Staffmaster Bardic, a medic of lore—

he heals with his hands and his mind and his core.

He can stitch any wound, he can cure any sore.

There’s no one alive who The Killer trusts more.

“The Healer,” an excerpt from “Killián’s Guard”

“Ko.” That’s Linden’s voice. Urgent. “Wake up.”

I make a noise halfway between a grunt and a sob.

“Please,” he says. “We need to talk before they come back.”

Pulse hammering, head aching, injured arm throbbing, I open my eyes.

I’m in a canvas tent. My left arm is tied behind my back, secured to a beam that stretches the length of the bivouac. My strapped right arm dangles beside me. Linden’s across from me, also tied to a post. Bardic’s beside him. An open gash drips blood down the medic’s lined face. There’s someone to my right—I twist as much as the ropes will let me. Gray leathers, ripped open. A tattoo of a lily flower covers most of his shoulder. His chest heaves.

Nestmaster Paadrick.

“Damn,” I say, which captures the situation pretty well. “How’d they get you guys?”

Tears well in Linden’s gray eyes. He raises his chin and lets them fall.

“I saw them take Bardic down,” he says. “An ambush of reinforcements descended from the Dôme de Béçon as soon as we crested the summit. I went after him. I…”

“You should’ve stayed with your troops.” Bardic doesn’t open his eyes. “You had orders.”

Linden’s throat bobs. “They took you, Bard.”

“There were ten of them,” Bardic says. “What were you hoping to accomplish by pursuing?”

“I got nicked off the battlefield too,” Paadrick says. “Not that anyone asked.”

“I thought you hated small talk,” I say.

He tries to face me. The ropes hold him back.

“This isn’t small talk, sir,” Paadrick says. “With all due respect, I think you’re concussed.”

Bardic’s eyes flutter. Blood seeps from the gash at an alarming rate. He seems to realize this, because he twists his legs out from under him and presses his wounded face against his knee.

“Linden, analyze our surroundings,” he says.

Linden tries to rise onto his knees, but the ropes stop him. Scowling, he cranes his neck toward the flap. It’s closed.

“We’re in enemy territory,” he says. “I kept track of turns—if I had to guess, we’re three miles north of L’Anglimar’s border. Judging by the smell, we’re near the salt flats. There’s an elevation chill. I’m guessing we’re halfway up the Dôme de Béçon.”

“Near Gidad,” Bardic says.

“Aye.” Linden pauses. “Will Killián come after us?”

“If he’s alive, he’ll use every resource at his disposal to get us back.” There’s something heavy in Bardic’s tone. “Every mutt, every stronghorse, every soldier near enough to assist…he’ll use it all. That said, he has no idea where we are. We should prepare ourselves for the worst.”

A spasm racks Paadrick’s body. It shakes the post he’s tied to. I tug the ropes binding my left arm. The tent moves, but it’s barely a flutter. It could be the breeze. I try again, using my entire body weight for leverage.

Nothing happens.

Damn.

“Killián and I were taken hostage when we were your age,” Bardic tells Linden. “It’s procedure to extract information from high-ranking targets. They’ll want to know about our troops. Reinforcement locations. Strengths and weaknesses. Battle plans. We tell them nothing, no matter what they do to us. Is that clear?”

“Understood,” Linden says.

“Aye,” Paadrick says.

Bardic swings his gaze to me.

“I don’t know anything,” I say.

“That’s the spirit,” he says.

“I’m being literal,” I say. “I’m just here to make some memories.”

“That’s not funny, Ko,” Linden says.

It’s not? Personally, I think it’s hilarious…

Okay. Yeah. I’m definitely concussed.

Bardic presses his temple against his knee once more.

“Quick question,” I say. “Are we going to die?”

“Let’s focus on getting ourselves out of this situation,” Bardic says. “Does anyone have an idea? Any hidden weapons?”

“They searched us,” Linden says. “I think our blades are in the next tent over.”

Paadrick sags against the post. Linden looks away. Bardic surveys me through his knees.

“We could give them fake intel,” I say. “I know Killián wouldn’t want us to lie—”

“Killián would want us to get ourselves to safety,” Bardic says. “If I thought we could lie our way out of this, that would be my first suggestion. Unfortunately, whether or not we talk, I doubt they plan on setting us free.”

“Does anyone have loose bonds?” I check my ropes again. “I don’t. I can barely move, and my right arm is useless…”

Acknowledge where they’re coming from, I tell myself. Sympathize. Stroke some egos. Strike. I guess I don’t have to do that here. I’m not the commanding officer; sixty-six percent of my companions outrank me.

“This sucks,” I say, more to myself than anyone else. “This really, really sucks. But we have our orders, and we’re smart enough to follow them. Don’t tell them anything. Die quickly, if possible—”

“What are you doing?” Linden demands.

“I’m giving myself an inspirational speech.”

“That’s your idea of an inspirational speech?”

“Sure is,” I say. “Does anyone have sins to confess?”

“You’re manic.” Bardic looks me up and down. “Can you tell me what year it is?”

“203 GKE.” I pause. “Thinking hurts. I get pressure headaches pretty regularly. Getting conked didn’t help.”

