor Farren spoke on their way to the study. Farren had never been much of a conversationalist, try as Cordè might to engage them. Numerous attempts had been made during her first year at the manor, as it’d been a comfort to see those familiar ear tips in a foreign land.

But it appeared those ear tips were the sole point of commonality between them.

Cordè studied Farren’s sleek, dapper back. It was a rather lonely thing, she thought, to have only one other elf in the house, and for that elf to be so disinclined to comradery.

They rounded the corner to Linnaea’s office. Aelus was already there, leaning against the corridor wall, expression tumultuous. He looked up, met Cordè’s eyes, and opened his mouth as if to speak.

An unfamiliar voice slipped beneath the study door.

“...and all my amina did was sit straighter and say, pour.”

Linnaea’s responding laugh burst forth in a staccato bray—a sure sign of its authenticity.

Cordè brushed past Aelus and opened the door.

Her attention was drawn, per usual, to Linnaea’s wide desk. Its owner sat behind it, looking unusually relaxed, eyes crinkled with residual amusement. And perched informally on the desk’s filigreed corner was….

Cordè came to such a sudden stop that Aelus nearly collided into her. “You?”

The blue-eyed Hilaraan turned smoothly, his cockeyed grin widening as he met Cordè’s affronted gaze. Then he winked, exactly as he’d done on Illüne’s Day and in Karnath.

“Who in the hells are you?” she demanded.

“Zayid Wasem.” The Hilaraan slid off the desk and approached, hand extended.

Aelus reached for his sword.

“No need for all that,” Zayid said. “A pleasure to formally meet you, Lady Cyra. I enjoyed watching you work at Mister Yvon’s party.”

“Zayid is an old acquaintance,” Linnaea explained. “He’s here at my behest.”

Indignation gave way to frank curiosity as Cordè studied the man in front of her. He was objectively attractive, with thick, wavy hair and a stubbled jawline that would make the elven deity of beauty weep. And those eyes. They were a shade Cordè had never seen before, like the blue at the center of a match’s flame.

It was shallow, but his good looks impelled her to trust him more quickly than if he’d been ugly.

Still, she had some questions.

“Why have you been stalking me?”

“Not stalking. Keeping an eye out.”

“You count fondling Lady de Valle’s breasts as keeping an eye out?”

“Zayid was trained in a similar fashion to you,” Linnaea said. “His mother was one of my former Lilies.”

Cordè’s forehead crumpled. “I thought your Lilies were gone.”

“Thanks to Parsyn, that is mostly the case. Caspara was the only one I managed to take with me when I was exiled to Ravethin.”

“It helped that she’s not an elf. Less conspicuous.” Zayid flicked a finger at his rounded ears.

“Well, if we’re all satisfied that everyone in this room is on the same side,” Linnaea said, casting only the briefest of glances at Aelus, “may we move on to the task at hand?”

Cordè glowered but took a seat in the spare armchair beside Zayid while Aelus stationed himself in the back corner.

Linnaea stood behind her desk, fingertips splayed against the mahogany. “The Legion Heads are set to vote on the open Triumvirate seat during next week’s midsummer summit. Myrra Velta expects a return on her investment, and as of yet, we have little to satisfy her. It’s time to pool our resources. Zayid?”

“I’ve been using my ties to Lady de Valle to track Parsyn’s movements,” Zayid said. “He comes and goes with greater frequency of late; Dionisia says he’s taken up falconry, but based on Cordè’s intel, I suspect he’s meeting with Philip.”

“Will the connection between Parsyn and Philip be enough for Myrra?” Cordè asked.

“She’s a Triumvirate,” Linnaea said. “She’ll want physical proof of Parsyn’s crimes, otherwise her case wouldn’t even make it to the First Court.”

“Earlier you said you wanted to discuss my next assignment,” Cordè said. “Are you sending me after Parsyn?”

“In a way.” Linnaea drummed her tapered nails on her desk. “I’ve confirmed Parsyn will be attending Myrra Velta’s rally this coming week’s end. Zayid, how confident are you that you could secure an invitation to the de Valle estate while he’s away?”

“Quite confident, given Dionisia’s already requested my presence.”

Cordè arched an eyebrow at him.

“I tend to make an impression,” Zayid said.

“You’ll need to do more than that.” Linnaea’s lips thinned. “Zayid, I want you to serve as the distraction while you”—she turned to Cordè—“will act as the noose.”

“‘Noose?’” Cordè repeated. Then it clicked.

Dionisia de Valle was the next assignment.

Aelus arrived at the same realization a half-second later. “No. It’s too risky.”

“Dionisia’s introduced other partners into our arrangement before,” Zayid said. “Besides, she has no love for her husband; behind closed doors, she takes a certain morbid delight in his misfortunes. I imagine it’d excite her to bed his enemy’s protégé.”

“Wait for the opportune moment,” Linnaea said to Cordè. “Excuse yourself. Then do as I’ve trained you to do.”

Aelus, apparently, remained unconvinced. “How’s she getting in?”

“Through the front door, I expect,” Zayid said.

Aelus frowned. “I don’t know if I can⁠—”

“Fit?” Cordè said.

His frown deepened. “Sneak in.”

Linnaea looked steadily at Aelus. “You’ll be staying here.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“She’s my ward. I swore oaths.”

“Do you, perchance, know how to lie? Or how to identify a person’s weakness in order to exploit it?” Linnaea tsked. “This mission requires delicacy and subtlety—neither of which you possess.”

Aelus visibly gritted his teeth. “I don’t think it’s wise to pursue this quest solely based on Myrra’s word. She cannot be trusted.”

Linnaea leaned forward, chin resting on her laced fingers “Do tell.”

Haltingly, Aelus gave a rundown of his last conversation with the Seers: Myrra, her partnership with the Order, the woman Theophane Suvau told him about.

“So, you think Myrra Velta, the Order’s strongest advocate, could be responsible for the death of an Eye?” Linnaea asked when he was done.

Aelus gave an impressively dark glower. “Yes.”

“Also, ‘The Woman’?” Zayid repeated. “That’s rather cryptic.”

“Try telling him that.” Cordè shot a look at Aelus. “He’s been suspicious of every woman from here to Ravethin.”

Zayid raised and lowered his eyebrows like a shrug. “Well, you can cross Dionisia’s name off the suspect list. She wouldn’t sully her hands so needlessly, not unless it meant embarrassing her husband.”

“Parsyn, on the other hand, certainly is capable of murder,” Cordè said. “He has the resources to frame it as suicide and, as we’ve recently discovered, the connections to cover it up. Though…I’m not sure what his motive would be.”

“Our expedited timeline doesn’t afford us the luxury of why,” Linnaea said. “We just need evidence of wrongdoing. Any wrongdoing.” She reached across the desk and patted Cordè’s hand. “Be careful, my girl. And you, Zayid. If anything were to happen to you, Caspara would send the entirety of Aahilar’s royal navy after me.”

A faint knocking sounded from the front of the house, followed promptly by Farren’s genteel greeting.

“Ah, there’s Lady Velta,” Linnaea said. “Right on time.”

Cordè’s stomach twisted. “You’re meeting with her now?”

“I couldn’t very well have her sitting in on our conversation, now could I?”

Zayid got up and stretched his toned arms over his head. “I suppose that means I’ll be exiting out the back door. Again.”

Despite the overhanging tension, Cordè gave an immature snort that earned her a look from Linnaea. Zayid, however, sent her an appreciative smirk.

“And I suppose I’ll be seeing much more of you in the coming days.”

Cordè decided she liked this new ally. She liked him very much.

As soon as Zayid left, Aelus rounded on Linnaea. “I don’t appreciate being sidelined.”

“Your appreciation is not my concern.”

Cordè moved between them, disrupting the argument with a swipe of her hand. “Surely we have something more constructive to do than bicker,” she said, fully aware of her own hypocrisy. “Are there any other theories to discuss?” When no one deigned to speak, she flung out an alternative. “What about the Etherians? Could Parsyn be tied to them, too?”

“Do we have any new leads?” Linnaea asked.

Aelus and Cordè shook their heads.

“Then focus on Parsyn. Do not become distracted.”

Cordè blanched. A missing race of people was a distraction? “But⁠—”

“Listen, child. I understand you want to help the Etherians, but we have nothing concrete other than some thin statement about uniforms. Focus on the facts. Focus on Parsyn.”

“You would ignore kidnapping for the sake of vengeance?” Aelus asked.

Something dark crept onto Linnaea’s features, and she seemed to grow a few inches in stature. “This is your final warning. Interject again, and you’ll find yourself in a new household.”

An empty threat: Aelus had overheard too many secrets to be so unceremoniously ousted.

Ignoring Aelus’s silent glower, Linnaea returned to Cordè. “Stick to your mission. In the meantime, I’ll continue to search for information about the Etherians. Understood?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good. Now, leave me. Myrra’s rally is fast approaching, and she’ll be expecting an update on our movements. I need to conjure a reasonable explanation as to why we don’t have anything to show for ourselves.”

They did as instructed, with Linnaea all but pushing them out the door. Aelus at least had the good sense to wait until they were out of earshot to vent his frustrations.

“You shouldn’t be going in there alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have Zayid.”

“Who we barely know⁠—”

Heels echoed from the hall around the corner, and Cordè slashed a hand through the air, cutting Aelus off just as Myrra Velta sailed into view. Radrin followed after, expressionless as ever. “Ah, what a treat!” Myrra said, chandelier earrings scattering pinpricks of light. “I was hoping to see you again, Aelus.”

She held out a pale, elegant hand for Aelus to kiss. He did so, face stonier than the manor’s walled exterior.

“My lady.”

“Myrra,” she corrected.

“…My lady.”

The edges of Myrra’s smile dipped. “Oh, dear. Have I done something to offend?”

Instead of answering, Aelus folded his arms across his considerable chest, and a wounded look flitted across Myrra’s captivating features.

“Come now,” she crooned. She touched his bearded chin with her index finger and lifted it, so he met her eyes. “Let’s not be angry with one another. I just want to help. That’s all.”

Cordè stood by, feeling equal parts voyeur and a piece of furniture. She didn’t like the way Myrra looked at Aelus, as if no one else in the world existed. Highly inappropriate, Cordè thought, before realizing she couldn’t recall ever considering anything inappropriate before.

“Lady Nivae is waiting for you,” Aelus said, voice flat as he withdrew from Myrra’s grip.

Myrra—who likely had not experienced much rejection over the course of her long-legged, full-lipped life—looked genuinely confused by the turn of events. Her smile returned after a beat, albeit with less luminance than before. “So she is. Farewell, Aelus.” Her gaze flickered in Cordè’s general direction. “Winter Lily.”

Then she was gone, sweeping into Linnaea’s office without so much as a knock, with Radrin at her heels.

What the fuck.

Cordè glanced at Aelus. Judging by his expression, the same thought was pulsing through his mind, though likely not in the same words.

“That was…odd,” he said.

Instead of answering right away, Cordè led Aelus toward the stairs. “Myrra loves the Faithful,” she said as she ascended. “She couldn’t give two shits about my opinion, but I bet she wants the whole Order to think she farts rainbows. The fact you don’t like her probably keeps her up at night”—Cordè looked over her shoulder at Aelus—“that, and she most certainly wants to bed you.”

Aelus stumbled over his own feet at that, then picked up his pace on his way to his nook. “Lady Velta’s wants are of no matter to me. What does matter to me is you. Your safety, I mean.”

Cordè sighed. “I do have some self-defense training, you know.”

“With daggers?”

“No, other things. Prettier things. Like garrotes.”

“A garrote won’t help you if you’re jumped from behind.”

Tertia’s tits. Cordè pushed open Aelus’s door and seated herself on his bed. “Look, instead of worrying, why don’t you do something else? Maybe find out what happened to Zenzi.”

Something shifted on Aelus’s face. After a moment’s consideration, he closed the door behind him and locked it. “I met with the Seers today,” he said.

“And?”

“They were acting strangely.”

Part of her wanted to ask how a bunch of celibate mountain-bound hermit-priests acted anything other than strange. But Aelus’s anxiety clung to him like the scent of summertide rain, and despite her lingering resentment, she softened a touch.

“Strange how?”

“It was like they expected me to say the Blade was guilty, even without evidence. And when I didn’t, they shut me out.” He chewed his lip. “There was just something…off about it. Maybe it was because a Seer died?”

“Maybe. Though the way Talat described it, your Seers are always a bit weird.”

Aelus’s mouth twitched in what might have been an attempt at a smile.

Cordè studied him, legs kicking back and forth, toes skimming the floor. He’d been an ass the week before, but now she couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him.

“Is there anyone there you trust? Anyone who’s above reproach?” She ducked her head, trying to meet his eyes. “You said your father’s a Seer.”

When Aelus spoke, his voice was low. Controlled. “He is.” Another lengthy beat. “My old history teacher, Imalu. I trust him. He’d help.”

“What if you reached out to him? Something innocuous: an invitation to lunch, perhaps?”

“Maybe Eirene’s Tavern, where I met with Orien. It’s a good location. Public.”

“Why don’t you bring Orien along?”

He considered her suggestion. “I’ll reach out, see if she’s available.”

A stilted silence fell upon them. “Well.” Cordè got to her feet. “Sounds like we both have an exciting few days ahead of us.”

Aelus grimaced, clearly unenthusiastic about Cordè’s version of excitement.

She hovered at the door, struck by a sudden urge to reassure him—to let him know she’d be fine, that she’d done this before. But the memory of his judgmental gaze from across the carriage resurfaced, and she left his room without another word.

TWENTY-FOUR

The outset of summertide came and went, with the heavy heat of the season drawing to a boil come week’s end. Lavender Lane became a sea of parasols and paper fans, though little could be done to salvage the sweaty mess of melting makeup.

The day of Myrra Velta’s rally—more specifically, the Dionisia assignment—dawned amidst graying skies. As such, Cordè chose an outfit to counter the gloom: a bright red number that revealed the entirety of her spine from shoulders to tailbone. Talat had called it her “cheeky dress” because, in the right light, it showed off the dimples above her backside.

Cheeky. An involuntary smile tugged on Cordè’s lips. Talat had always loved a good pun.

She’d just started lining her eyes in kohl when a knock sounded at her door.

“Good. You’re back,” she called to Ysabelle. “I know I wanted to wear my hair down, but maybe you should braid it instead? The whole point of this dress is the exposed back, and⁠—”

The knob turned, and she was surprised to see it was Aelus, not Ysabelle, in her doorway.

He cleared his throat. “Can I…?”

She waved him in, all the while appraising him through the mirror. He’d put effort into his morning grooming routine, she noticed: boots polished, beard trimmed, topknot plaited. The scent of cypress, typically a subtle wafting, radiated from him like steam from hot rain.

“You look nice.” Cordè smirked at him in the reflection. “Did Ysa finally work up the nerve to ask you to dinner?”

He cleared his throat again. “I, uh, heard back from Imalu. He wants to meet tonight.”

“That’s actually a good idea considering most people will be at Myrra’s rally.”

“Imalu’s a smart man.”

“Will Orien be joining you?”

“I hope so. I just sent word.” Aelus took a few more stilted steps into the room, and she turned to face him. “I, uh, got you something.” He held out a parcel—a jewelry-sized parcel.

“It’s a bracelet,” he explained as she lifted the lid. “From the Artificer district.”

She frowned and removed the bracelet from its box. “Bit gaudy, don’t you think?”

It was gaudy, though Cordè actually rather liked that about it. The thing must’ve weighed nearly a pound, made of dense brass molded into a motif of a setting sun. Flecks of topaz along the edges caught the light in a way that reminded her of summertide fireflies.

Aelus gestured toward her wrist. “May I?”

She nodded, and as he crouched beside her, she couldn’t help but think of Gaeton de Beaugency and his ulaari pearl amori memènto.

With unexpected tenderness, Aelus turned her hand over, clasped the bracelet around her wrist, and pressed a button disguised in the paneling. She heard the click of an inner mechanism activating, followed by a ffitz as a small dagger shot into the light.

Aelus rotated the bracelet to reveal the blade’s home: a slot built into the bracelet’s rim. “You press this first.” He indicated a lever near the bottom. “It’s a safety. You’ll need your other hand to activate it.” His brow knitted. “The tinkerer called it a, uh, a faèleth?”

Cordè laughed, loud and full. “Were they an elf, by chance?”

Aelus, already taken aback by her mirth, gave a hesitant nod.

“Faèleth is an elvish euphemism for ‘cock.’ It means ‘penetrator.’ An apt name for it, I suppose.” She pressed the button, and the dagger returned to its sheath. “So, is gift-giving your way of apologizing?”

The knob in his throat bobbed. “I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“You’re not very good at saying sorry, are you?”

“I….” His gaze dropped, as if something fascinating was happening on the rug. “No.”

Cordè lifted her chin, appreciating the fact she was, for once, able to look down at him. “Shall we practice together, then? Say it with me: I’m sorry I was a self-righteous prat, Cordè.”

Even from this angle, she could see his nostrils flare.

“If you’re not comfortable with ‘prat,’ you may substitute ‘twit,’ ‘dolt,’ ‘prick’—”

“Cordè.”

“...pompous ass….”

“Cordè.” Here he finally did look up at her, and she was surprised by the depth of the turmoil in his eyes. “I regret my tone. And my behavior.”

“But not your words?” The impish sarcasm had dropped from her tone, and she turned in her chair to face him fully.

Still, he said nothing.

“Did you mean it? What you said in the carriage?” She didn’t know why it mattered to her now in a way it hadn’t before. “I know my occupation disgusts you. My lifestyle disgusts you. But do I disgust you?”

Aelus’s expression turned into a battlefield of warring emotions. And while it was her instinct to force his hand, to wait it out until he broke, she resisted that urge.

For the first time in quite a while—ever?—Cordè put herself in his giant, unfashionable boots. She allowed herself to picture the decade-plus of deprivation, indoctrination, and ostracization that, through Talat, she knew Aelus had experienced.

And while Cordè couldn’t relate to the first two, as an elf in a foreign land, she knew being ostracized compelled you to cling to something, anything, that made you feel safe.

So she wouldn’t make him say it. That would be her gift to him.

She turned back to her mirror and brushed her ring finger along her lower lip, fixing a smudge of red gloss. “Give my best to Orien.”

The floorboards groaned as he slowly got to his feet and moved toward the exit. Then he paused to meet her eyes through the mirror.

“Don’t forget the safety.”

Zayid arrived at the eighth bell’s chime and bowed when Cordè descended the stairs.

In an odd way, it felt like he was picking her up for an evening of courtship: dinner, perhaps, followed by dancing. The atmosphere in the foyer, however, was heavy with varying degrees of foreboding. Still, Cordè smiled lightly at each member of the household: Linnaea, Ysa, Farren, even a stone-faced Haniel.

Aelus’s large, disapproving presence was noticeably missing.

Cordè chose not to dwell, instead letting Linnaea pull her into a fierce embrace. “Take care,” Linnaea murmured. “Trust your instincts. And trust Zayid.”

Cordè nodded, then followed Zayid to the awaiting carriage-for-hire. “No need to announce ourselves quite so loudly with Ro in the front seat of the Nivae carriage, hm?” Linnaea had reasoned. Skirts hitched around her knees, Cordè took the backward-facing seat in the sleek black coach just as the horses pulled away from the manor.

Her companion seemed to be in a contemplative mood as they wove through the streets to Val’dora’s southern gate. He twisted a small bronze ring on his pinky and gazed out the window, expression drawn and thoughtful. In the distance, a wordless roar of Myrra Velta supporters rose from the Première district’s amphitheater while the sun finished its magnificent, though largely overlooked, descent.

“You know,” Cordè said, “Linnaea usually has me memorize whole stacks of papers about my patrons. You, however, are a mystery to me.”

“What would you like to know?”

Her eyes narrowed in thought. “You were raised in the colonies?”

“Sollund. Yes. Though we’ve visited Aahilar to see my mother’s kin.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“They’re difficult to compare. Aahilar is hot. Dry. Golden. Sollund is the opposite, though gods-touched in its own right.” Zayid’s lips twitched into that bright, easy grin. “But you already knew that.”

Cordè had never thought of her homeland as “gods-touched.” It was too wet, too gray, too rocky. Yet she could remember an abundance of rainbows stretching across the coastline, and mist that curled around mountaintops like skirts in a dance. It had smelled of sulfur when it rained, but beneath that the memory of moss and earth still tickled her nose.

“Do you miss it?” Zayid asked, startling her from her recollection. He was watching her in a peculiar way, like her thoughts were a book available for his perusal.

“Do you miss Sollund?” he repeated. “The landscape, the people. Your family?”

It would’ve been an easy query to evade; Linnaea taught her the art of dodging questions ages ago. But something about Zayid’s open, honest features spurred Cordè toward truth-telling. “I don’t much think about my family. The type of mother who sells you to a stranger isn’t the type of mother you tend to miss.”

“What about your siblings?”

She stared, and Zayid gave a sheepish shrug. “Linnaea told me pieces of your backstory when I arrived in Dusera.”

Cordè’s mask splintered, just a little. “The twins were toddlers when I left. I don’t have many memories of them. My brother”—half-brother, she revised inwardly—“well. He can take care of himself.”

“And your father?”

Her father: a violent man who shared her coloring and flighty nature.

Cordè looked outside. “I don’t think about him at all.”

Silence, then: “My father was one of my mother’s clients. That’s all I ever knew of him.” Zayid twisted that little bronze ring around his pinky again. “Linnaea saved us. My mother was eight months pregnant when Parsyn sent the Lilies to the mines, but Linnaea refused to leave her behind. Snuck her onto a mercànt’s wagon and spirited her into Sollund.”

He smiled, though this one was sad. Introspective.

“Linnaea’s a good woman,” he said. “You’re lucky to have her.”

To that, Cordè said nothing, instead letting the carriage fall into a gentle quiet.

They didn’t speak again until the outline of the de Valle manor came into view.

It dawned like the sun, nestled along the boundary between field and forest: a four-story structure of gray stone and jutting peaks. The face of the chateau was perfectly symmetrical, down to the finest detail, as if the architects had folded the home in on itself.

For reasons Cordè couldn’t explain, the uniformity of it made her anxious.

The carriage deposited them at the edge of the manicured pathway. Hand at the small of Cordè’s back, Zayid guided her to the door and knocked twice in quick succession.

The woman who answered looked as put-together as a member of the Première: black-and-white tailored jacket, rhinestone buttons, shoes shiny enough to reflect the entryway ceiling. She didn’t say anything, simply extended her arm in invitation, head bowed low.

Zayid stepped past without a word. Cordè followed, taking a moment to give the woman a brief curtsy and a murmured “good evening.” Once they moved beyond the threshold, Zayid peered back at Cordè inquisitively.

Cordè gave a loose shrug. Linnaea always encouraged courteous behavior toward staff, as it could lead to added benefits down the line. “Alliances have been built on far less than manners,” she would say.

The de Valle foyer resembled a cavern, though these columns were made of alabaster instead of limestone, and in place of stalactites hung a dozen onyx chandeliers. At the center of the split staircase hung the largest oil painting Cordè had ever seen: Parsyn on the right, hands clasped stoically behind his back, and Dionisia a good distance to the left, stroking a fluffy cat.

The empty canvas space between them was too extreme to be unintentional.

“Tertia’s tits, they truly despise one another, don’t they?” Cordè whispered.

“If they didn’t, this would be the stupidest plan Linnaea’s ever concocted.”

Neither Zayid’s words nor his nonchalant tone brought Cordè any comfort.

They rounded the second-floor landing, with Cordè peeking into every open door to memorize the route. A bathroom, a drawing room, a music room. Each space held the same air of sterile disassociation as the lower level, as if these rooms were not touched, were never touched; they were merely an imitation of domesticity.

They passed only one closed door, and Cordè noted its location before hurrying to catch up to Zayid. He stopped in front of a pair of ornate double doors, which stood slightly ajar. With a reassuring nod plus a wink for good measure, he rapped his knuckles against the siding.

A few long, quiet moments ticked by before Dionisia answered.

The lady of the manor was clearly ready for Zayid’s arrival, having donned a floor-length, fur-lined robe of sheer cream-colored tulle and a pair of lethal-looking heels. Her ink-black locks were piled high atop her head, lips painted blood-red.

“Dionisia,” Zayid purred, and Cordè hid a smirk. He’d dropped his Ravethinian accent, exchanging it for the thick, rolling tones of a native Hilaraan.

With a hum that sounded like a growl, Dionisia grabbed Zayid’s collar and pulled him in for a deep, searing kiss.

Cordè’s presence went unacknowledged until Dionisia finally broke away.

“And what’s this?”

Cordè curtsied, and Zayid drummed his fingers atop her bowed head. “I’ve brought you a little gift.”

Dionisia sniffed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to put me in a bad spot with Parsyn, pu’haren.”

Pu’haren. Tharonian for “desert boy,” a clear and derogatory reference to the sands of Aahilar.

Zayid, for his part, appeared unaffected by the offensive nickname. The smile he wore was easy, even pleasant. “I thought it’d give you a particular thrill to have your way with the protégé of your husband’s greatest rival.” He pushed past the doors and led Cordè inside. “Maybe even on his bed?”

Something sparked in Dionisia’s gaze—but then she glimpsed Zayid’s fingers twined with Cordè’s, and her eyes narrowed. “How long is she here?”

“Until you’ve been fully satisfied.”

Whereas most of the de Valle estate followed a strict code of monochromaticity, this space provided an unexpected splash of color. The tiling alternated between gold and magnolia, and the ceiling frescoes featured nude figures in various positions of carnality. The room’s focal point was the bed: as wide as Zayid was tall, it boasted four gilded posters draped in coral-colored gauze. Cordè brushed her fingers against the fabric and thought of the peaches Tharon shipped to Dusera at the start of every falltide.

The unhurried clacking of heels announced Dionisia’s approach. “I’ll find you something more appropriate to wear,” she said, tugging the cloak from Cordè’s shoulders.

Cordè bristled in instinctual offense.

The bristle vanished, however, when Dionisia reemerged from her wardrobe holding a leather bustier. “This will suffice. Zayid?” She handed him the bustier and waved them toward her painted privacy screen—a laughably unnecessary amenity, given the circumstances.

When they reemerged, Dionisia was lounging against the headboard, tulle robe hanging open to display her proud nakedness.

“You’re still dressed,” she admonished Zayid. “Off with all that.”

He stripped off his billowing shirt and tight trousers. Cordè caught a glimpse of an intricate tattoo curving from his left hip to his pelvis: two vines of braided ivy, one in black, the other a strange, shimmering gold that glistened like varnish on his russet skin.

“One last thing.” Dionisia motioned toward her bedside table. On it sat a flogger made of the same black leather as Cordè’s bustier.

“For me?” Zayid asked.

Dionisia looked at Cordè. “Not this time.”

Zayid took the flogger and ran his fingers along its oiled straps while eyeing Cordè with raised, inquiring brows.

She gave a delicate nod of permission.

A smart whap split the air as Zayid brought the flogger down on his palm. He jerked his chin in a tacit command to rise.

Cordè braced against the gilded footboard between the gauze, but not before sweeping her thick plait over her shoulder. If she’d judged correctly, Dionisia would want to see each and every wince that crossed Cordè’s face.

Whap. Cordè sucked in a breath through her teeth as the straps connected with the tender flesh exposed by the bottom of the bustier.

“Harder,” Dionisia instructed.

The second blow pulled a gasp from Cordè’s throat, and the third forced her onto her elbows.

After the fourth, she lost count. At some point—seconds later? Minutes? Hours?—the pain of the scourge smoothed into velvety pleasure, turning her sharpened gasps into longer moans. And, impossibly, she felt the first stirrings of an impending climax deep within her core.

Dionisia raised a palm, and the whipping stopped.

