After the full day’s work in the new training routine, Peter felt numb. He’d spent the better part of an hour scrubbing blood off the training ground floor— his blood. Based on the amount of blood on the floor, he shouldn't have physically had enough to keep his organs functioning, yet somehow he did. Peter couldn't begin to start on a theory on where the blood that now ran through his veins came from.

Peters scrubbed, his arms halfway up to his elbows were covered in orange foam of blood-soaked bubbles. He sat up and stretched his back but noticed his hands trembling. He took a deep breath to steady them, but the metallic scent of blood, mixed with the fruity smell of premernox gas, triggered something in him.

Peter lurched, grabbed a bucket, and tried to throw up, but he had already done so several times, so nothing came out. He hacked, gagged, and spat before regaining composure. Physically, Peter knew he was perfectly healthy. He felt the best he had since he had lost his leech ring, so why did he feel so sick?

Train, reset, train, reset. Peter clenched his hands into tight fists to stop the trembling.

Norah judged the most efficient points of the workout before making him reset by shooting him fatally. He felt like he had jammed six months of training and recovery into one day, which … he had. Peter could feel the effect of the training. People had told him they felt stronger after a few weeks of exercise, but he never stuck with it long enough to agree with them. If only they could feel the difference of six months of training in one day. That felt amazing, but also —

Peter twitched. Again. Every time he thought about dying or the violence it — twitch, there it was again.

Peter shuddered.

The tomb door opened behind him, and he quickly resumed scrubbing. He didn't want Norah to see him taking a break. What time was it? The tomb had no windows, but it was probably late at night. Peter looked over his shoulder and was surprised to see not Norah but a man with dark hair and round, firm features. The man had a muscular physique, which showed through his grey button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his thick hairy forearms.

The newcomer walked in and examined a weapon rack. Peter turned back to scrubbing the floor. It was late, but he wasn't physically tired. Peter had died an hour ago, and now it felt like he had just woken up. His mind was exhausted; he wanted to sit in the corner and stare at the wall.

Peter couldn't help but feel a grim sense of satisfaction. He had discovered that Court Rahashel had more power than he thought and that Nine Fingers and Iris had less time than he had believed. So, Peter upped his timetable as well. Sure, he felt like he had cheated to get here, but in war, cheating was good, right?

The man plunged a brush into the bucket, settled next to Peter, and started scrubbing. Peter flinched. The man offered no explanation and only eyed the floor with sorrowful eyes.

"Can I help you?" Peter asked.

The man scrubbed blood off of the floor without answering.

Peter shrugged and returned to his task before yelping and scampering away. "Stay back! I'll leech you!"

The man had been right next to Peter and didn't look any older. There was also no light or noise suggesting that he had been leeched.

"What? How —” Peter gawked. He managed to get close without leeching him! The whole 'shun Peter' thing was eating at him. How did the leech work? Was it because Peter wasn't thinking about the man when it happened?

"Your body," the man said, "is a gift." He looked sadly at the bloodstained floor. "Treat it well." His vibrant green eyes glistened.

Peter didn't know this man but knew what green eyes meant. "You're a domestic?" he said, noting that the man didn't wear a domestic uniform.

The man nodded. "I'm Julian Gerrets, High Steward of the House of Nyamar."

Peter's jaw dropped. "Son of the High Steward Bram Gerrets — " Peter stopped. The House of Nyamar had only one high steward. "Your father?"

"Court Rasminfrey killed him," Julian’s eyes hardened.

"I'm sorry," Peter said. Julian was probably the youngest man to ever be steward of the House.

"One of Rahashel's liches killed my mother," Peter said in an awkward effort to sympathize with the high steward. Then, he considered the implications. "If a court killed your father, does that mean the House is fighting against the courts?"

"No," Julian said. "Rasminfrey was testing our stewardship's limits when he killed my father."

"But you have to fight!" Peter exclaimed. "If anyone can fight the courts, it's the House! You have the power."

"There are many who agree with you," Julian said. "Myself included."

"So help us!" Peter said. "Don't you lead the House?"

"Nyamar leads the House. He has appointed us to oppose Atagginite boon practitioners, not the courts."

Peter regarded Julian dumbfounded. "The Ataggin threat is nearly nonexistent. Courts slaughter and harvest human life every day. Surely, there is some point where your stewardship overlaps."

"I look for that point every day," Julian said.

Peter's mother would have blindly trusted the Steward Words. She was a devout scullery, a rank of ordinary followers not endowed with domestic abilities. Peter was technically a junior footman in the House records, but he had given Nyamar little thought before and even less after getting the court band.

