come hither, my sweet, for I keep my friends dear

and friends who are loyal have nothing to fear

but lie to me, darling, and this you should know

on graves dug by sin, no flowers shall grow

“Death’s Contract,” by an anonymous Valenèsian songwriter

I discover right away that I have a near-crippling fear of horses. Sinope snaps when I try to touch her. Linden gives me a patient smile and tells me she’s like that with everyone—everyone except the dead swordsman.

“Try again,” he says.

She rears, baptizing me beneath a shower of sand. Linden rushes forward to subdue her. Killián leads Brid behind the mountain of rocks. The wretched girl is laughing herself senseless.

I rub my throbbing forearm and try not to wince. I’m starting to bleed through Akeeva’s sweater. The wound from the rocks was no scrape, and red blossoms across the gray sleeve. Linden spares me a glance, his hands preoccupied. I examine the cut.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Is anyone ever?”

“Fair enough,” Linden says. “Come here.”

I close the distance between myself and the beast. Sinope glowers at me. At the front of her inky forehead is a tuft of white in the shape of a crescent moon. Her forward-facing eyes and long, jagged teeth let me know she wasn’t bred for farming purposes. She’s a war horse, and I’m not a fighter who’s worthy of mounting her. I know it, Linden knows it, she definitely knows it, yet Killián gave the order.

Segolé squares his steed beside us. His beast’s eyes are also at the forefront of its head, bulbous and protruding, black pupil and the faintest ring of gold. Are all horses creepy Hel-spawn? I wouldn’t know. L-Street commonland regulations are strict to minimize the stench of excrement, and animal-propelled forms of transportation aren’t permitted within the city limits.

“Stronghorses can smell fear,” Segolé says, hawklike and scrutinizing. “They’re like any other carnivorous predator in that regard.”

“Including Brid,” Linden says. “She can also smell fear.”

“Good riders know their shit, and their horses know they know their shit,” Segolé says. “No one likes a coward. You—Whoreson—are you scared?”

“Yes,” I say. “Very.”

Segolé grunts. “Linden, point to the pieces as I call them out. Bit, noseband, headstall, curb strap, girth. Bridle buckles—always make sure those are tight before you mount. Throat latch, breast collar, saddle blanket, dee ring, stirrup, fender, cinch, back cinch, pommel, seat, cantle…are you paying attention, boy?”

“Should I be taking notes?”

He squints at me. “Are you literate?”

A steady ache pulses behind my temples. “Kind of.”

“You gonna sketch word-pictures in the sand with the toes of your lady-boots?”

“They’re unisex.”

“Didn’t ask, don’t care.” He points. “What’s that?”

“A curb strap, sir.”

He looks pleased. “Under normal circumstances, I teach my students to mount using a block. It’s easier for them, gentler on the horse’s back, and better for the saddle. As is, we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got. Drop the stirrup so you can reach it with your foot.”

I guess Segolé’s taken over in the let’s-teach-Ko-about-horsemanship endeavor. This would be a mortifying way to die: Trampled in front of two of Death’s elite guardsman while the general keeps his daughter entertained.

“Like this.” Linden demonstrates on his own mount’s stirrup. “Now you do it.”

I approach Sinope. My breaths are hard and short, but so are hers. She’s as scared as I am. Her master just died. She stood over him while life was stolen from his body, surrounded by a battle she couldn’t understand. Swords flashing, blades raised, men yelling…

“I don’t want to do this any more than you do,” I murmur. “Sometimes we have to tough up and do what needs to be done. That’s what Felicity says.”

Sinope headbutts me. I stumble back. She emits a triumphant whinny and strikes the ground with her hoof. Fire warms my cheeks and ears.

“I give up,” I say. “Send me back to L-Street.”

“That was better,” Linden says. “Try again, Ko.”

“The problem is your attitude.” Segolé swats the beast’s rump, and she bucks. “Who’s in charge, Whoreson? You or the horse?”

“The horse?”

“Wrong answer.”

“Me,” I say. “I’m in charge.”

Spikey waves of adrenaline send bile up my throat. I take a hesitant step forward. Sinope’s black nostrils flare. She lets me touch her. I lower the stirrup and make sure the bridle buckles are fastened.

“That wasn’t terrible,” Segolé says.

“Thank you.” I lay it on thick so he’ll be nice to me. “You’re a good teacher.”

