I ran a cloth across Woe’s surface, paying special attention to the inscription in the blade, still readable despite the scars. They were the lessons of my mother, instilled as if my own blade was speaking to me: Do not draw me without reason. Do not wield me without valor. The ignorant saw runes on my sword and thought them dark magic, but the markings only reminded me of my own beginnings. I wondered what she made of me now, looking down at the world from heavens I would never know.

Maybe it was magic, a communion with the dead even I could access. I imagined her disappointment with me like a slap across the face.

Perhaps I always fought courageously, in service of something greater, but was it good? When I lived in my memories or anger, it seemed so. As soon as those coals burned cold, however, I wondered.

Soft-creaking footsteps on the mats stirred me from my reverie. I knew without turning that it was Shira, unheard of this late. Normally she slept until dawn from sheer exhaustion alone. “Is something the matter?” I asked as I stood and turned, still carefully wiping down Woe.

Restless, Shira signed with flicking fingers. Vex said I was fortunate she seized the other assassin. She said he was searching the palace for me.

I sighed, fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. Unlike Anstydir, Vex could be very catlike in her idea of following my instructions. I had requested that she not disclose the nature of the conversation with my new captive to Shira, but clearly she hadn’t understood why enough to preserve my peace. I needed to watch my words more carefully with her. “Did she say why?”

Why would any assassin seek out someone like me? They needed help, someone on the inside.

Well, at least Vex could halfway follow my instructions. “Did they now?” I said dryly, well aware that Erelim’s chosen intended to shove a blade of mercy right through Shira’s heart. The why was the troublesome part, but Vex didn’t need to sleep and had her wily ways of getting information even when I refused to let her play with her food. She could settle for being a nuisance and antagonistic force trying to rile them up. What a pair we made during interrogations: the cruel Beloved and the obnoxious loudmouth guard. I would speak to him properly once Vex had grated away his resolve.

For her part, Shira seemed to understand much was going unsaid. You know more of their purpose here.

I sheathed Woe carefully and set the blade aside. “Since you seem quite awake and aware, perhaps I should put you through your paces.”

Shira narrowed her eyes. Must you silence every question with violence?

“It is a pleasure, not a necessity.” I went and picked up two of the training blades, tossing her one. They were wooden and meant to mimic the feel of a real blade, enchanted both to prevent from killing and to prevent from breaking. Magic certainly had its uses, even for the martially inclined, but I had to request Ember fashion them rather than being able to place the enchantment myself. “If you object, all you have to do is win. Then I will be satisfied and you may pester me with questions.”

Shira caught the training sword with reflexive ease, a sign of lessons honed to a fine point. I felt a slight glimmer of pride as I settled into my stance, as comfortable as sitting in a well-loved chair.

Almost immediately, she surged forward like a diver into the plunge, a beautiful strike from the shoulder bearing down on my immediate parry. Where normally Shira had to be coaxed into ferocity, now she burned like a furnace. I wasn’t certain if it was irritation with me or a desire to know whatever secrets I held, but it was breathtaking. This was the fire I’d seen in her as a smolder. I met her with a wrathful strike, striking hard enough that I almost knocked the blade out of her hands. Instead of waiting for her to regain herself as she retreated, I pursued, hounding her across the mats with switching strikes she had to parry in a flurry.

She cleared just enough space that my last swing missed contact with her blade and thrust, trying to reclaim the initiative. I stepped off line and snapped my sword down at her hands in a crooked strike, only to have her counter by switching to a high guard. The clack of wood against wood filled the room as we met for the first time, not as equals, but as rivals. Perhaps it was the late hour, but her native caution had given way to a brazenness I had not seen since her agreement to study the blade.

I spiraled around her as our blades clashed and wound, watching her struggle to read my intentions in the bind. She was following the rhythm, matching my energetic pace with far more ease and grace than she’d shown as a raw beginner. I could see the hours she’d poured into study paying off now. Just as I deceived her distance and circled close enough to make my move, she abruptly broke rhythm, yielding in the bind to leave an opening and striking at my face.

It almost worked. Almost.

I switched grip and ducked in the same instant, hooking her blade with my hilt and sending it spinning out of her hand. She spun, continuing her momentum, and hit me in the side of the head with a rising elbow. That was enough to send us both sprawling to the floor with our blades forgotten. I blinked hard, vision swimming for a moment. A very good hit, I thought as consciousness settled back into my body. I was still fighting her despite the blow. I slammed her into the ground while she tried to slip the grapple and clawed at my face.

It didn’t feel like a training bout. It felt like a challenge. I grinned fiercely, which only seemed to fire her up more. Shira’s luminous eyes blazed with anger just as I caught her in a pin, her arms above her head where they could do me no damage. With my legs tangled with hers, there was no way she could get a proper kick or knee up: I knew better than to give her that opportunity, since I’d trained her how to smash an opponent off her with even only one foot.

“That was excellent.” My breath flowed in and out smoothly still, trained to be steady despite pain. I was going to have a beautiful shiner in the morning and probably a slight concussion.

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Shira had no way to express her displeasure except by snapping her teeth at me, still mindful of her vows even in the heat of the moment. Her eyes narrowed at me and she twitched her left hand, trying to sign.