Zayid let the flogger fall to the floor with a soft thump, and Cordè felt not the sting of leather but the featherlight probing of strong yet nimble fingertips. Zayid stroked the raised welts along Cordè’s backside, touches growing more and more intimate, more and more audacious.

He slid two fingers inside her, and she clutched the footboard with renewed fervor.

In…and out. In…and out. The rhythm he created was slow, achingly slow. Cordè rocked her hips in tempo with it, urging Zayid deeper, faster.

He complied.

The coiling in her belly returned, and she began to lose herself to the cadenced in and out and in and out—until it stopped. A whisper of movement, then it was no longer Zayid’s fingers but his tongue delving into her, wet and soft and exploratory.

Cordè’s grip on the gilded post turned her knuckles white.

And while her instinct was to throw her head back and enjoy the sensations, she instead focused on Dionisia, whose hand now worked in a steady pulse between her legs.

It seemed impossible that this was the same woman who’d spent the entirety of the trip to Karnath looking like she smelled an unpleasant odor. Now her lips curled, not with distaste but anticipation.

The tempo of her hand doubled. Tripled.

Before Dionisia could finish, Cordè summoned her wordlessly, using naught but a particular gleam in her eyes. To her everlasting surprise Dionisia obeyed, drawing up like a lioness and crawling forward on all fours.

If ever Cordè doubted who ruled over this bedroom, the kiss they shared made it clear. Dionisia wielded her tongue the same way men waged war: viciously, mercilessly, without second thought for casualties left in her wake.

With a rough nip on Cordè’s lower lip, Dionisia resituated against the headboard. “Come here,” she said. “Both of you.”

Zayid did as she commanded, and the abrupt absence of his mouth sent a tremor of disappointment through Cordè. But her own pleasure wasn’t the goal, so she put on a provocative smile to match Dionisia’s and climbed onto the bed.

While Zayid kissed Dionisia’s mouth, her jaw, the hollow of her neck, Cordè settled between Dionisia’s legs—but not before teasing each of Dionisia’s nipples with her lips and teeth. She traveled down Dionisia’s navel, lingering on the dips and rises of her supple olive flesh. Cordè followed the slope of Dionisia’s hip bones to the apex of her thighs and then inward, where she employed her tongue in a purposeful flicking.

Dionisia gave a delicious, approving gasp.

It occurred to Cordè, randomly, that she and Zayid made a good team. Perhaps Linnaea had missed a golden opportunity not uniting them sooner: a pair of young, skilled, exquisite courtesans had the potential to conquer untold bedrooms across Dusera.

And retrieve secrets from any number of lips.

That thought was interrupted by an abrupt quickening in what had previously been a gentle roll of Dionisia’s hips, accompanied by a violent shudder as Dionisia seized a fistful of Cordè hair. The breathy gasps intensified into an unrestrained cry.

Dionisia’s body stiffened, then released all at once.

Cordè slowed her machinations. Slowed, slowed, and stopped. Zayid watched all of this while continuing to run his hands languidly over Dionisia’s curves. He paused and, to Cordè’s surprise, abandoned those efforts to lean over and press his mouth to hers.

Where Dionisia had all the subtlety of an inferno, it seemed Zayid preferred to tease. He kissed the taste of Dionisia from Cordè’s lips, tantalizing her with his tongue’s ebb and flow and making her squirm in impatient delight.

She wasn’t aware Dionisia had joined them until a pair of long-nailed fingers pinched her nipple. Cordè opened her eyes when Zayid broke the kiss, only for Dionisia to claim Cordè’s mouth for herself.

They moved like that, the three of them, a tangle of eager tongues and touches, and Cordè lost track of whose skin she was savoring, whose moans played the sweetest melody in her ear.

She did, however, recognize the moment her presence changed from participatory to peripheral. One minute Zayid had Cordè’s braid tangled between his fingers; the next, Dionisia snatched his hands away and moved them to her own waist. Zayid obeyed, mouth working its way down the column of Dionisia’s throat.

Taking a second to catch her breath, Cordè sat back and observed Zayid work. She followed his movements like a painter appreciating another artist’s brushstrokes: fluid, captivating motions that seemed both deliberate and effortless.

“Lady Cyra.”

Cordè blinked at Zayid’s voice. His attention was trained on her, irises glittering with unspoken meaning. “Would you be so kind as to bring us some wine?”

Unaware of Zayid’s pointed stare, Dionisia slid her palm down the sculpted ridges of his torso and reached between his legs. “Yes, little whore, fetch us a drink. Take your time with it, too.”

Cordè slipped off the bed, snagging a silk robe from the coat tree near the screens as she left. She met Zayid’s gaze as Dionisia bent forward to take him into her mouth.

Chest hitching, Zayid sent Cordè a reassuring nod before letting his eyes flutter shut.

Cordè slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Quiet shrouded the hallway beyond. Cinching the robe around her waist, she padded barefoot down the passage toward the main corridor. She scanned for movement—and secondary exits, if only because she knew Aelus would appreciate the effort.

Nothing, on both accounts.

Cordè retraced her steps to the closed door she’d marked earlier. She paused, listening to the buzz of silence, then wrapped her fingers around the knob and pulled.

Locked.

Undeterred, she plucked a hairpin from her disheveled braid. Lockpicking had been among the first of her mistress’s lessons, something Linnaea likely regretted after fourteen-year-old Cordè broke into her collection of vintage liqueurs while Orien kept watch.

A metallic click accompanied the sudden loosening of the knob, and although she had no audience to witness it, Cordè smiled in satisfied triumph.

The space beyond the door was dark, almost oppressively so. Once her eyesight adjusted, she took in her surroundings: a study, long and narrow and cavernous. An array of packed bookshelves lined the wall to her right; to her left hung a collage of framed portraits and certificates. The only light source was a floor-to-ceiling window on the opposite side of the room, shuttered save a slit in the drapery that illuminated a wide, plain desk.

Aware of her time constraints—she was supposed to be fetching wine, after all—Cordè moved quickly, starting with the paperwork in the top drawer of the desk.

She came to recognize Parsyn’s cramped, plain writing almost immediately. Most of the notes were in his own hand: annotations, administrative records, random jottings, all of it dreadfully dull.

Five drawers in, and frustration began to take hold. Of course these papers were boring; Parsyn was a boring man. No stolen missives or gleeful confessions of murder, just lists of legislation and imports.

Keep your head, my girl; think as your client would think. It was Linnaea’s oft-repeated mantra, drilled into Cordè throughout her training. Now the words came to Cordè again, blooming in her mind without effort—not in Linnaea’s voice, but her own.

Think as your client would think.

Cordè slowly lowered herself into Parsyn’s chair behind the desk. From her new vantage point, she surveyed the domain with a fresh set of eyes.

The tunnel-like room yawned before her, with this seat, this throne at its head. She studied the frames along the wall, filled with generations of de Valle portraits and manuscripts Parsyn had deemed worthy of display.

Think as your client would think.

Each painted likeness featured cold, unsmiling faces that shared Parsyn’s faint brows or high cheekbones. Dionisia was noticeably absent from the collection, though a fair number were of Parsyn himself: Parsyn posing, Parsyn in black and white, Parsyn wearing gold medallions of commendation, Parsyn astride a horse.

Cordè’s attention returned to the black and white portrait. It was smaller than the rest, wedged in the center of the web of frames. Ink, she guessed, noticing the delicate cross hatching near the bridge of his nose. She thought of the trip to Karnath, pictured the way Parsyn held his quill while adding contrast to her lewd sketch. Practiced. Controlled. Easy.

My tutor said I was a natural when it came to capturing the human form, he’d said.

This was Parsyn’s self-portrait. Framed in gold, surrounded by professional artists’ watercolors and oil work.

Cordè got to her feet and stood in front of it, staring into Parsyn’s black ink eyes.

She tilted her head, first to the left, then to the right.

It was crooked.

Cordè had never seen Parsyn with a hair out of place, a cravat off-kilter, a lapel untucked. Yet his self-portrait hung just slightly askew.

Pulse thrumming, she reached out and touched the frame.

The portrait swung forward on a set of concealed hinges, revealing a square hole stacked full of papers. Her fingers shook as she slid the bundle from its hiding place.

Letters. They were all letters, some dated recently, others years or even decades old: pages yellowing with age, their edges craggy as a mountain face.

Cordè scanned one at random, a personal commendation from Ravethin’s long-dead King Finnyr. Finding nothing of note, she continued on to a hastily-written letter from someone with rather juvenile handwriting (a teenager, perhaps?). The name at the bottom was barely more than a scribble, but Cordè thought she could make out an N⁠—

A clock chimed above the fireplace.

Hurry, child, Linnaea said.

The signature on the next page made Cordè’s heart seize in her chest.

P. Yvon.

Philip’s script was perfectly legible. She had no trouble reading about the illim proposal, or the southern port that would deliver the shipments on the third of every month, or the Première stooges Philip hired to handle distribution.

…bong…bong…bong. Eleven bells.

Cordè considered taking the letters, but even if Parsyn had no idea who’d broken into his office, an entire bundle of papers going missing would put him on high alert. So instead she tucked Philip’s note into the silk robe’s inner pocket.

The door on the opposite side of the room creaked open.

She looked up, ready to explain to the de Valle servant why she’d wandered into their master’s private study.

“Well now,” Parsyn said softly. “I don’t believe you belong in here, Lady Cyra.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Aelus puffed a hot breath into his fists as a chill buffeted the streets. The day’s warmth had vanished with sunset, making him grateful for his many layers of steel and chain.

Wisteria grazed his cheek as he slipped beneath the Rose district’s flowered archway and turned down another barren road. Most Val’dorans were either settling into bed, indulging in the night’s pleasures, or at Myrra’s rally, leaving his pathway to the marketplace unusually clear.

For once, Aelus wished for the uncomfortable press of people at his back. His thoughts felt louder in the dark, more visceral. The burrish feeling from the Mithraeum persisted, prodding him whenever he thought about the Seers’ odd behavior.

What was it that bothered him, anyway? Was it his father’s surety? The offhand dismissal of Talat’s death? Or was it the vague, encroaching sense of dread?

Another gust of wind shocked him from his doubt. Now was the time to focus, not brood. Imalu was the most reliable person Aelus knew; if he said he’d show, he’d show. Aelus just prayed he wouldn’t be too offended when Orien did too.

Aelus’s lips twitched. If Talat were alive, he’d be shocked to hear Aelus was bringing a Blade to meet their mentor. Watcher knew, it shocked Aelus. But Cordè’s idea was sound.

At the thought of Cordè, his amusement waned. Focus, Aelus.

Like a scythe slicing weeds, he cut through the crisscross of lanes and entered the marketplace. He scanned the stillness: deserted stalls, ghostly awnings, shuttered storefronts. A lone string of lanterns zagged across the square, batted by the breeze.

Beneath the lights’ ominous flickering stood two figures. Aelus immediately clocked the taller one as Orien. As requested, she’d exchanged her blue cape for something more discreet, though he glimpsed various weapons between the fold: throwing knives, plus her signature whip.

Next to Orien stood Xillah, pearly brown skin glowing like the moon. Xillah beamed as she ran to clasp his hand. “I told you we’d meet again!”

He looked at her, stunned. “You’re not supposed to be here. It’s too dangerous.”

“But I want to help.”

Aelus glanced at Orien, who shrugged. Already tried, the gesture said.

Xillah’s hands tightened around his. “Please. It’s my sisters who’re going missing. My sisters I’ve failed to protect. Wouldn’t you risk the same to find those you love?”

He thought of Talat, of Imalu. Yes, he would risk the same. Of course he would.

Aelus sighed. “Okay, you can come. On two conditions. First, you stay glued to Orien’s side. Second”—he untied his cloak and draped it over Xillah’s plump shoulders—“wear this. It’ll help hide your light.”

Xillah flipped the cowl over her crown of curls, and the too-big hood slid down to her chin. She tugged it back, revealing a mischievous grin. “I knew you’d come around.”

He frowned. Apparently he should’ve bought another faèleth.

To Aelus’s chagrin, Imalu had set the meeting for the Hall of Justice. An odd choice, considering the lateness of the hour, but at least it was familiar. Aelus resisted the urge to pick at his chapped hands as he followed Orien through the district. All the Triumvirate buildings—the schools, the museums, the libraries—stood vacant, watching them pass like skeletal sentries. And atop the Première district’s noble hill, a golden bubble of light rose from the amphitheater: Myrra’s rally.

Xillah’s hand slipped into the crook of his arm. “Your head’s healing well. No scar. That’s good.”

“Were you able to figure out why your magic didn’t work on me?”

“Nothing certain, no. I had wondered if my magic was at fault since I focus on the spirit. But when I asked Matron Zenzi, she….” Her face crumpled, and Orien took her hand. “Zenzi mentioned experiencing similar difficulties during your session. Our only theory is that something’s blocking our magic.”

“I didn’t know that was possible.”

“It shouldn’t be. The Goddess’s blood runs through our veins; any child of Nemè should be able to share in her magic. Especially Reneir’s Faithful.”

He rubbed his scab, as if he could erase it. “What does that make me, then?”

Xillah smiled. “A mystery.”

They continued in a pleasant yet wary silence, the dark tempered by Xillah’s comforting glow. At one point he peeked through the pillars and beheld the entirety of Val’dora spread before him like a map—the ocean of buildings glittering like the crystals of a geode, and the coppery dome of the Capitis at its heart.

A gentle prodding drew his attention to Orien. She cupped her palms together in a loose imitation of a flower, fingers wiggling.

Petals. Aelus softened in recognition. “Petal” meant Cordè.

“She’s on an assignment,” he said. “Safe, I hope.”

“Don’t worry. Linnaea trained her well.” Orien watched him for an additional beat, and despite his best efforts, Aelus’s false cheer crumbled. “What’s the matter?”

“Cordè and I had a…disagreement.”

“Over?”

“Her profession.” He hesitated. “I, um, said some hurtful things.”

“What did you say?” Xillah asked.

He didn’t want to tell her. Watcher, even thinking it made his chest ache. But if he never said it at all, the words would rot him from the inside out.

“I told her she disgusted me,” Aelus said in one long, shameful exhale.

Orien’s previously searching stare developed a serrated edge. Her fingers moved, sharp and jerking, as she signed, “If you’d said that to me, I would have dislocated your jaw.”

“She did slap my hand pretty good,” Aelus said ruefully.

“You’re lucky that’s all she did. I taught her how to throw a mean right hook, and you would’ve more than deserved it.”

“You’re right. I would have.” He met Orien’s disappointed gaze head-on. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing to me?”

“Because I didn’t know how to apologize to her.”

Orien must have believed him, because some of her anger seemed to leech away, though she continued to study him with a particular intensity he didn’t fully understand.

Xillah, meanwhile, gave Aelus’s arm a compassionate squeeze. “Admitting fault doesn’t come naturally to anyone, regardless of their faith or nature. But you should ask yourself what’s more important: acknowledging her pain or maintaining your pride?”

He swallowed and looked away as Xillah pointed west. “We’re here.”

The Hall of Justice loomed ahead, white pilasters gleaming like a spectral crown. Aelus gave it a quick, probing scan and led them to the base of the stairs. “Let me talk to Imalu alone first. He’s less prejudiced than most, but he’ll have questions.”

At Orien’s nod, he tucked his cloak tighter around Xillah. “Remember our deal,” he told her. “If you feel unsafe or see anyone suspicious, you take Orien and run. I’ll catch up.”

“Are you worried about Imalu?”

“I’m worried about you. We still don’t know who’s behind the kidnappings.”

“Hence my backup plan,” Orien interjected. “Theophane is running security at Myrra’s rally, but I told her to come find me if I didn’t return by midnight.”

A clever contingency—something Aelus would’ve done. “Got any more tricks?”

Orien smirked and held up a finger. Just one. Then, abruptly and unexpectedly, she extended her arm. At first he thought it was a new sign, but no: she meant to shake his hand.

Aelus accepted the gesture. “By His Gaze. And stay safe.”

Her lips quirked. Always.

He waited to enter the Hall until Xillah and Orien’s cloaked forms melted into the shadows. Once inside, he felt his first tingle of unease: without the everyday bustle, the sea of pillars felt like an abandoned marble labyrinth. Aelus’s brisk footfalls seemed to echo for miles, his only light source the pale moonbeams that streamed through the trellis roof.

Hand on his sword, he slipped past the statues and entered the Chamber of Education.

Empty.

Aelus frowned. It wasn’t like Imalu to be late, especially for something like this. Fear pressed against Aelus’s chest, but he suppressed it. It was too soon to be alarmed. Imalu might’ve had to walk; not all Faithful had the luxury of horses like Aelus did.

In an effort to stave off his apprehension, Aelus explored his surroundings, marking exits, dead angles, possible weapons. This dome-shaped chamber had been hewn from the same limestone as the rest of the Hall, with gold-rimmed pillars ringing the sides like a marble fence. Shelves bursting with gilded books and bloodstone busts of godsforged started on the mezzanine and swirled up, up, up the cupola’s pinnacle. And through the skylight, night beckoned—stars a bleeding white blur against a navy canvas.

The sound of boots striking stone interrupted Aelus’s musings.

Thank the Watcher. With a quick tug to straighten his collar, he turned toward the entrance as the approaching figure passed through a dusky beam of light.

Aelus froze. “Whitman?”

The white-haired Eye stepped into the room, gold earring agleam. Gone was his traditional armor; in its place was a simple gray tunic and a longsword strapped to his waist. It was a casual look. Relaxed.

Except his shirt was rumpled. His hair and beard were haggard. And his expression, oh gods, his expression.

Aelus rushed forward, pulse pounding in his ears as he tried to decipher why Whitman’s expression was so bizarrely, distressingly blank: Imalu had succumbed to bloodrot, Imalu had been taken by the same people who were snatching up Etherians, the missing Etherians had turned up dead.

But then, Aelus stopped. He thought about the events leading up to tonight—Ellisar’s warning, the Seers’ strange behavior, the conversation with Cordè, Imalu’s sudden reply.

Then Aelus thought about the meeting itself. The place, the timing, the oddness of it all.

Something inside him cracked, and he backed toward the busts.

Whitman inched closer, shadowed eyes glittering like a crow’s. “Are you all right?”

No, Aelus was not all right, because as much as he trusted Imalu, he knew, he knew something was terribly, dreadfully wrong.

Whitman’s hand twitched toward his sword, and the fear creeping along Aelus’s bones honed to a razor’s edge.

With a cry, Aelus yanked Nightbane from its sheath. “Orien, now!”

A small silver dagger appeared from the darkness, spinning tip over hilt as it arced toward Whitman’s exposed neck. It was a beautiful throw: fast, elegant, lethal. A normal opponent would’ve died instantly.

But Whitman was no ordinary opponent.

It happened between blinks: one second Orien’s dagger was sailing straight for the base of Whitman’s skull. The next, it was humming in Whitman’s palm, blade unbloodied.

Whitman pocketed it and turned to snarl into the umbra as Orien threw another dagger—giving Aelus clear access to Whitman’s unarmored back.

One thrust. That’s all it would take. Just one thrust, right through the spine.

Nausea swept through Aelus in a dizzying wave. What was he doing? Whitman was a brother, an Eye. Aelus couldn’t….

The urge, along with the brief opening, passed as Whitman lashed out with a savage kick, knocking Nightbane out of Aelus’s grip. Orien’s third dagger zipped out of the shadows; Whitman caught it without looking and tossed it aside. He whistled, cool and crisp, and four black-eyed figures emerged from behind the entryway pillars.

Aelus choked. Whitman’s men weren’t wearing chainmail; instead each of them, every single Faithful, was dressed as Blade.

The Etherians were kidnapped by men in Blade uniforms.

Whitman aimed his blade at the base of Aelus’s throat. Now, bathed in unobstructed moonlight and only a few feet away, the telltale red halos around his irises were wholly visible. Bloodrot.

“Enough,” Whitman called to Orien. “Come out. Now.”

Aelus was going to be sick. “Brother⁠—”

“Quiet.”

Seconds passed, then Orien appeared: belt empty except for one lone dagger, whip unspooled and trailing behind her. She shot each Faithful a nasty glare before looking at Aelus.

Xillah? Aelus asked silently.

Her chin lowered. Safe.

Whitman plucked Orien’s dagger from his belt and pointed at the ground. “Disarm.”

Orien obeyed, weapons clanging to the marble, one after another.

“You two are coming with us.” Whitman’s voice was calm and reasonable, if not a bit raspy. “No sudden movements, no noise. And no signing either⁠—”

The last word had barely left his mouth when he broke out into a violent hacking fit. The coughs sounded awful: halfway between a rattle and a wheeze, like something gooey and thick was stuck to Whitman’s lungs.

Orien’s fists coiled as if she were about to lunge and tackle Whitman to the floor, but a tense glance from Aelus stopped her. The Eyes would kill her before she made it one step.

Whitman hawked a wad of tar-looking phlegm to the side and straightened.

Aelus’s fear hardened into anger, and he stepped forward, ignoring the tip of Whitman’s blade as it rose to his neck. “Who’s making you do this?”

Whitman’s brow rose. “Excuse me?”

“Did the Seers order you to kidnap the Etherians?” Aelus stopped as Whitman’s sword slid in deeper. Pain flared, and a bead of blood rolled down his clavicle, hot and thick like sap.

The corner of Whitman’s lip curled. “Bind them,” he ordered his men. “Mouths too.”

One of the Eyes, the scarred blond Aelus had spoken to last time, approached with makeshift gags. Aelus looked at Orien, horrified he’d unwittingly dragged her and Xillah into this mess⁠—

The fingers hidden beneath her cloak twitched. Her second trick.

The instant the Eyes reached into their surcoats, Orien yanked a small metal ball out of her pocket, twisted its smooth copper top, and hurled it at the far wall.

Aelus’s gaze instinctively followed. Whitman’s too.

The ball clinked against the marble.

A muffled boom ripped through the Hall, accompanied by a searing flash of light. An invisible force punched Aelus’s side: not the slash of a blade, nor the brunt of a fist, but something…else. He clutched his head, reeling as sounds condensed into a high-pitched drone.

Shouts began to emerge from the ringing: “I can’t see! I can’t see!”

Neither could Aelus. Even after the glare faded from inside his eyelids, everything remained blurry. Thick poison-green smoke blanketed the far side of the lobby, turning Whitman and his entourage into human-shaped obscurities. Aelus could hear them groaning, hissing, cursing their lack of vision.

The light. It must’ve done something to their Blinding powers.

“Aelus!”

He turned from the smoke toward the entryway, where an uncloaked Xillah beckoned.

“Come on!” she yelled. “We have to go!”

Aelus squinted, looking for Orien’s cloudlike hair amidst the smoke. But she was already gone, sprinting for the exit as if the hells themselves were opening beneath her heels.

He rushed to snag Nightbane and follow, but the world was still too loud, too hazy.

Xillah ran to him, all curls and beads and silk. “Put your arm around me,” she panted, tugging at his vambraces. “Quick⁠—”

Her words vanished in a surprised hngf, and she staggered like she’d been punched.

He grabbed her elbow to steady her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She looked at him, face twisting in terror, confusion, pain as she clutched her side. A swell of horror ripped through Aelus, and he froze.

Jutting from Xillah’s ribs was the oiled hilt of a dagger, plunged there by the blond Eye.

In the distance, Orien let loose a horrible, guttural wail.

The blond Eye took a step back.

Crimson bloomed down Xillah’s gossamer skirts as she teetered and crumpled into Aelus’s arms. Watcher’s Tears, her side was spewing blood. It pooled beneath her, trickling over his fingers like hot soup.

With a jagged exhale he tore off a piece of his surcoat and tried to stem the tide.

Xillah whimpered, and Aelus fumbled for her hand. “Hey, it’s okay. Look at me. You’re going to be fine.” But his words didn’t seem to register. He strengthened his grip as her gaze drifted past his, irises glassy and unfocused. “Xillah!”

“—the hells are you doing?” Whitman shouted at the blond Eye. “She said take them alive!”

She.

Whitman pointed to where Orien was fighting the other two Faithful, teeth bared, whip snapping. “Go. Take care of the Blade. I’ll deal with him.”

The Eye obeyed, but Aelus hardly noticed. His attention was on Xillah, only Xillah.

She cried out as he tied a makeshift bandage taut around the wound.

“I’m sorry,” Aelus said. “I know it hurts. Just hang on, okay?”

Whitman advanced, sword bobbing in his hand. “On your feet.”

“She needs her sisters.”

“I said, on your feet.”

“Whitman, please.” Aelus’s hoarse plea cracked on the last word. “Xillah’s stable for now, but if we don’t get her help soon, she’ll die.”

Something flickered in Whitman’s flat, bloodrotting stare as he peered at Xillah’s angelic face. A small rivulet of red started to leak from his eyes, and he brushed it away. Then he aimed his sword at Aelus’s throat. “On. Your. Feet,” he repeated. “Now.”

Aelus looked at Xillah, at the blood seeping from her ribs, her waning violet-indigo swirls. Don’t go, she mouthed.

He squeezed her hand. “Stay awake.”

Giving her a small, reassuring smile he didn’t quite feel, he grabbed Nightbane and stood.

Now that his attention wasn’t on Xillah, he could see the damage Orien’s device had wrought: veins stood out in the whites of Whitman’s red-ringed eyes, and his cheeks were glossy with involuntary tears. He squinted as Aelus circled him.

“I don’t want to do this,” Aelus said, clutching Nightbane’s hilt like a lifeline. “We’re brothers.”

Whitman pulled Orien’s dagger from his belt. “I know.”

Then he attacked.

Aelus had fought Eyes before. All acolytes had. Whenever Eyes weren’t on duty, they were helping young Faithful hone their skills. Even Talat had trained Aelus in the past. But where Talat fought like a tiger—all dexterity and wicked, acrobatic slashes—Whitman charged in like an ox. There was no artistry in his movements, no dancelike finesse. He stormed forward, lashing out brutally and recklessly, with no regard for his own safety.

Smirking, Whitman shrugged off Aelus’s downward strike and jabbed at his neck. Aelus careened backward, barely managing to bring Nightbane up to parry. By the time he regained his balance, Whitman lunged out of reach.

The crack of Orien’s whip echoed behind Aelus, and a Faithful yelled, voice reedy with pain. Guilt coated Aelus’s throat like bile. These were his brothers, his family. How did it come to this? Who had brought them to this?

She, Whitman had said. She.

Aelus’s arm vibrated as he blocked yet another downward slash. He grunted, then slid Nightbane down Whitman’s blade and twisted, locking their crossguards together like fishhooks.

Grunting, Aelus wrenched himself loose, and in a quick feint left followed by a savage diagonal strike to the right, he sent Whitman’s longsword flying. Chest heaving, Aelus touched Nightbane’s tip to Whitman’s throat. “The woman you’re working for. Tell me her name.”

Whitman grinned, revealing teeth and gums smeared with glistening black ichor.

Aelus pressed Nightbane deeper into his neck, and a spot of red welled amidst the snowy bristles. “Her name.”

No answer.

Anger simmered in Aelus’s breast, hot as coals. He was tired of Whitman’s derisive silence, tired of watching him smirk while Xillah bled out and Orien fought for her life.

Aelus slid Nightbane in further, making Whitman wince. “Her name. Now.”

“No.”

Whitman spat some of the coagulated ichor into Aelus’s face and batted Nightbane aside with the flat of Orien’s dagger.

Instinct, not skill, prevented Aelus from being gutted right then and there. He stumbled backward, frantically tried to wipe the burning substance away with his sleeve as Whitman launched into a newer, more deadly series of attacks.

Wielding his dagger like a scorpion’s stinger, Whitman struck for Aelus’s limbs, puncturing them again and again and again until he’d poked Aelus full of roughly a dozen holes.

Unprepared for the onslaught, Aelus reeled. His breaths came in hot, ragged spurts, muscles quivering beneath the weight of his sword. And through the sweaty, pain-filled haze, he heard Orien’s whip, its thunderlike crack weakening as her assault slowed.

