Mia walked slowly, service tray balanced on her upturned palms. Other girls passed her in the hallway, carrying drinks or bowls of purple slumberbloom or phials of ink. Her shirt had been left behind in her room, but she still wore her britches beneath the corset and gown, sword and stiletto and a pouch of wyrdglass strapped to her thighs. She proceeded up the hallway carefully, hoping she portrayed an image of poise, rather than that of a girl with a small armory bumping against her nethers.

She reached the stairs at the end of the hall, made to breeze past the two lumps of muscle there without a word. One spoke as she passed, freezing her in her tracks.

“Goodeve, Belle.”

She’d tied the golden courtesan masque over her own, propped Belle’s powdered wig atop her head. She was a good inch or two taller than the serving girl, and harder muscled, but her curves were around the same, and that was where the bruiser was spending most of his eyetime.

“Lazlo,” she said, giving a small curtsey.

“A stupid one,” Belle had told her. “Just give him a flirt and he’ll let you past.”

“You’re looking dashing as ever,” Mia smiled.

“Where you goin’ with that?” the second man asked, eying the tray.

“Dario,” Belle had warned. “A mean one. But even stupider than Lazlo.”

Mia nodded upstairs. “Toliver and Vespa ordered a bottle for the Dona.”

Dario looked to Lazlo, muttering. “We’re not supposed to let anyone up ’til—”

“Aa’s cock, man, leave her to it,” Lazlo said. He trailed one finger gently down Mia’s arm, and the girl had to steel herself from taking his hand off at the shoulder. “You head on upstairs, little dove.”

Skin crawling at the thought of a grown man calling a fourteen-year-old his “little dove,” Mia trod carefully up the stairs. From what Dario had said, the map still wasn’t here yet, but the seller had to be arriving soon. She could hear rain on the roof now, walking down a polished hallway hung with nudes of beautiful men and women. A double door flanked by two guards waited for her at the corridor’s end, and thanks to Eclipse’s scouting, she knew the Dona’s office was beyond it.

“ . . . FIVE MEN AND YOUR MARK INSIDE . . . ,” came a soft growl at her feet.

“ . . . though one of them will prove little trouble . . .”

Four men, plus the Dona, plus whoever the map dealer brought with them.

Black Mother, they don’t make it easy, do they?

Mia had thought perhaps to wait in a side room until she heard the seller arrive, but the guards on the office door were staring right at her.

“Eclipse,” she whispered. “Head downstairs and look for our seller.”

Feeling her shadow ripple, she adjusted her wig and walked blithely up to the office, greeted both men with a smile.

“Maxis, Donato, pleasant eve,” she said, curtseying.

“Belle, you shouldn’t b—”

Before Donato could finish his objection, Mia rapped on the door with her foot. After a moment, it swung wide, and she looked up into the face of a tall Dweymeri man, his features inked with artful tattoos, his broad chest wrapped in a fine waistcoat with gold buttons. He scowled at the pair of guards beside the door.

“Thought I said no visitors ’til she arrives.”

“I tried to stop ’er, blame fucking Laz—”

“Who is it?” called a low, musical voice from inside.

With one last black scowl at the guards, the Dweymeri replied over his shoulder.

“Belle. And booze.”

“Four Daughters, send her in. I could drink the Sea of Stars.”

The braavi thug stared at Mia a moment longer, then stepped aside.

Mia breezed past, noting the rapier and stiletto sheathed at the thug’s belt. The room beyond was a grand boudoir, three other braavi thugs waiting around the periphery. Though all were dressed like marrowborn dandies, each carried a small armory. Fine art hung on the walls and red silk was draped on every surface. A large bed dominated the setting, and a pretty young man lay sleeping upon it.

“Set it over there, Belle. And be quick about it, there’s a love.”

A figure in the shadows spoke, a low and dusky voice Mia finally identified as female. As the speaker stepped into the light, Mia saw dark hair, dagger-sharp cheekbones. She wore a monocle on a silver chain about her neck, and was slipping a fine-cut silk shirt over her head. Mia recognized her from the sketch in Solis’s scroll case immediately—the Dona, leader of the Toffs.

“Don’t mind him, he’s down for a while.” The Dona smiled, nodding to the snoozing figure on the bed. “Lads today. No stamina at all.”

