Kempe’s tough and fearless—she’s mastered the blade.

She took down ten men on an enemy raid.

Keeper of secrets she’ll take to the grave—

Cross her and find out some souls can’t be saved

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

Linden and Kempe deposit a bouquet of white, fragrant lilies on my bedtable. Linden leans over me and grasps my shoulder. I try desperately to keep my eyes open. They tell me my heart stopped four times during the night—Bardic was barely able to keep me alive.

What? I try to ask, but I can’t hear my own voice.

Linden says something. Leómadura’s name—Killián’s handling it. My eyes burn. Nothing makes sense…

What happened last night?

What happened indeed? whispers a voice in my mind, familiar but long forgotten. Sometimes there’s no way of knowing what’s true and what isn’t. Where do my memories end and yours begin?

Who are you? I try to ask.

A better question is, who will we become, he says. And the answer is…I’m not sure. Let’s find out.

###

The flowers need more water. There’s a note beside them. I think it’s from Killián—he was just here. I can’t remember what we talked about. He gave me razors for my face—the case is somewhere nearby.

I asked him to end my suffering. He laughed and told me to rest.

Focus on healing, Ko, he said. We need you at full strength.

###

Full strength, the voice in my mind sing-songs. Your wish is my command, Lord of the Dead. Ko—would you like to blur the line between past and present?

###

I won’t always be cruel, Yosif said. You won’t always be weak.

Fate weaves cyclically, we told him. We’re damned to unchanging ends.

Someday the fifth lady will be challenged to her face, he said. Until then, you’ll die young and innocent. It’s how I’ll protect you, and it’s kinder than the alternative.

###

My sisters visit sporadically, say they’re here every day. How long have I been in the medi-center? I cry when they leave.

Can’t trust siblings, whispers the voice. They never stay loyal when power comes calling. Sleep with both eyes open.

If I can’t trust my sisters, I can’t trust anyone.

Now you’re getting it.

###

Billi, Osyrus, and Dune burst through the mahogany set of double doors. Billi sets a stack of textbooks and grasspaper leaflets on my bedtable. They talk to me, the words rapid and slow. I try to respond. Maybe I do. I don’t know.

“When’ll he be discharged?” someone asks. Billi, I think.

“Tomorrow,” Bardic says. “I’ll take him off doxidiol tonight. His mind will clear…”

Bard leans over me. He takes my pulse, waves a match in front of my eyes, and has his aides escort my friends from the room. They say goodbye. Kiss my forehead…

###

Killián comes back in the night.

Yosif’s conduits share his folly, says the voice in my mind. The frontline is kinder than family, so they flee to the throes of battle. They romanticize the spirit realm, addicted to the taste of immortality. Scared of weakness, they fall to pride. Admit you’re afraid, Killián. Your church will be tested for ten foreseen days.

I talk without knowing what I’m saying.

“You’re a terrible big brother—all your siblings agree,” I tell Killián. “A house divided is a house that’s fallen. Stand before me, and answer for your church.”

I’m a better father than the man who came before me, says Killián. That’s what matters.

“You slayed your son in a past life. Answer for your crimes.”

I’ve played the slayer, and I’ve played the slayed. What’s there to answer for?

I’m not sure who’s having the conversation—me and Killián, or Marix and Yosif.

I’m not your enemy, says the man with Killián’s face. You fear my conduit, but I’m never the one who kills you.

“Perhaps not,” I admit, “but you always let it happen.”

Death is transformation, he says. Death is mercy.

“You’re my general, not my master,” I tell him. “This time, I want to live.”

###

Waking is a slow and bitter ordeal.

The inside of my mouth is chalky, and my head throbs in time with my heart. I exhale, hoping to clear the murkiness swirling through my mind.

I force my eyes open.

I’m in a medi-center. Windows line the wall facing the Volterras, their shutters open but locked. Glimmers of light drift through the slats. Lemony incense burns on an examination table. The floors are bare and clean.

The fingers on my left hand are covered in bandages. I rub the trembling digits over my body. My bare chest is marred with cuts, but they’re scabbed and smell of mint. One of Bardic’s assistants must’ve rubbed me down with healing salve.

“Good.” Bardic leans over me. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

My voice is hoarse. “Dead.”

