the land of the sinners, the realm for the damned

called Hel or the nether, they’re both the same land

the Devil seduced me, we kissed on red sand

torture felt like a gift when it came from her hand

excerpt from “The Land of the Sinners,” a Valenèsisan ballad

Brid and a blond boy sit beneath a willow tree, twenty toes stacked between them. Red stumps protrude where feet should be. A voice cuts through the image.

“Wakey wakey, brother.”

“Bloodstained,” I say, and open my eyes.

Linden beams down at me. He’s wearing the same armor as yesterday. A tunic vest reaches his hips, fastened in the front with a row of metal clasps. Three silver laurels are pinned to his chest, etched with foreign words and the image of a deadcrow. His arms are covered with matching bracers that extend from wrist to elbow, crisscrossing his forearms like black serpents. His slender shoulders are uncovered, but a thick cloak hangs above his knees. A utility belt stretches across his waist with a metal buckle, a dagger, and a small pouch. Purple feathers flash from the under-cape when he crosses his arms, the only note of color in his ensemble.

It’s a good look—especially with his pointed features and sun-kissed hair—but he’s a lot to take in first thing in the morning.

“It’s four hours to Valenès,” he says. “That’s at a trot.”

I rub the sleep out of my eyes. “How long to walk it?”

“Too long. Bard sent a hussar from Saint Vandame’s…Ila’s okay!” he adds when I bolt upright. “Sorry, Ko—should’ve led with that. She was discharged this morning. She’ll be on ascomycetes for a week, and Bard will prescribe some herbal teas. A healthy diet and she’ll be back to full strength.”

Hot tears spill down my face as soon as I hear Ila’s okay. I wipe my nose on the blanket. Linden drifts to the window and stares at the chariots outside the wagonwright’s abode. Should I be embarrassed? Felicity told me never to cry in front of men—johns are meaner than janes—but Linden isn’t a john. I haven’t been around enough guys to know if this is universally applicable advice. Aside from Kolton and an occasional gigolo, most of my interactions are with women.

“What sort of diet does Ila need?”

I prepare for it to be more expensive than markdown rations. What medi-bills are coming our way?

“Bard will debrief you when we get to the Street of Sin,” Linden says.

I need to ask or I’ll lose my mind. “How much will it cost?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Linden turns away from the window. “Killián helps who he can when he can. You saved his daughter’s life. Even if you don’t enlist, you won’t have to part with a pound of flesh.”

“I don’t need charity.”

“Pride is a crime, brother,” Linden says with his luminous grin. “Take it from a rustic yeoman turned peacock whip. Put this on. I’ll wait outside while you get dressed.”

###

The sweater Linden gives me is the softest fabric I’ve ever touched. It’s light blue—too smooth to be wool—and a loopy IL is neatly embroidered on the chest pocket. The relaxed fit has bone-knotted buttons and a cowl neck. Navy streaks spiral across the hemlines. The cloth is bliss against my skin. I tie back my hair and wish there was a mirror so I could preen. I’ve never owned men’s cuts—everything I have was passed down to me by my sisters.

A nurse bangs open the door. She puts two fingers around my wrist, declares my pulse strong, and times my breaths for a minute. After that she shoves papers in my face. I use her quill-pen to scratch a hesitant KW where she tells me to sign.

She leads me down three stone halls and points to a door. Outside, Linden leans against the adobe building. Sinope and his chestnut mare are tied to a steed post beside him. They’ve decimated a bale of hay, and their hooves trample the wreckage.

Linden grinds a cig beneath the toe of his boot.

“You look like every lordheir who made fun of my accent when I was at L-DAW,” he says.

“How is this sweater so soft?”

“Artisan threads have that feel.” He unties the horses from their posts. “Ready to learn how to gallop?”

I stammer a string of uhs and nos and whats, but I force myself to mount. Sinope’s sinewy muscles flex as she obeys my nudges—clearly the horse hasn’t warmed to the idea of carrying a battle virgin.

We take the backroads out of Marbecante. There are a hundred questions I want to ask Linden—about Killián, the seven ladies, and Snake Toxin Perfume Woman. What did Killián say to me last night? If my memories are reliable—a big if—he told me to enlist in Death’s guard. In return, I asked him about cows and the Devil. Not my finest hour.

Unfortunately, Linden doesn’t seem eager to help me develop an understanding of yesterday’s events. He rides ahead without looking over his shoulder. We break into a gallop as we cross the border, and yurts shrink to dots.