Mia offered what she hoped was a polite laugh, set the tray down where she was bid. The guards were barely paying attention to her—two were close enough to get caught in a wyrdglass blast, and her shadow could hold at least one other in place. The sweetboy on the bed would be no drama. Five short steps and she could have the Dona’s throat open. It would all depend on who the map seller brought wi—

“ . . . SHE COMES . . . ,” came a whisper in her ear.

“Dona,” called one of the door guards. “Company.”

The braavi leader nodded, motioning Mia toward the corner.

“Plant yourself over there and look mysterious, love. But plants don’t talk, aye?”

Mia nodded, slinking back into the shadows. She heard brief murmurs at the boudoir door, thunder cracking outside the window. A figure walked past the guards—short, decidedly feminine—clad in a loose outfit of mortar gray, slightly damp from the storm outside. Her face was cowled, covered, a pair of sparkling blue eyes visible between the folds. An assortment of blades was strapped to her body, and Mia’s heart beat quicker as she spied a wooden map case slung over her shoulder.

“Well, well,” the figure said. “This is nice and dramatic, isn’t it?”

“You came alone,” the Dona mused.

“That’s the way I work,” the newcomer replied, strolling into the room. Her words were muffled under her cowl, but there was something . . .

Those eyes.

That voice . . .

It couldn’t be . . .

The newcomer glanced at the naked young man on the bed, Mia with her too-tight corset and gold masque. “Nice view. But it’s a touch crowded, don’t you think?”

“That’s the way I work,” the Dona replied. “And I’ve two golden rules in this life, little one—never trust a man who speaks of his mother without kindness, and never trust a woman who hides her face without cause.”

The newcomer rolled her eyes, but nevertheless pulled her cowl down, releasing long warbraids of golden blond. And as Mia’s belly flipped sideways and all the way around, the newcomer pulled away the fabric, revealing a face Mia knew almost as well as her own.

Lightning crashed, Mia’s fingernails biting her palm.

Black fucking Mother . . .

It was Ashlinn Järnheim.

When last they’d seen each other, they’d been facing down across a dusty thoroughfare in Last Hope. The Luminatii invasion had failed, the justicus slain. But a trinity around Ashlinn’s neck had held Mia at bay long enough for Ash to escape.

And now she was here in Godsgrave.

Carrying the very item Mia had been sent to steal . . .

What the ’byss is going on here?

“You have the map?” the Dona asked.

“You have the money?” Ashlinn replied.

The Dona nodded to a guard, who tossed a clinking pouch in the girl’s direction. Ashlinn snatched it from the air, opened the drawstring and took out a single coin. Not a copper beggar, not an iron priest, but . . .

Gold.

Mia shook her head.

Goddess, a fortune . . .

“Now,” the Dona said. “Your half of the bargain, if it please you.”

Ashlinn slung the map case off her shoulder, tossed it to the Dona. The woman opened one end with a soft click, pulling a rolled piece of vellum a little ways out of the case. Mia caught a glimpse of strange writing, a sickle-shaped symbol in the corner.

“Well,” Ashlinn sighed. “Pleasant as this is, I spied a pretty redhead downstairs so I’ll just be . . .”

Ashlinn’s sentence trailed off as the guards at the entrance pushed the door closed with all due drama. Mia shook her head, calculating whether she should reach for her wyrdglass or longsword first. Deciding on the arkemy, she cursed Ashlinn for a fool—marching into a braavi den and mouthing off like she owned it. Did she honestly think this was going to end another way?

The fool in question glanced over her shoulder, blue eyes narrowed.

“Could you ask your fancylads to step out of my way, please, Dona?”

“I’m afraid not,” the braavi leader replied. “The grand cardinal was rather specific about what we were to do with you after coin changed hands.”

Mia’s heart surged at the Dona’s words.

Cardinal Duomo? How is he mixed up in all this?

Thunder crashed outside the window again, lighting flickering through the curtain cracks. The Dona leaned against her desk and smiled.

“I confess, I’m surprised you made this so easy, little one. Duomo warned me you and your father were as sharp as razors.”

“I’d heard the same about you,” Ashlinn said, eyes on the braavi thugs now slowly fanning out around her. “Imagine my disappointment.”

“Fear not, it shan’t last long,” the Dona smiled.

Ashlinn nodded to the map case in the Dona’s hands.

“Do you even know where that leads?”

“No. I don’t stick my nose into what doesn’t concern me.”

“You might want to work on that,” Ashlinn smiled. “Because a nosy person might have spied the false bottom in the case they’d been handed. And a person not so fond of her own voice might have heard the flint that sparked the fuse on the tombstone bomb inside.”