Defeat pressed in. Icy. Debilitating.

No. Aelus surged forward, nostrils flared as he performed a series of powerful, zigzag slashes to try and shatter Whitman’s guard.

Batting Nightbane aside, Whitman skated inward and sliced deep into the curve of Aelus’s thigh. Aelus gasped, leg exploding in pain. Whitman swiveled and, with particular relish, sank Orien’s dagger into the hollow of Aelus’s shoulder.

The blade punched through chain and muscle, sending shockwaves of agony blistering down Aelus’s arm. He staggered, Nightbane falling from his numb fingers.

With a huff of effort, Whitman jerked the dagger free, loosing a torrent of blood down Aelus’s front. Aelus touched it, not quite fathoming it was his. Then he was tumbling, tumbling through the air as his legs were kicked out from under him.

He landed on his back with a bone-shaking thud, wind knocked from his lungs. It hurt to breathe, to move. So instead he lay there, wheezing—one hand clutching his shoulder, the other limp at his side—and gazed up at the star-splattered sky.

Xillah’s outline blurred in his periphery. She looked like she was sleeping: eyes closed, lips parted, chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.

He reached out, and Whitman jammed his heel into Aelus’s sternum, pinning him flat. Aelus strained. Stiletto. It was still in his boot; he could worm free, grab it.

Crouching down, Whitman drove his knee into Aelus’s outstretched arm, grasped a fistful of sweaty, tangled, ginger hair, and wrenched Aelus’s head to the side.

“Looks like your backup outlasted you,” Whitman sneered.

Helpless, Aelus watched Orien face off against the remaining Faithful. Exhaustion hunched her iron-rod posture, dark skin oily with sweat. Most of her opponents were still standing—though the blond who’d stabbed Xillah moaned nearby, clutching at the pulpy, ruined pit of his right eye.

“End it,” Whitman snapped at the others, and Aelus thrashed. No.

Orien fought valiantly, whip swirling like a maelstrom, but she was outnumbered. Overwhelmed. While she fended off the two Eyes attacking her from the sides, the third snuck behind her back and cracked his pommel against her skull.

She jerked, blood spurting from her mouth, and collapsed without a sound.

Aelus yelled her name, even as Whitman punched him viciously in the nose. Bones popped and blood spooled into his mouth. He gurgled, copper gushing down his throat as something slammed into his temple. The world burst into a thousand brilliant shards.

Then everything went black.

TWENTY-SIX

Like a mouse realizing it had wandered into a cat’s line of sight, Cordè froze.

The lit hallway at Parsyn’s back rendered him a faceless shadow. And still she knew he was staring at her—staring in a blank, unblinking way that held her in place like manacles.

He moved inside with unnerving quickness, and Cordè took a step back.

She remembered seeing a paperweight on the desk, maybe she could…?

“Please don’t run. Or attack. I’m not as young as I once was, and I abhor unnecessary bloodshed.” Parsyn’s voice was soft: not quite pleasant, but also not aggressive. He walked—no, he glided forward, stopping just outside Cordè’s reach. “Letters.” He held out his hand. “Please.”

Cordè glanced down at his palm. The paper in her pocket burned white-hot, and she made no attempt to retrieve it.

“I could force you,” he said.

“You mean kill me?”

“That seems dramatic. I’m merely stating fact; I could force you, but I won’t.” Parsyn tilted his head like a fox. “Truth be told, I’m curious why Linnaea’s risking her last Lily on such a foolhardy mission. Things must be getting desperate at the Nivae manor.”

Cordè swallowed.

“Please, have a seat.” He gestured at his throne-like chair. “This will take a moment.”

She eyed the seat, the doorway, then the seat again. Slowly, hatefully, she sat.

Parsyn paged through the letters she’d shoved back in his vault. “You were sloppy. Some of these are misfolded. See?” He indicated a new crease. “And here, you smudged some ink.”

“I’m not your student,” she snapped.

“Certainly not. Any student of mine wouldn’t have gotten caught.”

He paused at the last letter, and Cordè wondered if he’d counted the pages, knew one was missing. But he returned the papers to their home without comment. “So. Illim.” He put on a tight smile. “Let me guess, I’m behind some grand conspiracy? Taking advantage of a population for personal gain?”

“Sounds like something you’d do.”

“Oh? Why would I risk so much when I command a Legion?”

Cordè held his stare, summoning memories of their conversation along the vendors’ street in Karnath. “Satisfaction,” she said, and Parsyn’s smile widened.

“If only your skills were as sharp as your wit, maybe I’d enjoy your company more.”

“You could always ask your wife’s opinion on the matter.”

The curling corner of Parsyn’s lips stilled. He gave her a fleeting once-over: analytical, despite the sheerness of the robe. She thought his attention lingered on her wrist, the one with the faèleth hidden beneath the flimsy folds of silk.

“I’ll be sure to do that,” he said. “But first, the letter in your pocket, if you please.”

With pointed, deliberate spite, Cordè reached into her robe and withdrew Philip’s note. Parsyn waited for her to extend it to him before plucking it from her fingers.

She scowled. “We don’t need that to hang you.”

“For what? Trafficking drugs?”

“People go to prison for it all the time. So can you.”

“It amuses me to think you believe our Triumvirate judges are above bribery. They, too, have their own little indulgences. As does half of Dusera.” Parsyn shot a disdainful look at Philip’s letter and pocketed it. “Drugs. Utterly pathetic, yet undeniably profitable.”

“Then why…?” Cordè hesitated, mind whirling.

He seated himself on the desk. “Don’t stop on my account. I’m curious to know what monstrous mythoses your mistress fed you this time.”

“You’re selling drugs.”

“Yes, we’ve covered that.”

“Illegal drugs. With Philip.”

“Ah.” Parsyn smiled in droll amusement. “The Première fellow with the wandering eye.”

Wandering eye. Was it her imagination, or had he said that with particular relish?

Wandering Eye.

“You told Philip about Talat,” Cordè said. “You killed him.”

Parsyn turned to face her more fully. “Pardon?”

“You killed Talat.”

Parsyn blinked. Blinked again. And for a single, devastating instant, Cordè thought she’d done it. She’d found the person who took Talat from her. She’d found⁠—

“Now why would I do that?” He leaned down, forcing eye contact. “And before you speak, think. Pretend I’m Linnaea; walk through your theory, step by step. Why would I kill your Eye?”

Cordè quivered with emotions that had no names. But when she spoke, her voice was strong. “Revenge.”

“Seems petty of me. Would you describe me as petty?”

“I’d describe you as arrogant. Cold. Vindictive.”

“Not petty, though.” Parsyn seemed unfazed by her characterization. Maybe even flattered by it. “Any other reasons I’d kill your Eye?”

“He might’ve overheard you talking with someone.”

“Philip?”

“Possibly.”

“I’ve confessed to selling drugs to you, out in the open.” He spread his hands. “Why kill someone for listening in on a secret I don’t much care to hide?”

“Not drugs, then.” Truthfully, she would’ve been disappointed to find out selling illim was the only skeleton in Parsyn’s closet. She studied him: not just his clean, angular features or his impossibly smooth skin, but also the disturbing straightness of his posture and the way he rarely blinked.

A thought occurred to her, and she watched him closely as she added, “Perhaps you’re the one kidnapping Etherians.”

He gave her nothing, not even a twitch.

Without warning, an incredulous chuckle burst from his throat. It echoed in the chamber-like room, lasting for several long moments before he brushed away tears with the backs of his index fingers.

Cordè continued to sit motionless in Parsyn’s chair, feeling somewhat stupid.

“Thank you, Winter Lily. I needed a good laugh after the day I’ve had. Kidnapping Etherians.” He gave a skeptical shake of his head. “And doing what with them? Shipping them to Ravethin alongside the illim?”

Her jaw clenched at his mockery.

“Quite a leap on my part, going from trafficking powder to trafficking people. What would I have to gain from taking such a momentous risk?” She opened her mouth to respond—with what, she didn’t know—when he cut her off. “Nothing. I’d gain nothing.”

Parsyn stood, circling her while Cordè followed him with narrowed eyes.

“A shame. Two minutes of proper, concise thinking and your entire theory falls apart,” he said. “I expected better from a Rose.”

“You can take up any qualms you have about my education with Linnaea at the next Legion meeting.” Cordè gripped the chair to hoist herself to standing, but Parsyn swept in, hand hovering over her forearm.

“Not so hasty, Winter Lily. We’re not done. Someone set you and your mistress down this path for a reason.”

They stared at each other for a second. Then Cordè returned to her seat.

“So, who steered House Nivae in my direction? Was it Philip’s tragic, double-crossing wife?” Parsyn leaned in closer, attention flicking between her eyes. “No. The Sollunese?”

Nothing. Give him nothing.

“The Locke family? Lady Velta?”

Myrra’s ageless face appeared in Cordè’s mind, and she swore she saw it reflected in Parsyn’s deep brown gaze.

His expression relaxed, and he rocked back on his heels with the kind of gratification normally reserved for post-coital bliss. “Better fix those cracks in your mask, little elf.” He wore a cat’s grin, small and self-congratulatory. “To be fair, it’s hardly a surprise. I’ve been waiting over a month for Lady Velta’s retaliation. She doesn’t seem the type to take rejection well.”

Cordè glowered, unhappy she and Parsyn had arrived at the same conclusion.

“Still, though,” he continued. “Enlisting my Second was quite bold—almost as bold as Linnaea taking her up on it.”

“She didn’t. Enlist Linnaea, I mean.” The lie fell from Cordè’s lips, small and polished, an ulaari pearl dropped into a pond. “She came straight to me, at the ball.”

“Really? The leader of the anti-elf brigade recruited your help?” Parsyn’s eyes narrowed, and she felt his frustration as he sought a new series of cracks to exploit.

This time, he found none—at least, Cordè was fairly certain he didn’t.

“Lady Velta is a curious creature,” he said after a long, long silence. “Clever, to a degree, but temperamental. Her entire campaign is rooted in fear: fear of the bloodrot, fear of elves, fear of the godsforged, fear of a heretical nation. Yet she sought you out. Why?”

“I guess she hates you more than she hates me.”

Parsyn gave a light huff of amusement, then walked around the desk, pulled back the curtain, and gazed outside. “There is one thing that continues to disturb me, however,” he said without turning around. “Myrra’s rally. She spent weeks planning it, advertising it. Yet, bizarrely, she left before her groundbreaking speech.”

“She—what?”

“Yes. Strangest thing. We saw her arrive at the venue. Saw her blow her kisses, give her elegant waves. Then, without reason or fanfare, she vanished.”

Cordè stared.

“Which leads me to wonder,” Parsyn continued, “what other all-consuming obsession would cause her to abandon her own rally?”

Something low and unformed began pulsing deep in Cordè’s belly as she pictured Myrra lifting Aelus’s chin, devouring him with her eyes.

Aelus.

“Well now.” Parsyn clapped his hands together, jolting her from her trance. “I believe I’ve given my wife enough time to finish with the Hilaraan.”

Without another word, he headed for the doorway. Cordè, scarcely able to process what had just occurred, took a moment to steady herself before doing the same.

It was as if she’d forgotten an entire house lay beyond the confines of the study. She squinted in the low light of the corridor, watching Parsyn’s back as he made his way to his wife’s chambers. He hadn’t told Cordè to follow, yet she knew it’s what he expected of her.

Without pausing to knock, Parsyn flung Dionisia’s doors open to reveal a flurry of activity atop the bed. Zayid launched up and off of Dionisia, tangling in the gauzy curtains as he struggled to maintain some shred of dignity. Dionisia, breathing hard as if she’d been on the brink of another orgasm, expelled a disappointed puff of air and sat up against the headboard.

“Hello, darling. I take it the rally ended early?”

Parsyn clasped his hands behind his back. “It’s always difficult to predict how long these things will last, is it not?”

His words were punctuated with the screech of wood against tile. Zayid, in his rush to get dressed, had tripped over his pants leg and caught himself on the back of a chair.

Parsyn pinned his wife with a sharp look. “The Hilaraan is one thing. But Linnaea’s elf?” He tsked in apparent disappointment.

Dionisia shrugged. “In my defense, she was an uninvited guest.”

“Doesn’t seem to have stopped you from enjoying yourself.”

Her satisfied smile spoke for itself.

Parsyn tugged a velvet chord beside the entryway, and a chime sounded from elsewhere in the manor, followed shortly by the familiar clangor of armor.

“Winter Lily,” Dionisia called. “You’re wearing some things that belong to me.”

It seemed the lady of the manor had decided to take her pleasures where she could, now that the fun was over. Ignoring Dionisia’s provocative simper, Cordè yanked the robe open and let it puddle on the floor. The bustier landed atop the silk robe, leaving Cordè naked in the doorway, hands on her hips. Parsyn averted his gaze, instead studying the ceiling’s lewd frescoes.

“Anything else, my lady?” Cordè asked with as much insolence as she could muster.

Dionisia waved a dismissive hand.

Zayid scooped up the red dress on his way to Cordè’s side, but when he offered it to her, she brushed him off. She wasn’t some blushing ingénue; if Dionisia intended to embarrass her, she’d picked the wrong courtesan.

Lifting her imaginary hem, Cordè lowered into a deep, purposeful curtsy and left.

A pair of guards waited for them in the hall. Cordè ignored their attention as Zayid helped her into her dress, and the instant she was decent, she started for the staircase.

It felt as though the de Valles’ portrait eyes followed her as she went.

“Are you all right?”

Zayid spoke in a deep murmur, voice almost swallowed by the carriage’s moving wheels. Cordè glanced at him, noting the concern etched onto his features. “Did he hurt you?” he asked.

“No. We had a conversation, that’s all. Everything’s fine.”

“Then why is your knee bouncing like that?”

Frowning, Cordè planted her foot on the floor of the carriage. “I’d just like to get home.”

Truthfully, anxiety had been twining her insides since the moment they left the de Valle estate. Her mind wouldn’t stop forming new, awful scenarios about what was really happening at that meeting with Imalu.

He’s fine, reasoned a calm, steady voice in her mind that sounded suspiciously like Linnaea. You have no reason to trust Parsyn, of all people. And even if you did, you have no reason to believe Myrra’s absence has anything to do with⁠—

“I’ll be returning to Sollund soon,” Zayid said abruptly.

Cordè looked up, surprised to see the glow of the Valdoran skyline reflected in his blue eyes. How long had she been lost in thought?

Then she realized he was expecting a response from her. “Oh?” she said belatedly.

“Yep. Probably within a week. We have some fires to put out along the Sollunese border.”

“We?”

“My associates and I.” A beat. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Cordè studied Zayid across the carriage, his beautiful face, those skillful lips she’d enjoyed not an hour earlier. Linnaea trusted him. And Cordè trusted Linnaea.

“I’m fine,” she said instead.

She could tell he didn’t believe her, but he didn’t press. They sat in silence for the rest of the ride, not speaking until the carriage-for-hire stopped outside the Nivae manor. Cordè slid across the seat, knees brushing Zayid’s in the process.

“It’s been….” A pleasure seemed on the nose, and not wholly accurate. “An adventure.”

Zayid smiled and kissed her knuckles. “Until next time, Winter Lily.”

She climbed out onto the cobblestones, straightening her skirts and watching the carriage disappear around the corner, before heading to the front stoop.

“—do you suggest?” boomed a voice inside. “That he storm the Citadel all by himself?”

The first thing Cordè saw when she stepped into the foyer was Ro’s massive back as she stood toe-to-toe with Linnaea, whose silvering head was barely visible around Ro’s shoulder. They turned in unison when Cordè entered, and in that moment, all of Cordè’s worst-case scenarios came true.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“Aelus is gone. Taken,” Ro said.

“There was an ambush.” Linnaea deflated, like she’d aged a decade in the span of minutes. “An hour ago, at the Hall of Justice.”

Cordè’s entire body went numb. “And Orien?”

The shared looks on Ro and Linnaea’s faces answered that question.

“No.” All at once, the coiled anxiety Cordè had tried so hard to keep restrained in the carriage came bursting out in a low moan. “No, no, no.”

“Sorry, miss.” If Ro’s tone wasn’t exactly apologetic, it at least wasn’t harsh. “But my scout was there. He confirmed it. And if he’d had backup”—she rounded on Linnaea—“maybe he could’ve done something. In case you forgot, though, I have a grand total of three people in this gods-forsaken city: me, my scout, Zayid. So, between keeping tabs on your household, babysitting the horses, and Z’s little escapades, you’ve stretched me pretty fucking thin.”

Cordè’s legs felt unstable, she needed to sit. But instead she took a jolting step toward Ro. “What are you talking about? You don’t have ‘people’ in Val’dora, you’re a stablehand.”

Ro ignored the interruption. “Look, you know my team is good. Damn good. But my scout can’t take down half-a-dozen Blade soldiers. He played it smart. He tailed the group to the Citadel and reported back.”

Scout? Team? Cordè’s head swam, like she was trapped beneath a thick layer of ice and drowning in all the information she didn’t have. Yet somewhere in her nebulous, spinning memory she recalled feeling watched in Karnath, on her way to meet Serasha. And Aelus had mentioned a similar sense of scrutiny just a few weeks ago. Had that been more than paranoia?

Had that been the scout?

“Is he sure Orien and Aelus are alive?” Linnaea asked Ro.

“Yeah. There was an Etherian with them, too.”

Xillah. All three of them, snatched off the streets while Cordè let herself be spanked for some snobby woman’s entertainment.

“So, what are you still doing here?” Cordè’s voice broke as she jammed an accusing finger at Ro. “If you know they’re at the Citadel, why aren’t you getting them back?”

“Have you seen the Citadel? The thing’s fucking impenetrable.”

The Citadel. Medôn Guitelet. “Myrra Velta.” The name burst out of Cordè’s mouth without preamble or context. She looked at Linnaea, wide-eyed. “It was Myrra Velta. She left her rally early, didn’t even give her speech. She’s the one who took them.”

Oh gods, Aelus had been right. Aelus had been right about everything.

Linnaea processed this. Then gave a single, firm nod. “You said it was Blade soldiers who took them?” she asked Ro.

“They had blue capes on. Not sure who else they’d be.”

“So, if we can’t trust the Blade, and we can’t trust the Triumvirate….”

Ro released a hissing sigh of reluctance. “I’ll get the horses.”

“The Order?” Cordè confirmed once Ro barreled out the door.

“It’s the only option we have left.”

“How are Myrra Velta’s supporters our only option?”

“They don’t all support Myrra. And remember, Aelus’s father is a Seer. It’s not a strong connection to hang our fate on—but it’s better than any of the alternatives.”

Cordè stared at her, torn. Then: “All right. Give me two minutes to change.”

“No.” Linnaea took Cordè’s face in her worn hands. “You’ll be staying here. If Ro’s scout returns before we’re back, he’ll need to be updated.”

Cordè blinked in confusion. “But Farren can do that. I’m coming with you. Of course I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.” Linnaea’s tone was firm, yet her thumb was soft as it brushed Cordè’s cheek. “I’ll get them back. I promise.”

It should have been comforting. But it wasn’t.

As if in a trance, Cordè allowed herself to be nudged toward the stairs. She ascended, the sounds of activity dulling to a buzz as she arrived at the landing. Aelus’s nook seemed to watch her, judgmental and still. She stopped at the door and studied the emptiness. It always felt small when Aelus was there, but in his absence it was formidably large. Hollow. Intimidating.

Cordè sat on his bed and touched the faèleth on her wrist, tracing its whorling patterns with her fingertips. She paused at the safety lever.

If the situation was reversed, if it’d been Cordè kidnapped in the dead of night, Aelus would’ve kicked down the Citadel’s front door by now. Orien would’ve swooped in like a hells-spawned daemon, demanding answers at swordpoint.

Xillah would’ve helped too, Cordè supposed.

She pressed the button in the bracelet’s paneling. Ffitz. The blade shot out, catching the dim light of the moon through the window.

And like a flower bulb taking root, a plan sprouted in her mind.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Aelus returned to consciousness with a bone-rattling groan.

Everything hurt. His thigh sang and his shoulder throbbed like a second, hotter heartbeat. He blinked to clear the cobwebs from his aching head. What… what happened? Disoriented and desperate to get his bearings, he staggered to his feet.

Something went taut around his wrists and ankles, and he slammed back into his chair.

He looked down. Chains. Chains? His pulse tripled. He had to get out, get out, get out⁠—

No. Stop. Calm down. Aelus tightened his trembling hands into fists. He took several deep, slow, steadying breaths and assessed his situation.

Both the chair and the chains were bolted to the stone floor. His armor and undershirt had been removed, his wounds bandaged with bitter-smelling poultices, and Nightbane was missing. A quick bounce of his heel reaffirmed the presence of his stiletto.

As for the prison itself, he was surprised to find it less a prison and more an office: two white couches flanked a polished writing desk, which reflected the undulant flames of a fireplace. Candles dotted the windowless walls, their saccharine scent as muggy as marshland brume.

“Oh, look at you,” a voice behind him crooned.

Aelus swiveled in his chair to see a pale, statuesque woman in the doorway. All at once, the fog shrouding his memory cleared. “You?”

Lady Myrra Velta hummed as she approached, a silver tray in her hands. Aelus studied the contents, half-expecting torture devices of some sort, but no: just a carafe of red wine, an empty goblet, and a waterskin—which she offered with a smile. “Thirsty?”

“Xillah and Orien,” he growled. “Where are they?”

“Indisposed.”

His heart seized. “Dead?”

“They’re here in my care, like you.”

“Where’s ‘here?’”

Myrra’s laugh was high and light and jarringly pleasant. “Playing spy, are we?”

“Release them. Now.”

“If this is how you negotiate, I see why poor Medôn was offended.” Myrra sank into the couch’s velvet cushions and studied Aelus’s bandages with a frown. “I’m sorry you were hurt.”

“Don’t pretend you care about my wellbeing.”

“But I do.” She laid a possessive hand on his knee. “You’re important to me.”

“If that’s true, why take Xillah and Orien?”

“Because Orien has become a nuisance, and Xillah is…necessary.”

Necessary. Dread flooded his veins, and he slumped back. “It’s you. You’re kidnapping Etherians.”

Myrra’s catlike eyes glowed a warm, dusky blue. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I need them to fulfill a purpose. And sacrifices, terrible as they are, must be made in the pursuit of knowledge.” She removed her hand from his leg. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Aelus ignored her baiting. “Where’s Imalu?”

She blinked, long lashes fluttering. “Pardon?”

“You had to know about the meeting somehow. How did you get him to talk? Torture? Blackmail?”

“Would you believe me if I said I simply asked?”

“No,” Aelus spat. “Imalu would never betray me.”

“And yet, here you are. Funny how staunch beliefs often blind us to simple truths.”

“Says the woman who corrupted my brothers.”

“‘Corrupted’ is such an ugly word,” Myrra said with a frown. “And in this case, inaccurate. I did nothing without the Order’s approval.”

Something stuttered in Aelus’s chest. “My father knew?”

“Where did you think Whitman came from?” Her features crumpled a little. “He was…very loyal.”

Aelus recalled the bleeding red halos around Whitman’s irises. Another loss.

Myrra sighed, the sound deceptively light and pretty. “It took effort, convincing the Seers that my work with the Etherians was worth the cost—but in the end, they came around.”

“Cost?”

A bead of wine gathered at the corner of Myrra’s lips as she took a long, luxuriant sip. “Did you know that when Etherians say magic is in their blood, they mean it literally?”

Aelus stilled, color draining from his face as his attention drifted down, down.

Down to where Myrra’s fingers caressed the cup’s rim.

A thick red globule slid slowly along the stem.

Oh, Watcher. Watcher, no.

“It happened accidentally,” she said. “I met with an Etherian this past springtide: frail thing, barely able to walk on her own. She tripped as we were leaving the sanctuary, cracked her head on the steps.” Myrra leaned back, eyes hazy with memory. “So much blood. You wouldn’t think one old woman could hold so much. It poured from her ancient body too fast for me to stop, and when I bent to kiss her goodbye….”

Frowning, Myrra swiped her pinky along the inside of the cup, raised it to her mouth, then popped it between her lips and sucked it clean. Aelus gagged.

“A drop of the old woman’s blood, I found out later, was the equivalent of a bee sting. I could do very little unless I was stung again. So, I consulted another Etherian. And when she refused to donate her blood, I was forced to take it.”

“‘Forced?’”

“Magic has limits, you see. The blood works as a fuel; the more I use it to compel others, the faster its properties are drained. Of course, that’s the simplistic version—not taking into account a person’s willpower, the specificity of my command, how amiable someone is to me.”

Aelus shook his head, his only thought: Xillah, Xillah, Xillah. “That’s it? That’s your justification for murder?”

“It’s not murder. It’s a solution. My magic gives me a fighting chance to be appointed Legion Head. In that position, I can help the Order by passing laws, banning perverse propaganda, funneling more resources to the Etherians. But the Etherians didn’t see it that way. They refused to help.” Myrra returned her goblet to the tray, her normally lambent gaze ice-cold. “All of this could’ve been avoided if they’d given me what I wanted in the beginning.”

Aelus glared through tangled locks of hair. “You’re a monster.”

“If I were, I would’ve slit their throats and been done with it. Instead, I fed them. Bathed them. Held their hands and sang lullabies as they slowly slipped away.”

The door opened with a creak, and he sagged in his seat as a stoic-faced Radrin slid soundlessly into the room. “Tell me you’re not aiding this madness, brother,” Aelus said.

Without speaking, Radrin took his place behind Myrra. “Radrin’s keen intellect has been an invaluable boon,” Myrra purred, gazing up at him with warm adoration. “In fact, it was his idea to dress Whitman and his lot as Blade. Such a clever solution for a twofold problem: it kept suspicion off us while also helping the Order’s flagging case against Medôn.”

Horrible, aching despair swelled in Aelus’s chest. Radrin was supposed to be the best of the Faithful. A paragon of righteousness. “Why?” Aelus whispered. “Why would you do this?”

“To save the Order,” Radrin said simply.

“Preservation through blood is not what the Watcher would’ve wanted.”

Radrin’s cool facade broke. “Our brothers are dying. Black ichor pours from their eyes, and there you are, parading around with your whore—one of the very souls responsible for our brothers’ deaths.”

“Cordè is not killing our brothers or our sisters. And if the Seers are condoning murder, then their vision is tainted.”

“So?” Radrin stepped forward, eyes smoldering with intensity. “The Blade is weak; every day news of impending rebellion leaks across our border. The Order must survive—and if shedding innocent blood will save us, so be it. By His Gaze.”

Like the slow ticking of a clock, the ill-fitting pieces suddenly fell into place.

Oh gods. Aelus stared at Radrin. “You killed him. You killed Talat.”

Radrin’s angular features contorted in confusion as Myrra’s gaze sharpened to a spear’s edge. “Haven’t you been listening?” she asked. “We’re trying to save Eyes. Not kill them. How could you think such a thing?”

“Because you’re murdering Etherians for their blood!”

“It’s not—” Myrra cut herself off and smoothed her charcoal skirts. “We’ll discuss this later.” She turned to Radrin. “You brought what I requested?”

Radrin dug into his surcoat and withdrew a small bowl, gauze, and a tied leather pouch, similar to one an artist might use for their paint brushes. She took it, unrolled it. A series of metal instruments—scalpels, scissors, needles—flashed dull gold in the low candlelight.

Aelus straightened, fists curling as he steeled himself for whatever happened next.

With an idle hum, Myrra selected a scalpel with a feather-thin blade and, motioning for Radrin to hold Aelus still, sliced into the squiggly blue vein at the crook of Aelus’s arm. The pain was sharp and vivid, a shard of ice. Blood streamed down his forearm and into Myrra’s awaiting bowl in long crimson ribbons. Teeth bared, Aelus struggled against Radrin’s iron grip—but the more he struggled, the more blood leaked from the slit.