“Don’t lick my boots,” he snaps. “Grab a tuft of her mane. Closer to the scalp, or you’ll hurt her. Better. Tighten your fist around the right-side rein. Otherwise she’ll swing away the second you kick up—that’s a mistake you’ll only make once. Turn the stirrup with your right hand so the fender lies flat when you’re sitting. The other right hand—don’t let go of her! Bloody Baumé…”

I manage to mount on my first try. Linden applauds. I duck my head so they can’t see my face. My stomach churns. I tug the reins and turn Sinope around to face Segolé. She moves grudgingly.

Segolé tugs his gray beard. “Could have been worse.”

“Coming from Lanista Segolé, that’s a sonnet praising your virtues,” Linden says.

He swaps his helm for a wide-brimmed hat and pulls a cotton tunic over his black leathers. An instrument case is strapped to his saddle, secured to prevent slippage. The wrap is canvas, protuberant—a lyre, or maybe a throat-harp.

Segolé flicks his reins and gallops off to retrieve Killián and Brid.

###

Dunes stretch in every direction, rising and falling as they crest into horizon. The wind barely breathes, and for that I’m grateful. Felicity says when sandstorms hit, the desert swallows men whole and doesn’t bother to spit out bones.

Sinope finds vindictive pleasure in defying every nudge I give her. When I tell her to go right, she goes left. When I tell her to stop, she plows into Linden’s mount, nearly sending me sprawling into the dust. Segolé moves away from Killián to ride beside me, and he barks out advice as we trot through the deadlands.

Hold the reins tighter. Looser. Keep your eyes on the horizon. Squeeze with your thighs, not your calves, or she’ll gallop— just like that. Stop hyperventilating. Pull the reins to steady her. Straighten your posture—you think it’s an excuse that you were raised in a brothel? Sit like a man.

“I loved being raised in a brothel,” I say. “I’ve been a backroom boy since I was eight to pay for Ila’s community childcare. I plait hair and paint eyes, and the girls tell me stories. Give me advice. Feed me at the end of the night.”

They’re my family, is what I’m trying to say. Akeeva didn’t have help from our mother, the churches, or the government. Her friends—our sisters—stepped up. Ila and I wouldn’t have made it to adolescence without the whore codes and community childcare.

Segolé spits a mouthful of tarlike baccy onto the desert sand. “Didn’t ask for a confessional.”

“It wasn’t a confessional,” I say. “The women who raised me have great posture. So do I.”

“Didn’t ask, don’t care, no you don’t. Shoulders back and down, boy.”

###

I make it to Marbecante without being bucked off the steed. We dismount in the market center, and I slide off Sinope. My thighs ache and my arm burns.

The air is fresher here, even with the animal traffic. Human waste is kept underground in settlements east of the deadlands. The difference is that of Hel to paradise. A quick look around tells me Marbecane operates under the same hierarchy as the shopping district in uptown Valenès. Traders and merchants are confined to the yurts that line the streets. Their merchandise is cheaper and they’re usually willing to bargain, but they move to the next city before locals learn their names. Peasants and farmers—identifiable by hemp tunics and wool britches—drift from tent to tent.

A bakery, a butcher’s shop, a moneychanger, and a tavern line the street on the right side of the square. A group of swordsmen enjoy breaded pastries and a card game outside the bakery. They fall silent when they see us, and they salute as we pass. If the game resumes, it’s not until we’re out of earshot.

Clergymen in red cassocks with golden cinctures drift into a large building at the end of the street. Made of timber, a massive stained-glass window depicts an illuminated spider with seven legs of golden spindles. The building to the left—the moneychanger’s abode, discernable by the scale carved on the sign—has a reinforced door with steel bars and ironwork. A noble in a fur surcoat struts out. His chaperon is marked with heraldic symbols, and the toes of his shoes are exaggeratedly pointed. He walks by an ornate marble fountain, then under a stone bridge that rainbows over a textile boutique.

My gaze drops to the medicinal display set before the beaded door of an apothecary tent. Healer Waverly used several of the ingredients on Ila in the past—dried lavender and chamomile, thyme and echinacea.

A gorgeous woman in a pleated skirt waltzes by the display with a basket of fruit on one hip. She changes direction once she reaches the yurt and beelines toward me. The layers of her blue dress give off a perplexing illusion. I’ve never seen les rivières de Lady Hope, never left the Second Circuit, but I imagine rolling waves crest with the same motion. Her skirt dances in the breeze, playing tug of war with gravity.