The Dona’s eyes widened. Ashlinn threw herself aside, Mia barely having the presence of mind to hurl herself behind the bed before the map case exploded with an ear-splitting boom. The Dona was blasted across the room, dead before she hit the floor. Three guards were caught in the arkemical fireball, the Dweymeri smashed through the doors, his waistcoat aflame, the other thugs tossed about like burning straw.

The room was filled with choking smoke, Mia’s skull pounding from the blast.

“Maw’s teeth,” she spat, trying to rise.

“ . . . MIA . . . !”

“ . . . are you well . . . ?”

Ashlinn uncovered her ears, picked herself off the ground. She snatched up her sack of gold, and drawing a short blade from her belt, plunged it into the braavi groaning on the floor beside her. Satisfied that the Dona was already dead, she quickly perished any guard who was still moving, then turned toward the serving girl in her smoking chiffon lying beside the bed.

“Apologies, Mi Dona, but I . . .”

Mia rolled over onto her back. Her masque had been knocked clear in the blast, her ears ringing, her vision blurred. Mister Kindly coalesced on her shoulder, Eclipse at her feet, translucent fangs bared in a snarl that could be felt through the floor.

“’Byss and blood,” Ashlinn breathed.

Eyes as blue as empty skies were fixed on the shadowcat on Mia’s shoulder. Focusing now on his mistress herself.

“ . . . Mia?”

“Four fucking Daughters . . . ,” came another voice.

Mia squinted through the haze, saw Lazlo, Dario and three other Toffs at the office door, staring in horror at the carnage beyond. Dario clapped eyes on the corpse of their leader. Lazlo, the figure swathed in gray.

“Kill ’er!” one of the thugs roared.

Without a word, Ashlinn was dashing toward the window, hurling a dagger and shattering the glass. The Toffs charged in a mob, and more out of instinct than forethought, Mia reached under her dress and threw one of her white wyrdglass globes at their feet. The arkemical sphere burst with a loud bang, a cloud of thick white Swoon engulfing the thugs.

Ashlinn kicked open the window, grabbed a silk line tied to a stone gargoyle above. Without a backward glance, she was up the wall and gone.

Mia staggered to her feet, head still ringing, swaying to the windowsill. She was in a tight corset and long gown; not the easiest gear to be scaling brothel walls in, even without a concussion. But, fearless as ever, she seized hold of the line and swung out over the five-story drop, scrambling onto the roof just in time to see Ashlinn leap across to the bordello next door.

“Eclipse, go get Jessamine!” she barked. “Mister Kindly, with me!”

The shadowwolf disappeared, Mister Kindly flitting across the roof after their quarry. Shaking her head to clear the ringing, Mia followed hard. Truth was, her boots weren’t made for a chase scene, and the rain had made the roof tiles as treacherous as the snake she was chasing. As Ashlinn dropped off the bordello roof, Mia skidded to a cursing halt, hacking at her skirts with her gravebone stiletto so she could run faster.

Mia’s mind was reeling. It’d been eight months since she’d laid eyes on Ashlinn Järnheim, and she could scarce believe the girl was here now. She and her father had been in alliance with Justicus Remus to bring down the Red Church. Now she was in league with the grand cardinal?

Mia pushed the questions from her mind, tore away the rest of her sodden skirts and ran on. Peering over the bordello roof, she saw Ashlinn dropping to the cobbles below, too far away to reach her shadow. Fearless of the fall, she flipped over the edge, scaling from window to window, fingers white on the rain-slick stone. Reaching the cobbles, she dashed off through the Godsgrave streets, and over the Bridge of Tears.

Ashlinn ran like the Mother herself was on her tail, weaving in and out of the crowd like smoke. Mia sprinted in pursuit, losing sight of her at least twice, turned aside in the maze of canals and dogleg alleys. But Mister Kindly flitted from rooftop to rooftop, leaping across awning and gable like the wind and calling above the summer storm.

“ . . . left, left . . .”

“ . . . alley beside the chandlers . . .”

“ . . . no, your other left . . .”

Mia broke out onto a main drag, sliding beneath the axle of a galloping horse and cart and skirting the handfuls of limping jacks Ashlinn was throwing behind her. Row after row of houses, temples with windows like empty eyes, thin bridges and winding canals. They were headed toward Godsgrave’s marrowborn district now, the Ribs rising into the stormwashed skies. Ashlinn dashed down a dead-end alley, kicked left then right up the stonework, scrabbling over the broken glass at the top.