Heat burned through his body like a blush. A crown of sweat broke out along his forehead, and Myrra leaned forward to brush it away. The tangled scent of honeysuckle and blood slithered up Aelus’s broken nose. “I figured out why it failed, you know. Your Blinding.” She smiled as his breathing grew strangled. “But I’ll save that for later. For now, just relax.”

The world narrowed to a pencil’s tip as blood continued to drain. Myrra waited until the bowl was half-filled, then handed it to Radrin and stood.

“I’ll be back with more food,” she told Aelus as she bandaged his cut. “Until then, rest.”

He didn’t want rest, he wanted to rip off his chains and find Xillah and Orien and Cordè. But bloodletting had taken its toll: his limbs felt like anchors, vision spotting black. And as he floated toward the murky miasma of unconsciousness, something warm and soft brushed his lips.

“I’m so glad I found you,” Myrra whispered against his mouth.

Though he didn’t want to drift off, he did—and the last thing he remembered was the coppery taste of blood on his tongue.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The Citadel loomed over neighboring buildings, its face a blank canvas without decor or personality. It reminded Cordè of a giant chess piece, a rook, with its squared parapets and girth.

She studied it from the cover of an adjacent smithery while rubbing her aching shoulder—a casualty of her less-than-graceful tumble from Linnaea’s flowering pear tree. In her rush, she hadn’t changed out of her gown or heels, but she wasn’t concerned. Huri Aubefort seemed the type to appreciate a woman in red.

A duo of armed sentries guarded the Citadel’s portcullis. They hadn’t noticed her yet; they were too busy chatting about the recent change in weather. Cordè pulled her hair over her ear tips and swallowed against a sudden wave of nausea, unsure if it was caused by the stink of nearby sewage or her frayed, jumping nerves.

With all the confidence she could muster, she thrust out her chin and strode forward.

The sentries saw her immediately. “Halt!”

Smile, she reminded herself as she heeded their warning. Smiles put people at ease.

The larger of the two scanned Cordè with a frown. “What brings you to the Citadel at this late hour, miss?”

“Lord Guitelet hired me to serve as his Second’s entertainment for the evening.”

“I wasn’t aware of this.”

“My lord wanted it to be a surprise. Sent someone on his behalf to make the arrangements.”

The guards eyed each other, weighing their options. “Who? Who did he send?”

Cordè’s heart pounded. “Lady Myrra Velta.”

The name sparked an instant reaction, and within minutes she was being escorted to the Citadel’s pinnacle. “Lord Aubefort’s chambers,” the Blade sentry said, motioning to the first door in a line of rooms along the corridor.

Cordè smiled. “I appreciate your time, sir.”

He gave an awkward cough and raised his fist. Rap. Rap. Rap.

A loud thud sounded from inside the room, followed by a muffled curse. The door flew open to reveal a harried, glassy-eyed Huri in linen pants and a dark blue housecoat that hung open, exposing his pale, lanky torso. “What?”

He caught sight of Cordè.

“Shit,” Huri muttered. He fumbled with the robe’s cincture and flashed a reflexive grin. “Winter Lily. What a surprise.”

“Lord Aubefort.” Cordè curtsied. “I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

“No, no, no. Not at all.” Huri opened the door wide, casting a brief glance into the hallway beyond. Searching for someone?

Aelus.

Huri’s attention returned to Cordè—or rather, the cleavage exposed by the low cut of her dress. “Did you want to…?” He tipped his head toward his bedchamber. Cordè deepened her smile and accepted his invitation, letting a whisper of hair graze his chest on her way inside.

Up until now, everything she’d seen in the Citadel was cold stone and dull metal. Huri’s room was the opposite: bright, colorful, almost excessive in its ostentation, like it’d been decorated by someone with abrupt access to finery and a juvenile understanding of design.

Huri closed the door and cleared his throat. “What, um. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Cordè turned to face him, coyly twisting the satin belt of his robe. “Lord Guitelet thinks you need to unwind.”

“Medôn arranged this?” She hummed in affirmation and ran her hand down the neckline of his housecoat. “Bastard never mentioned it to me.”

“He wanted it to be a surprise.” She looked up, wide eyed. “I hope it’s a welcome one?”

“Yes.” The word burst from Huri with unabashed fervor. “Yes, fuck, yes, of course.” He ducked and caught her in a fierce, graceless kiss.

Blòmi peitil à tatu. The elvish phrase materialized in her mind as he thrust his tongue into her mouth. Like plucking petals from a thistle poppy.

Huri walked her backward until her bottom thumped against an unknown ledge. A chair? A desk? Cordè’s hands scrambled for purchase, and she identified the object as the fine wooden credenza she’d glimpsed upon entering the chamber.

Mouth moving to the hollow of her neck, he started fumbling with his breeches, like he intended to take her right there on that credenza.

Tertia’s tits. He was even more enthusiastic than Cordè anticipated. She peeked at Huri’s messy, unmade bed draped in dirty clothes. Swallowing a grimace, she wormed her way free and led him in that direction. He trailed after her like a dog, pawing at her gown’s exposed back.

She slapped his hand away.

It was a risk, one that could’ve backfired horrifically. But oftentimes it was her most powerful clients that enjoyed being roughed up. Philip had, and it seemed Huri did too. His eyes took on a particular sheen when she smacked his hand, and he didn’t protest as she shoved him onto the bed and knotted the robe cincture around his wrist.

“Lie down.” Her voice was no longer a delicate purr; it was low, clipped, domineering.

He did as he was told.

Cordè hiked her dress up and climbed on top of him, straddling his narrow hips. She coiled the free end of the cincture around the headboard’s left bedpost and pulled it taut, giving herself enough slack to restrain his other wrist.

Huri watched her with scarce-concealed excitement.

She was trembling now, trembling as the gravity of what she was about to do fell on her. He didn’t seem to notice, not even when her fingers slipped yanking the tie as tight as possible. She double-knotted it, just to be safe.

Safe.

Turn this first, Aelus had said. It’s a safety.

She’d nearly forgotten.

Keeping her eyes locked with Huri’s, Cordè reached behind her back and turned the lever at the base of her bracelet.

“Comfortable?” she asked.

He bucked his hips playfully.

“Good.” She hit the button on the side of the faèleth.

The blade shot out with a ffitz, and she pressed it into the soft flesh beneath his jaw while clapping a hand over his mouth.

“If you make a sound,” she said, “if you call for anyone, I will slice you from ear to ear.”

He strained and bucked his hips again—though not nearly as playfully this time. She used his face to steady herself, then jammed the blade harder against his skin. “Do not test me. I’ll do it. I swear on my life.”

His pale eyes cycled through emotions with dizzying speed: anger. Bewilderment. And, beneath that, a sobering dose of fear.

“I’m going to ask questions,” Cordè said. “You’re going to answer them. If you scream, I’ll kill you. Blink if you understand.”

He gave the barest flicker of a blink.

She moved her hand. “Where are the Blade taking the people they’re snatching off the streets?”

Huri said nothing; he only seethed.

“Answer the question.”

“We’re not taking anyone. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She searched his gaze. He was telling the truth, or at least believed he was.

“Did you see my Eye or an Etherian come through a couple hours ago? They were with Captain Locke.”

“Orien?” Fury gave way to momentary confusion before morphing into distress as she pushed the blade against his throat. “I didn’t see anybody! Fuck! Theophane’s running drills, that’s all that’s going on, I swear.”

“Are there holding cells here? Some place they’d be kept that’s out of the way?”

“We’re not the Triumvirate,” he spat. “And I told you, I didn’t see them.”

Frustrated, she exhaled through her nose and changed tactics. “What are Medôn and Myrra up to?”

“Besides the obvious? I don’t know. They don’t invite me to their get-togethers.”

“Where do they meet?”

He didn’t respond right away, though his features hardened in a way she hadn’t seen before. He actually had this answer; he just didn’t want to give it up.

She pushed the blade in deeper, and his skin gave way like a ripened fruit peel. It was a shallow cut, but the red was bright and vivid enough to disorient her. Huri squealed, and she covered his mouth to smother the sound.

“Where?”

His chest heaved as she pulled her hand away. “The sewer,” he gasped. “Medôn said something about meeting in the sewers, but I don’t go down there, I don’t⁠—”

“How do I get there?”

A sudden, strange stillness settled over Huri. “What are you going to do to him?”

“That depends on what he’s done to my friends.”

Huri snarled. “Harm him, and I’ll kill you.”

She straightened and aimed the faèleth between his legs. “The only harm you need to worry about is the harm I’ll do to you if you don’t answer my question. How do I get in the sewers?”

Cordè watched three seconds of a battle rage in Huri’s scornful stare. And she saw the moment self-preservation won out over loyalty. He looked away, as if in shame.

“There’s a grate. A grate by the entrance to the privy behind the stables.”

She’d passed the stables on her way here. They were right inside the portcullis. “I need specifics. Where in the sewers?”

“They use a section the Artificers sealed off months ago, something about a canal reroute.” He slumped against his restraints. “Medôn said it was nice and…private.”

Cordè considered him. “Tell me about Myrra.”

Huri’s hazy focus hovered somewhere near the foot of the bed. “She’s mad. Always groping Medôn like he’s a piece of meat, always whispering in his ear. Summons him at weird times with no warning. Makes him do things.”

“Things?”

“I don’t know. Medôn never talks about it, but he has this look when she’s done with him. Like he just blew through a pouch of illim.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all.” His voice was blank. Emotionless. “That’s all, I swear.”

An apprehensive quiet settled over them, during which Cordè debated making good on her threat to slice him ear to ear. She couldn’t leave him awake and tied to a bedpost: Huri was slight, borderline scrawny, but even he’d eventually be able to free himself, double-knot or no.

And she saw, in the flare of his eyelids and working of his jaw, the same thought had dawned on him as well.

The hammered brass of the faèleth glinted as she raised her arm.

“Wait, please⁠—”

With her free hand she pressed the hidden button, retracting the blade right before slamming her bracelet against his temple.

Huri gave a strangled yell. Still awake, still alert.

In a panic she hit him again, harder than before. Then a third time for good measure.

He was bleeding a little when he sagged against his bonds, and Cordè sat back on his hips. She watched his chest for telltale signs of life.

It rose. Then fell.

Cordè sighed in relief.

Sewers. Quickly and carefully, she climbed off Huri and snatched a cloak from his cluttered floor. Then she arranged his blankets to make it look like he was sleeping.

She left the robe cincture where it was. Just in case.

TWENTY-NINE

Cordè tugged Huri’s cloak closer to her body, hiding her cherry red dress from sight as she followed the winding, circular stairwell back the way she came. The gods’ luck was with her: as Huri had implied, the Citadel was dead asleep.

She stopped at ground level, where the scent of horses mixed with the tang of metalwork, and checked the window. A darkened arena lay beyond, framed by an asymmetrical ring of buildings.

A grate by the entrance to the privy behind the stables, Huri had said.

He’d failed to mention said privy was in clear view of a collection of low-roofed dwellings that looked suspiciously like barracks.

Cordè flattened against the wall near the door and peeked again, hissing in frustration as she glimpsed several lights flickering in the windows.

The grate was on the far side of the arena. If she sprinted, she could make it.

Count of five, she decided. One. Two—oh, fuck it.

Cordè dashed across the clearing, keeping her weight on her toes to muffle the sound. Then she folded the hem of Huri’s cloak over her fingers, slid them beneath the lip of the grate, pulled, and dropped into the abyss.

Thud. She landed, not particularly gracefully, on slimy stone.

The putrid smell of sewers hit her first, coating her throat like bile. She crouched, swallowing to calm her stomach, and listened to the nothingness that surrounded her. No, not nothingness. There were sounds down here: low, wet sounds, plopping and dripping and squelching.

Her gut revolted again, and this time when she swallowed, it was more than saliva.

Using the meager light from the sewer grate, she pieced together her new setting. To her left was a ladder—one that would’ve spared her a sore backside—and to her right, a craggy path framing an old waterway. The water, however, had long since evaporated or been pumped out, leaving behind a foul-smelling, sodden-looking sludge of indeterminate depth.

A different color caught her eye: a splatter of red, with one corner streaked as if something had been dragged through it. She stared at the pattern, brilliant and gleaming amidst the grime. Blood. Fresh blood, judging by its sheen.

A horrified thrill shot through her as she beheld similar splatters leading deeper into the labyrinth.

Aelus. Orien.

Maybe.

Cordè shed her stolen cloak and, using the light from intermittent grates overhead, followed the trail painted in crimson.

Her macabre little footpath led her to a round chamber with vaulted ceilings and wide pillars. It reminded her of a wheel, doorways like spokes dotted around the perimeter, allowing the trenches to coalesce in the center and form a pit as wide as Cordè was tall. Drainage, she assumed, and kept her distance while continuing to look for blood drops. It took several minutes, but eventually she found a shallow streak by one of the doors.

Were she taller, this passageway would’ve felt cramped. She tried to summon the humorous image of Aelus bouldering his way through, though it was difficult to smile while brushing past tendrils of fetid fungus.

Her steps felt softer, spongier, and she worked to conjure the least horrifying reason why. She settled on mushrooms; yes, mushrooms seemed a perfectly reasonable explanation.

She had no intention of pausing to check.

Her muffled footfalls were accented by the occasional drip of muck from the weeping brick walls, and the pervasive stench of rot made tears roll down her cheeks. Cordè rubbed them away with the heel of her palm….

…Then paused as she realized the blood trail had stopped.

Wait, that wasn’t right. Had she taken a wrong turn? She backtracked, eyes sharp with renewed desperation. Come on, Aelus. Orien. Whoever had been leaking blood on their journey into this pit of the hells. But there was nothing left.

The trail had gone cold.

Fuck all fuck all what now.

Cordè slid down the wall, mud and gods-knew-what-else lodging beneath her nails.

All the risks she’d taken—climbing out her window, bluffing her way into the Citadel, interrogating Huri—and where had it gotten her? Alone, below ground, covered in filth. Lost.

She hugged her knees to her chest, feeling herself begin to spiral. It’s not hopeless, she tried to reason. No more blood didn’t mean dead. Maybe they were bandaged up, or had stopped the bleeding on their own.

Or they’d been bashed over the head and shoved into the canal as lifeless corpses.

No. She balled her fists at her temples and fought off the spiral’s lure. Think, think. How did Linnaea solve problems? Talat? Aelus?

Cordè pictured the nook below her bedroom, pictured Aelus kneeling at the foot of his bed with his cypress oil and his little rag, filters of sunlight making dust dance in his ginger hair. This time when she inhaled, she pushed past the rot and focused on the air itself. She held it in her lungs. Released it. And listened to the quiet.

The silence deepened into a flat buzzing, like a nest of hornets in her skull.

It took a few more deep breaths to hear words hidden beneath the drone.

“…such a small sacrifice for what she’s trying to accomplish….”

There were voices nearby—no, just one voice. Young. Masculine.

Cordè lifted her head, straining to hear more.

“Look, it’s not my fault you’re in this predicament. I tried to warn you, but did you listen?” Whoever the man was talking to didn’t respond. “Pathetic excuse for a Blade,” he said, words garbled as if his mouth was full.

Cordè scrambled to her feet and peered around the corner. There, at the end of the hallway, loomed a wooden door with heavy cast iron hinges.

Its knob began to turn.

She didn’t think. She spun, glanced at the passage’s insufficient umbrage, and jumped into the noxious waterway. Sewage bubbled up to her shins, and she crouched and held her breath to the sound of the door being locked.

The glow of a torch brightened as the man approached, then it dissipated. He continued on, oblivious to Cordè’s presence. She peeked above the waterway’s lip to see Medôn Guitelet heading toward the rounded chamber, a half-eaten meat tart in hand.

Cordè waited until his footsteps faded before crawling out of the gutter with a wet, suctioning sound. She hovered, shuddering like a fly-stung horse, by the side of the trench, overcome with an urge to either vomit or shout the vilest curse she could think of.

Aelus, she repeated with conviction. Orien. Xillah.

She stared through matted strands of hair at the door Medôn had locked, attention lingering on those cast iron hinges coated in rust.

Aelus. Orien. Xillah.

A blanket of resolve—or perhaps numbness—fell upon Cordè as she shoved herself to her feet. Her pretty red skirts, now brown and heavy with sludge, hung wetly around her legs. She didn’t mourn its ruin, nor did she consider the hundred different ways Haniel knew to get stains out of clothing. Instead, she gripped the fabric and pulled.

It resisted, and she tried again. And again. Finally, it gave way, tearing a jagged hem near Cordè’s skinned knees. Emotionlessly, she balled up the fabric, threw it into the gutter, and headed for the door.

The last remnants of her braid fell away as she withdrew a pin—the same one she’d used…sweet Q’ilyce, had it really just been that evening? —and crouched by the knob.

Click.

With a final, fleeting look down the corridor, she stepped into blackness.

The smell was immediate and staggering. Cordè’s stomach spasmed, and she clapped a hand over her nose and mouth to keep the decaying air from pushing its way into her lungs. With her other hand she groped along the uneven stone wall, moving toward the room’s sole light source: a strange, faint glimmer in the distant corner.

“Aelus?” she whisper-called. “Orien?”

CLANG CLANG CLANG.

A deafening metal-against-rock sound erupted from somewhere to Cordè’s left, and she near leaped from her skin.

Her shin slammed into something solid, and she stumbled, fingers splaying. She heard a thick crunch as she fell atop a soft, heavy obstacle. Her mind spun with confusion because it almost felt like⁠—

She didn’t scream. What escaped her was a gurgle, a gasp choked by the dawning realization that crept up her spine to seize the back of her skull.

Flesh. It was flesh. Flesh and bone and blank, staring eyes that watched her in the dark. Another almost-scream curdled in her throat as she yanked her hands free of the tangled web of white hair.

Zenzi.

Zenzi.

Her pupils were a patchwork of pale silvery-blue fog, and her mouth, oh gods, her mouth was hanging open and Cordè could see her teeth and gums, sickly gray and dead dead dead.

“No, no.” Cordè’s words were a manic, feverish mutter. “Oh gods, no.”

CLANG CLANG CLANG.

She didn’t know where she was going, all she knew was she needed to get away from the flesh and the hair and that slack, gaping mouth. Half-crawling, half-lurching, she fled toward the clanging, which pealed like a bell in her chest.

Something grabbed the ripped hem of her dress and yanked her down.

Cordè’s knees hit the stone, then fingers gripped her forearm. This time she did shriek, a short sound lost to the echo chamber of the nightmare room.

The thing twisted Cordè’s palm up and started tracing symbols on her flesh.

Petal. Petal. Petal.

“Orien,” Cordè sobbed, finding the familiar curve of Orien’s face. “Fuck, fuck, Orien, it’s Zenzi, she’s⁠—”

“Help me,” Orien signed into Cordè’s hand. “Chains.”

“I can’t see.” Cordè felt delirium taking over, holding fast like the waterway’s mire. “I can’t see, Orien, I can’t see.”

“Lantern. Table.”

Lantern. Cordè’s back was pressed against something hard and sturdy. Table. Reaching overhead, she floundered until she encountered what felt like a lantern. “I got it, I got it.” She pulled it to her, turned the knob, and blinked against the sudden flood of light.

Orien sat on the ground beside her, disheveled and bloodied, one arm chained to a pipe above her head. Alive.

Cordè gritted her teeth against a swell of relief. Aware there wasn’t time for it, she pressed a brief, emphatic kiss to Orien’s forehead before focusing on the iron cuff.

It should’ve been easy, easier than the door, easier than Parsyn’s study. After a decade of training, Cordè could pick a lock blindfolded, underwater, or even with half-a-bottle of wine coursing through her veins. But here in this pit of sludge and chains and death, she faltered.

“Orien…my hands, I can’t…they won’t stop shaking.”

A palm cupped her cheek. “Breathe,” Orien mouthed, eyes fixed on Cordè. “Just breathe.”

Cordè did as she was told. She breathed.

Click.

As soon as the lock released, Orien scrambled to her feet and bolted for the dim glow on the other side of the room.

Xillah, Cordè recognized. The glow was Xillah.

Heart pounding, she grabbed the lantern and started after Orien, stopping when its flicker illuminated Zenzi’s corpse. And the corpse beneath it.

And, in the far reaches of the lantern’s glow, the dozens stacked along the wall.

Shadowy wisps of vertigo hemmed Cordè’s vision as she stared down the tunnel of rotting Etherians. The luster of their skin had faded, dull flesh now pulled tight against jutting bone, but there was no mistaking that billowy, beautiful garb, or the beads woven into their hair.

Every nerve in Cordè’s body urged her to scream. Instead, she clutched the lantern’s handle and followed Orien to the other side of the room.

A familiar opalescent body lay on a stone platform. Xillah’s chemise, as well as the crook of her arm, was streaked in red, and Cordè wondered distantly if it was Xillah’s blood she’d been following.

Orien touched Xillah’s face, tilting it toward her with nothing short of reverence. Xillah’s head dropped to the side, eyes shut.

Despair gripped Cordè as Orien held her fingers to the side of Xillah’s neck.

No pulse. She’s⁠—

“Alive,” Orien signed, nearly collapsing onto the table with obvious, profound relief.

Cordè gingerly shook Xillah’s shoulders. “Come on, Xillah. Wake up.”

Slowly, Xillah’s eyes peeled open. “’Rien?” she croaked.

Orien grabbed Xillah’s hand, kissed it, and signed into her palm. “Here, love. Here.”

“My sisters.” Tears leaked from the corners of Xillah’s eyes. “My sisters, they’re all around me, I keep seeing them.”

“We’re getting you out of here. Can you stand?”

Xillah looked weak, so very weak, like every drop of color had been siphoned from her. With Orien’s help, she sat up—and immediately sagged against Orien’s shoulder.

“Lady Velta,” Orien signed as she supported Xillah. “It was Lady Velta.”

A rush of jittery adrenaline followed this confirmation. Cordè swallowed it, instead scanning the room with dawning trepidation. “Where’s Aelus?”

“He was alive when we got here. Injured, badly. She took him away.”

“Away?”

Orien only responded with a slow, miserable shake of her head.

“He saved me,” Xillah said. “During the fight, when I—” She coughed, a terrible wheezing sound that spurred Orien to stroke her back.

“Theophane,” Orien signed after Xillah caught her breath. “I told her we might run into trouble tonight. She’ll be on high alert.”

Cordè’s brow furrowed. She knew the name, had heard both Orien and Aelus reference it with esteem. But Theophane was still a Blade, and from Cordè’s position—beneath the Blade district, avoiding capture by Medôn Guitelet—the idea of putting faith in this Senior Officer seemed risky at best.

“How do you know we can trust her?”

Orien considered the question. “She took a chance on me. Advocated for me. Much like Linnaea did for you.”

Cordè understood better than most the significance of a mentor’s support when a parent couldn’t, or wouldn’t, provide it. She gave a slow, deliberating nod. “All right. Are you able to get Xillah above ground?”

“With your help, yes.”

“…What about without me?”

Orien’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not staying down here alone.”

“I am. I’m finding Aelus.”

They stared at one another for a long beat before Orien gave up. Cordè’s stubbornness was a thing of legend; Orien knew that as well as anyone.

“Look for drops of blood,” Cordè said. “They’ll lead you to a ladder by the stables.”

Nodding, Orien helped Xillah off the table, grip seizing as Xillah wobbled. Then, with a steadying inhale, Xillah stood on her own. She touched Cordè’s cheek with trembling fingers. “Thank you.”

“We’ll be back for you,” Orien signed.

Cordè smiled with more confidence than she felt. “I know.”

THIRTY

Aelus drifted in and out of consciousness.

Reality melted into an indistinguishable blur as his imagination churned out increasingly horrifying scenes. Xillah, limp and lightless, a smiling red gash carved into her throat. A grinning Myrra guzzling a pitcher of blood as it fountained down her chest⁠—

A hot, abrupt sting across his face brought him hurtling back to cognizance.

He groaned, cheek throbbing with the aftermath of a slap, and squinted at the figure hovering over him. “Cordè?”

“Thank the gods,” she sighed. “I thought you were dead.” She examined his bandages and paled. “Can you walk?”

Aelus nodded.

“Good. Now hold still, I’m going to uncuff those chains.”

Stunned, he watched as she pulled an oddly-twisted pin from her bodice and knelt beside his ankle cuffs. Watcher’s Tears. She looked, and smelled, like she’d bathed in rotting algae. Her dress had been ripped asunder, with oily black grime clinging to its jagged hem, her feet, her thighs. And as she shifted, he swore he saw bits of something else clinging to her skin, gray and rancid and jellied.

He stiffened, nails digging into his chair as a lock released with a click. “Xillah? Orien?”

“Alive. Hopefully alerting Theophane right about now.”

Theophane? His forehead wrinkled, then smoothed. Right. Orien’s backup plan.

Another click. Aelus flexed his feet while Cordè stood to unlock his wrists. “Myrra’s unhinged,” he said. “She’s draining Etherians of their blood.”

“Draining them of…what?”

Aelus filled her in, quickly as he could, while Cordè fiddled with the locks. She accepted the grim news with the smallest flicker of her lashes. Then her fingers stalled.

“I found Zenzi,” she murmured, voice so low he nearly missed it. “She…she was….”

Aelus studied Cordè. Her expression had gone vacant, like she wasn’t in her body but drifting above it. On instinct, he reached for her hand, not caring it was covered in filth.

Cordè pulled away, the look vanishing as she gave the pin a final twist. His chains went slack. With a huff, Cordè hurled the bonds aside and looped his thick arm over her shoulders.

“Come on. Up.”

Cautiously, painfully, his injured thigh quivering beneath his weight, Aelus staggered to his feet. Together they limped to the door—and when Cordè pushed it open, Aelus’s jaw dropped. Beyond the velvet warmth of Myrra’s office lay a muggy, mold-infested realm of wet stone and plicking silence. He gagged at the stink of sludge cutting through the center of the tunnel.

“Where are we?” he choked out.

“Best guess, beneath the Citadel.”

“We’re in the Blade?”

Cordè filled him in.

He blinked. “Ro is⁠—?”

“Yes.”

“And she and her team have been⁠—?”

“Apparently.”

So his initial instincts about Ro had been correct. Still, a mercenary?

“Did Myrra ever say why she wanted you?” Cordè asked.

“No. But you were right: Myrra didn’t kill Talat.”

Cordè paused, nodded. “Let’s keep moving.”

Their journey started slow, but once he adjusted to the drumlike throbs of his wounds, they pushed their pace to a graceless hop-jog. After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, they were spat out into an open arena.

Aelus eyed the room’s vaulted ceiling, trying to catch his breath. “Where to now?”

She squinted at the ring of tunnels. “I⁠—”

Footsteps echoed through a tunnel to the left, closing in on their location. Fast.

Cordè clutched his arm. “Move!”

As quickly as possible, they bolted down the closest corridor. A sharp jolt of pain blistered up Aelus’s leg, making him grit his teeth.

Go, go, go.

They came to a two-way intersection. Cordè peered at the floor, then tugged him to the right. The umbrage seemed thicker here, more cloying, making it difficult to draw in air.

A second crossroad. Three tunnels this time.

Cordè chose the middle path. “Come on,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.”

Right tunnel. Left tunnel. Right.

Middle.

Left and left again, all the while the pounding of footsteps grew louder.

“Hurry,” Cordè said as they rounded another corner. “We should be close.”

They jerked to a stop.

Dead end.

“Fuck.” Cordè’s nails dug into his bare side. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Ragged panting filled the space around them as her attention darted from one bad option to the next. Aelus leaned on his good leg, sweat streaming off his brow.

“Cordè.”

She didn’t acknowledge him. Just pulled him back the way they came as the footsteps gained. And gained. And gained.

Somewhere behind them, a man released an eager shout.

