Pig’s blood has a very peculiar taste.

The blood of a man is best drunk warm, and leaves a hint of sodium and rust clinging to the teeth. Horse’s blood is less salty, with an odd bitterness almost like dark chocolate. But pig’s blood has an almost buttery quality, like oysters and oiled iron, slipping down your throat and leaving a greasy tang in its wake.

Mia fucking hated it, truth told.

She burst from the pool of red with a gasp, a thudding pulse still ringing in her ears, head spinning. She was naked save for a gravebone stiletto at her wrist, a gravebone sword at her waist, long black hair glued like ropes of weed to bloody skin. A rectangular package wrapped in oilskin was clutched in her fingers. Two Hands in dark robes stood in the pool beside her, helping her to her feet as she gasped and sputtered and pawed the gore from her lashes.

Blinking around the room, she found herself waist deep in a triangular marble pool of blood, thirty feet at a side—Speaker Adonai’s chambers within the Quiet Mountain. The room was carved with sorcerii glyphs, the heavy scent of butchery in the air. Maps of every city in the Republic were painted on the wall in blood.

Mia licked her teeth and spat, dragged her hair from her eyes.

Looking to the head of the pool, Mia saw Blood Speaker Adonai, knelt on the stone. Though she’d not admit it to any, her belly thrilled a little at the sight of him. Weaver Marielle could make a portrait of any face, but her brother was her masterpiece—high cheekbones and a chiseled jaw. His skin was ghostly pale, his tousled hair snow white. He wore a red silk robe, open at the chest, the troughs and valleys of his chest carved in marble. His leather britches rode so low on his hips they were almost indecent, and the V-shaped cut of his abdom—

“Good turn to thee, Blade Mia,” the sorcerer said.

Mia dragged her stare back up to eyes the color of blood.

“And you, Speaker.”

Adonai’s pretty lips twisted in a knowing smile, but Mia kept her face like stone. The speaker was a picture, no doubt. And Mia had entertained her share of fantasies; lying in bed and picturing his pale, clever fingers as her own roamed ever lower. She’d even saved his and his beloved sister’s lives during the Luminatii attack. But Mia couldn’t fool herself into thinking of him as anything but a blackhearted bastard.

Still. A fuckable bastard . . .

“The Ministry await thee in the Hall of Eulogies,” Adonai said.

Mia waded out of the pool, still limping from her wounds, careful of slipping on the bloody tile. She was conscious of the speaker’s stare on her naked body, the blood sloshing like a gentle sea. Mia looked down the hall to the stairwell, leading up to the waiting Ministry. Wondering why the ’byss she’d been called here.

With a final glance to the speaker, Mia walked from the room. Washing off the drying blood and changing silently; black leathers and wolfskin boots, a shirt of dark linen. She hid her gravebone stiletto in her sleeve, hung her beautiful gravebone longsword from the scabbard at her waist. The former had belonged to her mother, the latter to her father, taken from the dead hand of Justicus Remus. Both blades had hilts fashioned like crows in flight, eyes of red amber. They were all she had left of her parents, aside her name.

She supposed there was a metaphor in there somewhere . . .

Unwrapping her oilskin package, she took the beaten, leatherbound book inside under her arm and trudged up the stairs. The voice of a ghostly choir hung in the black, and Mia couldn’t help but smile at the familiar song. After months in Galante, she’d returned to the hallowed halls of the most feared assassins in all the Itreyan Republic.

At last, she’d come home.

After an interminable climb, she stepped out into the Hall of Eulogies. The space was vast, circular, carved into the Quiet Mountain’s granite heart. A beautiful statue of Niah, Mother of Night and Our Lady of Blessed Murder, loomed forty feet above Mia’s head. A set of scales hung in her right hand, a wickedly sharp sword in her left. Wherever Mia stood in the room, Niah’s eyes seemed to follow.

The space was ringed with pillars thicker than ancient ironwoods. The walls were lined with tombs, scarlet light washing through huge stained-glass windows. On the flagstones, Mia could see the names of every one of the Red Church’s victims—thousands of lives claimed in their Black Mother’s name. In contrast, the tombs were unmarked. They contained bodies of servants of the Mother and in death, only the Mother mourned them.

