Once they reached the city's outskirts, the stampede of alien beasts fanned out, scattering into the rural countryside.

Peter would never feel bitter at Captain Visser for dragging him out of Stalpia behind a horse again. The Druk twisting and shredding Peter’s insides made his memory of getting dragged behind a horse feel as peaceful as a casual roll in the grass.

Peter clawed at the armband, trying to tear it off, but Julian restrained him with a steel-firm grip. Peter’s begging words dissolved into an incomprehensible babble of bloody drool as he stopped breathing. Healing didn’t work. A death reset never happened. Peter was strung between the thin fine line of paradox and reality: trapped in flesh that shouldn’t be alive and immortality that wouldn’t let him die.

Peter’s mind teetered on the brink of collapse.

At some point, Julian slipped off the freed beast and caught Peter before he hit the ground.

“Nyamar above, hold on, Peter!”

Peter’s nails tore into his wrist, and as he tried to pull the court band off, it slipped down to his knuckles. Julian cursed as he caught it and forced it back up.

Peter’s eyes rolled into his head, and bloody froth spewed from his mouth. His body violently convulsed. He didn’t have the power to take the band off if he wanted to anymore.

Julian pulled out a boot knife and pleaded for forgiveness before starting the surgery.

Julian’s knife was easily distinguishable from the Druk. The knife wounds healed.

Julian fought a battle, struggling between healing flesh and a device that dug deeper if provoked. Peter caught a glimpse of Julian recoiling, his knife notched, and his crimson-soaked hand gashed as the Druk intelligently resisted.

Julian threw his knife aside with an oath and reared back his arm, knife hand poised. The domestic’s eyes ignited with green light, and he plunged his hand through Peter’s sternum with the sickening crunch of bone.

What was left of Peter’s ribs snapped as Julian ripped what now looked like a mass of many bladed spider legs.

The Druk required a target and lashed onto Julian's hand and tried to burrow. The darting blades deflected off the domestic’s skin, but each strike dimmed the light in his eyes.

Julian tore the animated, metallic Druk off his hand, and like a sticker from a weed patch, it latched onto his other hand. Julian flicked his wrist with a yelp, flinging the incentiviser from his hand.

The cursed, bloodied device retracted all its spikes and blades and became a smooth dagger without a cross-guard as it clattered to the dirt.

Julian cautiously approached it, but it remained inanimate. The incentivizer didn’t react as Julian waved his hand near it, and the domestic slowly picked it up.

Scrutinizing the court-killing weapon for a moment, Julian gasped in surprise.

Fluid gargled in Peter’s throat as he tried to call out. The breach in his chest cavity had healed, but the internal damage remained.

Julian placed the blade carefully on a rock and knelt by Peter. “Come on, kid,” Julian panicked as he felt for Peter’s heartbeat.

Peter knew Julian couldn’t feel anything. The Druk had shredded most of his central organs, leaving his torso carved into an unnatural shape. Somehow, he was still lucid.

“Come on, kid!” Julian cried again.

Julian’s warm hands found the sides of Peter’s face, and his thumbs covered Peter’s eyes.

“I’m spent,” Julian said to someone unseen. “I could use a little help.

The words hit Peter like a distant echo.

Nothing happened. Peter tried to move to remove the court ring, but Julian held his hand down. The tormenting device was gone, but the damage it had done wasn’t healing.

Julian cried out in despair and then took a deep breath.

The hand that prevented Peter from removing the band disappeared and returned to his face. A green light flashed in front of Peter’s eyes. He felt a static buzz rush into his face and course through his body. Organs moved and started to reknit. The restoration was almost as painful as the damage, but his heart began to beat after a few lingering moments.

Peter’s eyes fluttered open, and he found Julian on his hands and knees, throwing up on the ground.

Julian fell back onto his back, breathing shallowly.

Peter’s lungs found air, and he gasped. The movement caused everything else to cramp and seethe.

Julian groaned sickly with his eyes closed.

Peter bit his tongue and tried to relax as he placed his head against a stone wall.

They were either on the outskirts of Stalpia or in the dead remains of Shay; Peter wasn’t sure which. Shallow Ataggin ruins broke the dirt around them, denoting an ancient wall. The wall was vast and thick, but long since crumbled to the pounding of ancient artillery and the withering of time.

Peter had wondered how the Ataggin Empire would have endured the court’s invasion. It was said that the Ataggin Empire of old made the House look like a book club. The whole Tri-Terra had been the Ataggin domain. The empire moved freely between Dinn, Chur, and Boslic. The fallout shattered society, allegedly in all three worlds. The empire collapsed to infighting, billions died, and most technology and the ability to contact the other world were lost.

Peter lay broken, much like the ruins. He was watching society break yet again. If Ataggin and courts each took their turn destroying the worlds, how much longer until the next nightmare arrived? Did anything he did matter?

“Do you have any food?” Julian asked weakly through pale, clammy lips with his eyes still shut.

“N-” Peter coughed sharply. He shook his head, opting to avoid using words for now.

“We need to get back to the tombs,” Julian said. “But I don’t think I can travel.”

