They say her chest made L’Angly stray.

Her legs turned all the saints depraved.

Her lips turned good boys into prey.

Her pies had flesh, her soul was gray.

The moral is that truth can fade

for men tell lies when they’re afraid.

“Lady Leclère” Verse 3

The only noises are the scratches of spoons against bowls and the occasional sigh. I take a bite of bread and try to swallow. I can’t—I’m not used to picking things up one-handed, my throat is dry, and everything tastes like dirt. I set the bread in the bowl and reach for the flask, downing half the water with one sip. My vision grows black around the edges. I let my eyes close.

It takes me five minutes to make it through the bread, and another ten to eat the meat and oats. My stomach churns. I take small sips of water, ignore the throbbing in my maimed limb, and try to breathe. The prickle on the back of my neck tells me I’m being watched, but I don’t look up from my rations. I don’t want to meet anyone’s gaze.

When I’m finished, Killián sets his flask on the dirt. I prepare myself for the assault that’s heading toward me.

“You’re a long way from the First Circuit, Ko,” he says.

“I know how this looks,” I say wearily.

“I don’t think you do,” Linden says, grinning. “I really, really, really don’t think you do.”

Belén grabs a grasspaper file from the ground and begins to leaf through it. Her weathered face is impassive.

“Let me tell you how it looks, deuxcruité,” she says. “Sorry—would you prefer to be called swordsmaster or pridemaster? Somehow, you ended up on the frontline as an officer, despite your lack of field experience.”

“Denmaster Rio gave me a field promotion, madame,” I say. “I cannot overstate how much I didn’t want it.”

Linden snatches the file from her hand and takes over the summary.

“You led a pride of one hundred fighters across two circuits,” he says. “You killed three hundred Xobrites with virgin troops. Oh, and you were wearing a designer sweater and a woman’s helm. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how you looked when you came teetering toward us—”

“Taylen’s dead.” My eyes burn. “She was one of my nestmasters. The helm is—was—hers.”

The elites dip their heads. A respectful time passes before anyone speaks.

“She will ascend in peace.” Killián breaks the silence.

“I got her killed,” I say shakily. “It’s my fault.”

“Ko.” Staffmaster Torrense’s voice is gentle. “You didn’t—”

“Don’t coddle him.” Lefe says. “Want to be an officer, swordsmaster? Learn to deal with subordinates dying under your command. Harden yourself.”

His tone rankles me, and I’m not even sure why he’s here.

“With all due respect, I’m confused.” I eye his black leathers. “Are you Lord of Fate or one of Lady Death’s staffmasters?”

Why are you on the frontline? is what I don’t ask. Where’s Ila?

“I represent both Death and Fate,” Lefe says. “In the Septemverate, I espouse the Fifth Lady and cast my votes in accordance with Fate’s Testament. On the frontline, I pray to Death and obey her general.”

“That’s allowed? Aren’t you supposed to choose one?”

His gaze is lifeless—there’s something terribly frightening about his eyes. A thick braid hangs to his waist, and silver beads are woven into the strands. Intricate symbols curve across the metal, but I can’t make out the details from across the tent.

I don’t expect him to answer my question, but he does.

“I’ve served Killián since we graduated.” Every word is curt. “Segolé claimed me as his heir to lordship when I married his niece. I believe you met my ex-wife in Marbecante—Genevieve is also Staffmaster Torrense’s twin sister. I play a pivotal role in both churches, as did Segolé before me.”

The royal relationships are incredibly tangled, and I don’t understand their powers and roles. I’m tired, aching, and unable to process this new information—I file it for later. Killián sees my blank look and takes over the explanation.

“As Lord of Fate, Lefe can control how he experiences time,” he says. “This includes the ability to slow it down and speed it up. He also has limited glimpses into the future, which allows for strategic planning. I’m fortunate to have him in my pack.”

I decide to stall the inevitable interrogation that’s coming my way.

“You can see the future?” I ask Lefe. “That’s a real thing? How does the rest of this conversation play out?”

Something flickers across Lefe’s face. A shadow—a trick of the torchlight. For a second, his features are ghostly. Inhuman. It lasts a moment, and the darkness is gone before I can process what I’m seeing.

“Poorly for me, which isn’t surprising among this group.” Lefe says quietly, and then his tone returns to the harsh snap. “Future-reading isn’t a party trick, and I don’t have time to play lanista with a whore’s son.”