Mia’s eyes drifted to a tomb in the western wall. The four small letters she’d scratched into the stone with a gravebone blade eight months ago.

“Blade Mia,” said a deep voice. “Welcome home.”

Mia turned to the foot of the statue. The entire Red Church Ministry was assembled, watching with expectant gazes.

All except Revered Father Solis, of course.

The big Itreyan stood with blind eyes turned to the soaring gables. He was clad in a robe of fine gray cloth, his hood pulled back. Pale blond stubble dusted a scarred scalp, his beard set in four resin spikes. His ever-empty scabbard hung at his side, the leather embossed with concentric circles.

To Solis’s right stood Spiderkiller, Shahiid of Truths. The elegant Dweymeri was clad in emerald green, gold at her throat. Her saltlocks were artfully coiled atop her head. Hands and lips stained black from poisoncraft.

To Solis’s left stood Mouser, Shahiid of Pockets, his handsome face belying the years in his twinkling eyes. An Ashkahi blacksteel blade hung as his side, two naked figures with feline heads entwined on the hilt. He was rolling a coin across the knuckles of his right hand, his left clutching an ornate cane—his legs had been badly broken during the Luminatii invasion, and the Shahiid would limp for the rest of his life.

Third was Aalea, Shahiid of Masks. Milk-white skin and blood-red lips, curtains of black hair framing a face that made the word “beauty” hang its head in shame. She smiled at Mia as if the whole world were a secret and only she knew the answer. Promising to share it as soon as the pair were alone.

To date, there had been no new Shahiid of Song appointed—Solis was still teaching fresh acolytes the art of steel until a suitable replacement could be found. Wounds from the Järnheims’ assault were fresh, and even here, in the seat of the Church’s power in the Republic, the scabs remained.

“Shahiids,” Mia said, bowing low. “I return, as requested.”

“As commanded,” Solis growled.

“ . . . Forgiveness, Revered Father. Commanded.”

The title tasted strange on Mia’s tongue. After Cassius’s death, it was fitting that Revered Mother Drusilla become the Lady of Blades, but Drusilla’s decision to appoint Solis as Revered One had vexed Mia more than a little. Solis still bore the tiny scar on his face from where Mia had bested him in the Hall of Song, and her arm still sometimes tingled where he’d hacked it off in retaliation. Truth told, Mia hated him like poison, and the idea of taking orders from him sat about as well with her as a collar on a cat.

Solis glowered, white eyes turned to the ceiling, his robe straining against the span of his shoulders. He dwarfed the other Ministry members, making them look like children. Mia supposed she should feel intimidated, but she found it all just another reminder of how ill suited for his role Solis seemed.

He doesn’t even fit the robe he’s supposed to wear . . .

“So,” Spiderkiller asked, without preamble. “Gaius Aurelius is dead?”

“ . . . Aye, Shahiid,” Mia replied.

“Word has it you were almost killed in the process,” Mouser mused.

“A scratch, Shahiid.” She shrugged, wincing at the pull of the stitches in her shoulder. “Though I’ll not be dancing for a while.”

“You can barely walk, Acolyte,” Solis growled.

“All due respect, Revered Father,” Mia said, temper fraying. “But I was anointed by Lord Cassius with his dying breath. I’m not an acolyte. I’m a Blade.”

Solis sneered. “That remains to be seen.”

“I’ve five kills to my name already.”

Mouser tilted his head. “Don’t you mean six?

“Surely you haven’t forgotten murdering a king of the Dweymeri in his own keep without our permission?” Spiderkiller asked.

Mia bit down on her response. Glancing again at the name she’d carved into the unmarked tomb on the western wall.

TRIC.

They’d made a promise. Him to her and her to him. If she were to fall, Tric had sworn to murder Scaeva and Duomo for her. And if he fell, she swore she’d kill his wretched bastard of a grandfather, Swordbreaker. In truth, she thought she was owed a death after saving the lives of every man and woman in this room. But perhaps here was the reason she’d been sent to a backwater like Galante?

Silence rang in the hall, Mia stewing within it.

“May I ask why I am here?” she finally ventured.

Solis’s lip curled. “You have a devotee, little Blade.”