It took Peter three tries to articulate his words. “What did you do to me?”

“A Nyamarian boon of healing,” Julian said. “I didn’t have enough waarheid to do it, so I had to use some of my own. I’m depleted.”

“You should have let me die,” Peter said, and he meant it. “You could travel quickly on your own, and it would be easier to move the band.”

Peter shivered. All of his skin was dark and sticky with blood and dirt.

“Leave you to die?” Julian echoed. “Peter, the world will never be so dark that I would abandon a fallen soldier.” Julian reconsidered. “At least one I thought I could save.”

The uncontrollable fit of sobs slammed Peter so abruptly that he couldn’t brace for it.

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The pain, the killing, that thing inside of him. It all crashed onto him like an unexpected wagon dropped from Dinn while directly overhead.

Peter tried to shift away so Julian wouldn’t see him cry. Shaking in his tears felt good, like a release of everything he shouldn’t have been able to endure — and Iris? Anubis had probably killed Iris. Peter’s old life was officially gone; he had no idea if the mission was a success or a failure.

Julian slid over and put his arm around Peter as he settled in the dimming darkness.

Peter flinched but then relaxed. After a few days with the band on, the human touch was alien but much welcome.

Julian pulled Peter in firmly, his grip assuring him that there was nothing to be ashamed of. Julian still looked sickly, and he watched Peter with an expression of paternal concern. The steward's face also betrayed an emptiness and numbness. Julian may have been better equipped and prepared for the brutalities they found in Stalpia, but that doesn't mean he still didn't have to pay the price.

Peter tried to maintain stoic composure, but finally gave into the deep sobs that wracked his body. His soul and body were raw. He cried for a while. A few times, he was able to contain himself, but Anubis’ jackal head or Iris’ face would permeate his mind and set him off again.

Julian sat in silence as he held Peter, not mentioning that they probably had ghouls in pursuit or that they needed to return. He let the boy cry until he had no tears left.

“You know, my father would know what to say to you,” Julian said at length after several minutes of silence.

Peter looked at him.

“He was always good at comforting people.”

Peter nodded. Bram Gerrets, the former steward of the House of Nyamar, was known for his generosity and humanitarian instincts.

“The fact is,” Julian confessed sadly, “I’m no good at this at all. I’m no steward. I was always a soldier, and when this calling came, I — I accepted.”

Julian shivered, his breath casting a vaporous plume. Twilight was slipping away.

“It’s no coincidence that the House started to topple as I finally accepted that mantle.”

Peter listened to the grief in the man’s voice.

“And after all that, I don’t know about my faith.”

That startled Peter.

“It’s not that I don’t have faith in Nyamar himself. Were he to come here himself, I have no doubt he could overthrow the courts. I’m just not confident he made the right choice in appointing me. My father was perfect. So caring and wise. I always wanted to be like him but never could. I’ve tried, and I still do—every day. I just fail every time, and it’s my fault too.

It’s the black spot of bitterness. I carry that, and it gets in the way of my light. I’m bitter about everything I can be. Ataggin, the courts, and everyone who is slightly wrong or bad, people who hate The House.” He laughed ruefully. “I’m a hypocrite steward. I curse, I hate, I failed today. I bent the rules too far and got my friends killed. High Butler Anton was right; I should have stuck to my primary stewardship.”

“Julian,” Peter stopped him.

“Huh?”

Peter looked at the solidly built man, hugging his knees to his chest like a child. He could tell Julian was telling the truth, but he was dwelling in only one half of himself.

“Do you really think that High Butler Anton could have done what you did?”

Julian let out a bark of laughter. “He’s the biggest proponent against getting involved with the courts.”

Peter glared as he considered how the chief butler turned his back on them. Julian noticed.

“I want to be clear; the High Butler sustains my authority completely. If I could be sure it was the Nyamar’s will, I could issue new stewardships, and Anton would be the first to lead the charge. He’s one of the most faith-driven men I know. He doesn’t like me, but trusts the will of Nyamar so much that he’ll follow me despite our differences.”

“Why isn’t Nyamar talking to you?” Peter asked.

“I don’t know,” Julian whispered.

“Maybe he is,” Peter said. “Maybe you’re not listening.”

Julian looked at Peter and opened his mouth to protest, but Peter cut in first.

“Maybe your doubt in his will is your problem. Maybe he chose you because he knew you would fight.”

Julian took a drawn-out breath. “What if you’re wrong.”

“I’m not,” Peter said. The flair of pain in his organs had gradually cooled. “You fought, Julian. You saved me. I don’t know if I believe Nyamar is benevolent, but I have faith in you. If I had a house, you’re the one I would want to be its steward.”

That took Julian by surprise, then he shook his head. “So young. You shouldn’t have had to endure what you did, Peter.”

“How old are you?” Peter asked.

“What? ... Why?”

“Humor me.”

“Twenty-six.”

“That’s pretty young too, don’t you think?”

Julian shook his head. “There have been stewards younger than I.”

“But they were prepared for their duty. Maybe there’s a reason you’re the steward here and now, when the court threat is upon us.”

Julian let out a bark of laughter.