She draws close enough to touch, and her perfume hits like a dart to the nostrils. It’s restricting in a way that violates my will to inhale. I can’t put my finger on the spicy kick—palo santo, maybe, or myrrh.

“Bloodstained for the first of many times,” she says as she passes. “Lambs didn’t use to be carnivorous. General, buy this one’s Fate before Time stands still. If you don’t, I will.”

A promise or a threat? Our eyes meet. She reaches into her basket. Tosses me one of the oranges. I forget what her smile looks like, what she said to me, what I saw when I caught the fruit. The tension leaves my body. I hit the cobblestones.

Far away, Sinope nickers and stamps a foot.

A hand smacks my cheek. Linden. He pulls me into a seated position. His sharp cheekbones jut into focus, angelic then distorted once more.

“Are you okay, Ko?” Linden asks.

“—this changes everything,” Killián says to Segolé. “We need to arrange a meeting with Lefe.”

“That was Genevieve.” Linden’s words are understandable but make no sense. “She breeds biters—mixes toxin with volatile solvents. We think airborne evaporates are in her perfume. Hold your breath the next time she passes.”

“Don’t call her Genevieve,” Killián chastises. “Mockery strengthens Lady Fate’s power, and this newest prophesy complicates our predicament.”

“She’s mortal like the rest of us,” Linden says.

“What you’re saying is neither relevant nor radical.”

I say some words like I’m confused and why has the sky turned black and please help me. They’re too busy arguing to listen to my deathbed ramblings. Maybe I don’t say anything at all.

“Lefe’s a prick and their marriage was consummated in Hel,” Linden says. “I know he’s your friend, and I’m not saying he deserved what happened to his daughter—”

“This was before your time,” Killián says. “You’re too young to have the luxury of hindsight.”

“You should value my objectivity.”

“My arm is bleeding,” I say. “It hurts a lot.”

“Ooh,” Brid says. “I want to see!”

Linden tugs up my scarlet sleeve and hisses through his teeth. Two noblewomen in front of the textile shop stare at us. Their agape, powdered faces are blurry. I close my eyes. Breathing through my nose is impossible. My jaw goes slack.

“A flesh wound, then.” Brid sighs. “I was hoping to see bone.”

Segolé grabs my arm and twists it back and forth, his expression dour.

“The tavern should have a medi-kit on hand for bar fights,” he growls. “Linden, buy calendula from the apothecary.”

“He needs stitches?” The feintest trace of concern creeps into Brid’s voice. “He’ll be okay, right?”

A heavy fog descends upon my mind, muddying my thoughts and leaving a hard knot of tension in its wake.

“Killián, take Brid into the textile boutique…” I think that’s Segolé’s voice. “The last thing we need is Lefe on an existential bender.”

“Offer the boy sacrament,” Killián says. “He won’t accept it—that’s fine. Let him refuse.”

He says something else too, but I can’t hear anything over the pounding of my own heart. Sweat pours down my forehead and pools beneath my arms, tongues of fire and living water.

I’m about to die.

I thrash, and then I stop thrashing, worrying, thinking anything at all.

###

When I open my eyes, I’m sprawled across a wooden table. The room is dimly lit and smokey. The walls are hewn. Thick beams cross the ceiling, and oil lamps hang from chains at regular intervals. They cast moving shadows across an immaculate bar and a row of silver carafes. The air is thick with the smell of smoked meats and ale.

A barmaid leans over me and presses a dishcloth against my arm. A blond curl brushes my naked chest. I bolt upright. She scrambles back. The rag she’s holding is soaked with blood. I shriek, which makes her shriek, which is awkward for both of us once I stop shrieking. We sit in it for a breath.

“I’m Seven,” she says.

“No you aren’t,” I say stupidly.

“The name, not the age,” she says. “Can I go back to putting pressure on your wound?”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

My face tingles, warms. Akeeva’s sweater is gone. If I had any francs, I could roll them down the grooves in my ribs. I’m uncomfortably aware what this winter has done to my frame and equally aware that Seven is very pretty. “I can do it,” I say.

She hands me the rag, and I press it against my forearm. The gash from the rock-heap cuts across my flesh in a crooked S. The wound is yellow around the edges—maybe from the honey-scented liquid on the cloth. Blood oozes from the gap.