Mia followed, cutting her palms bloody. Ash was running across the rooftops again now, the terra-cotta treacherous with the rain. Leaping over the gap between one roof and another, Mia almost slipped as a tile cracked beneath her sodden boots. If she fell, it’d be a broken leg at best, a shattered spine at worst.

Where the fuck are Eclipse and Jessamine?

Mia saw the Basilica Grande looming ahead—a gothic masterpiece of marble spires and stained glass. The trinity of three suns glittered in every window, gleamed atop every steeple. Mia couldn’t help but recall the truedark when she was fourteen—the dozens of men she’d murdered here in her failed attempt to kill Consul Scaeva. Ash knew Mia’s weakness for the Everseeing’s holy symbols—she was obviously hoping the basilica grounds were hallowed enough to repel the darkin on her heels.

Clever girl. But it doesn’t work that way . . .

Ash reached to her belt, gathered another thin line and grapple. Throwing it across to the basilica’s gutters, Ash swung across the gap and scrambled onto the roof. Mia ran harder, hoping to leap the distance, but even with Mister Kindly eating her fear, she knew the gap was too wide. Skidding to a halt at the edge, she watched Ashlinn clamber up the tiles. Gasping for breath. Heart hammering in her chest.

Mia drew a throwing knife from her boot, took aim. She’d poisoned her blades with Swoon, and even a scratch would be enough to drop the girl like a bag of bricks. But, much as she wanted to, Mia realized . . .

I need her alive.

She lowered the blade, looked to the cobblestones thirty feet below. A novice wandering the cathedral grounds looked up and saw her, jaw dropping in surprise.

“Shit . . . ,” she breathed.

“ . . . a distance like that should not trouble you . . .”

Mia looked to the shadowcat at her feet. Down to the gap again.

“I can’t jump that far, it’s impossible.”

“ . . . not so long ago, you stepped from the top of the philosopher’s stone all the way to the isle of godsgrave to this very cathedral. skipping across the city like a child over puddles . . .”

“That was during truedark, Mister Kindly.”

“ . . . you did so again in the quiet mountain . . .”

“Aye, and the suns have never seen inside that place.”

“ . . . it is raining. aa’s eyes are hidden behind the clouds . . .”

“I’m not strong enough out here, don’t you see?”

The not-cat sighed, shaking his head.

Ashlinn had reached the apex of the cathedral’s roof, turning to look at Mia. Her blond hair had grown longer, damp with rain and plastered to her tanned skin. Her pretty eyes were the blue of sunsburned skies. Mia felt her fingers curl to fists, remembering what she’d done to Tric.

Ashlinn smiled. Holding two fingers to her eyes, pointing at Mia across the gap and speaking in the wordless sign language of Tongueless.

I see you.

And with a small pretty smile, the Vaanian girl blew Mia a kiss.

Rage came then. Watching Ash scuttle away toward the basilica’s bell tower. Mister Kindly could still follow; Mia could scramble down to street level and give chase. But the lead Ash now had was a long one, and truth was, all the cigarillos she’d been smoking lately weren’t doing Mia’s constitution any favors.

She was sick of running.

All right, fuck it then . . .

Mia reached out across the gulf, beneath that muddy gray sky. The shadows were indistinct with the sunslight veiled, but she could still sense two of Aa’s eyes, burning in the heavens. A thin film of cloud and rain wasn’t enough to rein in the rage of a god, and Mia could feel it scorching the back of her neck. But still . . .

But still . . .

She knew the dark. Knew its song. Remembering the way she’d felt it at truedark. Seeped into the cracks of this city’s pores, puddling in the catacombs under its skin. The dark she cast at her feet, the dark that lived inside her chest, her womb, all the places the light had never touched. And teeth gritted, trembling, she reached into those warm and hollow places, stretched out her hand to the shadow of the bell tower

and Stepped

across

the hollow space

between

Mia reeled, vertigo swelling in her belly, vomit in her throat. Swaying backward, she tottered as all the world shifted beneath her, almost toppling to her death on the wrought-iron fence below. She realized she was on the basilica roof, rain slicking the shingles beneath her feet, blinking hard and trying to regain her balance as Ashlinn loomed out of the blinding light, dagger in hand.

“ . . . mia . . . !”

