Chapter 33
Does he know? My question tangled in my gut, laboring to meet the god. Does Alistair know I can change faces? Something of me knew Alistair could discern my lies from truths, but to know my face could be molded—that I possessed magic. Does he know I serve the gods?
Deceit hummed two, contemplative notes that bled into each other and rattled me. Your masks have been constructed in the quiet. He could not know.
I yearned to believe Deceit, but—
“Dare I say you’re out of practice?” The prince gave a hearty laugh.
Alistair huffed.
“If I could take more hours in these damned days.”
They’re blades struck each other’s, the steel singing a ballad of battle.
“Excuses cannot save you from death, Alistair,” Evandor retorted.
I leaned against the stone archway, surrounded by laurel trees. The estate’s entrance was tucked in the distance, and I savored myself in the shadows, withheld from the light of torches and dusk.
The blades fell quiet. I tipped my head around the corner.
Alistair held a sword, his grip tight at the hilt, straining his leather gloves. A mischievous grin quirked his lips with attention devoted to Evandor, and a black flame was hot in his eyes. They stood opposed, their breaths rapid, their chests rising on repeat.
Evandor extended his arm, blade angled towards the dirt, and taunted.
“Given your swordsmanship, I would offer you an official title of royal scribe, but I’ve seen your penmanship.”
Alistair ran his hand through his hair, every strand falling back upon his brow.
“Like I’d ever work at the castle. I’m not one for crowns and politics.”
“Yet, here you are—The Great Lord of the Western Lands.”
A daring deepened in Alistair’s gaze.
“Not here. Not now.” He spun his blade.
“Right now, I’m merely a man unafraid to humble his prince.”
Evandor offered a single, snarky ha.
“Please, my friend, even without fear, you still require skill. Otherwise, you’re simply a brave fool.”
A dark snicker settled over Alistair’s features.
A second later, the prince lunged at the lord, dust scooping around his feet.
A memory stung my mind. The way Evandor sped to Alistair, blade in hand, pulled me back to the guild’s ruins when the Volant was set against Evandor’s blade. The blood. The bodies. Deceit snatched the memory. Not to harm it—I needed this memory—but to quiet the noise.
Evandor’s sword licked Alistair’s collar. Just as quick, the Raven curled around the prince’s blade, tucked low, and struck the flat of his blade against Evandor’s side—breaking Evandor’s fluidity—and pivoted to his back. Evandor twisted around, stance hardened, and swung his steel. Torchlight glistened on every bead of sweat and, before Evandor could pivot, the Raven’s pummel struck Evandor’s nose with a loud crack.
“Sands,” Evandor hissed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Alistair mocked a bow with arms at his sides.
“Apologies, Your Highness.” He sheathed his blade. An earned breath stretched his shirt, and he asked with a wicked grin.
“Tell me, if I am a brave fool, what does that make you?”
“Oh, fuck off.” Evandor set his sleeve to his nose, mopping up the two red rivers flowing down. He licked his lips and spat blood.
Alistair peeled off his gloves, let them fall to the ground, and picked up a glass vial from the dirt. Silver beads shimmered within. He tossed it to Evandor, who snatched it from the air, set some upon the back of his hand, and snorted. The blood stopped.
For a moment, the two men stood as gasping statues, tasting air for the first time, then they sat upon old ruins on the other side of the arch. I kept my breath quiet, pulled myself into hiding, and listened—listen for mention of me, of face changers.
“These days are damned,” Evandor muttered.
“The distinction between friend and foe continues to grow muddled as the days grow darker. After Percy’s death…” He trailed off with a heavy breath.
“Our allies are scarce.”
Do you think he knows Percy was helping the elves? I asked Deceit.
He did not speak to me, only listened.
“I knew the severity of allies before Eadric’s death, but now—” Alistair broke cadence with tension loud in his throat.
“As elves, Shadows, and man all conspire in lands belonging to my name, it changes how I perceive alliances. What an alliance truly means.”
Evandor scoffed.
“The alliances of this age are built on barter and coin. The moment a pocket runs empty, men turn their backs to the next wealthy in line. There is no one left to trust.”
“There were some.”
“And now, we are few.”
Something unspoken lingered here, and gods I wished to know.
Evandor groaned.
“And now, you say there are face changers in the West?”