“Your friend is sterilizing a needle in the kitchenette.” Seven nods toward a door beside the bar and smiles a secretive smile. “Your other friend has helped himself to my husband’s condrieu. He still has a tab from the last time he was here. Think you can get him to settle with me?”

I’m not sure what condrieu is or how much it costs, but Seven seems nice. Whoever’s drinking, I hope they’re good on their word.

A door bangs shut once, then twice. Linden drifts to the forefront of my blurred vision. He brandishes a threaded medi-needle. Segolé appears beside him, clenching a vermillion jug in his fist.

“Drink.” Segolé brandishes the bottle in my direction. “It’ll take the edge off.”

Somehow, I push myself into a seated position.

“Seven wants to know if you’re going to pay for that,” I say.

Seven blanches.

“Don’t test me, Whoreson.” Segolé’s voice is flint. “I’m trying this new thing where I wait for children to stop dying of blood loss before I berate them.”

“Honorable,” I say. “So you’ll settle your tab with Seven?”

Segolé makes a sound like a Valenèsian street cat. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“He’s a child, and he’s dying of blood loss,” Linden reminds him.

“Drink, so we can stitch you up, so I can castigate you properly,” Segolé growls.

“I don’t drink."

“Every boy drinks,” he says snidely, like he’s seen it all before and I couldn’t possibly surprise him. “I’ve been the headmaster of L-DAW for four decades. You want to know how many bottles I confiscated from Killián and Bardic when they were young, dumb, and wild? You want to know how many flasks I took from Linden?”

“Four,” Linden says.

“Five.” Segolé prods him with a wrinkled finger, then turns back to me. “Consider this a rare time when booze is permissible and encouraged.”

A handful of women at the cathouse survive the nights by escaping their minds. My birthmother fell into this category before she left, a logical response to desolation and powerlessness. I can’t resent her for it—I understand the impulse. If I find something that eases the burden of sentience, I’ll never want to remember how it feels to feel. I know myself and I know my weaknesses. When I fall it will be to escape my own thoughts, like my mother. Today isn’t that day—my sisters are counting on me.

“No,” I say firmly. “Thanks for the offer, sir.”

Segolé’s scowl deepens. “If you’re trying to make it seem like you’re tough shit—”

“I’m not tough—look at me if you think otherwise.” I gesture at my chest and grin. “This is about boundaries. See, I like to think of my body as a temple…”

Segolé brings the bottle to his mouth. His eyes don’t move from my face.

“You are a temple, Whoreson or not,” he says gruffly. “You’re a kid. Telling you don’t be an idiot is like inviting a horse to the gambling table. Still, don’t be an idiot.”

“Amon,” Seven murmurs.

I can’t meet anyone’s eyes. “It was a joke.”

“Don’t care. Wasn’t funny.”

Linden brandishes the threaded needle, which is a lot nicer than the ones displayed in the forefront windows of L-Street pawn shops. Thinner tip, too. He cleans the wound with calendula and salt water, sutures eight stitches across my forearm—onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight—and wraps the whole thing in white cotton. I slump on the table, my head and body aching. The pain I can handle, but my heart races and I’m honest-to-Yosif trembling.

“I can’t feel my face,” I say.

“You’re not dying in my tavern,” Seven says. “It would be bad for business.”

“You’ll have a few crazy dreams tonight,” Linden says. “A little blood loss never killed anyone, brother.”

No part of that statement seems accurate. “I’ll have crazy dreams from blood loss?”

“Don’t underestimate the power of Lady Fate incarnate,” Segolé says. “Twenty years ago, I watched her take down an entire brigade on one leg. Course, this was back when Reigny wore Fate’s blue skirts. She took a blast from a hollowood pipe—it didn’t blow, so she went to check the fuse. One of her feet ended up in the Sixth Circuit. You know what she did then? She picked up her blade and shoved it in Xob after Xob—”

A hand wraps around my wrist. Linden, I think.

“Weak pulse.” Warm fingers pry my eyelid. “Diluted pupils. We need to take him to a medi-center.”

“Fate rolled her dice along his golden threads,” Segolé says.

“Genevieve got him with her snake stink,” Linden says. “He needs fluids to regain his blood pressure.”

“Lady who rolled her what along my where?” I ask.

“Maybe some sophoria,” Linden adds.

“Did you see him catch the orange?” Segolé asks. “Time is linear, Fate is cyclical. That’s Lefe’s whole church, kiddo. I’ve known him since he was a servant boy, and he’s a better lord than you think.”