She barely dodged, bending backward as the blade sliced the air. Mia raised her gravebone sword, trying to regain her footing. Bile in her mouth. Sweat in her eyes.

“ . . . mia . . . !”

Ash struck again, forcing Mia’s back against the bell tower’s wall. Mia raised her longsword into guard, gasping and blinking and trying to stop the world from spinning.

“Learned a few new tricks, love?” Ashlinn smiled, dagger in hand.

The girl reached down her leg, fishing about inside her boot. It took her a moment, but finally she found what she sought, drawing out a long golden chain with a blazing kick to Mia’s belly spinning at the end of it.

Aa’s trinity.

Mia hissed like she’d been scalded. Mister Kindly yowled, slithering away across the rooftops. The basilica bells started tolling the hour, joined by the countless other cathedrals across the City of Bridges and Bones. Mia dropped to her knees, puking. The agony of it almost made her scream, the sight of those three suns—white gold, rose gold, yellow gold—was blinding. She scrambled back against the bell tower, hands up to shield her eyes from that awful, burning light.

“Looks like the old tricks still work, then,” Ashlinn said.

The bells fell silent, the rain still falling overhead. Ash looked about them, over the basilica’s gutter to the drop below. Another novice of Aa was down in the courtyard now, pointing with his fellow at the girls on the roof.

“It’s good to see you, Mia,” Ash said softly.

“F-fuck . . . y-y—”

“I wondered if Drusilla would send you after me. I think out of all of them, you knew me best.” Ash twirled the holy symbol around her finger. “Kept this, just in case. But you tell that crusty old bitch if she wants me dead, she can come herself. Because I’m surely coming for her. Her and all her merry fucking band.”

Ash hung the medallion around her neck, rendered in silhouette against that awful, blistering hatred. The fury of a god, burning Mia blind.

“I’m sorry it was you, Mia,” Ash sighed. “I always liked you. You’re better than that place. Those murd—”

The dagger struck Ashlinn’s shoulder. Blood sprayed, bright red between the raindrops. Ash twisted aside, another blade whistling past her cheek and chopping off a lock of her hair.

“Traitor!”

And as the blond curl fell, tumbling, turning toward the tiles, Jessamine dragged herself up over the guttering and flew at Ashlinn with her rapier drawn.

The smell of hot food met them as they emerged from the cellar.

Magistrae had met them in the bathhouse in exactly twenty minutes, carrying a bundle of new clothes. Not even Sidonius was fool enough to keep her waiting.

Once Mia had dressed in all she’d been given, she was tempted to ask where the rest of her outfit was. She wore a loincloth of padded gray linen, a leather belt to keep it in place. Her breasts were strapped with another strip of padded gray, leather sandals laced halfway up her shins. Her comrades wore even less—just loincloths and sandals for Sidonius and Matteo, with heavy leather cups to protect their dangles from the worst training might offer. The weather approaching truelight was so hot, the lack of material wouldn’t bother anyone. But very little was being left to the imagination . . .

Sidonius wiggled his codpiece side to side. “I hear it’s what all the marrowborn gentry are wearing in the ’Grave this year.”

In a flash, a guard whipped out his truncheon and cracked it across the back of Sid’s legs. The big man collapsed to his knees with a cry.

“For the last time, you will speak only when spoken to in my presence,” Magistrae said. “Forget your place again, and I’ll fashion you a worthy remembering. You can die on the sands just as well without a tongue in your head.”

Sidonius grunted apology, and Mia helped the big man to his feet with a sigh. The big Itreyan wasn’t the sharpest sword she’d ever met, but when living like a dog, you don’t get to pick your fleas.

The houseguards escorted the trio upstairs to the verandah. The gladiatii were gathered at long benches, shoveling bowls of porridge home with all the appetite of folk who’d spent the turn sweating under the boiling suns. Magistrae nodded to a stick-thin man in a leather apron serving food. He had a crooked eye, a single circle marked on his cheek, and very few teeth in his head. Mia’s mother had warned her never to trust a thin chef. But again, when living like a dog . . .

“Eat,” Magistrae ordered, tossing her long gray braid over her shoulder. “You will need your strength amorrow.”

Sidonius stalked toward the cook like a man at purpose, Mia and Matteo following. The girl realized she hadn’t eaten since yestereve, but beneath her hunger, she still felt that cold queasiness from earlier in the afternoon. Scanning the faces of the gladiatii, she found Furian at the head of the first bench. The man had tied his long black hair back in a braid, speaking to the Dweymeri man between mouthfuls.