I can’t catch up to his steed—all I can do is hold on.

# # #

As we approach the rotted sign at the end of the strip—L-Street // Stay Safe—Linden slows to a canter, then a walk. For the first time in hours, Sinope falls in at his right-hand side. I’m gasping for breath and my thighs throb. Hot boils bubble wrathfully on the flesh of my bottom.

“Could you have gone any faster?” I demand.

“The Septemvirate is assembling this afternoon.” His fingers creep toward the instrument case strapped to his saddle. “Bardic and I are needed in the First Circuit.”

We stop beside the sign. I resist the impulse to kiss two fingers and touch it for luck. Linden stares at the sprawl of rising buildings.

“I’ve never been to Valenès,” he says. “The skyline is pretty.”

“Where are you from?”

“Salviedo…Fourth Circuit,” he adds at my questioning look.

“Near Valençon?”

“No—the capitol is at the northern tip. Salviedo is halfway down the eastern border. An hour’s walk from les rivières de Lady Hope.”

He’s a salter, then—a fisherman and a farmer. No wonder he’s caressing the instrument like it gives him life. The Fourth Circuit is the musical hub of the realm, and boatsmen are known for their chants.

“Why’d you enlist?” I ask.

“Xobs took my town, burned our homestead.” His voice is distant. “I wanted revenge and I needed a paycheck.”

I don’t ask what happened to his family. “How’d Xobrites cross the realm?”

“They have L’Anglimar on three sides. Four if you count spies within the Septemvirate.”

That’s not what you want to hear from one of Lady Death’s elite guardsman.

“Would it be bad if the seven churches fell?” I ask hesitantly.

“Neither of us would survive the initial subjugation,” Linden says. “They’d torture and kill me—I’m part of the old regime. They’d off you too—they’re worse than the Septemvirate when it comes to selective breeding. No offense.”

“Xobrites follow the ladies?”

“Depends how you’re defining the ladies,” Linden says. “Two thousand years ago, all the lands within our reach were united under one theocracy. The gospel centered on seven forces that shape humanity through seasons of change. The spirits as we know them are Love, Death, War, Hope, Time-Fate, Life, and Loss.”

I appreciate him naming them without me having to ask. “The God King was their father?”

“He wrote their Testaments and sired seven titans to lead the churches. The theory was that universal peace is achievable through collective imaginings.”

“That sounds reasonable,” I say, even though it doesn’t.

“There was a violent schism after he ascended. His children killed each other and a lot of people died.”

“Egad.”

“Egad is right.” Linden massages his temples. “To answer your question, the Xobrites worship the ladies as a seven-fold spirit—one monolithic God. Same idea, different rituals.”

“Did we meet a lady yesterday?”

“Depends who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

“I’m a blasphemer,” he says without a hint of shame. “I don’t think divine forces become incarnate when a pretty girl marries a politician. Lefe’s ex-wife chucked fruit at your head to mess with Killián—she loses her status if Lefe remarries. She wants to make our lives chaotic and miserable so he doesn’t have time to court.”

“Who’s Lefe?”

“Lord of Time, Fate, Destiny, whatever you want to call her. The fifth Lady. Court lore says Lefe walks the golden threads that connect our spirits.”

The distain in his voice is subtle but distinguishable.

“You don’t believe it?”

“Lefe believes it.”

“You don’t like him.”

“He’s a judgmental, insufferable zealot.”

“Killián likes him.”

“Killián smokes malloweed and consults with departed generals through his dead sister.” Linden shrugs. “It’s not his job to condemn the living. Will I be shanked if I walk down L-Street in black whips?”

We lead our horses into the city limits and dismount. I slide off Sinope’s saddle and resist the urge to kiss the sand. Linden pays the stableman and docks the steeds. Two women take our reins and lead the beasts to corral fences that descend into underground stables.

I peer down the hall of grooming blocks and catch sight of a hoof-shoe forge. Linden tugs me out of the commonlands center. It's nearing noon on a weekday; the strip is alive with street performers, merchants, and entertainers. Inns and taverns line the walkway. We pass a milkbox stage—a fire eater leaps in front of us. He sticks a flaming torch eight inches down his throat and exhales smoke, then jabs his hat aggressively in our direction. Linden swears and stumbles backward. He puts three clawed fingers over his lips and flicks his hand toward the sun.