Cordè’s grip tightened, and she didn’t break stride until they reached a familiar intersection. This time instead of going left, they went right.

Aelus’s stomach tumbled to his feet. Another dead end.

“Fuck!” Cordè frantically scanned the muck-covered ground. “Where is it?”

The footsteps drew closer, close enough for him to distinguish three different gaits.

“Come on!” Cordè half-dragged, half-yanked him into an adjacent corridor. Aelus hobbled alongside her, grimacing. Too slow. He was too slow, too injured. They’d never make it.

Throat tight, he glanced at Cordè. Glanced at the path ahead. Glanced over his shoulder, where the stirrings of firelight grew steadily brighter. There was only one option.

The fear roiling inside him ceased, and without warning, he skidded to a halt and flung Cordè’s arm off his waist. Then he shoved her. Hard.

A muffled curse flew from her mouth, and she windmilled to keep from slipping. “What in the hells?”

“Run,” he said. “I’ll buy you time.”

She shook her head, jaw set. “Absolutely not.”

“We don’t have a choice. You’re my ward. You’re the priority.”

“Fuck priority. I’m not leaving you.”

Aelus looked at Cordè, stared directly into those golden, glassy eyes as a single desire, a need, to say one final thing swelled like magma in his chest. “You don’t disgust me. You’ve never disgusted me.”

Cordè’s expression crumpled. “Aelus⁠—”

He backed away, voice breaking as he pleaded: “Go.”

Too late. A ring of sickly orange torchlight broke through the darkness behind them as Myrra, Medôn, and Radrin appeared. No. Limping, Aelus lurched in front of Cordè, arms out, ready to be a human barricade.

Medôn pointed to Cordè with his torch. “I told you I saw a red dress,” he crowed.

Ignoring this, Myrra touched Radrin’s elbow. “Bring me Aelus. Gently, if you please. Medôn?” She peered over Aelus’s shoulder at Cordè. “Get the elf.”

Medôn fell back, bouncing on his heels with hungry anticipation, while Radrin unpinned his cloak, tossed his sword aside, and began a slow, wolfish prowl forward.

A ffitz emanated from behind Aelus’s back. “Let me help,” Cordè whispered.

Aelus hesitated. Saying “yes” went against every oath, every instinct. But this was Radrin Halle, the prodigy, and Aelus was injured; they needed an advantage. He gave Cordè a stiff nod. “Keep close to me.”

He planted his heels in the spongy ground and waited for Radrin to get in range.

A couple more strides. Two more. One.

Now.

Wobbling slightly, Aelus grabbed a handful of slime and flung it at Radrin’s face.

Radrin’s irises pulsed twice, like a dying heartbeat. Then they enlarged, briefly turning his eyes pure black. Moving so fast he seemed to multiply, Radrin ducked beneath the flying grime and darted forward. Right where Aelus wanted him.

The second Radrin came within reach, Aelus grabbed his wrist and twisted, locking it against his shoulder blades, and wedged his other arm below Radrin’s chin.

“Cordè, go!”

She lunged, faèleth streaking for Radrin’s chest. Wild, untrained. Determined.

Radrin pitched sideways, dodging it, and lashed out with a savage kick to her gut. She staggered, wheezing as Radrin reared back and slammed his head into Aelus’s nose.

Bruised bones crunched, making the world flash white. Blood spurted down Aelus’s lips, his beard, his neck. Dimly, he felt Radrin tear free. A moment later, something cracked into Aelus’s knee, eliciting a meaty pop that vibrated up his spine to his skull. His injured leg buckled, and he crashed to all fours, vision spotting like ink blots in water.

Radrin paused to straighten his surcoat. “I expected more⁠—”

His words cut off as Cordè launched herself at Radrin with a shriek. He swiveled, hand whipping out to catch her by the throat. Her cry became a wet, rattling rasp. And before she could use her faèleth, Radrin threw her to the stone and brutally punched her in the mouth.

With a strangled yell, Aelus tried to crawl to her, but his muscles locked like a predator’s jaw. Stiletto. Groaning, he strained for his boot, only to be wrenched up by his ears.

Radrin cocked his head, gaze full of contempt. “By His Gaze.”

Then he slashed upward with his knee, clocking Aelus below the chin.

Aelus’s skull snapped back with an audible crack, and he tumbled into oblivion.

Someone was screaming, wild and terrified and utterly furious.

Cordè.

Aelus’s eyes flew open. Gone were the curved walls of the sewers, the tunnel of sludge; in their place was flat, old stone that reeked of piss and mold, rusty iron loops, and two sets of dirty chains. One set was locked around his wrists, ends attached to the nearby wall like leashes.

An explosion of metallic clangor drew his attention to the opposite corner, where Myrra and Medôn worked to wrestle a half-chained Cordè into submission. She writhed as Medôn held her flat against the stone, pinning her long enough for Myrra to seize Cordè’s wrist—the one where the faèleth should’ve been—and wrench it into the awaiting cuff.

Grunting, Aelus struggled to rise, to go to Cordè, but an ironlike fist closed around his hair and held him fast. “On your knees,” Radrin said, hauling Aelus up.

“Let her go,” Aelus demanded.

Myrra ignored him, too busy wiping sweat from her brow and attempting to fix her tousled updo. She hung the key by the door, then turned in a graceful spin to address Aelus. “That was a naughty thing you did, trying to escape.” She gave a gentle tsk, like a disappointed parent. “Say you’re sorry.”

“...What?”

Cordè hissed. “Fuck off and die, bitch.”

Myrra sent a quick, slicing glance to Medôn—who, without fanfare or warning, turned and backhanded Cordè across the face.

“Gag her,” Myrra added as an afterthought. “We’ve heard quite enough from the elf.”

“Don’t you f—” Cordè’s voice cut off abruptly, her words becoming a series of muffled grunts against the rag Medôn shoved in her mouth.

Aelus surged against Radrin’s grip, only to be viciously yanked back by his hair.

A billow of silver skirts enveloped his vision as Myrra knelt to grasp his chin, forcing him to look at her and only her. The air around her buzzed with a strange warmth, and deep in the blue-gray pools of her gaze, an opalescent sheen unspooled.

“Apologize.” A strange ringing encased her voice, like an echo in a glass vase. “Now.”

Heat tingled along his skin, and a faint chill pricked at his neck. The clashing sensations, the warmth and the cold, happened simultaneously, making him dizzy. Pressure caressed the contours of his mind, squeezing but not fully entering—a familiar sensation he couldn’t place.

“Apologize,” Myrra said again, the word scraping against his ears like the aftershocks of a gong; it wasn’t painful, just insistent. The gentle pull of a fishing line.

But Aelus was having none of it.

Snarling, he fixed Myrra with a defiant glare. “No.”

To his surprise, the warmth—and the ringing—receded. Beads of perspiration rolled down Myrra’s temple as her hand shook, the opalescent sheen flickering like a dying flame.

Then it went out.

Myrra let out a great, heaving gasp and released him. She gave an incredulous shake of her head, grinning. “Remarkable. It’s like you’re a blank wall.” She bent down, close enough for him to smell the blood on her breath. “Did you feel it? My magic? I’d wager not much, if at all. Just like at Lady Nivae’s.” Her grin turned feline. “You can see it now, can’t you? Why you failed your Blinding, why you’re so special? You resist.”

Aelus stared into Myrra’s too-bright eyes. Impossible. Why would he be resistant to magic when there was hardly any magic left? It didn’t make sense.

And yet…and yet.

“How?” he croaked.

“Because you’re godsforged.”

The word rang in his ears like a gong. Godsforged. Godsforged? Myrra was mad, utterly mad if she believed in that legion-concocted fantasy. Doubly so, if she thought it was him.

But instead of berating her with the thousands of reasons why she was wrong, what came out of his mouth was, “But…the gods are gone.”

“Yet you’re unaffected by magic. And not just mine, I imagine.”

At that, Xillah popped into his mind, cloaked and beaming as they headed to the Hall of Justice. Something’s blocking our magic, she’d said.

Aelus shook his head. “I’m not, I can’t be godsforged.”

“Do you even know what the godsforged are?” Myrra asked. “Not prophets, not heretics, not the sign of end times—they’re a divine weapon. A holy warrior unanimously chosen and blessed by our tetrad of gods.”

“Godsforged don’t exist,” he said doggedly. “And if you believe they do, then you’re just as profane as the Legions.”

“Whom the Order believes are responsible for the bloodrot, yes?” Myrra’s lips curled into a girlish smile, as if she had the most exciting secret. “Tell me something, Aelus. When did you come to the Mithraeum? Was it ten years ago? Twelve?”

“Thirteen.”

“And when did the bloodrot start?”

His veins turned to ice. “What are you saying? That I’m responsible for the bloodrot?”

“Oh heavens, no,” Myrra tittered. “I think your mother is.”

A torrent of emotions battered him like one of Karnath’s waves: shock, confusion. And above all, a deep and overwhelming urge to hurt Myrra for thinking she had the right to mention his mother.

Myrra continued, unfazed. “I think, in the moments before her death, she set off a series of events that led to, among other things, the slow and agonizing deaths of your brothers.”

“But…how?”

“How indeed. Granted, it’s all just a theory⁠—”

“No,” Aelus interrupted. “How do you know so much about my mother?”

“Oh, that’s easy, pet. Your mentor told me.”

Aelus froze. “Imalu…knew?”

“Yes and no.” A curl of chestnut hair fell out of place, and she swept it behind her ear. “But the specifics are unimportant. What I want to know now is, where is the god that blessed you?” She hummed. “It can’t be Reneir, the Faithful have received the Sight for generations. And your magic isn’t tied to your blood like the Etherians, so it’s not Illüne.”

Which left Haal, the Challenger god and wielder of darkness, or….

Myrra nodded as if she had seen the rest of Aelus’s thoughts. “Yes, Khastus was my conclusion as well. But really, the ‘who’ doesn’t matter. What matters is where.”

“Even if I knew, why in the Watcher’s name would I tell you?”

“We have the same goals, Aelus. We want to help, we want to save the Legions and cure the Eyes of bloodrot. But the magic I have⁠—”

“The magic you stole.”

“—is temporary. Without that magic, without you, I can’t do what I’ve promised. I need you, Aelus.”

Myrra stroked a lock of his hair, smiling that same soft, alluring smile that’d charmed Aelus during their first meeting. But he wasn’t so easily fooled now. He could see beneath her beautiful mask, see all that hypocrisy eating her clever, warped mind like termites.

Enmity swelled, sharp and dismissive. Aelus jerked back, yanking his hair out of Myrra’s grasp. “I don’t believe you,” he spat. “I think if you really cared about curing Eyes, you wouldn’t have kidnapped me. You wouldn’t have stolen my blood. You wouldn’t be trying to convince me at swordpoint to say how I became godsforged.” His chin dropped to his chest as he glared. “I think you want to be godsforged yourself, for the same reason you want to be elected to a Legion and get rid of elves. Power.”

Her alluring smile turned cold.

“I thought we could stay civil through this,” she said, voice brittle as she delicately stroked the contour of his bristled jaw. “But if you insist on being stubborn, then I suppose I have no other choice.”

“You’re going to torture me?”

Instead of responding, she grinned, wide and pearly and a little terrifying, and gave him a mocking pat-pat on the cheek. Then, in a snap of silver skirts, she whirled to face Cordè.

“Grovel.”

A familiar echo encased Myrra’s command, no longer a gentle purr, but a whip.

Cordè went rigid, like a marionette whose strings had been yanked taut. And as if a giant, unseen hand pressed upon her head, she slowly, hatefully collapsed onto all fours.

Something nameless and ugly twisted in Aelus’s chest, and he raged against Radrin. Raged even as part of him broke to see Cordè, with all her fire and will, bowing—arms splayed, forehead pressed to the dank, moldy floor.

Myrra returned to Cordè, ordering Medôn out of the way with a flick of her slender wrist. “Etherians, lünadens especially, have the ability to enter a person’s mind,” she said, crouching down to pull the gag from Cordè’s mouth. “They use it for healing. But I’ve learned that, when consumed in a single, acute dose, their magic has so much more potential.”

She looked down at the top of Cordè’s head. “Beg.”

“Please.” The word was coarse and fragmented, as if it’d clawed out of Cordè’s throat.

“Not me, pet,” Myrra said, and Aelus’s stomach dropped as she pointed to him. “Beg.”

Cordè’s gaze flicked up to Aelus’s: glassy, furious, and a little bit despairing. “Aelus, please. Give her what she wants.”

“I can’t.” Aelus shook his head, all the while holding Cordè’s stare. “I don’t know.”

The muscles in Cordè’s forearms and neck jutted out like tree roots as she strained against the magic. Her fingers curled into the stone, a small act of defiance, but an act of defiance nonetheless.

A fierce flicker of pride lanced through Aelus.

Myrra, meanwhile, watched them with something akin to contempt. “Medôn, pet,” she purred. “I foresee us needing further encouragement. Why don’t you go fetch our two guests from their quarters?”

It took every ounce of Aelus’s being to keep his relief from showing. Myrra didn’t know Orien and Xillah were free. She couldn’t hurt them.

One glance at Cordè told him they shared the same thought.

Any reassurance vanished, however, as Myrra started circling Cordè’s submissive form like a vulture. “I imagine you’re used to being on your knees, dear Lily, so let’s try something a little more demanding.”

Cordè’s eyes flared a bit in fear.

“Myrra—” Aelus began threateningly.

“I’ve heard drowning is a long and painful way to die,” Myrra said, as if discussing sandwiches at teatime. “But since we don’t have water….” She smirked at Cordè. “Suffocate.”

Air exploded out of Cordè’s lungs in a forced exhale, and her hands flew to her neck as she started to choke. Her face flushed, mouth opening and closing like a cellar door. And gods, Aelus could hear it. He could hear the wet little gasps and hiccups she made in the hollow of her throat as she struggled frantically to breathe, to live.

Aelus writhed against Radrin, chains twisting and clattering, a cacophony of metal.

“You can end this,” Myrra said. “All it takes is one small answer to one small question. Where is Khastus?”

“Stop it,” Aelus said instead. “Stop it. She’s done nothing.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where?”

Cordè’s body started to jerk and convulse as her hiccups morphed into a series of dry staccato noises that reminded Aelus of a cat hocking up hair. She collapsed onto her side, eyes bulging, lips silently pleading.

“I’m sorry,” Aelus rasped. “I’m so sorry⁠—”

“Breathe,” Myrra ordered Cordè.

Aelus sagged in relief as Cordè sucked in deep, desperate lungfuls of air. She coughed, tears leaking from her bloodshot eyes.

She’s alive. Thank the Watcher.

But something had shifted in Myrra’s ageless blue-gray gaze as she studied him from across the room. Her mind was raging; Aelus could see it written across her terrible, beautiful face. Frustration, hate, denial. Doubt.

Myrra seemed to sit back on her heels. “You truly don’t know, do you?” She huffed a wry laugh and shook her head. “That is unfortunate. Though I suppose an ignorant godsforged is more useful than no godsforged at all.” She paused. “However, it does make your ward’s presence rather…unnecessary.”

She turned back to Cordè, and Aelus’s heart stopped.

He strained forward. “Please,” he implored. “If you want me to come with you, I’ll do it, I swear. I’ll do whatever it is you want. Just don’t hurt her.”

Myrra gave him a pitying look as that awful, telltale warmth snaked through the air. “Cordè. Stand.”

For a moment Cordè didn’t move, and Aelus thought—hoped? Prayed?—that she’d managed to shrug off the magic. Then, with heavy and uncooperative limbs, she pulled herself into a kneeling position. She braced herself against the grimy stone wall. And she clawed her way, inch by dreadful inch, to standing.

“Don’t,” Aelus said. Moaned, really. “Myrra, don’t.”

Myrra wasn’t listening. Instead, she watched Cordè obey with dull, emotionless eyes. “Bash your head against the wall.”

Aelus bucked against Radrin. “No!”

Tears streaking her cheeks, Cordè reared back.

Crack!

Her skin split above her brow, and a spout of blood burst free. Aelus reached for her, pleading, begging⁠—

“Again,” Myrra said. “And this time, do not stop.”

Crack!

Aelus snapped.

With a roar, he yanked his stiletto from his boot and jammed it into Radrin’s foot. Radrin bellowed as he caved toward the blow. Quickly, avoiding Radrin’s Sight, Aelus reached over his shoulder to grab Radrin’s nape, pinning him in place. Then Aelus jerked the stiletto free and drove it home. Straight through Radrin’s black, black eye.

A torrent of hot blood doused Aelus’s neck and shoulders as Radrin slowly collapsed inward. Aelus ducked out of the way, letting the body thunk to the floor.

Myrra staggered forward, expression stricken. “Radrin?” Her voice was small, smaller than a child’s. She fell to her knees and tenderly tugged Radrin into her lap. Wiped away the blood welling from his gouged eye. “Radrin? Look at me, please? Say something. Radrin.”

Chest heaving, Aelus scrambled back against the wall. Horrified, numb.

Crack!

The sudden noise made Aelus jerk, and bile surged into his mouth as he beheld Cordè. The gash on her forehead had widened into a chasm of pulpy viscera, blood dribbling down her cheeks in rivulets of red, red, red.

Crack!

Oh gods. Myrra’s command. Cordè wasn’t going to stop. She was going to keep bashing her head until it burst open like a rotten grape. He swiveled, searching for a way to free Cordè, but she was yards away. Miles away. And he was chained to the opposite wall.

“Radrin!”

Myrra’s back was to Aelus, shoulders aquiver as she tried, desperately, to shake the life back into Radrin’s corpse.

He stilled. Cordè might be too far. But Myrra was not.

As quietly as he could, Aelus crawled forward, chains slithering along the ground. Myrra’s gown was long, a river of silver trimmed in fresh crimson. A few more slow, careful steps, and he’d be able to grab it.

Fingers trembling, he stretched toward her long lacy hem⁠—

Crack!

Cordè mewled, low and weak. Instinctively he whirled to check on her. His chains rattled, like coins in a jar, and Myrra spun, glassy eyes widening as she saw him crouched nearby.

Her lips parted. Then she bolted for the door.

Slipping on Radrin’s blood, Aelus lunged for the train of her dress and caught it, dug his nails into it. Her taffeta skirts went taut, and she tumbled to the stone. She bleated in pain, tried to scramble to freedom, but he yanked her back. Inch by inch, he reeled her in like a fish.

Crack!

Panic stabbed at him, and he wrestled Myrra into a chokehold. “Make her stop.”

Myrra laughed, thin and wheezing. “It’s too late. I’ve already given the command.”

“Then give a new one.”

She didn’t answer.

In his periphery, he saw Cordè falter, palms slipping further and further down the wall.

He shook Myrra, hard. “Do it,” he hissed. “Now.”

Myrra’s struggles ceased. With purposeful slowness, she let her hands fall to her sides. “You won’t kill me. You can’t. Your Seers, your father would cast you out.”

Crack!

Aelus screamed Cordè’s name as she collapsed. Not Cordè, please⁠—

She groaned, weakly, and Aelus almost crumpled in relief. But then she turned, and his relief was swallowed by a secondary wave of terror as she clawed up the stones.

What could he do? Watcher above, what could he do? Myrra cast a spell. Spells could be broken. But how? How, how, how?

Cordè swayed on her knees, shorn nails scraping the stone as she braced for a final blow.

He was out of time.

Break the spell.

Break the spell.

Breakthespell.

With a hoarse cry, Aelus grasped the hilt of his stiletto, ripped it from Radrin’s skull, and plunged it into Myrra’s heart.

THIRTY-ONE

“Bash your head against the wall,” the Voice said.

Cordè obeyed. Of course she obeyed. It didn’t hurt, after all. Not really. It stung a little, like itching a scab or pulling open dead skin to expose the rawness beneath. But gods it felt so good to scratch.

The sound was the worst part, like something she’d hear from the kitchen when Haniel pounded flanks of cow meat with his mallet. Not quite a crunch, more of a⁠—

Crack!

The itch was relieved.

She saw, as if through someone else’s eyes, her own fingers clawing up the wall. One of her nails had broken off, and part of her wondered why she didn’t feel it.

The itch began to build again.

She wanted to obey, she wanted to obey so badly, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. The ground had started to spin, and she was so tired.

The itch didn’t relent. It needled her incessantly, exhaustingly.

She pushed herself onto her knees. She pressed her palms to the stone. She reared back.

The itch receded.

It wasn’t sudden. More like a rising tide: the warm, soothing air around her grew colder, as if the waterway’s sewage had swelled over the ledge and now flooded the room.

Then, abruptly, it swallowed Cordè whole.

She gasped as the supersensory prickle of sleeping flesh vanished, replaced by a new feeling: pain. Throbbing, debilitating pain. It radiated from her forehead, a nauseating ache that made her wonder if she was dead, or maybe she’d prefer to be.

Cordè’s stomach lurched. She needed to vomit, or scream, but the noise that bubbled from her throat sounded weak and pitiful, like a kitten’s mewling.

Something metallic clattered nearby.

Using every ounce of willpower she possessed, Cordè turned. Torchlight seared her retinas; she squinted against the brightness, waited for it to dim.

She wished she hadn’t.

Myrra Velta lay on the floor, a dagger jutting from her ribcage. Radrin’s body rested a few paces away, equally still, equally lifeless.

And Aelus sat slumped in the corner, bruised and pale and trembling.

Even though the mere idea of movement sent bile to the back of her mouth, Cordè tried crawling to him, stopping only when metal bit into her wrist.

She was chained to the wall. She’d forgotten.

“Murderer!”

A streak of movement tore across the room, and it took Cordè a moment to register the blur as a person. It took a second, longer moment to recognize that person as Medôn Guitelet: face twisted, lips peeled back, eyes wild as he barreled forward, sword aloft.

Aelus lurched sideways, narrowly dodging Medôn’s strike. The blade skidded down the wall in a toe-curling screech. Medôn slashed again, aiming for Aelus’s neck, but Aelus rolled out of the way, chains twining into an iron braid. Then he launched himself at Medôn’s legs.

They crashed to the ground in a mess of limbs and vicious, bone-rattling blows. Cordè lost sight of the sword—just as a trickle of red began leaking along the stone crevices underfoot.

“Aelus!”

The two men broke apart with a heavy hngf.

Medôn crumpled onto his side, groaning, bottom lip split. Aelus landed heavily on his back, wheezing as if the air had been knocked from his lungs.

The abandoned blade skidded to a stop directly between them.

Aelus moved first, flipping over and scrambling for the hilt. Seconds later, a bloodied Medôn snarled. Got to his feet. Wiped his hand across his mouth. And charged.

Cordè strained against her bonds. “Look out!”

Aelus whirled, blade out⁠—

Shunk.

The sound was not wet, or loud, or dramatic. If Cordè’s attention hadn’t been fixed on the struggle, she might have missed it entirely. She followed Medôn’s gaze as he studied the sword buried deep in his abdomen. Aelus staggered back, chest heaving.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Then, with fumbling, sluggish motions, Medôn grabbed the hilt and pulled.

Blood poured from the wound as if from an open valve, drenching Medôn’s lower half. He coughed, crimson spurting from his mouth. His knees buckled, and he collapsed with a sickening thump, jerking and convulsing and leaking all over the stone.

Thud. Aelus dropped to all fours and stared, horrified, at the ever-widening pool of red.

“Aelus.” Cordè tasted salt when she spoke his name. “Aelus?”

His eyes darted to random points on her face. “You’re hurt.” He sounded confused. Dazed. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

It was a lie; already her tenuous grasp on reality had begun to flicker. She attempted a smile, toothy and tearstained. “See? I’m fine.”

Somewhere beyond the doorway, she heard footsteps. Dozens of them.

“Listen,” she said with new urgency. “None of this is your fault. We’ll show them the bodies of the Etherians. Orien will vouch for us. Her father is the Head of the Artificers, they’ll have to listen.”

Aelus didn’t move. “You’re hurt,” he repeated.

The door opened so forcefully that Cordè thought it splintered off its hinges. A wave of blue regimentals entered the room, though they weren’t wearing typical Blade uniforms; these were sleek, fully leather, with coiled whips on their belts. Just like Orien.

Theophane’s squadron.

The realization had scarcely crossed Cordè’s mind when a woman swept into the room, her presence like balefire in the gloom. She wasn’t particularly muscled, or overly armored, and yet she commanded attention with naught but a steady demeanor.

An olive-skinned man with wavy black hair followed after her, hands behind his back as he did a slow sweep of the room. At first Cordè thought he was scanning, but no: when he turned in her direction, she saw a white strip of cloth tied over his eyes. He was blind.

Medôn moaned, clawing feebly at the stone.

Theophane nodded toward Medôn, and a soldier darted over to administer rudimentary aid. “Will he live?” she asked, voice flat.

“I don’t know. We need an Etherian.”

“Send for one.”

“Where’s Orien?” Cordè asked. Wheezed, really.

“With respect, Lady Cyra, I’ll be asking the questions for now.” Theophane’s green eyes flitted over the corpses, then returned to Cordè. “Tell me what happened.”

And because she was too tired to do anything else, Cordè obeyed.

She skipped over the part about Huri, instead starting at the sewers: the blood trail, the sludge-filled waterway, the room of bodies, Orien and Xillah. She described finding Aelus and how she thought he was dead, being cornered by Myrra. And she only faltered when recounting the moment Myrra’s magic wormed into her mind.

No one spoke when she finished, the silence broken only by Medôn’s hoarse sobs. Aelus swayed on his knees, kept upright by the squad members stationed at his sides.

Theophane turned to Aelus. “Is this true?”

He glanced at her blind companion before nodding and letting his head fall forward.

Maybe it was the shadows cast by the flickering torchlight, but Cordè thought something softened on Theophane’s countenance as Aelus sagged against his bonds. Another flicker, and Cordè was certain she had imagined it.

“And what of the attack on our Legion Second?”

Cordè blanched.

“I have a guard telling me he escorted a blonde elf to Lord Aubefort’s chambers around midnight. You’re saying that wasn’t you?”

“…I needed to find my friends.”

“By assaulting the Blade’s Second?”

“They were targeting Etherians. Kidnapping them, killing them. There’s a room full of⁠—”

Bodies. She meant to say the word “bodies.” But the ground was spinning again, faster this time. Cordè leaned against the wall, breathing hard through her nose.

She wanted to be home, she wanted Aelus to take her home right now.

Theophane crouched down, elbows on her knees. “Can you stand?” At Cordè’s weak nod, Theophane extended a gloved hand and helped her up. “Ellisar,” she called. “The keys.”

With practiced ease, the blind soldier snatched the keys from their hook and tossed them underhand across the room. Theophane caught them without looking.

Click. Click. Cordè’s chains clanged to the floor. She steadied herself against Theophane, then staggered toward Aelus. A few soldiers moved in—to stop her, to arrest her?—but Theophane halted them with a raised palm.

“Aelus?” Cordè asked.

His eyes stayed downcast as she knelt in front of him, and he flinched at her touch.

“Aelus.” Cordè brushed a bloody lock of hair off his forehead and, with her hand at the strong curve of his jaw, tilted his head up. She avoided looking at the purple bruise on his throat or the one darkening his left temple, or the smashed ruin of his nose. Instead, she focused on his beard bristles, how surprisingly soft they felt against her palm.

“Aelus, look at me. Please.”

After a long pause he did. His expression was dim, hazy, and the sight of it filled her with despair. “Daphne,” he mumbled. “I need to check on Daphne.”

Cordè frowned. Daphne?

His horse.

“All right.” She brushed his cheekbone with her thumb. “I’m going to take you home.”

“You can’t.” Ellisar stepped forward, hands tucked behind his back. “The Order won’t allow it. They’ll insist on taking him into custody themselves. And if they don’t, we will.”

“He was doing his job. He was protecting me.”