The girl raised an eyebrow at the Revered Father. “If it’s someone in this hall, they hide it very well.”

Aalea smiled, lips dark as blood. “Perhaps ‘patron’ is a better word. The last three offerings you performed—the son of Senator Aurelius, Magistrate Phillip Cicerii, and the mistress of Armando Tulli—were all requested by the same client of the Church. They specifically requested the services of ‘she who slew the justicus of the Luminatii Legion and his finest centuries beside him.’ And they paid handsomely for you.”

“Who is this patron, Shahiid?”

“Irrelevant,” Solis scowled. “All you need know is that, miracle of miracles, they are pleased with your results. You are being sent after bigger game.”

Mia looked Solis up and down, considering. From the scowl at his brow, the tension in his jaw, she’d wager her last coin the Revered Father had violently objected to her assignment. But despite that, she’d been appointed anyway. Which meant this patron was powerful. Or rich. Or both.

Well, that narrows it down . . .

“So what new backwater does my illustrious patron send me to?” Mia asked. “Last Hope? Amai? Sto—”

“Godsgrave,” Mouser replied.

Mia’s tongue cleaved to her teeth, her heart running quicker.

Maw’s teeth. The ’Grave . . .

The capital of Itreya. Only the Church’s finest Blades served in the City of Bridges and Bones. Grand Cardinal Duomo lived there, as did Consul Scaeva. If Mia wanted revenge for her familia, her first step was getting close to the men who murdered them.

If she’d somehow lucked into a dream posting . . .

“I know your mind,” Solis growled. “I know why you came to this Church and what it is you seek. So, while I am sending you to the capital against my better judgment, I am telling you this now, and I am telling you once.” Solis towered over her, blind eyes boring into Mia’s own. “Consul Julius Scaeva is not to be touched.”

Mia scowled. “Wh—”

“I will not tolerate you pursuing your own vendettas while serving this Ministry,” Solis said. “You already murdered a bara of the Dweymeri out of some misplaced sympathy for the boy you were bedding. I’ll not have another unsanctioned kill wrought by your hand. Or your quim.”

“Who I bed is my concern. And you don’t get to dec—”

“I do decide!” Solis roared. “I am Revered Father of this congregation! I give not a beggar’s cuss for who you wet the furs with, but Swordbreaker was a fucking king! What if he’d been a patron of this Church? We’d have breached Sanctity! Our reputation shattered over a child’s whim.”

“It wasn’t a whim, it was a promise!”

“Let us speak of promises, then, girl,” Solis spat. “Disobey me, and I promise you an ending from which even the Goddess herself would avert her gaze. Scaeva is not to be touched!”

“And why not?” Mia looked among the Ministry, her anger finally getting the better of her. “The Luminatii killed Lord Cassius, almost killed all of you! You think Scaeva didn’t order it? Remus was a fucking lapdog. You think he took a piss without asking the consul’s permission first?”

“Hear me now!” Solis raised a finger in warning, blind eyes flashing. “Scaeva will be dealt with. But in our own way. In our own time. You are a servant of Our Lady of Blessed Murder, and in the Mother’s name, that means you fucking serve!”

Mia felt her cheeks flush with rage. She stared into Solis’s blind eyes and imagined drawing the gravebone stiletto in her sleeve. Cutting his throat. Spilling his steaming guts onto the floor. But amid the outrage, a single, ice-cold thought took her by the scruff of the neck and shook her ’til she was still.

. . . He’s right.

She had been childish.

She had risked the Church’s reputation in killing Swordbreaker.

She had thought to kill Duomo and Scaeva if she got back to the ’Grave.

Her knuckles were white on the book in her grip. But she forced her fingers to unclench, speaking words that rang heavy in the quiet dark.

“In the Mother’s name. I will serve.”

Solis’s huge frame slowly relaxed—Mia realized he was actually hoping she’d buck. But after a long heavy silence, the big man reached into his robe, produced a leather scroll case sealed with black wax.

“One kill. A woman who calls herself ‘the Dona.’ Leader of a braavi gang who run in the streets of Little Liis. You grew up there, neh?”

“ . . . Aye.” Mia reached for the case.