“Stands to reason.” His fingers wrap around my wrist. “Steady pulse, coherent speech. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

With my bandaged hand, I push myself into a seated position. Bardic throws a pillow beneath my back and helps me sip a flask of water. I examine his lined, kindly face, his pointed jaw, and the stubble lining his chin. He looks tired but healthy, and he’s wearing civvies instead of black leathers or a healer’s cassock—a gray cotton shirt and matching trousers. His long brown hair is braided.

I cough. “How long has it been since…”

Since when? I don’t even know.

“The Battle of Gidad was eight days ago.” Bardic checks my pupils. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness. Felicity and Akeeva have moved to the First Circuit. They’re staying with Lefe permanently. You can visit them later.”

“Lefe’s taken them in? Why?”

“There was an altercation between Akeeva and Genevieve three days back.” His expression doesn’t change. “Dice were cast, and fruit was thrown.”

“…Akeeva has the potential to usurp a church?”

He looks at me sharply. “Who told you that?”

I don’t respond.

“She didn’t catch it, but the encounter put us on edge,” he says. “In other news—Killián put Jebah on trial for his actions in Gidad. In return, Jebah challenged Killián to a duel for Yosif’s scythe. Brid Naya’il is refusing to consult with either of them. If you chose the church of Death, it stands to reason—her allegiance has shifted to you.”

“I don’t think that’s what happened.”

“Time will tell,” he says. “Can you squeeze this pen for me?”

I force the trembling fingers of my left hand to close into a fist. The bandages curl.

“Everything hurts,” I say.

“The venombeast toxin has worked its way through your system,” he says. “You’ll feel better once you get moving. Give it a few hours.”

He gives me a new pair of black leathers, along with the personal items that were catalogued when I arrived. A kit bag, a bedroll, my sword. He helps me dress and pack the kit bag with the items my guests left for me, although I only remember bits and pieces of the visits. A stack of textbooks. A bouquet of white flowers. A set of shaving blades. A note. Bardic slits the seal with a scalpel and hands me the letter.

K—

Bard informs me you’ll be discharged Thursday morning. I expect you at dinner by 1900—there are matters we need to discuss. Yosif’s palazzo is the second-to-last estate on Royal Road. You can’t miss it.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Your fourth title is enclosed in this envelope. Linden requests you not to “use this as an opportunity to return to your beloved ledge.” This confuses me. I digress.

You stayed on your feet for longer than should’ve been possible. Tactlessness aside, consider me impressed with your behavior.

I’m not angry. We’ll figure it out.

—K

“He gave me another laurel,” I say flatly.

“Actually, I swore you this one,” Bardic says. “Would you like me to give the whole He extols you in His hallowed name speech?”

“Staying silent under torture is what any good soldier would do.”

“If titles were about bravery, every fighter would earn one after every battle.” Bardic doesn’t meet my eyes as he packs my kit bag. “Don’t think of them as rewards. They come with the burden of Death’s expectations.”

What in Hel does that mean?

His smile is wan. “Try to stand up for me.”

###

I spend the afternoon teetering around the castle grounds. When that’s no longer distracting me from the aches in my joints, I head to the stables. A hussar helps me flip open to the equestrian chapter in Training the Untrainable, and I do my best to groom Sinope with a brush. It’s hard with a bandaged hand, but I make it work. The hussar helps me trim her hooves and braid Linden’s flowers into her mane—she seems to like that. She nickers and squirms with pleasure, and I give her an apple.

“Killián left me a note,” I tell her when the lancer leaves. “He invited me to dinner tonight. I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”

She stamps her hoof. I lean my head against her soft cheek.

“Those drugs did a real number on me,” I say. “I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t.”

She nips my hair knot.

“Thanks, girl. I love you too.”

She snorts and tosses her head, but she lets me kiss her face anyway.

###

Killián's directions to his palazzo were understated. When he said you can’t miss it, what he really meant is Yosif had fuck-you money and threw it all into his estate.

A thirty-minute walk down Royal Road gets me to the grounds—the palazzo proper is more of a small castle than large mansion. Complete with guard towers, walls and battlements, and a skyscraping donjon, I feel small and insignificant by the time I reach the gatehouse. I’m in the heart of the First Circuit. These are hallowed grounds.

I dip my head, raise my bandaged hand, and knock.