Wow. I can almost feel my tattoo tingle.

“If that’s what you think of the brand, we have a problem,” I say. “How do you feel about Ila?”

I mean it to sound like a question, but it comes out a demand. It’s been a long day. This entire situation is weird, and my politeness and self-preservation instincts are shot to Hel. Moreover, I’m disturbed by the idea that future-reading is not lore. What did Lefe see? Was the lanista and whore’s son comment more than an insult?

It takes a long moment for Lefe to respond.

“Your youngest sister is delightful,” he says. “The blond one, on the other hand, is a menace. It’s not my place to condemn the branded—I was lowborn myself, but childhood trauma does not excuse rudeness.”

He’s digging this hole deeper and deeper.

“Akeeva didn’t choose Lady Lust,” I say. “She took the second tat to feed us. She’s like a mother to Ila and me. Let me try to read the past: I’m guessing you made her visit difficult and pissed her off enough to take you to task.”

I expect him to go red-faced and screamy, the way Kolton would. Instead, a slow smile twists his features. It makes him look younger—he can’t be out of his mid-thirties. The sudden change in his demeanor is off-putting.

“Possibly,” he admits.

“Probably,” Torrense says.

“Definitely,” Péri mutters.

“Okay,” I say. “Glad we straightened that out. Anyone else want to take a cheap shot at me or my family? Staffmaster Belén—want to call me a street rat again?”

Belén regards me with an unfamiliar expression on her face. Maybe it’s respect. I rub the back of my neck with my good arm.

“What I said was that rats are good at fighting,” she says. “Clearly I wasn’t wrong. Killián, tell your boy to watch how he speaks to commanding officers.”

“Pridemaster Ko, watch how you speak to commanding officers,” Killián says wearily. “Mother—Staffmaster Belén, please don’t call my titled swordsmaster a street rat. Am I the kingpin of Death’s army? I feel more like a circus-master.”

“Let’s get back to humbling Lefe.” Péri raises a hand. “You didn’t arrive until after the battle was over. Where were your troops when we crested Muck Hill?”

“We were following Killián’s orders and flanking you discretely,” Lefe says. “Your gratitude knows no bounds, Péri.”

“What’s there to be grateful for? You weren’t there.”

“Do you know what discrete means?”

“Convenient.” Péri turns to Linden. “When we were at L-DAW, Lefe had a reputation for being late. I even wrote a poem about it. Servant boy Lefe, the ever-behind. He worships Fate but the minutes unwind—”

“Your poetry is worse than your swordsmanship,” Lefe says, then turns his attention to Linden as well. “Under Médéric’s rule, I wasn’t allowed to live in the dormitories. I had to run seven miles each morning just to be there—”

“Childhood trauma does not excuse rudeness,” Péri says slyly.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

He’s definitely his daughter’s father. Sabilli would be proud.

“Let this be a lesson to you,” Lefe says. “As I foresaw, this conversation is not going well for me. In case we don’t speak again for a while—which we won’t—know this. Fate cannot be tamed, soothed, or changed. Once she rolls her dice, what I see will come to pass. You caught the orange—a blessing and a curse. I am not a cruel man, but I serve a cruel Lady.”

How cryptic and unsettling.

“About that orange…” I begin.

“All of you—enough. We’re so far off topic that we’ve left the realm.” Killián turns to me. “Ko, we need some questions answered.”

And here we are. I’m in no state to handle the conversation to come.

“Things did not go well today,” is all I can say.

“You did good, Ko,” Bardic says. “We’re confused, but we’re not chastising you. That’s not what this is.”

Maybe it’s exhaustion, or the pressure headache, or the fact that I’m coming down from the worst day of my life. All I know is I’m about to start screaming, and I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to stop it.

“Rio ordered us to Muck Hill to wait in reserve.” My eyes burn. “I broke the chain of command. I got eighty-four of my fighters killed.”

“You were the highest-ranking officer on scene.” Killián’s smile is wan. “You were the chain of command. You sacrificed your men to protect the mines. Thanks to you, we awaited an attack to our rear that never came. The cavalry envelopment was critical to their strategy—the main Xobrite force has retreated.”

“We appreciate it,” Bardic says.

Killián claps his hands together. “Before we give you your bravery laurel—”

Oh, you have got to be kidding me. I’m going to hit someone. I swear to Yosif, I’m going to hit someone. I haven’t figured out who, but it’s coming, and I’m about to lose my damn mind.