Linden murmurs a response, but his voice drops. I think he says he’s such a knothead.

“At least he’s self-aware,” Segolé says pointedly. “Barmaid—”

Her name is Seven, and you have a tab to pay off. I don’t know if I say the words aloud.

###

The sheets are crisp beneath my bare skin. I open my eyes. An oil lamp sways above my head, drifting in and out of focus. Sage burns from angular grooves carved into the side. A minty scent brushes by on the smoke.

To my right, the window looks out over a yurt. Horses drag covered carts down the cobbled street, resulting in an ever-present grinding in the air. Traffic is separated by a wooden fence that divides northbound and southbound travelers. Across the street in front of a wagonwright’s abode, an arrangement of woods boasts a spectrum of colors. A graveyard of chariot corpses line the surrounding terrain.

I turn my head.

On the wall hangs a tapestry depicting a woman and an olive tree. She has eight arms and the body of an arachnid. Arranged on the wardrobe below her is an altar of auburn and indigo flowers. A candle burns at the forefront. The stained-glass holder casts moving shadows as a flame sways.

General Killián sits by my medi-bed, a copy of the Marbecante Times open in front of him. His long hair is pulled back beneath his leather helm. Attached to the forehead are two outward-curving ornaments—deadcrow wings, identical to the ones stitched into the rerebraces of his armor. The symbol of a guardian. A feathered pen scratches the yellow paper, filling in a crossword puzzle.

He sees me staring and folds the newsie.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

I’ve never felt better in my life. My head is light. My arm thrums, but the pain is diluted and distant. I open my mouth to tell him I feel fantastic.

Instead of speaking coherently, I gurgle.

“The medics gave you two doses of sophoria,” Killián says with a smile. “It will ease your pain. That said, you’re higher than Yosif’s peak and still ascending.”

What pain? I’m not in pain. Did Segolé forget to settle up with Seven? Nothing matters and someday everyone I love will be dead. I’m in so much pain. My don’t-let-your-guard-down rule is consumed by ravenous flames. I can feel my youth slipping away like a fountain with a clogged spout. Akeeva and Felicity told me to enjoy my childhood while it lasts. In seconds I’ll be an old man. My tongue flops over my chapped lips, and I taste the worms that will someday feast upon my corpse. I decide I want to cry and immediately forget why I’m sad.

“Did you buy Brid’s dresses?” I ask urgently.

Killián stares at me.

“For finishing school,” I clarify.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “We purchased the garments.”

“That girl is something else,” I say. “She’s a cute kid.”

Black and gray trapezoids waltz across my vision. When will the sophoria wear off? As soon as I open my mouth I’ve forgotten what to ask and how to swallow.

“What were we talking about?”

“You called my daughter a cute kid.”

Cute kid. Cute. Bloodthirsty. Psychotic.

Do not tell Lady Death’s general that his daughter comes across a little psychotic.

“Your daughter comes across a little psychotic,” I say. “What’s up with the way she talks?”

“Brid is very close to my elites.” Killián tosses the newsie in a basket. “It may have been a mistake to grant Segolé unsupervised authority over her bedtime stories.”

“I liked her,” I say.

“I’m not sure if I believe you.” His gaze is hard. “Most people find her unnerving. Her social skills are underdeveloped.”

I rest my head on my arm, incapable of remembering what we were talking about.

“Lord General, sir? Can I ask you a question?”

The severity dissipates from his expression. “I told you to call me Killián.”

“You shouldn’t have a first name.” My tongue flops out of my mouth, sluggish. “It makes you seem human.”

For a second, I think he’s going to laugh.

“Perhaps the medics gave you too much sophoria,” he says. “The second dose won’t hit for a few minutes. This will be an interesting conversation.”

I retract my tongue. It flails back out, just a little bit.

“You had to tell Brid about pimps and scag,” I say. “That’s my fault. Sorry.”

“I answer my daughter’s questions as best I can and without judgement,” Killián says. “How else could I expect her to be candid? One must lead by example—in the church, on the frontline, and in the household.”

We stare at each other for a moment. He leans forward.

“I’m tired of throttling the horse,” he says. “Lady Fate rolled your dice, and the snake eyes are concerning.”

Am I too high to understand what he’s saying, or is he speaking in tongues?

“Genevieve has taken an interest in you,” he clarifies. “I’ve never known that to be a good omen.”