We turn down a backstreet that shortcuts Main Avenue to Hel’s Dancers. I shoot a sharp look at a loiterer who’s whittling a stick. She offers to use her knife on very specific parts of my anatomy if we get too close. I veer right and cut behind a pawn shop. Linden is pressed so close to my side that I can feel the indentation of his feathered cape. His bistaff is strapped to his back, and his fingers haven’t left the grip.

“How far is Kolton’s Kitties?” he whispers.

“East end of the sprawl.” I grin at him. “Enjoying your first trip to Valenès?”

His cheeks are a delightful shade of pink. “Take us to the whorehouse, brother.”

###

A red gate surrounds the garden and ramshackle building. The hinges creak as we enter. Lonely Hearts, Come Hither, the sign screams. Kolton’s Kitties. The wooden walls boast intricate paintings of intertwined spirals and curvaceous figures—Felicity did them last spring.

The three-story wooden building is belted with a wraparound porch. Baskets of flowers line the walkway to the entrance. Windows face the street along the bottom floor. Delicate lace curtains—pink and red hues—veil the interior from sight.

Kolton sits on the glider beneath the second window, strumming a guitar. He stops playing as we approach and eyes Linden with interest.

“You brought me a friend,” he says lightly.

“He’s not for sale,” I deadpan. “Staffmaster Linden, Souteneur Kolton. Kolton, Linden.”

They size each other up. If Linden’s outfit makes a statement, Kolton’s screams a declaration. His wide-brimmed hat is adorned with feathers and shimmering trinkets, and a long coat cascades down his frame. The fabric is a mix of purple, crimson, and shimmering gold. Underneath he’s wearing a fitted vest with a deep V-line that reaches his belly button, revealing a smattering of chest hair and two pierced nipples. Rings with elaborate gemstones decorate his fingers, glinting in the light from the noon sun. The look is completed with thigh-high, buckled, olive green leather boots.

“I like your armor,” Kolton says with a crooked smile.

“I like your boots,” Linden says with a straight face.

“I like your sweater,” Kolton says to me. “Clearly we’re all men with impeccable taste in fashion.”

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“Well observed, brother,” Linden agrees.

There’s an odd look in Kolton’s eyes as he studies me, equal parts interested and sinister.

“I never thought my house of pleasure would be blessed with two elite guardsmen on the same morning,” he says. “Let alone one who refers to me as brother. I’m honored to call you a son, little Kolton.”

The implication that he might have spawned me is disturbing but not surprising—we look a bit alike. He sleeps with most of his girls, and I’d be stupid to assume my mother was an exception. The offer to claim me, on the other hand, is horrifying. He’s nice enough to Ila and me—his wives run the community childcare in the basement of the abode—but I’ve never forgiven him for getting my mother hooked on scag. More to the point, I don’t know what he’s put Akeeva and Felicity through in the past few years. Not all their bruises have come from johns. He takes most of their pay in exchange for so-called protection, and he’s not the type to give handouts during tough times and long winters.

The first tat is a birthmark, but the second was a choice they made willingly. He’ll keep them alive until they’re old enough to retire, but they’ve leased their bodies to him for the extent of their working years. The payout to leave early would be exorbitant, and the tattooed address on their wrist is a clear return to owner for any bounty hunters looking to collect. Unless he chooses to sell them to another pimp on the strip, they’re his in the name of Lady Lust.

He's taken care of us, but there are times I’d like to slap his oily face as hard as I can. This is one of those times.

“Is Bardic here?” Linden asks.

“Room 11.” Kolton’s smile hasn’t faltered. “We thought it best to keep the child here until she’s recovered—did you know there’s mildew in your walls?”

I glance across the street at the temporary housing unit. One breath from a pigeon and the entire thing could come down. “Shocker.”

“The room’s tab has been paid in full,” he says, looking pleased with himself. He turns his attention to Linden. “Might I be able to interest you in a friend while you’re here? Tell me your type and I’ll lend you a lady.”

I tug Linden inside without bothering to respond. The ground floor is adorned with plush furnishings and dimly lit by flickering candles. A central bar is crafted from polished wood. Behind it, shelves are stocked with an array of spirits and elixirs. Caressa leans over the boozer in a tiny top, serving two patrons who are talking loudly. She wiggles her fingers at me as we pass, curiosity burning her gaze. Akeeva will fill her in later, so there’s no need to stop and chat—she’s entertaining.

“Didn’t Killián tell Bardic no brothels?” I ask.