“—why don’t you tell us what happened?” His expression grows grim. “Why aren’t you at the academy, Ko?”

This is it. My left hand clenches into a fist. My nostrils flare, and every muscle in my body flexes. My cheeks get hot…

I burst into laughter.

I laugh until there are tears streaming down my face and I’m curled up in the dirt, cradling my right arm against my chest. My body shakes, then relaxes, and—somehow—I get a hold of myself.

I push into a seated position, brush the dirt from my left cheek, and meet Killián’s gaze. He leans toward me, looking concerned, and presses another flask of water into my left hand. I sip it gratefully, then swipe my wrist over my lips to catch the access drops.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Post-battle jitters.” Killián’s voice is mild. “Not uncommon.”

“Right,” I say. “So, here’s what happened.”

For the first time all day, I think about Leómadura’s office—the bitter taste of whisky, the rough grating of my cheek against his floor. My chest contracts. I swallow rapidly. Hot, itchy shame curls inside me. It feels like a million creepy-crawly insects are burrowing beneath my flesh. I have the sudden and irrational desire to cut off my skin and leave it in a heap on the floor of the tent.

I can’t put into words what happened. Not in front of the legendary fighters who I’ve spent the last month studying in depth.

I can’t.

I raise my chin, meet the general’s gaze, and lie my ass off to Killián di Vivar.

“I washed out,” I say. “This morning, after the first hunt.”

Killián waits for me to continue. Maybe if I make the story bad enough, he’ll leave me alone. I should be grateful for his attention, but right now, it just hurts. I don’t know what he wants from me—the dynamics in this tent feel more familial than authoritative—but it’s time to let him know I can’t handle it.

“My urine test came back with scag,” I improvise. “Demerit one. I couldn’t finish a death sprint to save my life, and I was insubordinate with…” Not Leómadura. Anyone but Leómadura. “…with Lanista Deres when he belittled my stamina. Demerit two. My entire pack died during the night hunt, and I didn’t even get the clover. I did slay a baby bluedeer, though. That was awful. Demerit three.”

Everything I said can be verified; Killián will debrief with Segolé sooner or later. I’m digging my own graveplot, and I promised I wouldn’t lie to him…but that’s a problem for another day. I just want to be done with this one.

Bloody Baumé, the elites have piercing stares.

“I was on the train to Cahuela to start my career as a correctional officer when Rio tapped me to the frontline,” I say, working a smidge of the truth into my story. “The fact that I’m alive is a sick joke, and the last thing I deserve right now is a bravery laurel.”

The tent is silent. I meet each of their gazes in turn. Belén, Péri, Lefe, and Torrense are blank slates; their masks are set, and I have no idea what they’re thinking. Linden’s mouth is open—I can’t tell if he’s aghast or delighted. Bardic and Killián seem to be having a silent conversation.

I lay on my back, take a swig of water, let my right arm flail limply by my side, and wait for my sentencing.

“All right.” Killián’s voice is neutral. “I have many questions, but they will have to wait.” He turns to the group. “Fighters, why don’t you retire for the night? We can discuss our next moves at first light. Get some sleep. You’ve earned it.”

“With all due respect—” Lefe begins.

A severe look from Killián cuts him off. Lefe glowers at me as they leave, but he’s the only one who does. Linden offers me a sympathetic grimace. Torrense and Péri throw casual salutes in my direction. Even Belén nods comfortingly.

Bardic stays. I thought he might. He’s a creator of tactical innovations, the Medic Bardic—he’s the one who pioneered the barbed column attack, and he was the first commander to send light infantry skirmishers ahead of the main force. If it weren’t for his battle maps, I might’ve played today differently.

Killián moves closer, and Bardic settles himself on my other side.

“Ko,” Killián says quietly. “Why don’t you tell me—”

“No.” I can’t meet his eyes. “I’m exhausted and in pain, and I want to go to bed. Please.”

I can feel them having another one of those silent conversations over my head.

“You’ll bunk with Linden,” Killián says at last. “His kip is closest to the river. We’re having lancers stand guard, so you don’t have to worry about a rotation.”

There goes my plan to steal a horse and sneak back to the Third Terminal while they’re sleeping.

“What happens tomorrow?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“The prisoners we captured will be escorted to Cahuela,” Killián says. “If Segolé stationed you there, I won’t overturn his orders. Bardic, Linden, and I will kingpin the northbound escort. You’ll come with us. We still need to finalize our route—it’s likely we’ll move through the Crête des Colonnois to reinforce and stabilize the eastern border.”