“Bad, bad omen.” I nod wisely. “She threw fruit at my head. Mean lady.”

“Excuse me?” Killián’s forehead creases. “You’re completely missing the point. I would like you to serve in Death’s army. It’s not ideal given your youth—I don’t condone sending boys to the frontline—but it’s the only way to ensure you fall under my sacred protection.”

“I could never enlist,” I say. “Losing our mother mucked Felicity up. My dice rolled before Fate and I played catch. I own my snake eyes.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

Clearly that’s an invitation to tell him my life’s story. “My mother enlisted to get away from her pimp,” I say. “Sisters—I have three. Akeeva signed with Kolton once the death stipend ran out. Ila got sick. Then she got really sick, and Felicity started at the cathouse too. I’ll join them next month. It’s the best paycheck in town if you have the tat, and I’m not leaving Valenès. Not without…”

Killián pauses. “I’m starting to understand why you seem insistent on turning down opportunity after opportunity.”

Unexpected tears burn my eyes. A sharp, prickly emotion pierces my chest.

“You shouldn’t flaunt your whole honesty thing.” My voice is snide. “It gives you a confess-your-sins-to-me type of energy.”

“You speak of sadness, not sin,” Killián says. “Who’s your Lady?”

I’m going to vomit. I will not vomit on the general of Death’s Guard. My pulse pounds inside of my mouth, under my tongue. He doesn’t understand me—never will. The position of Death’s general is passed from di Vivar to di Vivar, kept in the family through blood and marriage. Killián was born to rule. He’ll live a warlord and die a saint. I was born in the back room of a brothel. The house’s midwife—the one before Waverley—marked me with Lust’s brand five minutes after my birth. The same Testaments that give him divine authority condemned me from the moment of ensoulment.

“Check my wrist,” I say instead of telling him that. “I’m a son of Lady Lust. The ink is permanent—you’ll have a hard time converting me.”

“I don’t proselytize,” he says, then immediately starts proselytizing. “Death’s divinity can be observed in three ideations. Death as final, Death as transformative, Death as inevitable. My Lady will collect us whether we kneel or fight, which is why I’m a general first and a lord second. I don’t convert. I protect.”

“So do pimps.”

“Having siblings is a responsibility.” Killián shifts; the wicker chair creaks. “There was a time when I had two—Jebah and Brid Naya’il. After usurping my father, I raised them myself. Taking on a parental role is a heavy burden for a young man to carry. Heed my warning. If you continue down the path you’re on, you’re going to fail your little sister.”

“Bloody Baumé.” Annoyance tightens my voice. “Thanks.”

“Learn from my mistakes.”

“What mistakes?”

“You believe you’re destined to be a whore. Ila will grow into the mindset you model.”

“You believed you were destined to be a whore?”

“What? Of course not.” It’s his turn to sound annoyed. “My father taught me to think myself merciless. In their youth, my brother and sister suffered from my inability to believe anything else. Be the guardian you wish you’d had when you were a child.”

That cuts like a blade to the wrist. When Felicity first signed with Souteneur Kolton, she said she’d rather be a prostitute than watch me starve. For all my resolve to support her unconditionally, I broke down after her first night. She let herself into our flat a few hours before dawn, collapsed on the floor mat next to me, buried her face in my neck, and trembled. Somehow, I waited until she was asleep to start crying. She didn’t deserve to see that. Protect her like she’s protecting you, I told myself as I scrubbed my damp cheeks. I pulled myself together long before her eyes opened.

I can’t put Ila through that.

“She likes looking at the glasswork displays uptown.” I squeeze my eyes shut and toss an arm over my face. “She wants a bull for her yearday. Did you know cows have four stomachs?”

“I’m not sure why we’re talking about this,” Killián says. “Cows only have one stomach, made up of four compartments.”

“Lord Beef would have five stomachs,” I tell him. “He also breathes fire.”

I cackle a cruel, awful laugh. My throat splits open. The chair groans as Killián stands.

“I’m getting you a glass of water,” he says. “I suspect the second dose of sophoria just hit. You’ve lost all coherence.”

The door clicks shut. It bangs open a second later, or maybe it’s been a year. Gentle fingers wrap around my wrist. Hands prop me up—two plush pillows find their way beneath my lower back. Killián pushes a grasspaper cup into my hand. He helps me raise it to my lips and holds it there until I sip. Icy water trickles down my throat.