Linden huffs out a laugh. “Killián tells Bard a lot of things.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Bard’s the Lord of War.” Linden waves a hand. “His father hasn’t officially relinquished the title, but he’s getting up there in years. He started a family late in life—he’s not long for this world. Bard doesn’t have brothers, only sisters, and he’s first in line to inherit everything.”

“You’re not making things any clearer.”

“Instead of using his degrees to oversee the realm’s medi-centers or rule the Third Circuit, Bardic followed Killián to the frontline.” Linden’s grin is smarmy and all-knowing. “Their relationship is built on Killián saying we shouldn’t and Bardic saying we absolutely should.”

I cast one last glance at Caressa as we turn down a corridor. “Will Killián be mad?”

“At Bardic?” Linden considers the question. “Theoretically it’s possible, but I’ve never seen it happen.”

“What’s the deal with them?” I ask. “Brid said something about bringing down churches and ending the realm?”

“Brid talks a lot.”

“You don’t have to tell me if it’s a secret.”

He glances around the abandoned hallway, stops walking, and lowers his voice to a murmur.

“It’s not a secret, but they’re discrete,” he says.

“Why?”

“The dark ages aren’t as far back as we’d like to believe.”

He’s not very good at answering my questions. “What do you mean?”

“Death’s army has always been puritanical.” Linden grimaces and drops his voice further. “When he was seventeen, Killián’s father tried to off him to maintain image—it was a whole thing. That’s when Killián usurped. The military has rebranded, but it’s only been twenty years. They’re careful.”

“Aren’t Lady Death and Lady War involved in lore?” I ask, confused. “I’ve read poems about them in school.”

“Killián and Bardic are lords, not ladies. You wouldn’t get it. You’re from Valenès.”

“Explain it to me, then.”

Linden shakes his head.

“They’re raising Killián’s children together,” he says. “If a pair of illegitimate twins were claimed by the lords of two churches…well, it would be unprecedented. The other lords fight dirty to maintain the seven-church dynamic. The hate they get simmers down to prejudice and fear disguised as traditionalism. Any other tough questions for me to dodge?”

I imitate Brid’s high, lofty accent. “If the Ladies love us, why do children get sick?”

He shoves me, grinning. We pass a group room with an arrangement of plush couches and velvet armchairs, then turn left down another hall. I knock on the door of room 11 and Felicity calls for us to enter.

Glowing candles illuminate the space, and the air carries the rich scent of musky incense. Golden drapes adorn the windows, and a hint of filtered light drifts between the shades. The walls are decorated with tasteful paintings—flowers, mostly, and the moonlit silhouette of a woman’s back. Strategically placed mirrors give the illusion of constant surveillance.

In the center of the room is a large bed with silken sheets and plush pillows. I beeline for it and throw my arms around Ila. She giggles and presses sloppy kisses down my neck. I push her face away, slide next to her, and pull her against my chest.

Bardic, Akeeva, and Felicity are sitting cross-legged on the floor. Linden joins them. Ila’s the one to break the silence.

“Bard says you fought biters!” Her voice is a little raspy, but her joy is contagious. “He says you saved his daughter’s life and conquered the demons of the deadlands!”

I grin. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she says. “Bard’s teaching me all sorts of cool medical facts. Did you know that our hearts beat 100,000 times a day? That’s a lot of love!”

“I’m stealing you,” Bardic says, glowing. “No one back home cares about my cool medical facts.”

“I’ll fight you for her,” Felicity says.

“Lici.” Akeeva’s voice is soft. “That’s not how we speak to people who are helping us.”

Felicity crosses her legs and scowls. Her black dress is knotted with a leathery corset, and her dark hair is tucked under a headscarf.

“Once you’ve finished hugging Ila, we need to talk,” she says coolly. “Privately, Ko.”

###

Linden gives me a tightly bound bundle of grasspaper pages before he and Bardic depart for the First Circuit—an enlistment contract. Felicity snatches it from his grasp before I can take it and tells them—not very politely—to get moving. After they’re gone, she chats up one of Kolton’s guards and gets him to lend her a sword. We wrap our blades and go to the back gardens to spar.

“Fight with your left hand.” Felicity checks to make sure the cloth strip is snug and sinks into a crouch. “I want this bout to last more than ten seconds.”

In other words: I’m in for it. She cocks her blade.

I switch the sword to my left hand, but I don’t have time to adjust—she arcs her weapon, and there’s a loud thwap as canvas hits canvas. She swipes again, and I twist toward her. She hops away, and then I’m fighting in earnest, weaving and twirling and ducking and laughing.