“I’ve been a medic for twenty years, and I’ve never heard of a pressure headache,” Bardic says. “Describe your symptoms to me.”

“Now?”

“If there’s a way out of this, it hasn’t come to me,” he says. “Sometimes it helps to distract the brain with an unrelated problem. Does the pain come from both sides of your head, or just one?”

“Both,” I say.

“Does it radiate to your jaw?”

I think that over. “Sometimes.”

“Would you describe the ache as constant or pulsating?”

“Constant,” I say, wondering if this conversation is actually happening. “Most of the time it’s bearable. When it gets bad, I guess you could say it pulsates. I get nauseous, blurry vision, the whole works. That’s why I was on candydrops when I took the first drug test. Sophoria’s the only thing that helps.”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Sophoria is almost as addictive as scag,” Bardic says. “It should only be administered under supervision from a medic. There are countless other ways to mediate the effects of migraines. Candydrops are a menace to public health. Under no circumstances should you self-medicate with addictive substances.”

“I’m not addicted to anything,” I say. “I haven’t smoked since the drug test.”

Bardic pauses.

“We thought that might’ve been why you washed out,” he says. “If you were caught with enough contraband—”

It’s now or never.

“I didn’t wash out,” I say. “I left of my own volition. Something happened with Leómadura.”

The tent falls silent.

“He called me into his office after the night hunt,” I say. “The first thing you learn on L-Street is to stay away from the predators, because there’s no stopping them. If it happened once, it’ll happen again. I couldn’t tough up, so I dropped out.”

I can’t look at Linden or Bardic. I turn to Paadrick.

“Does this count as small talk?” I ask.

Paadrick doesn’t have time to answer. The flap of the tent swings open, and three men enter. I keep my gaze fixed on the Xobrite at the forefront of the procession. His hair is short, and the locks are neatly coiffed around a round, sad face. His eyes are amber, set deep within their sockets, and his mustache is as black as the nether. He’s unarmed, save for the felted kit bag strapped to his thigh. Both of his guards carry swords. All three are clad in chain-link armor.

“Hello, guardsmen.” His voice is shockingly pleasant. “My name is Jude. I’m sorry we had to meet like this.”

“Let my fighters go,” Bardic says calmly. “I’m the commanding officer ici, en ce moment. Release my subordinates, and I’ll tell you what you wish to know.”

I know he won’t. I stiffen anyway.

“That’s not one of the options, my friend.” Jude bows his head. “No one leaves until we get our information.”

“Bien sûr,” Bardic says. “Unless you wish for me to die, I need bandages. Head wounds bleed a great deal, and I’ve lost a significant amount of blood. Moreover, if you have nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory tabs à proximité, I could use that as well. One of my fighters suffers from migraines.”

Jude stares at him. “That prescription hasn’t existed for two centuries.”

“I assumed you had the equipment for high-grade laboratories in Vallatoria.” Bardic raises an eyebrow. “That’s the capital of your confederation, no?”

Bardic’s interrogating him. I can’t believe this. We’re POWs, bound and trapped. Blood drips down Bardic’s lined face, but he has the mental capacity to counter-question our captors. My respect for the medic quadruples.

“We’re a long way from Vallatoria,” Jude says. “In any case, I’m afraid to say you’ve overestimated our technological advancement. Tell me where you’re moving your hive, and I’ll get you bandages.”

Bardic’s expression remains impassive.

“Get me bandages,” Bardic says, “and then we’ll talk.”

Jude turns to his guards.

“This man will be hard to break,” he says. “Kill the one wearing gray—he’ll know less than the ones in black. Untie the boy from the chevron. We’ll start with him.”

Bardic sits up. “Wait—”

They don’t wait. One of the guards moves behind Paadrick, cocks his sword, and slashes a vicious line across the swordsmaster’s neck. The movement flicks a wave of blood in my direction. I flinch as it washes over my face, drips down my neck…

I open my mouth to scream.

No sound comes out.

Paadrick’s corpse sags to the ground. Crimson fluid spatters over the canvas cloth that lines the floor. Bardic doesn’t flinch, but something flickers in his eyes. It’s like an oil lamp has been blown out.

I swallow.

I take a deep breath.

I stay silent.

The second guard moves toward me. I don’t jerk away, not even when he reaches out and grabs me. He unties me from the beam with slow, fluid strokes. I think about fighting him—I might be able to take the sword dangling limply from his hip—but I’d be facing down three fighters left-handed.

The guard yanks me to the center of the tent and shoves me in front of Linden and Bardic. He pushes me to my knees. A sob forces its way between my lips. I take a deep, shuddering breath—I need to keep it together so Linden doesn’t crack. His gaze is fixed on Paadrick’s bloodied corpse. The kill-strike nearly separated his head from his body.

Think, I tell myself. Think, think, think.

I need to humanize myself to Jude, and I need to do it fast.

“My name is Ko,” I say weakly.

“I’m not going to remember that,” he says.

“It’s only two letters.”

He ignores me. “How old are you?”