"I see your doubt," Julian said. "Unfortunately, very few trust in Nyamar's protection anymore. Not since the courts came."

"Is it unreasonable to trust his protection if he doesn't allow his house to protect us?"

"Fair point," Julian said, ruefully.

"What does Nyamar say about the courts?" Peter asked, a note of challenge in his voice. He was suspicious of an emperor no one had seen, especially considering his intolerance of those who would use his power. The power of boons was a secret the House guarded jealously. If anyone outside the House utilized this power hunter, domestics were dispatched to end them. "Did he send them?"

Julian bit back a response, and his eyes hardened for a moment. "I don't know."

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"You don't know?" Peter asked incredulously. "Doesn't the high steward commune with Nyamar?"

"I'm not very good at it?" Julian said, tentatively. He scrubbed harder at a stubborn blood stain on the floor.

"The high steward isn't good at communicating with the House's master?"

"Tell you what, how about you don't condemn me for being a bad steward, and I won't condemn you for being a bad court."

Peter staggered back, looking at the domestic in surprise. There was no way he had the clearance to know that Peter was a court and Peter was charged with keeping that secret.

"I'm a lich," he tried, his voice sounding unconvincing even to his own ears.

Julian's eyes took on a semi-luminescent sheen, and Peter stepped back. He knew a domestic's eyes could indicate when they used their boons.

"I'm a bad steward," Julian agreed, his voice taking a new edge. "I never wanted my father's mantel. I'm a high steward but also a man who is imperfect and flawed. The only reason I act as steward is that, for some terribly ironic reason, Nyamar has seen fit to appoint me, and when the master calls, I follow."

"I wasn't trying to be rude," Peter muttered.

"I'm a terrible steward, but I am a good domestic. I see the band, Peter."

Peter instinctively covered the metal armband, still covered by his sleeve, but he knew the gesture did nothing to hide it from the steward's sight. Peter knew little about seers, but definitive studies proved they could perceive depths and possibilities.

Peter considered that for a second. Having the high steward in front of him was a rare opportunity.

"Could you, uh —" Peter couldn't bring himself to ask.

"You want me to search you?" Julian asked, his eyes glinting in the low tomb light.

Peter nodded. He knew people had spiritual defenses, or Iolas, to protect them against domestic or Atagginite boons. Julian could search Peter with his permission, or if Peter tried to harm the high steward, he would make himself vulnerable to his boons. "Do it," he agreed.

Peter was aware that as soon as he said those words, Julian's eyes stopped looking at him and started looking into him. Peter gasped, the hairs on his neck standing. He would have been less exposed if he was naked. Julian looked into the fledgling court.

Julian's eyes flicked back and forth as he studied something imperceptible within Peter.

"What do you see?" Peter asked.

"I'm sorry for what you've lost; I understand what you hope to gain and fear what price you'll have to pay."

"Will I save Iris?" Peter asked eagerly.

"I don't see the future. I'm reading your anima sequence." Julian's eyes locked onto something in Peter, and his brow furrowed.

"What is it?" Peter asked breathlessly.

"You are probably the least capable person alive to wield that court band."

Peter's confidence shattered.

"That or the best," Julian said, unsure of himself. "You can't access the band's power, can you?"

"I can leech," Peter said to correct the domestic. "I'm immortal."

"A few preliminary programs, and a tiny fraction of what you should be able to do," Julian said dismissively.

"How did you know?" Peter asked. "Why doesn't it work for me?"

Julian's eyes returned to a standard vibrant green without luminesce. "I'm not sure."

"What do you think?" Peter demanded, hoping for better than vague hints.

"I think," Julian contemplated. "That Nine Fingers will fail if you're their trump card."

Peter deflated. "So what, there's no hope?"

"Hope is dangerous," Julian said. "It's dangerous to you, Nine Fingers, and the courts. It's your best weapon, and it's far better than that band."

"So why don't you sound like you have hope?" Peter demanded. "If the House fought with us, we could have hope. What hope do the rest of us have if you hide behind your stewardships and do nothing?"

"The House of Nyamar without stewardships is just Ataggin," Julian said. Ataggin was an ancient fallen empire. Attaganite was a more contemporary term for non-House boon wielders.

"What if Atagginites offered to protect us?" Peter asked. "How would you feel knowing Ataggin protected us better than the House?"

"Be careful," Julian warned. “I fear a resurgence of the Ataggin Empire more than the courts.”

Peter laughed incredulously. "That's ridiculous!"

"You only think that because you can't begin to comprehend the true ramifications of yielding the master's power without his authority," Julian said.

"Is this Nyamar's power?" Peter asked, pulling his sleeve back to reveal the band.