“I’m going to give you orders,” he says when I’ve finished drinking. “Are you capable of comprehending them?”

Why’s he giving me orders? I’m not one of Death’s soldiers.

Killián settles himself back on the chair.

“Go home and pack your things,” he says. “I’m deploying you to the Colosseum for placement testing. The first bout of the season takes place in a week. Do what the testers tell you, and try to earn admission into L-DAW. It’s the best military academy in the realm—the second of seven schools in the First Circuit’s knowledge center.”

“You told me to be honest with you.” I shift on the pillows. “Lord General, you have three heads right now. I’m not sure which one to talk to.”

Killián’s expression doesn’t shift in any meaningful way. None of his faces do. The world contracts and spins, a kaleidoscope of colors. My vision blurs. I blink and the illusion disappears.

“If your skillset is deemed subpar, I’ll have you trained as a medic,” he says. “Tuition is covered with enlistment in Death’s Guard.”

“I’m barely literate,” I say. “Even if I could…fight like a gladiator, I’d make a terrible student and a worse medic.”

“The Colosseum isn’t a gladiator arena,” he says. “It’s a fight club and testing facility wherein young enlistees honor Lady Death and prove their aptitude in proctored bouts.”

“That sounds like a gladiator arena,” I say. “Or a murder cult. I thought you said you don’t proselytize.”

“Children aren’t sacrificed in Death’s Colosseum.” Something flickers across Killián’s face. “At least, they’re not supposed to be.”

I can’t tell if he’s messing with me. “Comforting.”

“It should be. I’m offering you a chance at transformation.”

I’m in no place to handle this conversation with tact, let alone understand it. It feels like Killián is looking through me instead of at me. My thoughts snap into focus, then fade and blur like slurred speech.

“I’m interested to see you perform,” he says. “You slayed two venombeasts with no formal training. Brid called your performance aggressively mediocre, which means she found the display extraordinary.”

“I was just…waving the blade up and down,” I say. “Up, down. Up, down. Do you think it’s possible to keep a bull in a one-room flat?”

“Possible, yes. Advisable, no.”

“We’re not talking about cows,” I remind myself. “We’re talking about Brid.”

“Indeed.” Killián glances at the darkening window. “I expect she’s plotting to steal Linden’s bistaff and make her way to the frontline while my back is turned. I’m leaving you with three things. Supplies—the medics will give them to you in the morning. An escort and a horse—they’ll return you to Valenès. And a standard ten-year contract. I hope you choose to sign it, but the decision is yours.”

Killián moves toward the door. His hand rests on the handle. He twists it—

“I can’t leave my sisters,” I say.

For the first time all day, my voice cracks. I’m not sure if it’s from exhaustion, emotion, or the strain of being fourteen. My face warms.

Killián turns.

“You mentioned Ila has an interest in glasswork?” he says. “Lord Lefe could use an apprentice. He’s been a walking corpse since his daughter ascended, and he’s an old friend—this could work out nicely for both of us. I’ll acquire employment and housing for the rest of your loved ones as well if you choose to enlist.”

I want to hug him. I want to hit him. “I don’t understand.”

“You may ask one more question,” he says. “I grow weary of speaking about cows.”

He’s saying goodbye. I don’t know where to start or how to think. I’ve never been to a church or temple. Everything I know about the Ladies, their worship, and L’Anglimar’s theocracy comes from Valenèsian culture and tradition. There’s an altar in the back room of the cathouse, but I haven’t paid much attention to it. In the name of Love, glass bottles are filled with male fluids and scented oils, sealed shut with wax. Death is offered candles, incense, animal bones, and funeral masks. War receives goblets of wine and costume jewelry. I don’t remember how Fate is worshiped. I can’t even name the other three Ladies. I certainly don’t know what they represent, how to choose one, or what that gets me.

My eyes land on the sword I found in the scrapyard.

“Se battre comme le Diable.” I long for the ability to form lucid thoughts. “What does it mean?”

“The direct translation is fight like the Devil.” He pauses. “Of course, lore dictates that’s another name for Lady Death. Contextually speaking, it can be interpreted as a battle cry, a family maxim, or a call-to-arms. Why do you ask?”

My eyelids are heavier than Killián’s expectations. “It’s etched on my blade.”

“An unfinished legacy, then,” he says. “Perhaps you’ll grow into it.”

He says something else too, but I’m already half asleep. Maybe I imagine it. Maybe the dreams have already started.