Bardic gives a tiny shake of his head. It’s almost unnoticeable, but I understand the message—any truthful information I give Jude will be used against me. I need to keep his attention away from Linden and Bardic. Unlike the others, I don’t know anything. There’s nothing he can torture out of me.

“I’m two hundred and fifty.” My voice shakes. “I’m the most recent reincarnation of our lord the God King. No need to bow. I’ve surmised you aren’t a believer.”

The heel of Jude’s boot slams against my broken arm. Pain shoots down the limb, up my spine, and all the way to my head. I grit my teeth to keep from shrieking, and I keel onto my side. It’s not a dignified position. Then again, dignity isn’t my primary concern right now.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” Jude says. “How old are you?”

He’s not asking for classified information, I guess.

“I just turned fifteen,” I say. “Before you ask, I don’t know where the troops are going.”

Jude kicks me again. I curl in on myself. My already bruised ribs scream, and I swallow down a choked sob. The next breath I take is excruciating, and my entire body jolts. For some reason I want to start laughing, but I’m acutely aware of how much that would hurt.

I’m not thinking clearly.

Maybe I’m not thinking at all.

Maybe if I annoy him enough, he’ll off me quickly.

“I thought I’d be killed by a taller man.” I cradle my wounded arm against my chest and brace myself for the coming blow. “My money was on my mother’s pimp.”

One of the guards barks out a sharp, shocked laugh.

Jude opens his kit bag and pulls out a wooden box.

He extracts a needle.

That’s not good.

“For every question you refuse to answer, I’ll place another barb beneath this child’s fingernails,” he tells Bardic. “Rest assured, it will be agonizing.”

“You think you can hurt me?” I try to snort, but it comes out a weak, wet cough. “My horse hates me. That hurts. This is nothing.”

One of the guards mutters something. I think he says, what’s wrong with this kid?

“These are coated with serpent toxin.” Jude turns the needle over in his hand. “I believe your people call them venombeasts.”

I think that over for a second.

“Okay,” I decide. “Maybe you can hurt me.”

Jude rolls me over. He straddles me, pinning my hips. My strapped arm burns like it’s on fire. The ache in my chest sends tears into my eyes. Still, I don’t squirm, not even when he grabs my broken arm and yanks it toward him. I squeal like a gutted pig.

Linden lets out a choked, shuddering sigh.

“Lindy.” My voice is hoarse. “There’s nothing they can do to me that hasn’t been done before. Remember your orders.”

Don’t you dare crack, is what I’m trying to say.

Tears pool in his gray eyes.

“Is that so?” Jude asks. “Have you ever felt the effects of serpent toxin, son?”

“Don’t call me son.” Every word I speak makes my chest convulse.

“The pain will blacken your senses,” Jude says. “You’ll vomit—we have buckets on hand for that. You’ll go into shock. You’ll convulse. It will be slow and cruel, I’m afraid. By this time tomorrow, you’ll have lost the ability to speak. Then you’ll lose the ability to move. Forty-eight hours from now, you won’t be able to control your breathing. We’ll inject you with antivenin to keep you alive, of course. We wouldn’t want to kill you. If your officer gives us bad intel…well. That would change things.”

He turns to Bardic.

“I want formations, leading officers, locational placements, and reinforcement agendas,” he says.

Bardic’s expression is glazed.

He glances at me.

I shake my head.

“You’ll die for this, Xobrite,” Bardic says quietly. “Only a cur would go after the young.”

“Mm.” Jude doesn’t sound convinced. “Let’s begin.”

He drops my broken arm and straightens the fingers of my left hand. I look up at him, trying to meet his gaze. His amber eyes are solemn. Focused.

The needle moves.

“Wait,” I pant. “I have final words.”

He pauses. Every breath I take is agony, and things are about to get a whole lot worse. I need to get this over with quickly.

“I ruined an Ivo Lorsan pullover,” I say. “It was a nice sweater, and I wore it to the frontline. May the God King forgive my sins.”

Jude’s lips curl.

“If anyone survives, remember this.” I pause. “Use my wages to buy another IL original for Recruité Dune Callisto—I promised to give him the jumper. I bequeath everything else I own to Akeeva Whoredaughter. Tell her to set up a trust for Ila. Keep Felicity safe, and tell her I’m sorry. Make sure she gets my battlechains.”

“Anything else?” Jude’s expression is one of detached apathy.

“Yeah.” I twist my neck—my body spasms—and meet Bardic’s gaze. “Get Leómadura away from the academy. Consider this a deathbed confession. He assaulted an L-DAW student.”

“Ko.” Linden’s voice is barely a whisper.

Bardic’s intense features are expressionless. “That’s why you left?”

“…Is that not a good enough reason?”

“If I live, Leó dies. You have my word.”

That seems dramatic. All I’m asking is he be removed from the pool of bright-eyed, bushy tailed grunts. Still. Despite everything—despite my broken arm, and my bruised ribs, and the counterintelligence specialist who’s straddling me—I smile.

“You got my sisters off L-Street,” I say. “Thanks for everything, Bard.”

The needle pushes beneath my fingernail. I expect the penetration will be brutal, but it isn’t. It’s a prick—a light tap against my index finger.

I barely feel it.