My heart nearly collapsed to the ground. Deceit coiled his tail around it, holding it tight and soothing my hammering blood.
“I was ambushed in Tharen Crest by men using the Potion of Disguise. They posed as elves.”
My hand met my chest with relief.
Evandor sucked his teeth. “Elves?”
“One accomplice was to be interrogated at the castle, but the carriage was raided. The man was killed.” Alistair sighed.
“I have no way of knowing who wants me dead.”
“Sands, that potion was never meant to leave the castle. Only the lords knew of it, and, mere days after the potion was announced, the head alchemist was found dead.” Dirt and stones began to churn beneath footsteps, Evandor beginning to pace.
“Do you suspect any of the lords?” Alistair asked.
“You handled the only one I considered clever enough to pull off such a heist.”
Does he mean Briarwood? My mind was spinning with thoughts. I tipped my head around the corner, seeing Evandor pacing and Alistair leaning forward where he sat, his elbows on his knees. His jaw locked with narrowed eyes—I distinguished the burdens he wrestled.
Evandor recounted.
“The men masked as elves, attacked you in Tharen Crest, and you do not know who sent them?” Before Alistair could answer, Evandor ranked another question higher—“Why would they mask as elves?”
“I can only assume they were attempting to intimidate me.”
“Make you believe the war was at your front door?”
Alistair shrugged his heavy shoulders.
“I can only assume.”
Evandor laughed at something I did not understand.
“When did man become so senseless? The war is coming soon enough, now that the elves have infiltrated Cindermoor. And are you ready for it?” He asked, clasping Alistair’s shoulder.
“Truly, ready?”
“I am,” he said with sureness.
Evandor’s back loosened.
“Just be careful of yourself, Alistair. If you die, I’ll have no buffer between myself and Vaelir.”
The prince reawakened his pace, and Alistair pondered the lanterns stabbed into the laurel trees. The flamelight stroked the sweat marking his brow, though the light skipped right over his eyes. He drew a deep breath, his shirt tensing around his broad chest, and his exhale was vapor from his lips.
The way Alistair’s eyes shone in the dark, the weight upon his brows, the thin line of his lips—I had a sympathy for him I shouldn’t have. I tried to hold it close, to keep it from the god, but he knew my depths—Deceit’s roots twisting in the darkest places of me.
The god did not utter in the dark where he lay, and he did not speak of Alistair’s fate. He merely filled me with ancient breath. Hostile and all-consuming.
“Do you know if the elves have found the amulet?” The prince asked with crossed arms and a rigid brow.
“They haven’t.”
“Gods, we need that amulet. I feel it is the only chance to tip the scales of this war.” The prince sat himself upon the stone beside Alistair and tapped his foot—unable to hold still—only to stand again and continue pacing.
“My father believed destroying the guild would rectify the city, but there is a rage stirring. A retaliation. And, where rebellions form, the crown continues to fortify. Before this war is done, there will be a massacre.”
Alistair drew back his sweated hair, tucking them behind his ear, finally tamed. Every piece of his face was shone to firelight, and, well…
I loved the sight.
Something made Alistair chisel his face—that stoic, unreadable veneer erasing any point of ease. Burdens vanished beneath the mask. He untucked his hair, letting it fall over his face and ears. His shoulders drew a taut line.
“Where will you go from here?” He asked in his lordly timbre.
“Have I mentioned I cannot stand Lucien?” Evandor snarled.
“Be glad you don’t have a contract that secures him in your home.”
“I’ll fix that once I return to Sariem. If I had a say, that rat would be living in the slums. Just my luck, he’ll most likely be moved to the castle and join Father’s council.” Evandor didn’t take a breath between words.
“Because of him, Knox insists I travel east to ‘chase fucking whispers’. Sands, it’s pointless, but I suppose it is best to keep everyone’s suspicions away from the West.”
“With the estate’s duties and everyone’s eyes on me, I haven’t had time to search, but I will continue west as I can. It can’t be far.”
“And you’re certain the elves do not have it? He told you that?”
“Vaelir said he searches, but he hasn’t found it.”
There was that name again—Vaelir. I did not know a Vaelir.
“I don’t trust him,” Evandor uttered.
“All his spite because of what Eadric did to your mother, even though it is Vaelir’s father who banished her.”
Alistair let out a growling breath, statue features intact.