“Don’t laugh at that,” Peter chided. “You fought on equal terms with four elder liches. Surely that counts for something.”

Julian shrugged. “It’s not as glorious or wonderful as you make it sound. I wouldn't have lasted a second if I weren't a domestic.”

“And if I didn’t have the court band, I would have died even faster than that, but that’s not the point. The point is that we went. We didn’t want to or have to go. We chose to do it.”

“And what came of that?” Julian asked. My friends are dead, and Rahashel still defiles the estate. The tiles were scattered, and the Nine Fingers lost most of their men.”

“I lost Iris,” Peter said with a hollow voice. “She’s the reason I went, and I lost her.”

“So, in the end, it was all for nothing.”

Peter groaned as he felt his insides shift. He was still healing, just much slower than before. He hated seeing the steward so sullen and downcast.

“Maybe Nyamar didn’t want us to reclaim the estate or the tiles,” Peter said. “Maybe he wanted us to accomplish something else.”

“Like what?” Julian asked dryly.

“What did you do while in Stalpia?” Peter asked.

“I ran around and blew stuff up,” Julian said.

“You saved me and stopped the court band from getting into enemy hands.” Peter pointed out.

“I guess so. I also kind of killed General Montu — I think. I can never be sure if the lich would stay down.”

“According to a report that I overheard, Montu is dead,” Peter offered.

That brought a slight smile to Julian’s lips.

“And … that thing that you pulled out of me.”

Julian started and reached to pick it up as if afraid it would walk away.

“They called it a Druk, or an incentiviser. I think it’s how they killed Court Rasminfrey.”

“If it killed Rasminfrey, that means it might be able to …”

“Kill Court Rahashel,” Peter theorized.

Julian nodded.

“You know what it is?” Peter asked.

Julian nodded again.

“What is it?”

Julian bit his lip thoughtfully as if trying to distinguish how much to tell Peter. “It’s athanium.”

“What’s athanium?” Peter asked.

“It’s a pure metal. Refined to perfection.” Julian explained. “It’s programmable.”

“Programmable?”

Julian held up a hand. “I can’t tell you too much. Nyamarian waarheid programming is sensitive information. But let’s say it’s like a ghoul in a perfect metal body.”

“You mean that thing is undead?” Peter asked.

Julian shrugged. “It’s programmed in some language even I have never studied. Like your band.”

Julian touched Peter’s Bedorven, now around his wrist and the writing pulsed with purple light.

“Is it demonic?” Peter asked. “Are these courts from Perdesh?”

Julian shook his head. “I thought so when they first came, but I could recognize Perdesh script, and these are alien to me.”

“What are courts?” Peter asked, aware he had already asked the question before.

Julian frowned. “I’ve had historian maids and valets pouring over our records, but our libraries don’t hold the answers.”

“Oh boy,” Peter said as his eyes grew wide.

“What?”

“No way … could it be?”

“Could what be, Peter?”

“I had forgotten I’d had it on this whole time!”

Julian stopped asking and watched expectantly.

Peter pulled off his backpack, which had become very uncomfortable, as a large book pushed into his back. He hadn’t even noticed, given the punishment dealt by the living blade.

With excited hands, Peter removed the volume and looked at it. Once he became aware of it again, it seemed to chatter and hiss. On the front, the same writing style marked his armband; only it was shimmered fiercely.

Julian gasped and grabbed the book but stopped and looked at Peter apologetically. “May I?”

The book passed hands as Peter pushed it over.

Julian stopped. “This could be a better prize than the tiles. Records are priceless, especially if they’re your enemies’.”

“Rahashel agrees with you,” Peter said. “In the library, they’re translating and burning our books.”

Julian flipped the hefty codex open, and metallic pages glittered in the light of lightly luminescent court writing.

Julian let out another yelp of surprise. Yes, the writing shone with the court purple light in the strange scrawling language that marked Peter’s band.

“What is it?” Peter asked.

“The whole book is athanium,” Julian said in disbelief, his eyes eager.

“The pages are metal?” Peter asked in disbelief. “No. It would be much heavier.”

“No doubt the weight was programmed away,” Julian muttered affirmingly.

Peter had no clue what that meant, but based on the steward’s reaction, he considered it a good thing.

“Too bad you can’t read it?” Peter lamented.

“Kid, a whole house branch is dedicated to translation.”

“You can translate it?” Peter asked in surprise.

“Not now,” Julian said. “I need Veralumite. Let’s get back.”

Peter grunted his assent as he tried to stand but fell as his insides cried in protest.

Julian smiled. “You are a good kid, Peter.”

Peter smiled back. “Watch it. I’m your Elder.”

“In body only,” Julian said.

“Julian. You’re the greatest proof that Nyamar stands with us.”

Julian looked ready to protest, but he held his tongue. He nodded once.

Peter, for a moment, forgot his pain. He had never had an older brother, not until today.

Julian stood up and offered Peter a hand. Peter accepted, and they started limping back toward the tombs. What an odd pair they were: a death god and steward —the two strangest, most tired, and most wanted people in all of Nosmeria. At least they were on the same side.