I keep going, even when my arms and lungs begin to burn. If anything, I go harder. She almost hits my torso with a neat little hook. I lunge forward, and my sword plunges toward her chest. She barely makes it out of the way in time, and she aims a swift kick at my left shin. I stumble back and almost fall. She eases the attack, but only for a moment. Her blade swishes by my throat.

The world slows around us. I can see every minor twitch running through her arm. The trickle of sweat dripping down her cheek decelerates to a snail’s crawl. If a hummingbird was fluttering in front of my face right now, I’d be able to count every pulse of its wings.

I take a deep breath and loosen my grip on the hilt. Felicity disarms me with a strong envelopment. My sword lands three feet away, settling itself atop a half-eaten mutt corpse beneath an apple tree. The dog’s eyes stare at me, black and unblinking. Maggots writhe inside its open jowls, their yellow bodies squirming as they feast.

I decide I’ll let Felicity reclaim the blade.

She raises her arms in celebration and drops her sword. She sinks next to it and stares at the sky, panting. I scan the garden dirt for signs of nests. When I’m satisfied there are no bugs around, I sit beside her.

“Nice disarmament,” I say.

“Nice counterstrike.” She pauses. “Thanks for letting me win.”

“I didn’t let you do anything.” I rise onto my elbows and squint at the sun. “It’s tougher to grip the hilt left-handed.”

“I can’t believe you’re enlisting,” Felicity says. “You’ll donate your life to the never-ending war and be thanked for your service with an unmarked grave.”

“The Xobrites would seize the realm if it weren’t for Death’s Guard.”

“You don’t know anything about the frontline.”

I roll my eyes. “And you do?”

“Most of my johns are soldiers.” she says. “Chatty bastards.”

I toss a rotten apple at her head, hoping to distract her. She squeals and ducks out of the way. It splatters against the side of Kolton’s Kitties. Brown liquid trickles down the wood, dripping like blood from a gangrenous wound. She lets loose a string of incoherent curses and flips me off, but her eyes crinkle.

Tension successfully diverted. I push my luck.

“I could make money as a soldier,” I say. “Can you imagine if I earned elite status? Killián seems to like me.”

Her eyes lose the crinkle. “You can’t make money if you’re dead.”

I pick up another brown, wet apple and cock my arm. She raises her hands in forfeit, and I let it drop to the ground.

“Look.” Felicity huffs out a sigh. “I get where you’re coming from, Ko. Our mother wanted to get away too. Remind me—how did that work out for her?”

My throat closes up. “Mom died a hero.”

“She died a statistic,” Felicity says. “Three in twenty enlistees don’t survive their first combat tour. It’s practically on the recruitment pamphlets.”

All the brochures I’ve seen depict muscular soldiers with smiling children hugging their legs. It’s probably propaganda—scratch that, it’s absolutely propaganda—but the point remains: Xobrite subjugation could lead to those happy kids bleeding out in back allies. Funnily enough, I don’t like to think about children dying painful deaths.

“I’ll get you a job with Kolton when you turn fifteen,” Felicity says. “It’s safer than the frontline, and the pay is decent.”

Hearing her say that shouldn’t take me by surprise—she wants me to stay in school, but my last semester of unders is almost over. All the money in this part of town flows through the brothels. Valenès is the only city in the realm where prostitution is legal, and it’s what we’re known for. Lots of soldiers pass through this area. They know what they want.

“With you, me, and Akeeva working nights this summer…” she continues, then shrugs. “We could buy off your lease and send you to a knowledge center in a year or two.”

“Do you think I’d do well here?” The words barely make it out of my throat. “There can’t be much of a demand for guys.”

“You’re gorgeous, even if you’re too skinny,” she says. “Kolton will get you in shape so he can charge more for you. You’re personable enough to acquire regulars, and you don’t have the confidence to enforce your hard limits. Clients will like that. They’ll eat you up.”

I can’t figure out how to respond, so I stay silent.

“Johns think they’re paying for sex,” she says as she turns away. “They’re not. They’re paying for someone who will listen to them talk. About what, you ask?”

“Didn’t ask,” I say, trying to turn this conversation into a joke. “Never do.”

“About why a slamming door makes them reach for their sword.” She nudges me with her shoulder. “About how they dream of the Xobrites seizing their town and slaughtering their kids.”