“The manuscript said the amulet is hidden in tombs, not that this helps. The ruins of Andrael are predominantly tombs.”
Evandor twisted the dirt beneath his feet as he paced.
“And here I thought I was the only one hopelessly obsessed with mysterious scripts.” He notched his voice.
“Tombs of the dark conceal the light.”
“Those in search must face the plight.”
“And something about games?” Evandor asked.
Alistair nodded.
“Rival in games and riddles galore. Only then might one be adorned.”
Deceit stiffened in me, his breath halting. You’ve heard this before? He asked with severity, plucking at the chord of familiarity in mind.
Tucking myself behind the archway, I looked at the lifeless hills, so dreary they were intangible against the backdrop of the pouting sun. I pulled forth the memories for Deceit to have. It is written in the lord’s journal. I read this the night the guild fell, after you left to warn the others.
Deceit hissed as his fingers tightened and tightened.
What is it?
If this is what I believe it to be, it is not meant for mankind. There is a god playing games.
Before I could ask anything further, I heard Alistair and Evandor walking towards the archway I hid behind. My heart leaped. I sprinted on tiptoe towards the front door. I knew there wasn’t enough time to get inside before they’d see me, so I timed it perfectly—
Alistair and Evandor walked around the bend. I twisted on my heels and feigned walking from the front door. The men noticed me, and I nodded to them with a respectful smile.
Evandor was quick to ask.
“And where are you off to this hour, Rhoswen?”
“My Prince.” I curtsied.
“I was merely going for a stroll.”
My brother marked me with his evergreen eyes.
“In the cold of winter?”
“The estate was growing rather loud with everyone’s goodbyes. I was simple after a moment of quiet.”
He uplifted his ever-cunning grin.
“There is nothing quiet out in these lands. From what I understand, women are being attacked by highwaymen.” Chin tucked, a thought caused Evandor’s brows to raise, and he unsheathed his blade.
“Perhaps your time would be better spent preparing for such an encounter.”
“With swords?” I asked, looking at the steel in his hand.
“You wish for me to lift a sword?”
Evandor’s eyes did not leave me as he asked.
“What says you, Lord Alistair? Do you think Rhoswen can handle a blade?”
Austere as ever, Alistair leaned against the standing pillar—one arm braced above him, his forearm resting against the stone. The cusp of my sight caught a glimpse of his abdomen beneath the hem of his tunic, hot skin glistening in the torchlight. It took all the restraint I had not to break my eyes from his.
“She might be beyond hope,” Alistair said with dry humor, causing my lips to straighten.
I narrowed my gaze.
“You’re so sure?”
“You told me yourself,” Alistair began, raising his sharp jaw.
“You will not stand with a hilt in your hand or a blade at your neck. Safely hidden in shadows. Unless, Miss Fallen, you have changed since coming to my estate?”
The way his lips curled at the edges, how he held himself so loosely against the pillar—this was another challenge.
“I do not know much about swords,” I said timidly.
Another lie, Deceit muttered beneath his breath.
Alistair stood off the pillar, squaring his shoulders, which only emphasized his muscular build. His shadow cast over me.
“I’ll show you,” he said, and suddenly, there was no challenge in his softened demeanor. He took the blade from Evandor and reached for my hand. I met him halfway, his calloused skin scratching mine, and he gave me my brother’s blade.
Sword in hand, it was a sensation long forgotten, only… It came back to me all too quickly.
Deceit’s words dragged out in sullen amusement. Tell me, child, do you have the humility to perform in foolishness? Most women of this age do not know of steel and blades.
I did know something of blades, though not enough to hold my own.
It was in my early years, a princess by birthright, when the sun glistened in the sky. My skin would turn red beneath the simmering warmth, the flowers overrunning the castle gardens in unforgiving blooms. Grass was warm between my toes. General Alus would humor me whenever I’d demand a sparring partner—always when the sun was highest, and the air was hottest. All others I’d ask considered swords unladylike, but Alus was different. Though his status set him close beside my father, Alus’s golden armor rejected each dark influence that plagued from the king’s tongue.
Alus was one of the few, one of the goods.
I wondered if he ever mourned my passing.
Alistair led me to the clearing. Evandor joined, stepped to the side, and resumed his repetitive jaunt beside the edge of the garden.
“Have you ever sparred before?” Alistair asked with a daring in his eyes.
“No.” My lip curled at one end.