I considered letting her go, but I knew she was more liable to punch me with that hand than say something. Her body was still restless underneath mine, shifting and searching for a position where she could throw me off. The moment I felt her try to do a hip check, I leaned down harder, using my leg to twist hers until it was impossible. “Give it up,” I crooned. “You lost.”

This time, I caught the sign out of the corner of my eye. And make your ego more insufferable?

“A cheap shot from a caught popinjay. Do you want me to put you into a submission hold?”

She shook her head, lips pursed. As the fires started to cool in my soul, I realized how close we were. I could feel her heart beating in her body like a bird’s, swift and soft. I held her tightly enough to bruise, even knowing her fragility. The suddenness of the realization took me aback and I loosened my hold just enough to make her more comfortable even as I kept control of the situation. Her eyes reminded me more of sapphires than their normal luminous selves, darker and dangerous with the pent up frustration. This was a side of Shira I had yet to see, perhaps because not even she knew it was there. I knew every moment I lingered troubled her more, but there was something fascinating about the tension in her expression.

What? Her movements were sharp, almost staccato beats against my hand as she signed.

“I feel as though I have seen a different you this evening,” I said, suddenly uncertain of what I was seeing.

Her lips pressed into a frown even deeper than her previous one. You don’t know me.

“Do I vex you so?” I watched the turmoil cross her face like storm clouds. It was clear that her anger was masking something else, but I didn’t know what it was. I wasn’t entirely convinced that she did either. “Do you concede?”

Do I have a choice? Eyes still ablaze, her signing seemed to be a snappish retort.

It struck me as strange then, not her frustration with me, but my own reaction. I always went to ice in fights, but this time I felt overheated even without my armor. “You always have a choice, Shira. You can concede, or I can make you. You get to decide whether you prefer merciful and swift or torturous and slow.”

She twitched her hand. I will concede if I must.

I let go of her and untangled myself in an instant, springing back before she could take a suckerpunch at me. Not honorable, certainly, but she had learned the most from Vex and I. Dirty tricks were to be expected. My world swam slightly at the sudden change in position and I felt dizziness wash over me. “Well done,” I said, touching the side of my head where she’d struck. “It is hardly every day that someone rings my bell.”

Shira clambered up to her feet, far less catlike and graceful than I. She wasn’t used to ground-fighting still, despite my attempts to remedy that. Are you alright? Her concern overshadowed her annoyance for a moment. A blink of an eye, but long enough for me to put the pieces together, even slightly addled.

No matter how angry with me she was for keeping secrets, Shira cared whether I was well or injured. I felt a coldness sweep through me like ice. That care was dangerous, especially if it was discovered. “Fine,” I said brusquely, turning and striding for the discarded weapons.

She followed practically on my heels, fingers flicking in worried motion. It was a hard hit, Frostborn. At least let me look at it.

I grabbed her by the wrist and wrenched her around, earning a cry of pain as I pinned her against the wall. “Listen to me very carefully, priestess,” I said in a low voice. “I do not require the concern of Light’s faithful and you would do well to remember that. Your only fault was not striking harder.”

Shira’s eyes welled up with tears and I immediately let go, feeling a pang in my chest for having caused her pain even though I knew it was for the best. To my surprise, her tears didn’t stop when the physical pain eased. Must you always meet me with ice? This sign with her untwisted hand was plaintive, pleading with me to thaw.

I evaded her gaze. “Yes.” I turned and strode away, ignoring the sob of breath that followed in my wake. All this time, I had thought I was training my end. Now it seemed much less clear than that and I found the whole endeavor a taste of ashes on my tongue. The Beloved could always extend her favor, her fondness, her compassion.

It was never to be reciprocated with anything other than dread.

I couldn’t bear the thought of another him, yet here I was playing in the orchard again. I kicked myself cruelly inside, reminded too well of all those lost things crowding around my heart.

Shira did not follow. I don’t know whether I felt relieved or disappointed. My feet took me through the Winter Palace on a winding route, ending not in the dungeons, but in the kitchens. Haven looked up from his needlework by candlelight, carefully repairing one of my arming coats. I’d lost my finest seamstress with Melody’s departure, but the rough and ready task of repairing my battle garments was more than suitable for Haven’s sturdy stitches.

“My lady, you look upset,” he observed, black eyes gleaming faintly in the candlelight. My faithful wight set aside his work, ready to rise to his feet. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

“That won’t be necessary, Haven,” I said, sitting down next to him on the bench. My head pounded, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. “I just need some time.”

“Of course, my lady.”

I turned in my seat, resting my head against his shoulder as he worked, watching the needle rise and fall through the fabric until an unfamiliar burning started in my eyes. Nothing fell from them, but I felt them there all the same. Why now? Why at all? I cursed Him for leaving me like this, a feeling thing surrounded by the unfeeling world. Undeath would have been better than life, surely, if only for the absence of heartache.

Haven knew. He always knew. Even when he couldn’t love me, he could still tend to me like the withered rose I wore as a signet. The wight hummed an old, steady lullaby from the days before and let me lean against his rock-steady form as he worked.

We passed much of the night in relative quiet, until I was finally ready to let him tend to my aching head and usher me not to my room, but to the bedroll in his quarters for nights like these, when the loneliness drowned me beneath its waves. There Haven could rock in his chair and watch over me, while I slept to the creaking of unvarnished wood.