I could still make Segolé’s three week deadline to go back to the academy, then.

I won’t, but I could.

Killián pins another effing laurel to the breast pocket of my jacket. Linden’s jacket.

“Whatever happened at the academy, you did good today,” he murmurs. “You should read your pride’s accounts…Pridemaster Ko assumed control of the alpha nest with unrivaled confidence, and we would not have survived without him…I was lying on my back, bladeless, screaming for assistance, and Pridemaster Ko took out three Xobrites bearing down on me…Pridemaster Ko saved my life, pushed through a mass of opponents one-handed, and stole one of their horses—”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

He squeezes my shoulder. Against all reason, I lean into his touch.

“You did good,” he repeats.

He has a lancer bring me a kit bag and walks me to Linden’s kip. Linden greets us at the flap, bleary-eyed and half asleep. He points at the right side of the canvas tent. Killián claps me on the shoulder one last time and leaves. Linden helps me unpack a bedroll. I want to refuse his assistance, but I’m not used to doing things with my left hand. He unbuttons the side for me, and I sag against the coarse fabric.

“I can’t believe you went tongue-to-tongue with madame and the puritan,” he says. “It took me months to hold my own against Belén. I still can’t deal with Lefe—he’s very peculiar.”

His comment about Belén reminds me of something.

“I thought Killián’s mother died in childbirth.”

“Médéric married twice after,” Linden says. “Belén was his mistress turned third wife. They’ve been divorced for years— Killián kept her on when he usurped, but it’s a whole thing.”

“Why did he call her mother?”

“Killián and Belén have a complicated family,” he says. “Killián never married. You could argue that Belén is still Lady Death.”

“I thought Killián’s sister is Lady Death.”

“Technically she is, but she’s dead,” Linden says. “Killián wields the scythe and wears the ring. Death’s Testament doesn’t explicitly state that incarnates must be alive to receive their birthrights, so it’s a loophole. He’s the only one who can see and hear her—we have to take his word for it when he says she’s speaking.”

“Killián talks to his dead sister?” I ask. “How’s that possible? What’s the ring? What’s a birthright? How does any of this work?”

“Do you really want to have this conversation tonight?”

I don’t have to consider this. “No.”

“Great,” he says. “Did you really wash out?”

“That’s another conversation I don’t want to have.”

“I’m here if you want to talk,” he says, and that’s that.

He re-buttons the cloth once I’m inside and heaves himself into his own bag. I cradle my injured arm against my chest. The straps render it immobile, but they do nothing to ease the throbbing in my forearm. Hot tingles spurt across the limb, shooting up my spine. I breathe a slow, sad sigh.

“Okay,” I say. “I want to talk.”

Linden flops onto his side and props his head on his arm.

“What does Killián want with me?” My voice shakes. “Pierre-Marie said I was his pawn—”

“Pierre-Marie sees the world like it’s a chessboard,” he says. “She’s brilliant when it comes to strategy, but the fickleness of human nature confounds her. Killián doesn’t want a pawn. He wants a protégé.”

That makes no sense.

“I thought you were his protégé,” I say. “Isn’t he the one who gave you your third laurel?”

“I took a hollowood blast for Bardic in the Ninth Battle of Cahuela,” Linden says. “Killián’s kept me close ever since. Segolé likes to joke that if Killián had to choose between saving the realm and saving Bardic, L’Anglimar would burn. That’s beside the point. I’m not Killián’s protégé. I’m too old.”

Old? He’s twenty-two—maybe twenty-three.

“Too old for what?” I ask.

“Not for what,” he says. “For who.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, and I tell him that. He laughs again.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “In any case, you effed things up tonight. Your story doesn’t add up, and Killián doesn’t trust liars. Even so, he’ll do what he can to ensure you’ll be okay in Cahuela.”

I snuggle into the bedroll. “He doesn’t owe me anything.”

“He has a knack for seeing untapped potential,” Linden says. “It’s what makes him such a great general. Can I blow out the oil lamp?”

We fall into the humble embrace of darkness. The black keeps me from seeing Linden’s gray gaze, but he’s watching me. I can feel it.

“What?” I ask.

“Everything will be okay,” he murmurs. “Rest well, brother.”

I close my eyes and hope he’s right.