“Another lie, Miss Fallen?”
“I suppose you will have to discover such yourself, my lord.” I prepared my stance—feet planted, knees bent, blade angled towards the low clouds.
“Relax your shoulders,” Evandor directed at my side.
“You look like a bloody vulture.”
“Ignore him,” Alistair hushed with eyes void of light, studying the path of Evandor’s blade to my hand at the hilt. Alistair then stole a glance at my form—arms, waist, legs, and each piece of myself in between.
I felt seen. Too seen.
Colors crawled up his jaw.
“How does your ankle feel?” He asked, almost smooth enough that I couldn’t make out the tension in his throat. Almost.
I coaxed the challenged with a grin.
“Well adjusted, my lord.”
There was that smile—teeth brilliant against the fire’s glint, his dimple casting a shadow.
“Move slowly today,” he said.
“I do not want to risk the potion’s integrity.” Alistair studied my stance once more and stepped closer. He began to reach out—to reach for me. To break past that unspoken wall built between us.
Blood was hot in my veins, pooling in my cheeks. Alistair stood so near.
Once more, I reached for the god’s magic and cloaked the blush swarming to my face. And, once more, I felt too seen—Alistair’s attention was taken to my cheeks. As though he knew.
My stomach was tight with the feeling of a hundred starved bees buzzing within.
He lifted empty hands and asked, “May I?”
“Sure,” I said, not so smoothly.
Alistair’s hand was firm around mine, his skin was hot, and the deep ache in me resurfaced. Positioning the blade, Alistair then set his hands where my neck and shoulders met at either side. The ache flourished. He moved his touch outward, softly stroking my shoulders until his hands fell down my arms.
“You do need to relax,” he said quietly with a soft smile.
“But you do not look like a vulture.”
I followed his direction, feeling the tension smooth away at his touch.
“You’re too kind, my lord,” I chuckled, catching a glimpse of his lips—his smile—but, when I found his eyes, I was lost to them.
And, for this moment, he lost himself to mine.
We found ourselves in what was becoming familiar—the unspoken. Strangled secrets locked deep and buried. Secrets that condemned the notion that we might ever understand each other. But still, amidst the imprisoned words—these dark waters we navigated—I did understand him. Or rather, I understood the burden of bearing secrets in an age such as this.
Twisted, dark secrets.
Be it a Shadow—the prowling deity of sinful lure—or a god, laden in the mind.
Had I been breathing, my breath might have fluttered.
Evandor clapped his hands together, reminding me he was here. I startled.
“Rule number one, dearest Rhoswen,” the prince said, lifting a single finger.
“Do not get swept up in the dueler’s eyes. You cannot be distracted when faced with the enemy, no matter how handsome he might be.”
I spread an even complexion to cover the burning blush on my face.
“Again, ignore him,” Alistair hushed.
“He is not very princely when others aren’t around.”
“I heard that,” Evandor barked with scalding green eyes narrowed on the lord.
“I’ll show you some essentials,” Alistair said. He staked distance between us and positioned himself, drawing his blade from its sheath.
“You underestimate her, my friend,” Evandor intruded.
“Something tells me she has done this before.”
The lord ignored his prince, a prince who assumed correctly, though I doubted much of what Evandor claimed was simply an assumption.
Alistair patiently sliced his blade at a slant and spoke kindly, yet stern.
“As I strike and step forward, maintain your stance and distance so I cannot unbalance or break your posture. Then, counter my attack.” He adjusted his blade to show me how to counter.
I already knew.
“It sounds rather simple,” I said with a mark of confidence.
“It is a dance of sorts. You must learn the moves, understand your opponent’s, and the ballad begins.”
“I’m telling you, Alistair, she knows this,” Evandor harped.
“Best begin the ballad.”
Alistair gave me a caring look and asked.
“Would you like to try?”
I nodded. “I do.”
A pulse of passion ignited in me, holding a blade in the afterlife of Light. I could imagine the sun radiating above me as it did in childhood. Even in frost, this grass would hold green, and moss would tangle the trees. Alistair’s garden would be speckled with every color beneath the sun.
I could practically feel the sunlight, taste the sunlight.
Alistair commenced the duel, stepping towards me, slow in speed, and raised his blade as he had shown me he would.
I pivoted, lifted my sword, and ground his away in one, fluid step.