Somehow, Ellisar’s sightless stare made her feel more scrutinized than a seeing gaze ever had. He said nothing, but she sensed the conversation had been resolved, and not in her favor.

She wanted to argue. She wanted to fling her arms out like Aelus had done, to stop these Blade vultures from dragging him away. But sweet Q’ilyce, she was tired. So tired.

“Be careful with him.” Cordè had meant to demand it, but she sounded more like she was begging. Still, the two soldiers who heaved Aelus to standing did so with a modicum of lenity, and for that she was grateful.

The last thing Cordè saw before being escorted out the door was Ellisar standing over Radrin’s corpse, wearing an expression she couldn’t quite name.

Six Faithful were waiting in the courtyard when they arrived above ground.

“Watcher’s Tears,” one swore as the Blade gingerly lifted Radrin’s body from the sewer.

The Eye at the head of the pack, half a foot taller than the rest, pointed a quivering finger at Radrin. “Who did this?”

Theophane inclined her head. “Forgive me, I was unaware we’d be hosting Faithful this evening. May I ask who sent you?”

“We received word from a Lady Nivae. Now, who is responsible for this atrocity?”

She paused, then nodded at Aelus. He flinched as one of the younger Eyes spat at his feet.

“Oathbreaker.”

The leader scanned Aelus from the grays of his irises down to his blood-spattered boots. “We’ll take him from here.”

“The Eye wasn’t tonight’s only casualty,” Theophane said. “Lady Velta is dead, and Lord Guitelet is critically wounded. By the law of the land⁠—”

“Do not quote the law to me, Blade. Our Order was there when it was conceived. Whomsoever slays an Eye must be judged by the Order.” The leader lifted his chin. “This is now an internal affair.”

An internal affair. Cordè knew little of Order procedures, but the expression on the lead Eye’s face made her heart drop into her stomach. Like, if given the chance, this man would haul Aelus around the nearest corner and gut him himself.

Theophane squared her shoulders. “I am simply following protocol.”

“So you refuse to hand him over?”

The rise in tension was abrupt and intense. Chests puffed and hands hovered near hilts as Order and Blade faced off, steel glinting when one of the soldiers⁠—

“Stand down.” Theophane’s clipped instruction was met with instant obedience. “Too much blood has been spilled tonight. I won’t add more.”

The lead Eye snapped his fingers in Aelus’s direction. Moving in unison, two other Eyes grabbed Aelus’s arms and began hauling him away.

Theophane let them go.

Cordè did not.

She made it three steps before her body revolted; the world tipped sideways, and she tried to catch herself on air. Her skull felt too heavy for her neck. But she needed to make it to Aelus. She needed to make it to Aelus.

A Blade soldier snagged her elbow, halting her in her tracks as the tall Eye addressed Theophane. “We’ll be back. We still need to assess claims of kidnapping.”

“Very well. Leave in peace. But know if Lord Guitelet dies, there’ll be a reckoning.”

“Are you threatening a member of the Order?”

“It’s not a threat,” Theophane said, tone steady and controlled. “It’s a warning.”

He scowled. “Stick to your jurisdiction.”

One of the Blades hissed in indignation. Theophane, on the other hand, gave a slight but respectful bow. “By His Gaze.”

The Faithful shoved Aelus toward the exit. With sudden, feral strength, Cordè ripped free of the soldier’s grasp, but another hand clapped down on her other shoulder, nearly buckling her knees in the process.

“Aelus….”

He looked at her, just once, before being pushed through the gate. Then he was gone.

Cordè swayed on her feet, dazed. She wasn’t sure what drew her awareness skyward; a sensation of being watched, maybe? Her eyes slid over the blank face of the Citadel, up up up to the highest parapet and the cloaked figure that stood at its ledge.

Even at a distance, she could see the white bandage around Huri’s head. Her flesh prickled beneath the burning intensity of his hateful stare.

Theophane followed Cordè’s focus. Something shifted on her features, then she turned to address her squad. “Keep a rotating watch on Lord Aubefort. And if there’s violence tonight, I better not hear word anyone here instigated it. Am I understood?”

The soldiers nodded and returned to their tasks.

Cordè tried to ignore the ominous echo of Theophane’s words. Violence tonight. Suppressing a shudder, she squeezed her eyes shut.

When she opened them again, the only person standing near her was Theophane.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and Cordè believed her.

“What are they going to do to him?”

A piece of Theophane’s mask slipped away. “I don’t know.”

Lie, Cordè identified. A benevolent lie, but a lie nonetheless.

In the distance she heard the snap of reins and stampede of hooves fade toward the north. Toward the Mithraeum. Her vision dimmed, blurred, and she blinked away the wet warmth matting her lashes. Blood? “I’d like to go home now,” she mumbled, words devoid of emotion.

Theophane nodded and summoned a pair of Blade. “We’ll bring you in for questioning once you’ve healed. Until then, my soldiers will see you stay safe.”

Cordè’s attention flitted between Theophane’s deep green eyes. “Am I under arrest?”

This time there were no cracks in Theophane’s mask.

“Not yet.”

THIRTY-TWO

Someone stole my books.

It seemed such a menial detail for Aelus to notice, but he’d always stacked his books alphabetically near his prayer mat. Now, his Khastian riddles were missing.

Perhaps that was for the best, Aelus thought. The invasion of privacy should have angered him, though—should have bothered him, at least. But he wasn’t bothered. He wasn’t anything, really. Just numb.

Giving his books a final, lingering look, Aelus rolled onto his back. He needed to sleep. Sleep was safe, so long as he didn’t dream.

The door creaked open, and an exhausted-looking Imalu stepped inside.

He perched on the bed with a strained smile and gave Aelus’s thigh a quick pat-pat. “Comfortable?”

Comfortable? Aelus’s fists clenched. You lied to me. You knew I was different and never told me. He didn’t say those things aloud, though. Because silence, like sleep, was safe.

Imalu cleared his throat. “I’m surprised the Scholars haven’t returned yet. It’s past time for your salve.” When Aelus stayed stubbornly quiet, Imalu captured Aelus’s fist in a fierce grip. “I know you’ve been through a lot, son. But if you would talk to me⁠—”

Aelus pulled his hand away. “I assume you came here for a reason?”

Imalu paused, drew back. “Lord Guitelet is dead.”

The words settled in Aelus’s bones like lead. A couple days ago, he’d never taken a life. Now he’d taken three. “How long until the Seers finish their deliberation?” Aelus rasped.

“They’re summoning everyone to the Great Hall as we speak.”

Dread skittered along Aelus’s spine. Traditionally it took the Seers weeks, even months, to decide on a punishment. Aelus’s deliberation had taken two days, which could only mean one thing: the Seers knew. Somehow, the Seers knew Aelus was this…this godsforged thing and were wanting to be rid of him as soon as possible.

Logic kicked in: the Seers wouldn’t have bothered healing him if that were true.

Regardless, Aelus needed to let the Faithful know about the Seers’ sins, but who could he tell? Imalu was no longer trustworthy, and Nevander…well. The Seers relied on unanimity. Nevander would’ve been at every meeting, known every detail, approved every decision. And besides, even if Aelus spoke, no one would listen. The bastard-born son of a Seer was now an Eye-killer. An oathbreaker. They’d shun him like they’d shunned Ellisar.

It didn’t matter, Aelus decided. For the Order’s sake, for Talat’s sake, he had to try.

Imalu’s fingers twitched, as if he wanted to reach for Aelus again. “Say something, please. You’re worrying me.”

Aelus wasn’t sure what loosened his tongue. Fear of impending punishment, perhaps? “You told Myrra I’m godsforged. Why?”

Regret fell over Imalu’s weathered features like a widow’s veil. “Your mother. She⁠—”

“Stop,” Aelus snarled, not recognizing the sound of his own voice. “I didn’t ask about my mother. I asked why you told Myrra I was godsforged.”

“Because she made me. And because it’s true.”

Aelus didn’t want to believe him. Aelus couldn’t believe him. But in all his time at the Mithraeum, never once had he known Imalu to outright lie.

“Your mother was succumbing to her illness,” Imalu said. “Feverish beyond reason, talking about gods and blessings and divine visits.” His bleak expression deepened, aging him decades. “I’ve assisted Etherians with bloodrot, cared for hundreds of dying Faithful as they hallucinated dead brothers, slain wards, Reneir. So, I didn’t put any stock in what your mother said. But then, at your Blinding….”

Imalu paused, and something in Aelus’s chest stuttered to a halt.

“There can be no other explanation, Aelus. You are godsforged.”

Godsforged. Just hearing the word made him flinch. The thought that he was that thing, the thing the Seers warned against and heretics worshiped as some prophetic warrior, caused the contents of his stomach to roil. There had to be a dozen other explanations that existed, because he was not, could not be godsforged.

Hopelessness set in, and he found himself desperately craving companionship. But the only people he trusted—Cordè, Ro, Ysabelle, even Daphne—were back in the manor.

Imalu squeezed Aelus’s hand. “Listen, son.”

“I’m not your son.”

“You’re right,” Imalu said without missing a beat. “You’re my student. And as my student, I beg you: heed this final lesson. Ignore everything I’ve taught you. Ignore the lessons, the sermons, your father. Ignore all of it and focus on the bond between you and Reneir. Follow Him, let Him be your guide, and trust He’ll never fail you as we have.”

Something constricted in Aelus’s chest, and he didn’t pull away as Imalu kissed his brow.

“You may not be my son. But never doubt how proud I am of you.”

Aelus’s chin quivered. “Imalu….”

A sharp knock at the door cut off Aelus’s response, and Imalu drew back as a pair of Eyes entered the room. “By His Gaze, Chief Archivist,” the Eye on the left said, bowing politely. His gaze flitted to Aelus, and his jaw flexed. “We’re here to bring Aelus Mireau to the Great Hall.”

Imalu stood, ruby pin flashing in the flickering candlelight. “I’ll accompany you.”

“The Seers⁠—”

“That wasn’t a request.”

The Eye blinked, lips opening to refute. But a mere lift of Imalu’s brows made him reconsider. The Eyes closed in, pinning Aelus’s arms behind his back as one of them reached into their surcoat and withdrew a strange leather belt that looked eerily similar to a horse’s bridle.

“What’s this?” Imalu demanded. “We do not gag our accused.”

“The Seers demanded it.”

Of course they did. Aelus sagged, and one of the Eye’s wrenched him back up so hard his shoulder popped.

Imalu’s lips thinned. He held out his hand. “Allow me.”

The lead Eye paused, then gave a wooden nod.

Gently, Imalu brushed Aelus’s hair aside and set about securing the buckle. Aelus winced as the strap scraped over his tongue between his molars. The gag was ancient, scored with dozens of scars, and it tasted like musty soil.

Once the last clasp slid into place, Aelus was ushered to the Great Hall.

Imalu had spoken truly. The entire host of Faithful, over five thousand strong, had been summoned. A sea of black robes and chainmail filled the Hall to the brim—a sight that, not so long ago, would’ve inspired a feeling of comradery in Aelus.

“Murderer,” someone hissed, and Aelus flinched.

During the long walk down the nave, Aelus kept his gaze fixed on the floor, unwilling to meet any of his brethren’s narrowed stares for fear they would know. That they would see he was godsforged and know he was responsible for their brothers’ deaths.

The Eyes dumped Aelus at the foot of the stairs and stepped back.

All eight Seers dotted the stage in a perfect half-circle, hooded and somber, ebony robes pooling at their feet like spilled pitch. Smoke boiled from the twin furnaces and thick beams of moonlight poured through the windows, bathing the Seers in a ghostly, chilling aurora.

And it disgusted Aelus, then, to see them wearing black—as if, despite their hypocrisy and atrocities, they still considered themselves pure. Still thought they were the ones meant to cleanse Dusera’s Legions and end the bloodrot.

But it’s all fake, Aelus realized. The somberness, the piety. All of it meticulously manufactured by the Seers in an attempt to hide their own selfish ambitions. Because they weren’t embodiments of Reneir, were they? No, they were men. Men whose righteousness was a sham. Men who used Reneir’s name to justify their own malice.

Hypocrites. The lot of them.

Aelus’s nostrils flared as he peered up at Nevander’s cloaked form and wondered just how far his father had fallen. How many Faithful he’d corrupted along the way.

Nevander stepped forward, expression hidden in shadow. “By His Gaze.”

“May We See,” the audience replied.

“By His Everlasting Grace.”

“May We Lead.”

“By His Side.”

“May We Serve in life, in death, and beyond.”

Nevander gestured for the congregation to rise. “Servants of Reneir, you’ve been called to witness the judgment of Aelus Mireau, charged with murdering a brother in Faith.” Heated murmurs rippled through the crowd, spurring Nevander to raise a supplicating palm. “Radrin Halle was a brother to all. We mourn him. And as we gather in this Great Hall, we remember his deeds, his valiant service, and his unfailing devotion to Reneir.”

Quiet fell upon the Hall as countless Faithful bowed their heads in prayer.

Moments passed, then Nevander straightened. “Now, to the accused.” Beneath the umbra of his hood, his lips thinned. “Brother Mireau is a difficult case. He failed his Blinding, and thus being made an Unsighted would not serve as punishment. But he is an Oathbreaker and must be dealt with accordingly. Therefore we, the Seers, declare”—Nevander’s stern demeanor cracked, just for an instant—“declare Aelus Mireau will be stripped of his rights, his rank, his armaments. He will be flogged. He will be cast out. And he will bear our sigil until the end of his days.”

Nevander motioned to an acolyte. “Ready the whip. And prepare the branding iron.”

Aelus swayed numbly on his knees as commotion splintered the Hall. The circle of Seers fractured, with four reaching into an open basket to withdraw a set of clinking copper-colored chains. The others filed around Aelus, flicking aside the rugs and attaching the chains to the ingrown hooks on Aelus’s right and left.

Only Nevander remained where he was, watching from his throne atop the stairs.

Not real, Aelus told himself, even as his shirt was stripped, even as hands chained him in place. Not real. This was not real, not real.

One of the Seers slipped on a pair of stiff leather gloves and plucked the smoking iron from the fire. The stylized eye at the end of the brand glowed white as a star. Aelus yelled into his gag, wild eyes seeking Imalu’s face in the crowd as the Seers pulled the chains taut. Still, despite being malnourished and exhausted and hurt, Aelus managed to yank his arm loose and shove himself up on one knee.

“Hold him steady,” the Seer holding the branding iron snapped, face glistening from heat.

Someone, multiple someones, clamped down on Aelus’s shoulders. He thrashed as the Seer stepped forward and thrust the iron against Aelus’s chest.

The smell came first: rich and leathery, almost thick enough to taste. Someone must’ve left beef in the oven, Aelus thought dimly. Then came the sound of skin popping like hot oil. His chest sizzled, drawing his gaze down, down—where he watched, uncomprehendingly, as his own flesh bubbled like soap.

Oh gods.

The pain hit, and Aelus threw back his head, screaming as agony shredded every muscle, nerve, and fiber. Everything hurt, everything burned. Bile blistered up his throat, and he retched, vomit spewing through the gag to splatter the stairs.

The Seer ripped the brand off Aelus’s charred skin, taking a chunk of blackened flesh with it. Aelus sagged on his knees, hair curtaining around him. The world flickered in and out, the burn on his chest throbbing like a Valdoran war drum. His muscles spasmed, and a muffled sob slipped from his mouth.

Suddenly, blessed, cool fingers curled around Aelus’s jaw. Lifted it into the light.

Imalu?

Hood back, Nevander studied Aelus’s half-lidded gaze with a concerned frown. Aelus gnawed at the gag, tried to move it aside to speak, but all he managed was a choked, wet gasp.

Another Seer approached from the stairs, arms extended. “Seer.”

A muscle in Nevander’s neck ticked as he beheld the braided red whip in his fellow Seer’s hand. “Is this truly the Watcher’s will?” Nevander asked, uncharacteristically hesitant.

The Seer nodded. “It’s time to end your atonement.”

Nevander stared down at his son’s shuddering form, stared right into Aelus’s watering gray eyes. Elaina’s eyes. The fingers beneath Aelus’s jaw trembled.

Please, Aelus pleaded wordlessly. Father, help me.

The conflict raging across Nevander’s face stilled. With an almost mournful look, he let Aelus go. Aelus keeled forward, letting the tears fall as Nevander stepped behind him and unspooled the whip with a muted thwap.

“By His Gaze,” Nevander whispered.

Crack!

The whip carved into Aelus’s skin, the blow nearly sending him face-first into his own puddle of sick.

But he didn’t scream.

Not even as Nevander struck again. And again. And again.

Blood trickled down Aelus’s back, tracing the curve of his spine, soaking the waistband of his pants. His body was on fire. He was on fire.

Another lash.

And another.

Nevander paused and ordered the Faithful to line up for a turn.

Aelus hung there, limp as a doll, praying he’d fall unconscious before the whip’s next bite—but the darkness slipped cruelly from his grasp.

An eternity passed. Then the air lit up with a hiss.

Crack!

The blow must have been from an acolyte; it was less deep, less sure. Nonetheless, it sent Aelus reeling.

Crack!

This new strike was dealt with eager vengeance. The whip chewed into Aelus’s flesh, curling around his ribs to lick the still-sizzling brand on his chest. His back arched and he screamed, almost biting through the gag.

Crack!

Crack!

Crack!

On and on, one lash after another after another, blurring into one.

Crack!

Crack!

Aelus didn’t know he’d passed out until a vicious slap jolted him awake.

“Throw him outside,” someone ordered. “We’re finished here.”

The floor caved beneath him as his gag and chains were removed, and he was hauled out of the Hall. Stone scraped flecks of skin off his knees. Sights swirled like cream in caffe, and he thought he heard the loud, hair-raising groan of a door opening.

Then something started weeping all over his mangled flesh. It was cool. Pleasant, even. But he didn’t have time to appreciate it before he went flying through the air.

He never felt himself land.

Someone was slapping him again. Gentler, but more frantic this time.

“Wake up. Wake up, son. We need to get you on the horse.”

Imalu? Aelus’s eyes cracked open, just a sliver, and rain poured in. He winced as Imalu clutched his face, shook it.

“Please, wake up. I can’t do this without your help.”

Blinking, Aelus gritted his teeth and attempted to rise.

“That’s it, come on.” Imalu clasped Aelus’s shoulder, trying to pull him to standing. But the instant Aelus rolled onto his side, the strength drained from his bones. His eyes closed, and he slumped against the stone.

“No, no, no.” Imalu’s voice sounded faint. Tinny. “Up. Aelus, up.”

Blackness ate at Aelus’s consciousness as the cool rain faded into a welcome warmth.

A pause. “Forgive me.”

Then a finger jabbed his branded chest.

Aelus’s eyes popped open, and he bucked off the ground with a strangled moan. His skin burned. Burned like food trapped in a heated pan. But the darkness receded, and the world slowly crawled back into focus.

Imalu. Rain. Courtyard.

Horse.

Back hissing in protest, Aelus reached for Imalu, and together they managed to heave Aelus onto his feet. He stood firm—then his legs wobbled.

Imalu grabbed Aelus’s torso. “Horse. Now.”

The pain ratcheted to new, unspeakable heights as Aelus stumbled toward the horse and, in a feat of colossal proportions, hoisted himself into the slick saddle. He pitched forward, trying not to vomit as Imalu jumped behind him and snapped the reins.

With a wild neigh, the horse leaped forward. For a sickening beat, rain seemed to fall sideways before it adjusted to the horse’s canter.

Aelus’s head lolled. His surroundings were slipping away. Everything was slipping away.

Imalu’s arm tightened around his bare waist. “Stay awake, son. Where do I take you?”

Gripping the saddlehorn, Aelus tried to speak, tried to say Cordè’s name as the horse thundered over the bridge. But oblivion beckoned, and he was too weak to resist it.

Imalu shouted, the words muffled and distant.

Stay awake, son.

Stay awake.

THIRTY-THREE

It was going to rain.

Cordè felt it as poignantly as the prick of a needle or the touch of seawater at her toes. The sunlight filtering through her drapery was blood-red marbled with blue. Twilight approached, swift and ominous.

With a sigh, she sat back against her pillows and stared at the colored glass overhead, searching for comfort in the kaleidoscopic prisms scattered across her curtains. Those tiny dancing rainbows usually filled her with a sort of girlish wonder, but they managed no such miracle here.

Cordè’s bedroom door creaked open, and Linnaea swept in, silver tray in hand.

“Haniel thought you’d enjoy a tart before bed.” Linnaea smiled brightly, too brightly, and placed the tray on Cordè’s bedside table. “Treacle and clotted cream, your favorite.”

Cordè examined the pastry’s flaky crust and smooth, golden-orange filling, topped with an unnecessarily large dollop of cream. The cream was the best part, in Cordè’s opinion, and Haniel knew that.

But her stomach revolted at the sugary sweet smell. She turned back to the window as thunder rumbled from the northern mountains. Mithraeum. Cordè knew its vague location, even though she’d never been. In fact, it looked like the clouds had gathered over the exact place she imagined the Mithraeum to be.

Linnaea dropped the false smile and sat on Cordè’s bed. “You need to eat.”

“We sent the Order letters,” Cordè said. “Gave the Triumvirate our full account. Why hasn’t anything happened?”

“These things take time, dearest.”

Cordè half-listened, having heard a similar spiel the afternoon before. Two days. Two days, yet it felt like a lifetime of sitting in bed and waiting.

“The Legions hate it when their duties overlap,” Linnaea continued, “and this particular situation happens to land squarely in the center of all of them.” She paused, put a hand over Cordè’s. “Three people are dead, and everyone’s shoving blame as far from their own doorstep as possible.”

“Three?”

Linnaea nodded, her tired face tight with the same expression she’d worn when Cordè told her about the Etherian blood magic and Aelus being godsforged, like she had more to say but thought now might not be the time.

Cordè hugged herself, suppressing a shudder. She pictured Medôn, Boy-King of the Blade—not as she’d last seen him, twitching in a puddle of blood, but at Philip’s party, blond and vibrant and full of life.

She didn’t mourn him, certainly, yet it was strange to think he was dead.

Cordè swallowed and changed topics. “What about Orien? Xillah?”

“They’re recovering. Orien’s already up and moving”—Linnaea gave a reluctantly amused smile—“and insisting on coming by to check on you.”

“And Aelus? Has the mercànt responded to our message?”

The downward shift of Linnaea’s expression served as her response. Cordè slumped back against her headboard. Upon her return to the manor, she’d frantically written to the one godsforged believer she knew, Gaeton de Beaugency, in a desperate bid for information. Any information. Anything that could help Aelus.

It’d been two days since Ysabelle had delivered the note to the mercànt’s estate. Two days of waiting. Two days of silence.

Cordè tipped her head back and looked at the dangling colored glass again. The sense of comfort still eluded her.

“Rest easy, child,” Linnaea said, getting to her feet. “Ro’s scout is nearby; he’ll watch over you for now. Once you’ve rested, we’ll talk to Officer Suvau’s soldiers.”

Cordè’s stomach turned at the memory of her conversation with Theophane.

She pulled her blanket up to her chin, eyes flickering expectantly between Linnaea’s empty hands. “Where’s…?”

“No sleeping draft tonight. You’ve been healing quicker than expected, and I don’t want you to become reliant on such remedies. Not until we can call upon the Etherians again.”

In an effort to give the Etherian community space and privacy to mourn its losses, Linnaea had summoned an Artificer physician to tend to Cordè. Healer Voland was a serious woman with soft hands and white hair like Matron Zenzi’s. Her apprentice never spoke a word, nor did he look Cordè in the eyes. Their daily visits included strange-smelling salves and brews that tasted like dirt. But the sleeping drafts kept the nightmares at bay.

Linnaea pressed a kiss to Cordè’s temple, careful to avoid the bruises, and headed to the door. She lingered there, hand on the knob. “I love you, dearest.”

“Love you,” Cordè mumbled.

She waited until Linnaea’s footsteps faded then tossed the covers aside and crept to her window seat. Her footfalls were drowned out by a peal of thunder, and she settled onto the cushions as rain began pelting the glass.

Plick. Plick. Plick-plick. Plickplickplickplick.

Cordè pulled her knees to her chest and watched the deluge blanket the street below. A vein of lightning streaked across the sky, and her head throbbed at the brightness.

She studied her reflection, warped and obscured by droplets chasing each other down the window. Maybe it was a play of the light, but the swath of purple-green bruising on her forehead made her look so very pale. Ghostly, almost. It highlighted the cut that slashed diagonally through her brow, which would almost certainly scar.

What a stupid thing to focus on.

She closed her eyes and leaned against the glass. Plickplickplickplick.

Cordè didn’t want to fall asleep. She wasn’t sure what horrors clung to her subconscious: blank white eyes, the slither of dead hair beneath her fingers, a sickly-sweet whisper of instruction she couldn’t ignore.

She didn’t want to fall asleep. Yet she did.

It wasn’t a nightmare that awoke her, nor the summer storm. It was a horse’s whinny.

Her eyes snapped open.

There, rounding the corner onto Linnaea’s street, was a large, barrel-chested horse.

At first, Cordè thought the thing astride it was some sort of daemon: malformed and multi-limbed, it seemed like it was struggling to remain upright. Then a bolt of lightning illuminated the rider. Rather, riders.

And she knew, in spite of the distance and the rain, that one of them was Aelus.

Cordè bolted from the window.

“Linnaea!” she called, throwing open the door and careening down the stairs. “Wake up!”

With trembling fingers, she wrenched open the locks and launched past the Blade soldiers, out into the rain. She heard them shout as she sprinted for the gate.

“Aelus!” The horse was three houses away and heading in the wrong direction. Desperate, Cordè put her fingers in her mouth and whistled, shrill and piercing, just like Orien had taught her a lifetime ago.

The horse skidded to a halt.

Linnaea called to her from the porch, wordless and distant, but Cordè ignored her as she waved her arms overhead. The horse returned at a furious clip, and Cordè’s heart caught in her throat. The thunderstorm had dyed the world in tones of gray, making the vivid red of blood stand out all the more. It mixed with the rainwater and ran in rivulets down the horse’s dapple coat.

Aelus was slumped on the beast’s neck, arms limp at his sides.

She reached out, either to steady the horse or grab at Aelus, she wasn’t sure which. It was only then she looked at the second figure, gold-clad and struggling to control the reins behind all of Aelus’s heft. The stranger pushed his waterlogged hood from his eyes—his deep set, coal-black eyes. Somehow, without reason, she knew this man was Imalu.

Cordè tightened her grip on Aelus’s arm. “What did they do to him?”

Imalu studied her, throat bobbing as he swallowed, before shifting his gaze over her shoulder. “Lady Nivae?”

Linnaea arrived at Cordè’s side, cloak draped over her head. Farren was a few paces behind, armed with a flickering lantern.

“Bring him in,” Linnaea said, and Farren abandoned the lantern to ease Aelus off the horse. With the help of the Blade soldiers and Linnaea’s guidance, they lugged him inside.

Cordè followed them into the light of the foyer and uttered a choked gasp. Sweet Q’ilyce. Aelus’s naked back was painted with cuts and gashes, lines of scarlet that seemed to slice straight through his flesh into the muscle beneath. And his chest. The damp ginger chest hair had been marred by an eye-shaped welt centered on his pectorals, the skin around it shiny and pink and angry, singed like a leatherworker’s stamp.

“Can he make it upstairs?” Linnaea asked.

Impossibly, it was Aelus who responded, though it was with nothing more than a lolling, half-conscious nod as he reached for the bannister. He misjudged the distance, thinking himself closer than he was, and Imalu took his elbow to guide him to the steps.

“Use my room,” Cordè said. “He’ll have more space.”

The spiral staircase proved to be the trickiest part of the trek, with Aelus’s large frame needing to be angled this way and that before reaching Cordè’s attic refuge. Thankfully, Aelus managed to keep his footing until Farren and Imalu reached the bed. Then, as if sensing his journey’s end, Aelus crumpled onto the mattress.