An iron panel slides open. “State your name and business, soldier.”

“Hi, Brid.”

“State your name and business, knothead.”

“Your father invited me to dinner.”

Ropes and pulleys moan. The wooden door rises. Brid greets me in a chartreuse gown and a tight-laced corset. Flowers are threaded through the braids cascading over her shoulders. They draw attention to the fierceness of her gaze and the sharpness of her collarbones. Her posture is rigid.

“You’re alive,” she says. “How disappointing.”

I can’t bring myself to meet her gaze. “I said some shitty things to you before I left. I’m sorry.”

Her voice is stiff. “Linden relayed that message.”

I want to know what he said, but I don’t know how to ask. I’d give anything to have the courage to look her in the eyes. Instead, I rub the back of my neck and stare at her black boots.

“We are friends, Brid,” I say. “I care about you—”

“Tongue-kiss Lady Death.”

That’s fair. I don’t expect that she’ll ever want my friendship again, but she’s Killián’s daughter. I’ll never stop looking out for her. No matter what unforeseen, insane, hellacious circumstances Lady Life throws my way, I’ll protect her with everything I’ve got. I owe her that.

I tough up and meet her gaze. Her eyes are gripping.

“I like your dress,” I say.

She offers me a smile. Finishing school’s changing her—it’s not a bare-fanged grimace with lips pulled back and teeth bared.

“I look pretty, don’t I?” Her voice is polite. “You look weak. Vulnerable. Defeatable. Come a little closer, darling—I’d love to steal your sword again.”

Maybe finishing school isn’t changing her that much.

Good.

“Is this the part where you tell me you’re going to feast upon my entrails?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t dare.” Out come the canines, and she offers me her bare-fanged leer. “I’m a proper lady. No part of you—entrails included—will ever enter my mouth. I’d rather tongue a blade.”

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“If I must.”

We walk through the gatehouse and enter the backfields. A drawbridge takes us over a gurgling river that encircles the property. Fields of tulips—red and orange, white and yellow—bask in sunlight on the banks. A large oak casts shade over a bonfire pit and an assortment of wooden chairs. I spot two deer, four peacocks, and a murder of deadcrows on our way to the donjon.

“Yosif’s palazzo is grander than the other five,” Brid informs me. “Larger even than L’Angly’s. Our titan felt guilty because he was never home with his family, so he built his heirs a fortress. Financed with lodes from his combat tours, the stonework was constructed by POWs—”

“Blood money and slave labor,” I say. “Weird brag.”

“I’m not bragging. This place is effing haunted.”

Windows and arrow slits stare down at us from the massive seven-story entowerment. She pushes open the double doors, and I follow her inside the foyer. On the western wall, floor-to-ceiling windows rise almost three stories. A view of the Volterras peaks over the fortress wall. Two enormous sets of staircases define the entryway—the steps spiral in wide loops, and I count five landings rising up. A glowing ball of fire illuminates the ceiling eighty feet above my head. I can’t be certain, but I think it’s a mass of intertwined oil lamps and stained glass.

“What the what?” I mumble.

“Welcome to Yosif’s palazzo,” Brid says. “Follow me.”

She leads me toward the windows, passes the staircases, and turns sharply left. We walk down a short hall and pass an open lounge enhanced by broad crossbeams and a wall-to-wall bookshelf. A half-moon sofa—large enough to comfortably seat a dozen men—is set into the center of the room, and a life-sized oil painting of a stronghorse hangs above a smoldering fireplace.

“That’s the petit parlor.” Brid says—how many times has she given this tour? “The donjon houses twelve ancestral suites ranging in size, three of which are currently occupied.”

“There are eight elites.”

“Da, Torrense, and Péri have suites with enough chambers to accommodate their spouses and dependents,” Brid says. “Linden has a studio flat on the second floor. Lefe has one too, but he rarely sleeps over—he’s lord of Fate’s estate. Belén’s quarters are unoccupied. Segolé stays in Colçon’s Tower. Apparently Yosif’s palazzo is chaotic and loud and there’s too much drama and there are too many stairs—”

I stop walking. “Do you hear that?”

“You haven’t noticed?”

Whispers. Barely audible—I can’t tell where they’re coming from. With everything that’s happened in these past few days—not to mention everything I still don’t know about the di Vivars—it’s horrifically unsettling. The murmured words overlap and weave together. I can only catch snippets of what they’re saying.