Alistair stammered back, brows furrowed above wide, speculative eyes.
“Told you,” Evandor bit.
I shrugged.
“Beginner’s luck, perhaps?”
Once more, Alistair did not believe me, I could tell. It was subtle—the tightened corners of his eyes, and the way a single muscle twitched on his right brow.
Now, I stepped forward, offering the same swing he’d just taken. Alistair smiled a wild smile—unbecoming for a man tainted by Shadow. He whisked away my blade, so I swung it again. Then again.
“Mind your step, Rhoswen!” Evandor continued to shout his demands.
“Keep your form stable as you swing. You look like a mindless drunk.”
We laid down arms, and I shot a nasty glare at Evandor.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’ll thank me later, when you’re actually in contest.” He then spoke to Alistair.
“You’re being too easy on her. Go on, give her a challenge.” The prince carved his cunning smile.
“Your prince demands it.”
There was a hard line between Alistair’s brow as he glared at Evandor. He turned his attention towards me, and the line vanished.
“How do you feel?” He asked.
I twirled the blade in my hand. “Ready.”
The black marbles in his eyes followed the spin of my steel then rested upon me. He measured me, but not in the way he used to.
“Gods, you are a mystery, Rhoswen Fallen.”
“A dangerous mystery,” I jested.
He let out a soft breath.
“I would not put it past you.”
“Nor I you, my lord.”
Alistair stepped towards me, closing the distance between us.
Testing the integrity of my ankle, I rotated to his side and lifted my arms. He countered without delay—I knew he would. In fact, I knew he could strike me down any moment, should he choose. But in all respects, I was enjoying myself. My cheeks swell in a smile. Memories of wielding a sword in the sun were fond memories I had nearly forgotten.
Only, it was not a knight in golden armor that stood before me. It was… Well, I did not know what he was. A corrupt lord of Andrael’s Dark Era? An agent of night and shadows, whether he willed it or not? Or perhaps he masked himself just as I, afraid of what the lands might do to him should they know who he really was.
I did not think it was a knight before me, but I could not be certain either way.
Between our blades, Alistair found me with eyes rapt on my smile. The sight seemed to draw out his own, lips stretching, dimple showing, teeth glinting. In his dark eyes, a delight broke through. And he laughed. I… I don’t think I’d ever heard him laugh before. Not like this. It was deep and unbridled and wonderful. A laugh that held no mention of darkness or Shadows.
He was not a statue, he was not burdened, he—
“Make more distance, Rhoswen!” Evandor commanded.
“When you combat someone stronger than you, it is easier for them to knock you down.”
I stole distance and drummed my blade against Alistair’s, halting his swing.
“Nice parry,” Evandor said, then quickly damned his praise—“Though I would have riposted immediately, but what do I know?”
“Is he always like this?” I asked, winded, between a slash and a lunge.
“Unfortunately,” Alistair said in level breath with a tilt of the jaw.
This was a ballad indeed, Alistair’s careful shifts and flows against my untried childhood lessons.
“Pivot, Rhoswen. Use some footwork!” The prince may have been enjoying himself more than I.
I swung again and blocked again, finding my rhythm.
At the cusp of my sight, a gilded soldier clanked his way to Evandor.
“My Prince,” the soldier summoned.
“The matron has called for your attention.”
“Gods, it was just getting good.”
Mid pivot, I glance some seconds later, seeing the estate’s door close at Evandor’s back.
I shouldn’t have looked away.
Fumbling my next step, ankle bending—burning—I yelped on tangled feet, unable to gather stability. The ground slipped from beneath me.
Falling to the dirt and stones with nothing to hold, I set my palms towards the ground. Andrael twisted into a haze, the laurel wood blending into one dark mass. Something firm locked around my waist, spinning me in the air, and the realm disappeared, but the aroma of sage made me feel… Safe. Body to mine, Alistair fell with me.
His back struck the ground. His lungs knocked out a grunt.
“Gods, are you all right?” My voice rose high, and I was quick to wipe away the hairs from his brow to get a good look at him—to make sure he didn’t hit his head too hard. I nearly tucked them behind his ears, to see him, but he grabbed my hands before I could.
I moved to stand, to help him off the ground, but he secured his arm around my back.
“Rhoswen,” he hushed, patiently stroking loose tresses from my face. The lines around his eyes relaxed.