The room became a flurry of activity: Ysabelle fetched supplies while Linnaea murmured instructions to Farren, who hurried out the door. Imalu knelt by Aelus’s bedside, lips moving in fervent prayer.

“Cordè?”

Cordè blinked. Linnaea stood in front of her, spare cloth in hand.

“Help dry Aelus off, child, or he’ll catch his death.”

Cordè took the rag, thoughts sluggish as if they’d been submerged in molasses. She studied her ivory sheets with a frown, watching Aelus’s blood color them a near-black crimson.

Slowly she crouched and pressed the cloth to Aelus’s damp hairline. He looked like he was in the midst of a fitful slumber: a divot deepened at the bridge of his nose, the same divot that appeared whenever he was frustrated with her.

Cordè wasn’t sure how long she knelt there, or what she thought about during her trance. Time escaped her, ponderings going no deeper than wisps of memory—you’re my ward, you’re the priority, please go—right up until she heard low voices at her back.

“…he asked to be brought here….”

“…still allow him to serve my household, if he recovers…?”

Linnaea and Imalu were the only two left in the room. Their mutterings ceased as soon as Cordè got to her feet. She fixed Imalu with a hard, unflinching stare. “What did they do to him?”

He didn’t answer at first, instead taking a moment to study her with those unnerving black eyes. Talat’s eyes.

“The Seers named him ‘Oathbreaker,’” Imalu said.

“His oath was to protect me.” Cordè swept an arm over herself. “Here I stand.”

“Aelus did protect you, my lady. However, he killed an Eye. And the Seers, well.” He shook his head. “They were resolute in their decision.”

“What about you?” she asked. “Aelus trusted you, but did you even try to stop them?”

Imalu held her gaze, and in the depths of his eyes—Talat’s eyes—she saw self-loathing. Resignation. Grief. And, subtler still, a faint red halo around the black abyss of his irises.

The tinny ring of rain against glass had slowed, its tempo now plodding and erratic. Plickplickplick. Plick-plick. Plick.

“Storm’s letting up,” Imalu said. He took a halting step toward the bed. Toward Aelus.

Cordè moved between them, chin high and determined. No closer.

With a subtle, defeated nod, Imalu drew his hood and bowed. “By His Gaze.”

Linnaea inclined her head as he strode from the room.

Cordè did not.

The sun had just crested the horizon when a knock on the door announced Healer Voland’s arrival. She swept into Cordè’s bedroom, apprentice at her heels. The household watched her work in grave silence before departing one by one for their morning tasks. Linnaea remained by Aelus’s bedside, offering tea and answers to Healer Voland’s questions. Cordè sequestered herself to the far wall, sliding down its length when her legs gave out.

Minutes stretched to hours, yet Aelus remained the same: pale, sweat-drenched, unresponsive. His breathing was shallow and ragged; at one point, Cordè was certain it stopped entirely. Then his chest hitched, and her muscles slackened with relief.

Six hours and a dozen salves later, Healer Voland turned to Linnaea and Farren.

“I’ve done what I can.” Healer Voland recorked her last salve and placed it with the others on the vanity. She smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth. “He will recover.”

With Ysabelle’s help, Cordè moved unsteadily to the bed.

Color had returned to Aelus’s flesh, ruddy and freckled and living. The beard hairs under his nose fluttered as he breathed.

“He’ll sleep for a while,” Healer Voland said. “Normally, I’d say a week, but my drafts are meant for smaller bodies.” She gave another eye smile. “I’ll leave extra vials.”

“A while” could mean dawn the next day or sometime next week. The ambiguity vexed Cordè, yet she summoned the last dregs of her maturity and nodded to Healer Voland and her apprentice. Healer Voland returned it. The apprentice flushed.

As soon as the pair departed, Linnaea clapped her hands together. “Right. To business. Ysabelle, fetch new bedsheets, warm water, and any spare rags you can find. Farren, organize shifts for the watch. I want eyes on him at all times. Cordè?”

Cordè dragged her attention away from Aelus and blinked at Linnaea. “Yes?”

“Go get some rest. Use Aelus’s room.”

“I’m not tired.” Cordè turned to Farren expectantly. “Put me down for first watch.”

“I will take first watch,” Linnaea said. “You need to recover your strength.”

Cordè wanted to protest, wanted to stay by Aelus’s side as he had hers. But her limbs were heavy, so very heavy.

Ysabelle took her by the crook of her arm. “Come, my lady.”

It felt strange to Cordè, making herself at home in Aelus’s little nook. She was acutely aware of how cold it was, having been unoccupied these last few nights, yet the air still held that lingering scent of cypress. The mattress had an Aelus-sized indentation, and Cordè found it comforting to curl up in it like one of Haniel’s cats while Ysabelle fussed with the blinds.

Aelus’s pillow smelled of dirt. No, gardenias, like the plot outside Linnaea’s study window. They’d started blooming last week, a sea of ivory petals and verdant leaves. She remembered thinking they looked unusually healthy this year. Maybe that’d been Aelus’s doing.

“Do you need anything else, my lady?” Ysabelle asked from the doorway.

When had she crossed the room? Cordè couldn’t remember.

There was a whole host of things Cordè needed, none of which Ysa could provide. So instead Cordè made a low, humming noise of dissent and sank deeper into Aelus’s imprint. She felt Ysabelle tuck the covers in around her, and at the last moment, Cordè turned and seized Ysa’s hand. Squeezed it. “He’ll be okay.”

She said it as a statement, yet in her tone she sought confirmation.

Ysabelle’s doe eyes made little circles around Cordè’s face, expression strangely closed. Then she smiled, small but reassuring. “Yes, my lady.”

The click of the door was the only sound Ysabelle’s exit made, yet Cordè’s new solitude felt loud, somehow. City noises trickled in through Aelus’s streetside window, and she realized it was nearly noontime. That beyond that pane of glass, the world continued on.

Cordè studied the crisscrossing beams above her, listening to the shuffle of feet in her room. And for the first time in years, she prayed to Vaeril, elven deity of dreams. She prayed for a simple journey into sleep—but more importantly, for Aelus to be eased back to consciousness gently, and soon.

The next three days passed in a veil of grayness similar to the time following Talat’s death. Though in a way it was worse, because rather than existing in a haze of sameness, she was waiting for something to happen. And it simply…didn’t.

On some level, she was aware of the passage of time: every morning Farren reported on Aelus’s progress, which was, as always, none. Ysa was more attentive than usual, bringing trays of duck dumpling soup and sweet honey rolls reminiscent of Gaeton’s teatime offerings. Haniel himself dropped by to present to her, in his own gruff fashion, a collection of pink peppermint candies. They were difficult to chew but helped rid her mouth of its unpleasant staleness.

Linnaea didn’t visit during the day, but once or twice she stopped by after Cordè fell asleep and sat on the edge of the bed, humming lyricless songs.

Cordè’s nights—the first two, anyway—featured sound, uninterrupted slumber.

She wasn’t sure what woke her that third night. A nightmare, maybe?

Then she heard it again, from above: the gentle creaking of a bed. Her bed.

Cordè swung her legs off the side of the mattress and headed for her room. She shivered at the touch of metal against her feet as she ascended the spiral staircase. Poking her head inside, she studied Aelus’s inert figure. A single arm dangled over the edge of the bed; it twitched, and she wondered if he was dreaming.

As quietly as possible, Cordè dragged her ottoman over and sat down.

It felt different now that it was just the two of them. She wasn’t sure what to do with her hands, so she folded them in her lap and avoided staring at the welt in the center of Aelus’s chest.

You don’t disgust me. You’ve never disgusted me.

Cordè shook her head and instead focused on the stray hair plastered to his forehead. She reached to tuck it away.

“N-n….”

He stirred so unexpectedly that Cordè recoiled in surprise.

“Nuh…no, no.”

“Aelus?” She touched his shoulder slowly, gently, as not to frighten him.

The instant her skin touched his, he bolted upright and seized her wrist. “No!”

His eyes were perfect circles in the dark, panicked and glassy, and he trembled so violently his teeth clattered. But his grip remained firm, hard enough to make her wince.

“It’s me,” she said. “It’s Cordè.”

“Cordè?” As quickly as he’d grabbed her, he released her and drew the offending hand to his chest. He swallowed. “Did I hurt you?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

But he was still staring at her wrist, staring at it like it was a priceless vase he shattered.

Without stopping to rethink the action, she took Aelus’s face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Look at me. I’m here. I’m alive. You did your job.”

Aelus didn’t say anything, only did as she instructed. He looked.

Cordè drew back, clasping her fingers in her lap almost apologetically. “Can I get you anything?”

Instead of answering, he peered at his surroundings. His attention lingered on the gauzy curtains hanging from her four-poster bed, and she remembered his penchant for pretty things.

“Where’s Imalu?” he asked.

Cordè had a brief, unbidden image of Imalu’s red-ringed eyes.

“Back at the Mithraeum, I expect,” she said. “You’ve been asleep for three days.”

“Three days?” Aelus stared at her. “I need to talk to him. Let him know I’m⁠—”

He stopped. The unspoken reality of his situation, that he quite simply couldn’t talk to Imalu, made his features crumple inwards. Unshed tears gathered along his lower eyelids, and he hurriedly wiped them away. “I can’t go back. I’m not a Faithful anymore.”

“You were defending me. You didn’t break your oaths, no matter what the Seers say.”

At the word “Seers,” Aelus’s nostrils flared. “I have to tell the Triumvirate about the Order’s involvement with Myrra.”

“And then what?”

“Hopefully the magistrates will investigate, and the Seers will be held responsible.”

“No, I meant what about you?”

“Me?”

“Are you going to stay?” Cordè tried to keep her tone light and unworried and failed miserably. “Linnaea’s making arrangements, and Haniel doesn’t know how to cook for only four people. Ysabelle’s been all out of sorts, and I….” She hesitated. “Will you stay?”

“I don’t know.” His throat bobbed, and his voice became choked. “I don’t know.”

The line of tears reappeared, brighter this time, and he pressed his palm against his eye socket. Cordè touched his back, first as a pat—then, with gathering courage, a soothing stroke. His hands fell away, and she felt him relax. She brushed that stubborn lock of hair from his forehead before cupping his cheek.

Something very subtle softened around his irises, and he leaned into her touch like a man starved of affection.

Cordè’s heart stuttered in her breast.

Finally, when she trusted herself to speak, she said, “Let’s talk more in the morning. For now….” Without breaking eye contact, she tilted her head at Healer Voland’s sleeping draft.

Aelus paled. “Will I dream?”

“No.”

He watched her for another beat or two, then gave a weary nod.

She fetched Healer Voland’s remedies, the draft as well as the extra salve, as Aelus struggled to maneuver into a sitting position. “Here.” Cordè pushed a capful of the potion into his hands, and slowly, stiltedly, he drained it.

“May I?” She held up the salve, and he nodded again. The ointment’s opaque, green thickness reminded her of sewer gunk, and she shuddered. Luckily, it smelled better than it looked: spicy, sharp, almost minty.

“This will feel a bit cold,” she said, and as soon as it touched his flesh, he gave a sharp inhale. In spite of everything, she smiled. “I warned you.”

She painted her way across the patchwork of lacerations, resentment growing with each passing stroke. Even days old, the lashes were red, and harsh, and deep.

Children’s hands did this, she thought. Teachers. Friends. Maybe even his own father.

Aelus’s shoulders drooped as the effects of the draft took hold.

“Imalu said you asked to come here.” Cordè’s hand passed over the upper ridge of his back muscles. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Aelus tipped sideways, and with great effort, she directed him to the pillow. He mumbled something else, but the words were garbled, lost to the cotton bedding.

“Sorry?” Cordè leaned down, ear next to his lips. Hot, erratic puffs of air caressed her skin, and she knew he was hovering between consciousness and sleep.

“You felt safe,” he said.

Then he began to snore.

THIRTY-FOUR

Cordè had planned to sit attentively at Aelus’s side until morning.

But then she awoke, startled and discombobulated, to the colorless light of daybreak and a dull, throbbing ache in the center of her back.

She’d fallen asleep on her ottoman and at some point tipped forward, using her left forearm as a pillow. Her right arm was stretched out, draped over Aelus’s heavily bandaged chest. The fingers of his left hand were entwined with hers, linked digits resting at his sternum.

For a long moment, Cordè stayed very still.

Part of her—the juvenile, wicked part that had so irked Aelus in the past—wanted to stir him awake, see him blush at his own proximity. But she resisted. It wasn’t an unpleasant circumstance, after all. And the ache in her back wasn’t so bad.

Finally, inch by delicate inch, Cordè began to pull herself free. She tried to do it carefully, which wasn’t an easy task; his arm felt heavier than the logs Farren split into firewood. Despite her struggles, Aelus continued to snore, undisturbed. And beyond her window, a faint chorus of bells tolled in a melodic, soothing cadence. An Etherian funeral service, she assumed.

Cordè tiptoed to the door, avoiding the spots on the floor that always creaked, and glanced over her shoulder at the slumbering giant. He was bare-chested and wild-looking, a mass of freckled skin and ginger hair amidst her lacy linens. His foot twitched beneath the sheets, reminding her, fleetingly, of a shaggy dog she’d known in her youth: a slobbering beast that threw itself on the ground, legs high, when it wanted its belly scratched.

With a private smile, Cordè donned her favorite robe and headed downstairs.

Quiet stillness blanketed the manor. Outside of Aelus’s snoring, the only other sound was chopping: Haniel making breakfast. Smoked meats, by the smell.

Cordè was about to start down the landing’s steps when a loud knock sounded at the front door, and something nameless and unidentified bid her to stop.

Caution, she realized. The nameless thing was caution.

She peered around the corner as Farren opened the door. Parsyn de Valle pushed past the Blade guards, red cape snapping behind him. “I need to speak to Linnaea. Immediately.”

Farren, unruffled as ever, extended an arm in the direction of Linnaea’s study and wordlessly stepped aside.

Caution reared its head again, directing Cordè to the garden next to the study window. She’d done this before, mostly in her adolescence. Thinking herself more adult than she really was, she’d post up outside and listen to whispered discussions not meant for her ears.

This did not feel like those times.

“—to wait, but recent events have forced my hand.” Parsyn’s voice was muffled by the glass window separating him from Cordè. “I know you’ve been conspiring to dethrone me. I know you sent your ward into my home for blackmail.”

Cordè’s stomach plummeted to her feet. Back pressed against brick, she angled to better hear the conversation over the bells.

“And while it would be fitting to see you rot in a Triumvirate jail cell, I also understand,” Parsyn said. “I suppose it’s fair, after all: I threw you out of the Rose once. You’ve now attempted to do the same. Perhaps this is where we call a draw. For the Rose.”

“How very magnanimous of you to offer such a generous pardon.”

Linnaea’s tone held within it a cynicism Cordè had heard many times before. But beneath it lurked something…unsettling. And though Cordè knew it was risky, she pushed aside Aelus’s gardenias to peek inside: Linnaea sat at her desk, chin high, fingers steepled.

“Your wit, while normally amusing, is ill-timed,” Parsyn said. “Have you not heard the Mithraeum bells ringing?”

He was right; the bells were too faint to be coming from the Etherian neighborhood. These echoed from the mountains to the north.

Parsyn moved into Cordè’s line of sight, stopping at the desk. “We’ve underestimated Lord Aubefort’s aggression. He massacred the Faithful in their home and is now marching on Val’dora as we speak.”

Massacre.

Massacre.

Cordè only realized she wasn’t breathing once her lungs began to burn.

“Last night, Huri armed his men with explosives,” Parsyn continued. “They stormed the Mithraeum under the cover of darkness. The Order never stood a chance.”

Cordè stole an extra peek and saw Linnaea hunch over, elbows on her knees as she ran her fingers through her short gray hair. “What’s his plan now? Is he coming for Cordè?”

“Perhaps. The boy has a taste for blood and an army at his back.”

Harm him, and I’ll kill you. That had been Huri’s promise.

“That’s why I’m here,” Parsyn said, “as an ally, to put aside differences and get you and your household to safety.”

Cordè could not, in the twelve years living beneath Linnaea’s roof, recall Parsyn ever sounding so very…sincere.

“How did Huri get those explosives?” Linnaea asked abruptly.

“I beg your pardon?”

Linnaea drummed her nails on her desk. Tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap. “I’m asking how Huri Aubefort, a vain boy hardly able to stomach illim, managed to use experimental weapons to murder hundreds of Faithful without either of us knowing?”

“Clearly, the boy has an ally.”

“Clearly,” Linnaea said pointedly.

Parsyn’s tone took on a dangerous edge. “I come to you in good faith, offering you forgiveness, and in turn you accuse me of orchestrating a young man’s rage-fueled temper tantrum? Quite a hypocritical allegation, considering your household lit Huri’s fuse. Or did some other Rose ally themselves with an elf-hating, kidnapping mass murderer?”

“If I’d known what Myrra’s true intentions were, I would’ve never⁠—”

“You would have colluded with the entirety of Haal’s discipleship if it got you what you wanted: my seat at the table.”

A squeal of chair legs cut him off as Linnaea shot to her feet. “That seat is only a fraction of what I deserve from you,” she sneered. “You destroyed my life’s work, turned my associates against me, sentenced my Lilies to death. You exiled me from my home for over a decade.”

“Don’t stop there. I’ve endured so many rumors over the years: apparently I killed my mentor with a fountain pen and blackmailed Dionisia’s family into agreeing to our union.”

“And, of course, you killed my Eye.”

“Gods above, Linnaea. I thought I’d settled this with your ward.”

Linnaea slammed her palms on the desk, making Cordè jump. “The truth. Now. Or perhaps my contacts in Sollund will pay a visit to your lovely wife. Show her around Ravethin’s mines. I doubt she’d last as long as my Lilies did.”

Cordè sucked in a breath. She’d forgotten when Linnaea was cornered, she wasn’t afraid to unsheathe her claws.

“Your attempts at forcing a bargain will leave you disappointed,” Parsyn said. “I have nothing new to offer.”

“Very well. Let me try again.” Clack clack clack. Linnaea now loomed in front of Parsyn, spectacles down her nose. “I know Nedra is alive.”

Cordè scrambled to keep up. Nedra? Did she know that name?

The couch sighed as Parsyn reclined, arm stretched over the cushion. Through the blinds, Cordè saw his head tilt to the side. “I assume the Queen of Ravethin has been informed?”

“Come clean about Talat, and I’ll tell you.”

Cordè’s nails bit into the brick when Linnaea’s eyes flickered toward the window.

Linnaea knew Cordè was there. She’d known the whole time, hadn’t she?

“I didn’t kill your Eye.” Parsyn paused, and Cordè swore she heard a smile in his tone. “But I was there when he was caught peeping.”

“Caught by who?”

“You first. Does Queen Saewine know about Nedra?”

Linnaea remained silent.

“It appears we’re at an impasse,” Parsyn said. Another beat of silence, this one as sharp as a knife’s edge. “I really wish you hadn’t told me about Nedra.”

“Is your plan now to drag me to the roof and hurl me into my own garden?”

“Poetic, but no. I’m just going to have to take what I came for.”

“If you harm one hair on her head⁠—”

“My dear, I’m not here for Cordè. Or you, for that matter.” Parsyn stood. “I know the godsforged is upstairs in your ward’s room. Give him to me.”

“You actually believe I’m harboring a magical holy warrior?”

Cordè pressed herself against the wall as Parsyn moved toward the window. Why was she still standing here? Why wasn’t she running to get Farren? Or Ro? Why were her bare feet anchored to the dirt?

“I abhor unnecessary violence,” Parsyn said, as if Linnaea hadn’t spoken. “But I’ll be leaving here with the boy. It’s up to you how much of your household has to die beforehand.”

All at once, feeling returned to Cordè’s legs.

She needed to get someone. Farren. Ro. Aelus.

As discreetly as possible, she slipped in through the side door to the sitting room adjacent to Linnaea’s study. She scanned the space for movement, then headed for the foyer, heart pounding painfully against her ribcage. Farren. Ro. Aelus.

She opened the sitting room door and nearly ran smack into the person on the other side.

Not Farren or Ro. Certainly not Aelus.

“Ysa! How many times have I told you not to stand on the other side of….”

Cordè stopped. She looked at Ysabelle, who ducked into a sloppy curtsy a half-second too late.

The warning that’d been about to leap from Cordè’s mouth—get Farren, get the guards, get anyone—shriveled on her tongue. Ysabelle had on her teal travel cloak: Talat’s gift, her favorite article of clothing. Only wore it for special trips.

Cordè’s attention returned to Ysabelle’s face, pale and drawn.

“What are you doing here?” Cordè asked, tone as steady as she could manage.

“Cleaning, my lady.”

Another glance at the teal cloak. Then her empty hands.

Without breaking eye contact, Cordè nodded in the direction of Linnaea’s study. “Were you listening?”

“…No.”

Lie. An obvious lie, but it made Cordè’s stomach sink, because that look—that odd, uncharacteristic blankness in Ysabelle’s expression—was the exact same look Ysa had worn when she’d tucked Cordè into Aelus’s bed not three days past.

I know the godsforged is upstairs, Parsyn said.

A cyclone of moments funneled through Cordè’s thoughts in the span of an instant: Ysabelle returning empty-handed from Beni’s (no news, she’d claimed, no news), Gaeton’s missing correspondence. And Talat, oh gods, how had Parsyn discovered Talat’s affair with Serasha? No one had known. No one except, maybe, the mousy handmaid with a habit of hovering outside doors.

Cordè and Ysabelle stared at one another.

Then Ysabelle bolted for the hall.

Cordè launched after her, bare feet slapping the hardwood as her fingers snatched at Ysabelle’s cloak. She caught the cotton in a fierce yet shaky grip and pulled.

An mmph of surprised frustration escaped Ysabelle as she tumbled.

“Why!” Cordè shrieked as she struggled to keep Ysa down. “Why!”

“He said he’d take me in,” Ysabelle keened, “make me his charge.” Her cheeks turned splotchy with effort or shame. No, not shame. Anger. Anger Cordè hadn’t recognized until Ysabelle kicked her square in the gut.

Chest heaving, Ysa glared down at Cordè with glazed, hateful eyes. “He said he’d take care of me and my family,” she panted. “I have one of those, not that you ever bothered to ask.”

She lashed out again, aiming for the kaleidoscope of bruising on Cordè’s forehead.

Cordè caught her by the ankle and tugged. Hard.

Ysabelle crashed backward onto the floor. The back of her skull bounced off the ground with a sickening crack.

Out cold.

Cordè gracelessly scrambled to her feet, maneuvered over Ysabelle’s unconscious body, and sprinted for the study.

“Farren! Farren!”

No answer.

Cordè grabbed the knob, twisted it. Locked. Had Linnaea done that, or Parsyn?

She pounded her fist against the door. “Linnaea!”

“Choose now,” Parsyn was saying, “or I’ll choose for you.”

A devastating pause followed.

“If I hand him over to you,” Linnaea asked, so softly it scarcely carried through the wood paneling, “you swear you’ll spare the rest of my house?”

“You have my⁠—”

A dull thud echoed from within, and Cordè’s heart stopped. Oh gods, he’s attacking her. Then a faint, masculine groan crept through the crack beneath the door.

“Farren!” Cordè shrieked, flinging herself into the door. “Farren! Anyone!”

She reeled back and slammed her shoulder into it again.

And again.

And again.

Finally, on the fifth attempt, the lock gave way, and Cordè stumbled inside.

The first thing she saw was blood splattered across the study floor, smeared as if someone had stepped in it. A marble paperweight lay off to the side, chipped and dotted with crimson.

I gave that to her for her sixtieth birthday.

Parsyn and Linnaea were at the desk. He’d grabbed her throat and was shoving her back, trying to leverage her meager weight against her. He didn’t even turn to look at Cordè, though Linnaea did. From behind wireframe glasses, her bulging eyes locked onto Cordè.

Linnaea’s mouth opened. Not to draw air, but to speak. To call to Cordè.

And that was all it took, really: a beat of distraction for Cordè to miss the way Parsyn’s hand scrambled on the desk.

He lifted Linnaea’s letter opener and jammed the blade into Linnaea’s neck.

Not clean across. Not a slice.

An emphatic puncture, straight into the soft fleshy juncture above her collarbone.

The world narrowed, became smaller. Cordè saw the red burst from Linnaea’s throat like a geyser. She heard a shriek—her own, maybe, she didn’t know. She heard Linnaea gurgle. Heard Parsyn grunt with effort.

He raised the letter opener and brought it down again.

Someone pulled at her arm, and Cordè didn’t care if it was the Blade or the ghost of Medôn Guitelet or the gods themselves. She threw it off and tried to run toward Linnaea, even as she saw that precious lifeblood leech onto the floor.

The hand grabbed at her a second time, and she heard Farren say her name, shout it in a tone they’d never used before. They yanked her backward through the door frame.

Away.

Away.

The last thing Cordè saw was Linnaea collapsing, and Parsyn lifting his shiny black heel and slamming it into the fragile bones of Linnaea’s face.

Then Farren shoved her down the hall. “Run,” they said.

She did. She ran toward the front door, skidding to a halt as it opened and blue-caped guards spilled into her home. A strangled yell erupted from deeper within the manor. Haniel, Cordè thought dimly. The yelling stopped, and the abrupt quiet was more horrifying than the sound itself.

Stairs, to her left. She took them two at a time, forcing her feet to move, now. Over her shoulder, she saw Farren station themselves at the bottom of the steps.

“You have no business here, Blade,” they said, holding out a hand.

Cordè didn’t even glimpse the flash of steel from the lead soldier, not until it burst out Farren’s back in a shower of blood.

Her mind didn’t digest the kill. All she saw was color. And motion. And as if propelled by a force beyond herself, her legs urged her to keep climbing, keep running.

Aelus. Aelus. Aelus.

“Get the godsforged!” Parsyn shouted as she sprinted for the spiral staircase.

“Kill everyone else.”

THIRTY-FIVE

With a soft grunt, Aelus rolled over and buried his face into one of Cordè’s massive downy pillows. The fancy embroidery tickled his nose, but he didn’t mind. He was warm. Safe.

Smiling faintly, he sank deeper into his cocoon.

Bong. Bong. Bong.

… Bells?

His eyelids peeled open. It was too early for the Artificer clocktower to ring; the sky was still tinged blossom pink. Perhaps there was a ceremony at Illüne’s temple?

Bong. Bong. Bong.

Aelus’s stomach dropped.

Those weren’t the clocktower bells. They were the Mithraeum’s.

A series of thumps echoed through the floorboards, and he paused, thinking it was one of Haniel’s cats. More heavy thumps, followed by the unmistakable ting of metal striking metal.

Then came a distant shriek.

Cordè.

Aelus threw back the covers and launched himself off the mattress. He needed a weapon. Now. Ignoring his back’s hiss of protest, he knelt beside the oak dresser and felt along the bottom lip for the spare shortsword he’d hidden in Cordè’s room. Just in case.

He headed for the open door, and in the hall beyond, he heard the high-pitched clang-clang-clang of someone sprinting up the spiral staircase.

Throat tight, he flattened himself against the nearby wall and unsheathed his sword.

Wait for them to enter. Strike. Go look for Cordè.

Footsteps echoed through the hallway. Aelus inhaled, lifted his sword to a high guard….

And abruptly lowered it as a gasping Cordè burst into the room.

Without second thought, Aelus shut the door, grabbed her, and scanned her for injuries. No blood. No cuts. But her gaze was wild, unfocused, and she was shaking, shaking so badly her teeth chattered.

“W-window,” she stammered as he locked the door. “We need to climb out the window.”

He nodded, still clutching her arm. “Okay, we’ll go. But first tell me what happened.”

“Parsyn.” Cordè’s voice was paper-thin. “He killed her. He killed Linnaea.”