Julian didn't answer.

"I didn't think so, and even if I am the worst and weakest court, I'm not going to abandon Nosmeria to them. I don't know how to fight, but I will fight. I don't know how to resist, but I’ll try. If the House can't be a source of hope, then under Nyamar, I will."

Julian raised an eyebrow.

"Or maybe I won't. But I will die before I stand back and watch."

"You're an idiot, kid," Julian said with a smile. "But you're brave; you give me hope."

"So fight with me," Peter pleaded.

The door to the tomb opened, and a group of domestics entered, including the man and woman Peter had seen in the command tomb. They wore domestic uniforms, complete with white aprons.

"High Steward?" the woman called, eyeing the remaining blood to be cleaned off the floor in confusion. Her dark hair was pulled back tight and hidden by a white mobcap. Both she and the man beside her shared long faces with pointed chins and wide-set brown eyes. They were likely related.

"Stay back," Julian warned. Apparently, he wasn't confident his protection from Peter's reach would extend to them.

"Peter, this is my staff. That's Hunter Maid Esmee, a pulsist, and her brother, Hunter Valet Albert, a mover."

Siblings, then. Peter nodded. His hunch was correct. "I saw them earlier in the command tomb," Peter said with a wave.

"You're a lich?" Esmee said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "That's what they called you."

"Yes," Peter chuckled nervously.

"You can harness Court power?" she demanded.

"I can," Peter said. "But it's nothing as cool as Nyamarian boons!" he put in quickly.

One of the valets, a man Peter didn't know, had an athletic figure and brown curly hair that spilled into his eyes. He stepped out of the doorway. "Don't mind Esmee," he said with a good-humored smile. “We all have good reason to be suspicious of your kind."

"This is Hunter Valet Hendrik, my slammist."

Peter's eyes widened. Despite Hendrick's athletic build, he would be able to do physical feats far beyond what the laws of physics dictated possible. Of all the disciplines, most kids played as slammists in the schoolyard.

The last two stepped into the light. One man was lithe, with sullen eyes. He kept his black-gloved hands buried in his pockets. The other was a tall woman who walked with excellent posture. Ringlets of honey-brown hair hung down from her white bonnet.

"This is Valet Gerard, a surfer, and Maid Ava, a clampist."

Peter gawked. All five hunter disciplines were present, each with subtly unnaturally green eyes.

Suddenly, Peter's stomach dropped, intruding like a snake slithering down the back of his shirt. He was isolated with a complete set of hunter domestics and the High Steward himself. He didn't know what they were doing there. What if he was their mission? The House jealously guarded their power; who knew if they weren't expanding their reach by taking a Bedorven from a court that didn't know how to harness its abilities.

"Peter," Julian said cautiously, pulling Peter from his thoughts." Peter turned to him, but his eyes flickered to the weapons on the wall.

Julian held up a placating hand. His eyes looked into Peter.

It wasn't intuition; Julian had continued searching Peter and could likely see his thoughts or at least read his panic.

"Peter," Julian said again, his voice even. "We're not here to hurt you."

Peter's lungs seemed strained, and his eyes flickered about the room, seeking a non-barred escape. He twitched. They were going to rush him. They were going to attack with their boons, and they were going to make him give them the Bedorven.

Hendrik flicked his head, throwing curls from his eyes. "We don't have a stewardship to hunt liches," he said lightheartedly, clearly not recognizing Peter’s panic without the context of Julian's seeing abilities.

"Peter," Julian said again, ignoring the slammist. "It's okay."

Peter looked at Julian for several loud heartbeats, memories of ghouls and vampires flashing as they tore into him. Something beyond logic soothed Peter's worries as the air grew clear again. Julian gave Peter a reassuring look and held it momentarily before turning to his staff. "What brought you here?"

Hunter Maid Esmee spoke up. "High Butler Anton is here."

Peter's jaw dropped for a second time. High Butler Anton Dekker was a legendary master pulsist who had developed innovative pulsing techniques. The two most important, and arguably most powerful, domestics were both at the Nine Fingers tomb.

Julian looked at Peter apologetically. "If you'll excuse me. This meeting has been coming for a long time."

"What's happening?" Peter asked, wondering for the first time about the extent of the House's affiliation with Nine Fingers. If it wasn’t for him, what was it?

"We're going to discuss whether the House will accompany Nine Fingers on their next assignment."

"What about your stewardship?" Peter asked, his voice much more excited than he had intended.

"Peter, it's been a pleasure to meet you," Julian said. "You already know I'm a poor steward, but what you don't know about me is that I am the master of finding loopholes."