In his ease, I found my own, and suddenly realized—
All of me lay over all of him.
It was overwhelming. Possessing. My senses drew out every inch of myself upon every inch of him. I found his ebony eyes, close enough to count the lashes, and Alistair’s hand hardened with an arm taut at my waist. Broad chest rising in quick breaths, his heart thumped against my breasts. It could have been swordplay that left his heart ragged, but…
A frigid breeze ran up my leg, making me realize just how warm Alistair’s waist was beneath my thigh. How warm his abdomen was beneath my fingertips. That my fingertips were on his abdomen. Beneath my touch, the lines were hard. Gods, he was strong. My heart pounded so fiercely, I thought it might crawl out of my throat, and these rapid breaths were beyond my say. My breath played with his unkept hair, dark strands tangled from the duel.
His low voice poured over me.
“Rhoswen, are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I breathed, though I was not sure if that was true. Lying on top of him, I felt so fragile that I could crumble at any moment. Blood so hot, I thought I’d melt. How my name sounded from his lips nearly left me undone. And I was so close to him—to his lips. They were wet and at ease, begging me to come closer.
“Would I be mistaken to believe falling is a habit of yours?” He growled a whisper with a nigh grin flitting across his face, framed by his impossibly sharp jawline.
I hadn’t the concentration to spill magic over the fire that consumed my complexion. The blood that pooled in my cheeks.
Alistair glanced at my magicless cheeks, one and then the other, and his face softened. Softened as though stone and burdens never touched him, never carved his brows or grit his teeth. Past my skin and lies, Alistair looked at me as though he had finally seen me for the first time.
I felt it. I felt seen.
Held in his arms, I smelled the sage, and raindrops began to drizzle from the Everlaides, but I did not move. Nothing in me yearned to sever this moment. To sever from him. Speckles of rain dusted Alistair’s brow, though he did not flinch. Did not look away from me.
No, his arm strengthened around my waist, pressing me closer to him.
I adjusted myself to balance, my thigh sliding over his waist—over his belt.
He sucked a tight breath, muscles and veins taut over his neck. The apple of his throat hitched, and his fingers tensed into the soft of my skin, causing my own breath to flutter from loosened lips.
Boney fingers tapped along my mind. Tap, tap, tap.
I’m still here, Princess. Deceit’s cynical voice echoed over and again, drawn out and dampening with each repeat. But Deceit did not dampen, his tail tightening around my spine.
I shivered.
“I-I should go back inside.”
Alistair’s jaw knocked closer to mine with parted lips.
“No, Rhoswen,” he whispered.
“Do not leave. Not now.”
I lifted my hand, my thumb stroking over the stubble on his jaw. My fingers twined in his hair, and I wondered why I was listening to a dark lord of this Dark Era. Why his command for me to stay actually made me stay. I locked eyes with him and knew—I was held captive by those eyes of the darkest waters, because there was something beneath them. Something, someone, I was beginning to know.
“Alistair, I—”
I caught a glimpse of a fire. No, not a fire.
Fiery curls.
I shuddered, ripping my eyes from Alistair and finding Vera. She stood on the estate’s path to the stables, watching me. Not even pure darkness could hide the ungodly wash of anger and sorrow marking every delicate feature she owned.
Without a word, Vera’s heels cut the ground, her eyes biting at me until she was unable to stomach the sight. In a fit, she marched towards the estate with balled fists.
No delay, I tore myself from Alistair, setting my palms upon the ground and prying myself up.
“Let me help you.” Alistair spoke quickly, but I was already on my feet.
I did not speak another word. Leaving Alistair in the dirt, I trailed Vera. I chased after her. My feet clawed at her heels, scraping in a sprint, desperate to be beside her.
Distance could not be broken.
Vera grabbed the iron knob. As the hinges cried, feeble light slipped from the crack. She fell from me, past the threshold. A quake disturbed the lands, the great oak door slamming at her back.
I thought I heard Alistair call for me, but I was overtaken by the discord—my heart in my ears, the pat of rainfall, the god’s nails tapping in my mind. Deceit crawled out from the dissonance with his sick voice—
My dear, what becomes of she who dines with the enemy and suffers the loss of allies? To whose arms shall you fall?
Would I suffer? Would I lose Vera?
The door slammed at my back, and I scaled the stairs, chasing the path of stomping feet.