He glanced up as she entered, turned his gaze away just as swift. Questions burned in Mia’s mind, backing up behind her teeth.

Patience.

She followed Sidonius to the porridge pot and snatched up a wooden bowl, almost drooling at the aroma. The thin man served a great, sloppy spoonful to Matteo.

“Oi, I was here first, you scrawny shit,” Sidonius growled.

A meaty paw pushed the chef aside. Mia recognized the big Liisian gladiatii with a face like a dropped pie as he snatched the ladle. His head was shaved, only a tiny crop of dark hair remaining, like a cock’s comb on his scalp. His face was pockmarked, his smile crooked—and not in the roguishly handsome sort of way. More in a dropped-one-too-many-times-on-his-head-as-a-babe kind of way.

“Pleasant turn to you, gentlefriends,” he bowed. “Welcome to Remus Collegium.”

Sidonius nodded greeting. “My thanks, brother.”

Mia noted the other gladiatii all watching. Her hackles rising.

“O, think nothing of it,” the pieman said. “Butcher, they name me. The Butcher of Amai.” The Liisian looked them over with a smile. “Long journey from the Gardens? You must be hungrier than a breadline strumpet on the rag, neh?”

“Aye,” Sidonius nodded. “We’ve not eaten since yesterturn.”

“O, you’ll find your needs well fixed presently. No better pigswill in all the Republic than’s served by our domina.” He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “The porridge can be a touch bland, though. But no fear, I’ve just the spice.”

The big Liisian reached into his loincloth with a grin. And without further ado, he whipped out his cock, and took a long noisy piss into the porridge pot.

The gladiatii erupted into howls of laughter, thumping the tables and calling Butcher’s name. The big Liisian looked Mia square in the eye and he milked the last drops from his bladder, then turned back to Sidonius. His grin had evaporated utterly.

“You call me ‘brother’ again, I’ll piss in your dinner and fucking drown you in it. My brothers and sisters under this roof are gladiatii.” Butcher thumped his chest. “Until you last the Winnowing, you’re nothing.”

Butcher strode back to his meal, slapped on his back by several others. Mia stood with bowl in hand, the stench of fresh urine in her nostrils.

“I find myself not as hungry as I first thought,” she confessed.

“Aye,” Sidonius said. “We’re of like mind, little Crow.”

The trio found an empty bench, Mia and Sidonius staring while the other gladiatii ate their fill. After one look at their mournful expressions, Matteo scooped a spoonful of his own meal into Sidonius’s bowl, another into Mia’s. The big Itreyan watched in disbelief, Mia stared into Matteo’s eyes.

“Are you certain?”

“Eat, mi dona,” he smiled. “You’d do the same for me.”

Mia shrugged, and she and Sidonius scoffed down the food without pause. The big mastiff wandered into the mess area, sniffing around on the floor for scraps. He mooched up to Matteo, eyeing his now empty bowl and wagging his stubby tail.

“Sorry friend,” Matteo sighed. “If I had a crumb left, I’d share it.”

Mia watched the boy sidelong as he patted the big dog, scruffing him behind his ears and grinning as his hind leg began thumping on the floor.

“His name is Fang,” said a voice.

Mia looked up, saw the little girl named Maggot sitting in the rafters above their heads. Mia could remember climbing those some gables when she was a little girl, her mother scolding, her father applauding. That had ever been their way—Justicus Corvere indulging her tomboyish impulses, and the dona trying to sculpt her into a prize fit to marry off one turn. Mia wondered how her life might look if things had been different. Where she’d be if General Antonius had become king by her father’s hand. Probably nowhere with a brand on her cheek and the stink of piss in her nose . . .

“Fang,” Matteo smiled, patting the dog’s shoulders. “A fine name.”

“He likes you,” the little girl said.

“I had hounds at home. I’ve a way with them.”

He smiled wider, dark eyes sparkling. Too pretty for this place by far. But Maggot seemed to approve, ducking her head to hide her blush as she scrambled away.

With the meal finished, the gladiatii were marched down to the cellars. Mia, Sidonius and Matteo shuffled along in the rear, no word spoken to them that wasn’t an order, no attention paid that wasn’t a shove or a sneer. After only a handful of hours living at the bottom of the barrel, Mia found the novelty wearing thin. She wondered where Mister Kindly was, if he’d yet made it to Whitekeep and met—

“Looks like our champion is too good to sleep with the rest of us plebs,” Sidonius muttered. “Effete wanker.”