Kill him—take what’s yours.

The lost son rises.

KILL HIM.

“Enough,” Brid says sharply. “Be at peace.”

The voices cut off as abruptly as they started.

“Ko,” she says sweetly. “You haven’t done something magnificently stupid, have you?”

“Like what?”

“Like—I don’t know—caught an orange and then chosen Lady effing Loss as your patron.”

“Is that bad?”

“This is going to be such a shiteshow.” Brid resumes her walk down the stone wall. “Don’t tell Da. He’ll have conniptions.”

“Pretty sure he already knows.”

“Believe me—he doesn’t. Yosif’s gone dark, and so has his lady.”

“Gone dark?”

“Cut off contact with his mortal conduit.”

We pass a fully stocked bar complete with seven stools as we make another left. A display of bottles line the painted shelves. I don’t know where we entered or how many turns we made. If intruders ever took this place, they’d get lost. Maybe that’s the point.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“The drinking lounge,” she says. “We’re in the common quarters, which holds two parlors—the petit parlor and the grand parlor—four counsel rooms, a library, a conservatory, an armory, a training arena, a kitchen, a formal dining room, and a dinette. Tonight’s gathering will be intimate, so we’re meeting in there. This way, lord.”

I grab her arm. She stops.

“What in Hel, Brid?”

“Short version or long version?”

“Short.”

“You get power by inviting it into your life,” she says. “Made a big decision without consulting anyone lately?”

“…Your aunt told me to pick a lady.”

“Fate chose you, Death courted you, and you snubbed them both?”

“Is that bad?”

She takes a deep breath, then another.

“It’s a bold move,” she says. “You’re playing conduit for Marix, you idiot.”

So that’s what happened.

“I haven’t heard his voice since Bardic took me off drugs.”

“Kolton Whoreson, you listen to me.” She grabs the front of my leathers and peers into my eyes—do I see the slightest bit of fear in her gaze? “You need to be so effing careful. You won’t just get his powers—you’ll get his grudges, and his enemies, and his folly. Every time Marix takes corporal form, the Septemvirate finds and kills the flesh vessel. He’s not a popular lady.”

“He’s a titan.”

“He’s Loss incarnate. Forget gender. The God King wrote of conduits and vessels, not lords and ladies.”

I still don’t understand, but there are more important things to worry about.

“You said I’d get powers. Will they be cool?”

“No, because you chose a church that doesn’t effing exist,” she snaps. “Marix’s conduits die young in horrifically brutal ways. That’s what they’re known for.”

“I’d like to avoid that.”

“The less you know, the better,” she says. “Keep your head down, don’t tell anyone, and—whatever you do—don’t read the Testaments. Steer clear of conversations that might awaken something within you.”

“Like the one we’re headed into?”

“I mean it—don’t tell Da,” she says. “He’ll have to kill you. No way around it.”

Brid pushes open another set of double doors without waiting for me to respond. We enter a room that’s marginally smaller than the mess hall in Bathune. A buffet counter cuts across the far wall, emphasized by plush seats with silver legs. The rectangular dining table is placed in the center of the room. It’s modest in size, but the wood is dark and shockingly glossy. Killián’s at the head of the table, and Bardic sits on his right-hand side.

I recognize most of the other people in attendance—encircling the table are Segolé, Belén, Torrense, Péri, Lefe, Pierre-Marie, Linden, and Kempe. At the far end, a tall boy sits with his back to the immense windows. He’s paging through a book, his forehead creased. He must be Brid’s twin. They don’t look alike—Miro’s tall for twelve, and his face is framed by a head of dark, unkempt hair. His shoulders are broad, and his chin is pointed like the tip of a spear. IL is embroidered on the breast pocket of his violet sweater.

“Thank you for joining us, Ko,” Killián says. “Please, sit.”

I don’t think I will. I’m in a haunted castle that talks, surrounded by Death’s elites, with no idea what’s happening to me. I’ve either lost my mind or I’m hearing voices, and I’ve just been told I’m going to die young in a horrifically brutal fashion. Killián invited me into this world—if he’s going to kill me, he owes me some answers first.

“I picked Loss,” I announce to the table at large. “Do as you will with me.”