Blood drained from Aelus’s face. Linnaea was dead?

The metal stairs chimed again, louder this time. Cordè seized his shoulder.

“Window.”

Giving her a final scan, Aelus gestured at the velvet chaise with the heavy wooden legs. “Jam it under the knob and wedge it between the bed. It’ll slow them down.”

Lips trembling, she did as she was told.

As Cordè dragged the furniture across the room, Aelus secured his sword around his waist and opened the window. Cordè’s flowering pear tree lay beyond, alongside a weeping trail of ivy and a gaggle of prickly-looking bushes.

Not one of his previously planned emergency routes, but it would do.

Crash! The door quivered from the impact. The chaise squealed but didn’t budge.

Shoulder throbbing, Aelus hoisted Cordè onto the windowsill, hand on her lower back to steady her.

Another crash.

This time the chaise moved an inch, enough to reveal a streak of midnight blue capes. “Follow me,” Cordè panted. Then she jumped.

His cry of alarm stuck to his throat as she grabbed hold of a branch and shimmied down the tree like a squirrel.

Crash! The chaise moved another inch.

He studied the blanket of flowers and winced. This was going to hurt. Heart pounding, he leaped after Cordè.

“Hngf!” His wounds sang as he slammed into a sturdy branch. He struggled for purchase, nails scraping the gruff bark, legs flailing until he hooked them somewhere in the tree’s crown.

“Hurry!” Cordè shouted.

Aelus nodded, more to himself than to her, and started his descent. The instant he touched down, Cordè grabbed his arm. “Come on. We have to⁠—”

Something twanged overhead.

Aelus spun, throwing Cordè against the manor’s wattle-and-daub siding as arrows sailed by. He looked to Cordè’s window and saw a pair of Blade load more bolts into their crossbows.

“Move!” Aelus shoved Cordè in front of him, directing her to the closest cover: the manor’s exterior wall. Two more arrows whistled past his ear as he scrambled to stay between Cordè and certain death.

As they sprinted down the pathway, through the gate’s silver-wrought bars, he saw flashes of people running as if pursued by daemons. And in the brief, humming silence between bongs echoed dozens, hundreds of screams—punctuated by a series of erratic booms.

By the Watcher, what was happening? What was happening in Val’dora?

Another arrow flew past, just over his injured shoulder. His heart seized as Cordè stumbled, clutching at a gash on her thigh.

“Aelus…”

He scooped her into his arms, and his scabs burst with a sickening pop.

Aelus groaned and kept running. Right there. Cover was right there, just a little further.

An undulating war cry shook the courtyard as a muscled figure in a ratty, knee-length tunic charged around the corner like a bull.

…Ro?

Snarling, Ro yanked two throwing axes from her belt holster and sent them whistling for the Blades’ skulls. Aelus heard a meaty thunk-thunk, then two bodies tumbled into the bushes.

Ro stumbled to a stop beside Aelus. “You okay?” she shouted over the bells.

He nodded with a grimace. “What’s going on?”

“It’s the fucking Blade. Huri’s taken them on a rampage.”

“A rampage?” Aelus paled. “He’s killing citizens?”

“He’s killing Faithful.”

No. Aelus swayed, ground turning to liquid beneath his feet. Cordè reached for him, but he couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel anything. Not until Ro dug her nails into his arm.

“Hey. Snap out of it. The Nivae carriage is a couple streets down, hitched and ready to go. You have three minutes to get there. Three minutes, then I leave. Got it?”

He stared at Ro uncomprehendingly.

Commotion at the manor’s front door made them turn: Blade soldiers spilled onto the stoop, Parsyn at their helm. Ro cursed and gave Aelus a push, nearly sending him to the cobblestones. She unclipped another ax and spun toward the Blade. “Go!”

The word echoed in his ringing skull.

Go.

“Aelus?”

It was Cordè. And the tone of her voice, the fear in it, broke him from his daze.

“Don’t let go of me,” he choked out. Clutching her against his burned chest, he turned on heel and ran.

Outside the gates, the streets were in chaos. Blade and Faithful blurred together in a whirlwind of steel and blood as buildings smoldered, crumbled, collapsed. Everywhere Aelus looked, there were bodies. Bodies in blue capes. Bodies in black surcoats. And some, oh gods, some wore civilians’ clothes.

But the majority of the dead were Faithful.

Aelus’s grip tightened around Cordè. Once she was safe, he would come back, help his brothers. Oathbreaker or not, he could still fight.

A faint boom and a flash of white light made him flinch.

Lightning?

Impossible. The skies were clear, not a stitch of cloud in them.

Another boom undercut the violence, and he turned to see a Faithful double over, eyes squeezed shut as a puff of poison-green smoke boiled around them like smog. At his back, a bathtub-sized crater made a storefront’s awning crumble inward.

“I can’t see,” the Faithful howled. “I can’t see!”

His cries were cut short as a Blade soldier seized a handful of hair, wrenched it back, and sliced the Eye’s throat. Blood poured down the Eye’s front, the red vivid against the hazy green background. He choked, grabbed at the wound to stem the flow, as a second Blade rammed their spear straight through his gaping mouth.

The back of the Eye’s skull broke open with a horrifying shlack.

Aelus stumbled, gut twisting. The kill was brutal, smooth, organized.

The Blade smirked at each other and spat on the Faithful’s body. Then they pulled small, round, metal objects from their leather waistbands and headed down the opposite street. Off in the distance came another boom, followed by a flash of white light and a poison-green cloud.

Like Orien’s second trick, only not. This was bigger. Deadlier.

Cordè clutched his arm. “The carriage.”

Aelus turned from the slaughter and half-jogged, half-limped eastward, vision blurring with tears as he replayed the schlack of splintering bone, of blood exploding like a fountain.

A feral, monstrous roar sliced through the pandemonium.

Aelus froze. He knew that voice. He knew that voice.

Cordè did too. “Oh gods.”

Heart thudding, he glanced over his shoulder. There, at the end of the street, flanked by two dozen Elite, was Huri Aubefort: cape billowing, youthful face flushed, hair blown askew.

But the uniform he wore wasn’t blue. It was red.

From neck to boots, Huri dripped with gore. It hung in clumps, dribbling down his front like vomit. He raised a blood-drenched arm, opal longsword pointing directly at Aelus and Cordè. His canines glinted as he shouted something—about vengeance? Medôn? —and a wave of Elite surged forward.

Cordè screamed.

Go.

With Cordè in his arms, Aelus went.

“Carriage. Couple streets down. Hitched, ready to go.” Aelus repeated Ro’s words in a strangled mantra as Blade gained. Cordè clutched his bicep, breaths coming in quick little spurts.

“Carriage. Couple streets down. Hitched, ready to go.”

A horse whinnied, and he nearly collapsed in relief. Daphne. She and one of Linnaea’s black stallions stood a block away along the sidewalk. Hitched, ready to go. Daphne reared up, hooves pawing at the air as if to say hurry, hurry.

He tried. Watcher save him, he tried. But his leg, his back slowed him down.

The Blade’s shouts grew louder, and Aelus tugged Cordè closer, muscles tensing in preparation for a killing blow.

Wzzt. Wzzt. Wzzt. Wzzt. A flurry of arrows soared from a nearby rooftop, embedding themselves in four of the Blades’ exposed necks.

Who…?

Cordè pointed. “Ro’s scout.”

Following Cordè’s finger, Aelus spied a shadow darting between chimneys. The scout loosed another volley of arrows, and three more Blade crumpled as Aelus finally reached the carriage. He flung open the door and shoved Cordè inside with a command for her to stay down.

Ro. Where was Ro? She said she’d give them three minutes.

“What the hells are you waiting for?”

Aelus whirled as Ro flew from an alleyway and leaped for the driver’s seat, blood streaming off her in wet, sticky droves. “Get in,” she barked.

He obeyed. And as he settled himself beside Cordè, Ro looked skyward and whistled. One second, two seconds—then an acknowledging trill echoed from the rooftops.

“Hold on!” Ro shouted, cracking the reins.

The carriage jolted forward, and Aelus lunged to keep Cordè from slamming into the door. She gasped, face paling as she clutched her injured thigh. As gingerly as he could manage, he pulled her leg into his lap and peeled back her ruined robe.

The arrowhead had carved a deep, angry crevice into her skin. Missed the artery. Need to apply pressure. He ripped off a strip of her nightgown and pressed it to the wound.

Cordè cried out.

The sound tore at him. And tangling his fingers in her sweaty braid, he pulled her into a too-tight hug. “It’s okay. You’re okay,” he mumbled, pressing a brief but anguished kiss to her temple. “You’re going to be fine.”

Something landed on the roof with a wall-rattling thump. Ro’s scout, he thought. Hoped.

“Where’s Zayid?” a voice asked above him, gruff as gravel.

“Taken,” Ro said.

“And Linnaea?”

“Dead.”

Cordè’s breathing tripled in tempo, and Aelus squeezed her hand before checking outside. Huri’s Elite were still in hot pursuit.

“We can’t leave Zayid,” the scout called from his perch. “His brother⁠—”

“I know, Keen.” Ro’s tone lost its jagged edge. “We don’t have a choice. We’ll come back for him. Later. Right now, Aelus and Cordè are the priority.”

Outside, the Blade shed their cloaks and reached into the pouches at their waists.

Aelus slammed a blood-covered fist against the carriage wall. “Ro!”

“I see them, dammit! Keen, keep us covered.”

Daphne took a hard turn into the Artificer district, and Ro yelled to clear the road. They wove through crowds, using side streets and alleyways to outpace the Blade. Terrified screams pierced the carriage, punctuated by muffled explosions and guttural moans of dying Faithful. Aelus wiped at his face, accidentally smearing blood on his cheek, and focused on patching Cordè’s thigh. His hands trembled as he tied the last knot.

“Aelus.”

He looked up to see Cordè staring at him, shattered expression mirroring his own. A splatter of crimson dotted her chin, and he had no idea when it’d gotten there.

The wzzt of Keen’s arrows started to slow. “Ro, go right,” Keen commanded.

“When?”

“Now!” The carriage swerved, and the stripes on Aelus’s back ignited as he smashed against the gilded wall. Hot, fresh blood started trickling down his spine.

Keen fired another furious volley of arrows.

Then: “All clear!” followed by a creaky thump as Keen settled into his seat at Ro’s side.

With slow, painful movements, Aelus resituated himself and drew Cordè into his arms. Her skin, normally warm to the touch, was clammy with sweat. She shuddered, and he wanted to comfort her, tell her it’d be okay, but the words wouldn’t come. So instead he rested his chin atop her head and held her close as burning, beautiful Val’dora blurred past.

It wasn’t until the city walls had shrunk to a distant blur that he broke the silence.

“What’s the plan?” he called to Ro.

“Linnaea’s contingency.” Ro snapped the reins, pushing the horses into a gallop: away from Val’dora, away from the Mithraeum, the place he’d once called home. “We’re headed east.”

Cordè stirred, fingers digging into his forearm in recognition.

“You’re taking us to Ravethin?” Aelus asked.

“Not Ravethin.” He could almost hear the humorless smile in Ro’s voice. “We’re going to Sollund.”

THIRTY-SIX

Theophane Suvau, Senior Officer of the Blade, stood alone in the Mithraeum’s courtyard.

It was a somber, abysmal scene. The entire expanse of stone glistened red beneath the summertide sun. Corpses, largely Faithful, decorated the training yard’s stone walls, faces frozen in shock and pain. Most were acolytes, unarmed and ill-equipped to take on Huri and his Blade. The body at Theophane’s feet, however, was markedly older.

The afternoon glare made the man’s gilded robes difficult to look at as Theophane crouched down and studied his splayed limbs. His arms were spread like the wings of a golden eagle, presumably in defense of the now-dead acolytes at his back.

He had kind features, almost fatherly, and his wrinkles denoted a man who smiled often—so unlike most of the Faithful she’d encountered.

She slipped off her leather gloves and closed the Scholar’s dark lids.

He moved.

Theophane pulled her hand back. He did it again: a lift and fall of his shoulder. The ruby pin above his breast winked with the motion.

“Help m-me.”

The voice was small, weak, barely a gasp, yet the Scholar’s gaping mouth remained still. Theophane leaned to the side and saw an acolyte half-buried beneath the golden-robed corpse. A pile of something wet and pink and slick glistened beside him.

“Please.” Blood dribbled from the boy’s dry, peeling lips. “Help me.”

He was young, barely ten, she’d wager. How he’d survived with most of his insides spilled onto the courtyard, she didn’t know. But she admired him for it. He reminded her of another boy she’d known in her youth: one with a quiet presence and a love of the mandolin.

The acolyte gave a wet wheeze. He wouldn’t last long.

“P-please.”

She reached out, squeezed his hand. “By His Gaze.”

Then, in one fluid motion, she unsheathed her dagger and sliced his throat to the bone.

A thin line of crimson sprayed from the wound, dotting Theophane’s armor to her chin. He spasmed, more blood seeping through his teeth. Finally, he went limp.

She let his hand thump to the ground and wiped her dagger clean on the Scholar’s robe.

Movement flickered in her periphery as one of her soldiers exited the Mithraeum. Calmly sliding her blood-covered hands into her gloves, Theophane pushed herself to standing. “Captain.”

“Ma’am.”

Despite her recent harrowing situation and healing wounds, Captain Orien Locke looked no worse for wear. In fact, she’d jumped in and helped organize the Blade into recovery squads with dizzying efficiency. It was one of her best qualities, that efficiency—surpassed only by her willpower. Theophane made it a point to recruit people like Orien: people with tenacity and fervor who simply needed a slight push in the right direction.

She smiled humorlessly. Manipulation was a lesson she’d learned early. Pluck the proper strings, and much could be accomplished. Like a massacre, for example.

“Report,” Theophane said.

“We lost a dozen regiments, including most of Huri’s Elite. But your personal squad remains intact. None engaged in the fighting.” Orien’s fingers stuttered as she glanced at the corpses by Theophane’s feet.

Theophane followed Orien’s gaze, careful to keep her expression appropriately poised between disgust—which was genuine—and regret. “I should have said something sooner. Should have fought harder against Huri serving as interim Head.”

Orien’s face softened. “You warned the Blade he was too emotional to lead.”

“So I did.” She stared at the widening blood pool at her feet. “Did any Faithful survive?”

“Yes, but they’ve scattered.”

“Double the patrols in case they seek revenge.” Orien nodded, then hesitated. Theophane’s brows rose. “Something else?”

“Huri was taken into custody early this morning. No reports of incidents. And since Huri never elected a Second, the Triumvirate has asked for you to step in.” Orien bowed. “Congratulations, Lady Suvau.”

Lady Suvau.

Like the finishing stitch in a seam, the last pieces of Theophane’s plan fell into place.

Cloaking herself in humility, she returned Orien’s bow while privately indulging in a moment of reflection. Huri’s wanton lust for revenge had complicated her plans; he’d charged in, half-mad with no strategy, and gotten countless Blade killed.

But in the end, she’d gotten what she’d wanted, hadn’t she? Access.

Taking a final look at the carnage, she straightened her cape and followed Orien inside.

The Mithraeum was bigger than she expected. And surprisingly ornate, considering its function. She scanned the ribbed pillars and chasm-like halls as they passed the bodies in the entryway, stacked neatly for the upcoming funeral pyre. Attending soldiers still matted with blood hailed Theophane, eager to convey their well wishes, their excitement. Ever the supportive leader, Theophane smiled and offered her new subordinates some words in return. Words of trust, victory, comradery.

She paused to study a crater that’d been blown into a classroom doorway. Ribboned tendons of an unattached arm dangled from the maw-like debris. The force of the detonation had disintegrated everything past the elbow, leaving a stump of bone and muscle and freckled skin.

“Huri used a new weapon,” Orien explained, face ashen. “Some sort of explosive.”

“How’d he get them?”

“I don’t know.”

Of course Orien didn’t. No one did, except Theophane. But she’d made certain Huri wouldn’t question the explosives’ origin by ensuring he was the one who discovered them. It’d been easy: a whisper here, a subtle nudge there, and Huri had found an outlet for his rage.

She put a hand on her rapier. “Take a squad and sweep the area for any more surprises.”

Once Orien departed, Theophane turned to the nearest stained-glass window, toward Val’dora—where, with any luck, Parsyn had finished his business at the Nivae manor.

As skeptical as Theophane had been of the little housemaid spy, it turned out Parsyn’s instincts were correct, as they so often had been over the years. And while she didn’t think this alleged godsforged Eye was the weapon she sought, she had little to lose by letting him pursue it.

Plus, Parsyn was easiest to influence when he believed he was in control. So she’d given him a retinue of Blade to puppet and sent him away.

She sighed. Twice now the Nivae household had inadvertently meddled. The first instance had been the Eye on the Capitis roof. What had his name been, anyway? Timon? Trefor? Whoever he’d been, it no longer mattered. Ellisar had barely broken a sweat tossing him from the roof, and his death had ended up expediting her goal by months. A potential catastrophe transformed into a catalyst in a single stroke of good fortune.

A clipped “ma’am” interrupted Theophane’s train of thought, and she pivoted.

“Report.”

Ellisar’s mouth curled into a ghost of a smirk. “We found it.”

“Show me.”

The halls shrank as they ascended the Mithraeum’s peak, squeezing closer and closer until Theophane’s skin prickled with discomfort. Ellisar, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease, though this was unsurprising. The Mithraeum had been Ellisar’s home, once.

Sometime later, he stopped at the last door at the end of a twisting corridor.

“As promised.”

The only thing marking this place as significant was the corpse guarding it, cut down by more than two dozen slashes. A golden necklace lay at the hollow of his fileted throat. A Seer, then: tall and strongly built, with hewn features softened by death. He was unfamiliar, yet something about the rigid set of his jaw tickled the back of Theophane’s mind.

She recalled Aelus, the Eye she’d so neatly misdirected to Myrra—and now, the object of Parsyn’s fixation—and compared his features to the corpse’s.

Too old to be a brother. Uncle, maybe?

With a quick word for Ellisar to stay put, she entered the study.

Contrary to the rest of the Mithraeum, this room had been furnished with precision, with care. There was a warmth here, like the Seers had hoarded anything of sentimental value for this room and this room alone: rugs and ornate desks and lounge chairs too wide for their ancient backsides. And, of course, books.

There were nearly thirty shelves, each one stuffed full of essays, manuscripts, translated copies of The Principium. It’d take her weeks to comb through them all.

Theophane honed in on the collection of papers beneath the windowsill. They seemed fresh: a good place to start. She rifled through the stack. To her disappointment, the writing appeared to be meaningless dribble, testimonies from citizens, reports from Eyes in the city.

But no mention of anything constituting a weapon.

She drummed her gloved fingers against the stone sill and glared at the useless pile. “Are you sure this is the place, Ellisar?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She must be missing something, or she’d miscalculated.

No. She never miscalculated.

After a brief deliberation, she stepped back and slowly curled into a crouch. If I were a Seer, where would I keep sensitive information? Arm braced against her thigh, Theophane scanned the room, noting the faint aroma of cologne, the drag marks of a chair being scraped across the floor, an old smatter of ashes in the fireplace.

There.

Standing, she’d missed it. But in her lowered position, she spied a disturbance in the dust.

Footsteps, multiple pairs of them, centered around a bookshelf in the left-hand corner.

Pulse leaping to her throat, Theophane ventured closer and felt a twinge of success. The shelves were stuffed full of journals. Hundreds of them. She plucked one off the shelf, and the book split open with a sigh.

…sent a Seer to the Heart to collect more supply. With luck, the next batch will be ready for the coming assemblage of acolytes….

Theophane frowned and flipped to the next page. Read each word. Then she snatched more journals off the shelf—the earliest ones, she assumed by their age—and feverishly scoured the writing. The more text she devoured, the quieter she became. And the more the fire in her belly grew.

Ellisar rapped on the door. “Ma’am?”

“Go help the others,” she ordered.

As soon as he was gone, Theophane tossed the journal aside, snatched the lit torch by the doorway, and went to kneel by the Seer’s corpse. Key. The entries mentioned a key. The Seer’s necklace glinted dully in the firelight. She studied it—then, following her instincts, she flipped over the oval amulet.

Etched deep into the gold was a strange marking unlike anything she’d ever seen.

Key.

She ripped the necklace free and bolted down the stairs.

…sent a Seer to the Heart to collect more supply….

The Great Hall had been cleared out. No torches ablaze, no incense burning. The altar, however, remained untouched: gilded, bedizened, and poised for her arrival.

The entryway to the Heart of the Mithraeum.

Though a Seer had included a sloppy sketch, they’d failed to do the altar’s engraving justice. Reneir’s likeness carried with it such realism Theophane swore she could see blood pumping in the chiseled veins on the back of the hand atop his right eye. It was the other eye, however, that consumed her attention: oversized to the point of grotesque, it stared unseeing at whatever stood directly in front of the altar.

In this case, Theophane herself.

The left eye’s aperture had been carved as a faint indentation, a perfect oval—empty and awaiting its other half. She pressed the back of the amulet into the groove.

Click.

A rumble filled the room, lower than a growl, as the altar sank into the floor. Like the Citadel’s drawbridge, it receded behind jagged shingles of stone, revealing a steep, winding staircase. Torch in hand, Theophane stepped into the abyss.

The steps were gruff and uneven, and they jutted out of the left wall like teeth. The darkness continued into oblivion, her footfalls echoing as if she’d fallen into a well. Coldness hugged her tighter than the walls, tighter than her leather armor, and somewhere far below, a wind howled, reminding her of mourning wolves.

For the first twenty steps, the stone remained blank and featureless—then, abruptly, the right wall dropped into nothingness. She peered over the edge, torch held aloft, and in the dim orange lighting she beheld a cave-like wall pocked with hollows, like a sponge made of stone. There were hundreds, thousands of holes, all hewn in the shape of an eye. And stored within each pocket rested a plain obsidian vase.

Not vases. Urns. This was where the Order stored their dead.

Keeping one hand against the left wall for balance, she continued her descent.

Down, down, down into a world of rock and wind and burned bones. Down until her nose felt frosted with cold, and she swore the Heart wasn’t the Heart of the Mithraeum at all, but a pit leading to the hells themselves.

Then something strange occurred. The air started to sparkle.

It was subtle at first, subtle enough to be mistaken for a trick of light. As she continued, however, the copper specks multiplied, swirling around her like snowflakes. She breathed in—and choked as a stinging sensation seized her lungs.

The ice living in her veins balked, sending an unexpected ripple of nausea through her. She didn’t know what this was, but it wasn’t lethal…at least not immediately.

A steady, familiar voice echoed in her head: Is it worth the cost?

Her answer never changed. Yes.

Moving the torch to her opposite hand, she tugged her cloak over her nose and carried on.

Sometime later, it was hard to keep track of exactly when, she reached the bottom. The specks were thicker here, making it difficult to draw in air, even under the shelter of her cloak. And it was dark, so dark she felt as if she’d been swallowed by the void.

Squinting, she peered deeper into the rusty haze and froze.

Two copper-colored chains snaked along the cage-like hollow. They laced the cave’s edge, stopping in the corner by a lumpy, misshapen shadow.

Resituating her grip around her torch, she stepped forward.

The shadow moved.

Hand at her rapier, Theophane watched as the shape prowled toward her on all fours. It paused, then skittered sideways like a spider to the far reaches of the fire’s glow—watching. She was certain it was watching, although she couldn’t see its eyes.

The flames flickered and popped, revealing first a pair of bone-white, skeletal arms. Then sinewy shoulders. Then long, dry locks of hair and a sharp chin.

It—no, he—lurked along the outskirts of her torchlight before entering fully.

And for the first time in her life, Theophane faltered. Haal, preserve me.

The man’s irises were pure blackness: terrifying, bottomless pools of pitch that tugged at the icy essence living in her core.

The figure lunged, chains snapping taut with a vicious rattle, and Theophane buried her flinch as he jerked to a halt, chipped nails vibrating an inch from her throat.

He bared his teeth and growled, the sound raspy and feral.

Carefully, carefully, Theophane held up her hand in a gesture of peace. Gods above, there was power in those eyes. Scores of it, pure and ancient.

“Look at you,” she murmured. “How could the Seers do this?”

At the word “Seers,” the man snarled, his anger shifting, receding inward, away from her.

She took it as a sign to continue. “Those arrogant, naive men sang praises in your name…all while draining you dry, over and over, to feed their own ambitions. Hypocrites. Your bloodrot is the least of what they deserve.”

The man twitched, the swirls of his irises writhing like smoke.

Without breaking eye contact, Theophane reached for the keys to undo his bonds. His chapped lips pulled back, the eager promise of release coloring his sickly face a pinkish hue. And in that moment, she knew he was hers.

She smiled.

“Tell me, Watcher, are you ready to see what’s become of your Dusera?”

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

LEGION OF THE ROSE

Cordè Cyra: cor-DAY SIGH-rah

Linnaea Nivae: li-NAY-uh nih-VAY

Ysabelle: EE-suh-bell

Ro: roh

Farren: FAIR-en

Haniel: HAH-nee-el

Parsyn de Valle: PAR-sin de vawl

Dionisia de Valle: dye-oh-NEEJ-ah de vawl

LEGION OF THE BLADE

Orien Locke: oh-RYE-en lawk

Medôn Guitelet: may-DON GOO-tuh-lay

Huri Aubefort: HYUR-ee AW-beh-fort

Theophane Suvau: THEE-oh-fain soo-VOW

Ellisar Fehr: EL-ih-sar fair

LEGION OF THE TRIUMVIRATE

Myrra Velta: MEER-uh VEL-tuh

LEGION OF THE ARTIFICERS

Gaeton de Beaugency: gay-TAWN de BOE-jen-see

Lucien Locke: LOO-si-en lawk

LEGION PREMIÈRE

Janvier Emari: jawn-VEER eh-MAR-ee

Nessare Emari: NESS-uh-ray eh-MAR-ee

Kiran: KEER-in

Serasha Yvon: sur-AW-shah ee-VAHN

Philip Yvon: FIL-ip ee-VAHN

ORDER OF THE FAITHFUL

Talat Jonquil: tuh-LAHT jawn-KEEL

Aelus Mireau: AY-luhs mer-OH

Nevander: neh-VAN-der

Imalu: ih-MAHL-oo

Radrin Halle: RAH-drin hawl

Whitman: WIT-man

THE ETHERIANS

Xillah: ZYE-luh

Zenzi: ZEN-zee

THE OTHERS

Zayid: zye-EED

Beni: BEH-nee

Madame La Fay: MAD-um luh-FAY

Elaina Mireau: eh-LAY-nuh mer-OH

THE NEMÈAN GODS

Illüne: ill-OON

Reneir: ren-EER

Haal: hayl

Khastus: KAS-tuhs

THE ELVEN PANTHEON

Tertia: TUR-sha

Q’ilyce: KEE-liss

Siønid: SHOH-nid

Ênye: EHN-yay

Vaeril: VAIR-ill

Rhosyn: RROH-sin

LOCATIONS

Nemè: neh-MAY

Ravethin: RAV-uh-thin

Tharon: THAIR-uhn

Val’dora: val-DOR-uh

Karnath: KAR-nath

Sollund: SOWL-uhnd

Aahilar: AY-hill-ar

Dusera: doo-SAIR-uh

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kate Hyers studied television, film, and writing at Syracuse University's S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications. Her career in communications has spanned numerous fields, from journalism to politics to international retail, but the one consistent thread has been writing. Kate is an out-and-proud member of the LGBTQ+ community, and she’s been told she has major golden retriever energy.

Jessica Cornelius Smith, writing as J.C. Smith, received a master's degree in Applied Clinical Psychology from Penn State University. Her career in mental health involves advocating for children and adolescents from marginalized communities, with an emphasis on trauma. When not writing, Jess is either serenading her dogs with songs from Hamilton or cursing at her PlayStation in Sindarin.