Mia followed the Itreyan’s stare, saw Furian being escorted further into the keep, instead of down to the barracks.

The Vaanian girl turned on Sid with a scowl.

“I’d watch that tongue of yours, Itreyan.”

“Normally women offer to buy me a drink first,” Sidonius grinned. “But, aye. You can watch it if please you, Dona. Where would you like me to put it?”

Mia rolled her eyes and sighed. The girl seized Sidonius by his codpiece, squeezing tight as he squeaked.

“Up your arsehole, you dopey fuck,” she spat. “Furian the Unfallen is champion of this collegium. He sleeps apart from us, as is his right. You can speak ill of him when you best him in the venatus. Until then, shut your mouth, lest I shut it for you.”

“Move!” barked the guard behind them.

The girl released her grip on Sidonius’s jewels, stomped down the stairs. The big Itreyan sagged against Mia, and since she’d had already kneed him in the dangles today, she was charitable enough to help him walk.

“You’ve certainly got a way with women, Sid,” Matteo sighed, propping up the big Itreyan’s other shoulder.

“J-just what your mother said,” the big man winced.

The gladiatii gathered in the antechamber, and with a twist of that odd-key in the mekwork on the wall, the portcullis opened to the barracks beyond. Mia was led into a wide cell littered with fresh straw, Sidonius and Matteo behind her. Once each gladiatii was in their allotted cage, the guard in the antechamber outside flipped a lever. Each door slammed closed, the mekwerk locks thudded home, and in a moment, every warrior was secured behind a lattice of iron bars over three inches thick.

Now Mia saw the reason behind the dona letting her property sleep down here in the dark and the cool. It seemed for all her love of her precious “Falcons,” Leona didn’t want any of them flying their coop.

The arkemical lights burned low, the gladiatii talking among themselves out in the gloom. Mia listened to the warriors murmur, noting the blend of accents and timbres. The Dweymeri woman with the extensive tattoos had her own cell across the corridor, with genuine stone walls that offered some small privacy. Beneath the door, Mia could hear soft singing.

Without warning, the talk died, silence falling like fog. Mia heard a familiar clink thump, clink thump on the stone. She saw the towering figure of the executus limping among the cells, that hateful whip in his hand. His long salt-and-pepper hair was arranged about his shoulders like a mane, his beard freshly combed. That awful scar cut down his face, casting a long shadow across his features.

“I’ve been away from these walls too long, it seems,” he growled. “If you’ve strength to sit up and chatter like maids at loom, you’ve obviously not been worked hard enough.”

Passing by Mia’s cell, he barely deigned to look at her. Executus limped back to the portcullis, blue eyes twinkling in the gloom.

“Rest your heads, Falcons,” he called. “Tomorrow will be a long turn. I vow it.”

The portcullis slammed shut with a mekwerk whine. Mia shook her head, mumbling under her breath. Sidonius grumbled too, voice thickened by his broken nose.

“I hope I get a chance in the circle with that bastard on the morrow. I’ll knock his block off and fuck his corpse before it’s cold.”

“You’d need a cock for that, coward.”

The barb came from across the corridor. Mia looked up to see Butcher, the Ruiner of Porridges, watching them from between the bars of his cage. His face was all bent nose and pockmarked skin, his body a patchwork of scar tissue.

Sidonius scowled at the gladiatii. “Call me coward again, I’ll kill you and your whole fucking family.”

“Talk, talk, little one,” Butcher’s lips twisted in an ugly smirk. “You’ll see how much it avails you when you step into the circle with Executus.”

“Pfft, you think I can’t dance with a lame old dog like that?”

Butcher shook his head. “You’re talking about one of the greatest gladiatii to walk the sand, you ignorant fool. He’ll chew you up and use your bones for toothpicks.”

Sidonius blinked. “Eh?”

“You never heard of the Red Lion of Itreya?”

“’Byss and blood.” Mia looked to the gate Executus had left by. “That’s Arkades?”

Matteo rubbed his eyes, sat up a little. “Who’s Arkades?”

Butcher scoffed. “Clueless, the lot of them . . .”

“The Red Lion, they called him,” Mia said.

“ . . . Executus used to be a slave like us?” Matteo asked.

“Not like you, you worthless shit,” Butcher snarled. “He was fucking gladiatii.”