I bend down and examine a rock as if it’s worth a small fortune. I wonder if she sees what she’s doing to me. I wonder if she cares.

“About the time they pulled sixteen arrows out of their best friend’s corpse, and wished they’d been there to hold his hand while he died,” Felicity continues. “About the time they woke up from a nightmare tasting blood, and they’d beaten their spouse half to death in their sleep—”

“These seem like really specific examples.”

“They’re all from my last client,” Felicity says. “Nice guy. My point is this—most guardsmen could get sex from other sources. There’s one reason why a soldier pays for companionship. They want someone who will listen to them talk about the worst moments of their lives and fuck them anyway. You think your new friends are any different?”

My toes curl like spider legs inside my boots.

“I don’t want you to feel that kind of pain.” Felicity snaps her fingers at me, as if she thinks I’m not listening. “Even if your body survived the frontline, you wouldn’t come home to me.”

My head hurts—a steady, pulsing tweak somewhere behind my temples. I’ve been getting headaches more and more recently. It would be concerning if I didn’t have more pressing issues to worry about. I rub the back of my neck.

“Why so quiet?” Felicity asks.

“Nothing to say.”

“You want to know something funny?”

“Funny like haha, or funny like Lady Life is a bitch?”

“Whenever the Xobrites seize territory, they dig a common grave,” she says. “Politicians, scagheads, royals, soldiers, prostitutes…they dump us side by side.”

Funny like Lady Life is a bitch, then.

Felicity takes my hand. I move closer to her. Our shoulders brush.

“You’ve told me how bad it gets on the frontline,” I say. “How bad does it get in the cathouse?”

“Sometimes we have to tough up and do what needs to be done,” she says. “Sex is business, not leisure. Remember that and you’ll be fine.”

She’s holding back now, and that scares me. How can she be blasé about the horrors of the frontline while purposefully withholding the caveats of my best-paying alternative?

“Tell me everything will be okay,” I beg.

Felicity stares out over the back gardens. She doesn’t meet my gaze.

“You’ve got a month left before you come of age,” she says. “Enjoy your childhood.”

Is that a joke? My eyes burn, my shoulders stiffen, and my throat swells shut as if I swallowed a rock.

“Killián’s offered me a way out,” I say.

Felicity opens her kitbag and pages through the enlistment contract. “He’s offered you a death sentence.”

“He said I’ll go to medi-school if I lose my bouts.”

“Medi-school only lasts a few years,” she says. “On the frontline, it won’t make a difference if you’re in vanguard leathers or a healer’s cassock.”

She casts an angry glance at the contract, as if she expects it to come to life and slaughter us.

“I don’t know if I can turn this down.” I finger the blue sweater. “Killián said he’d get Ila an apprenticeship with a Lord—an actual Lord—and he’ll get the rest of you away from the strip. I bet he’ll even pay off Kolton.”

“I don’t get off on the idea of Killián the Killer owning my soul.”

“He won’t own your soul.”

“Everything has a price.” She taps her head. “If something seems like it’s too good to be true, it probably is.”

“What if I’m okay with Killián owning my soul?” I ask. “That’s a pretty good price to pay for Ila’s future.”

I shove my hands in my pockets, meet her gaze, and try to hold myself together.

“War turns men into monsters,” she says. “If you think Killián has your best interests at heart, you’re a fool.”

“If I enlist, we could get you a sketchbook and some plantpaints,” I say. “You could take an art class—”

“I don’t care about art!” Her voice rises to a yell. “I care about you, Ko!”

Her eyes are damp.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her cry since our mother died.

It takes everything in me to relax, but I do. I throw an arm around her shoulders. She pinches my thigh. I yank her hair knot. She swats me. We stop fighting—I sink against her, bury my face in her neck, and inhale the scent of her ambrosial perfume.

“If you abandon me like she did, I’ll never forgive you,” she says wetly, shoving me off. “Never.”

It feels like she’s plunged a dagger into my chest.

“Bathune is a four-hour walk.” My voice is helpless. “You can come visit me in the barracks.”

“I won’t.”

“I know. But you could.”

I stare into her eyes—so blue, so damn broken. We’re both shaking. She breathes out a soft, sad little sigh.

She shoves the contract into my hand.

My fist closes around the grasspaper.

I close my eyes. Maybe if I wait long enough, she’ll tell me that everything will be okay. That she trusts me to make my own choices. That she’ll support me, just like I support her.

She doesn’t say any of that. She goes back into the cathouse. The door clicks shut behind her.