“Victor of the Venatus Magni ten years back.” Mia spoke softly, voice hushed with awe. “The Ultima was a free-for-all. Every gladiatii who’d been signed up for the games was released onto the sand for that final match. One warrior sent out every minute until the killing was done. Must’ve been almost two hundred.”

“Two hundred and forty-three,” Butcher said.

“And Executus killed them all?” Matteo breathed.

“Not by himself,” Mia said. “But he was the last standing when the butchery was done. They say the sand in Godsgrave arena has never been the same color since.”

“So they named him the Red Lion,” Butcher said. “He won his freedom under Leonides’s colors, see? Standing on a leg so badly broken, they had to cut it off afterward.” He sneered at Sid. “Still want to dance with him, little man?”

Sidonius scowled, remained silent.

“I commanded you to sleep!” came the bellow from the portcullis.

Butcher sniffed, rolled over on his straw. Matteo did likewise, and after a few choice curses, Sid curled up with his back to them all. Mia sat brooding in the gloom.

The arkemical globes faded, their glow dying slow. Darkness fell in the barracks, only the faintest chinks of sunslight falling across the threshold from the stairs above. Mia felt it crawling across her scalp, goosebumps rising on her skin. The air down here was stifling, the stink of straw and sweat thick in the air. But at least it was dark.

It almost felt like home.

She waited an hour, until every chest rose and fell with the rhythm of slumber. Matteo murmuring. Sidonius snoring softly. Mia looked around the gloom, making sure each of her fellows was still. She closed her eyes. Held her breath

and Stepped

out of the shadows

in her cell

and into the shadows

of the antechamber

The room swam and she steadied herself against the wall. She could feel the heat of those two blazing suns in the sky above. Crouching low, she peered through the portcullis, back to the cells. And content her absence was unmarked, she stole like a whisper up into the keep.

Without Mister Kindly or Eclipse in her shadow, her heart was pounding, her palms damp with fear. She knew the building’s layout like she knew her own name, but with no eyes to see except her own, she felt utterly alone. She could have waited until the shadowcat returned from Whitekeep with news, but her questions couldn’t. Since the turn her father died, she’d wondered what she was. Now, all the answers might be only a heartbeat away . . .

She moved swift, all Shahiid Mouser’s lessons ringing in her head. Listening for the tread of the houseguards who walked the lower levels. There was only one pair patrolling inside and it was easy enough to avoid them, sneaking through the silken curtains and ducking out of sight, making her way toward the kitchens.

She found them empty, the starving chef nowhere to be seen. But there was food aplenty in the larder and Mia dove in face first, eating her fill. If she was to survive the Winnowing, she’d need every ounce of strength she could muster. She stole two steel forks, then slipped from the kitchens without a sound.

She dodged the patrol again, listening to the sickness in her belly and working her way by feel. She passed a long tapestry depicting the venatus—gladiatii clashing with fantastical beasts. Sets of gladiatii armor lined the hallway, sunslight glinting on crested helms and breastplates of polished steel. Fear rising now, churning in her belly as she reached a room with a barred slit, an iron lock.

And beyond it . . .

She took the two forks from her loincloth, bent the tines against the wall. Turning her ear for the guards, she knelt before the keyhole and set to work. Soon enough, it popped open, the door came next, and with a glance over her shoulder for the guards, she stole inside.

Hands around her neck, twisting tight, flipping over a broad shoulder and sending her crashing to the floor. Stars burst in her eyes as her skull cracked on the flagstones, an elbow jammed into her throat. She blinked up into a pair of glittering brown eyes, a handsome face framed by flowing locks of raven black.

Furian, the Unfallen.

He sat atop her, crushing the air from her lungs. This close, the gnawing sickness she felt in his presence was all consuming, becoming less an illness and closer to a terrible hunger. But more pressing still was the need to breathe.

Mia pricked one of her forks into the champion’s armpit. One good thrust and it’d slip over his ribcage and into the heart beyond. She tapped it against the hollow, trying not to sputter as Furian pressed his elbow further into her larynx.

She pushed her steel harder, glaring wordlessly. And finally, Furian eased off, leaning back just enough to allow her to breathe.

His voice was deep and melodic. His eyes the brown of dark chocolate, delicious but edged with bitterness. Mia tried very hard not to notice that the body he pressed against her was utterly naked.

“What are you doing in here, slave?”

She put her free hand on his elbow, slowly pushed it aside.

“We need to talk,” she replied. “Brother.”