“One stipulation,” the big man said, holding up his finger. “An item of import to your patron. A map, written in Old Ashkahi and set with a seal shaped like a sickle’s blade. The Dona is brokering an exchange with the map’s current owner. You must take the map, along with her life.”

“ . . . What’s the map of?”

“It provides detailed directions to the Empire of None of Your Fucking Concern.”

“The exchange will take place in the headquarters of the Toffs,” Spiderkiller said. “Before month’s end.”

“That’s eight turns from now,” Mia said.

“Black Mother be praised,” Solis replied. “The girl can count.”

“On both hands, Revered Father.”

Solis gave over the scroll case with a scowl. Mia sucked her lip, mind spinning. Eight turns wasn’t long to plan a kill like this. She needed backup she could trust.

“Can I bring my own Hand to the ’Grave?” she asked. “My last one met a crossbow bolt he didn’t like.”

“I fear not,” Aalea said, as if reading her mind. “Naev is needed here. With most of our blood pools destroyed, our supply situation is critical. A new chapel has been built in the necropolis beneath Godsgrave. The local bishop will provide you with a Hand. Adonai has already sent a blood missive informing him of your arrival.”

Solis tilted his head, milk-white eyes aimed somewhere over Mia’s shoulder.

“You have eight turns to end this Dona and recover the map. Your patron may have more offerings for you, presuming you do not perish in pursuit of this first.”

“I’m too pretty to perish.” Mia tossed her fringe from her eyes.

Solis sneered. “Marielle will tend to your wounds. Adonai will prepare your transportation to Godsgrave. Say your farewells and be in his chambers by midbells.”

Questions bounced around inside her skull. Who was this patron? Why kill a member of the braavi? Why did they request her specifically? What’s on this map?

It doesn’t matter, she realized.

It wasn’t her place to ask. It was her place to serve. The sooner she proved herself, the sooner she’d earn a permanent posting in the Godsgrave Chapel. And from there, no matter what Solis might say, she’d be one step closer to her revenge.

The wolf did not pity the lamb.

The storm begged no forgiveness of the drowned.

“I’ll not fail,” Mia vowed. “In the Black Mother’s name, I swear it.”

Solis folded his arms, his face unreadable in the gloom.

“Go,” he finally said. “May Our Lady be late when she finds you. And when she does, may she greet you with a kiss.”

Mia took the scroll case, tucked it under her arm along with her beaten book. Bowing low, she backed slowly out of the hall. As she stalked away down the darkened corridors, past beautiful stained-glass windows and grotesque bone sculptures, two shapes slipped from the darkness and fell into step alongside her.

A cat made of shadows. And beside it, a wolf of the same.

“Can you believe him?” Mia hissed. “Calling me ‘acolyte,’ the bastard.”

“ . . . you act as if solis’s bastardry is some kind of revelation . . . ,” Mister Kindly replied.

Eclipse’s growl came from somewhere beneath the floor.

“ . . . CASSIUS ALWAYS THOUGHT OF HIM AS AN ARROGANT THUG. OF ALL THE MINISTRY, HE LIKED SOLIS LEAST. ONE TURN, WE SHOULD TEACH HIM A LESSON IN MANNERS . . .”

“ . . . there are less dramatic forms of suicide, pup . . .”

“ . . . SO LITTLE FAITH IN OUR MISTRESS, LITTLE KITTEN . . .”

“ . . . she is not yours, you w—”

“Black Mother, enough,” Mia snapped, rubbing her temples. “The last thing I need to hear right now is you two bickering like a pair of old maids.”

Her passengers fell quiet, leaving only a disembodied choir to echo in the dark. Mia took a deep breath, tried to pull her notorious temper into check. They were still treating her like a novice. Despite all she’d done. But if nothing else, she was headed to Godsgrave. The patronage of this mysterious benefactor was unexpected, but in truth she was glad somebody was recognizing the talent it took to murder a justicus and a hundred of his men. If it got her closer to Scaeva and Duomo, all the better.

But still, her mind swum with images of her fight in the necropolis. That thing and its gravebone blades, the tentacles writhing at the edges of its cowl. Though she couldn’t find it in her to be afraid with the shadows so thick at her feet, she knew there was something grander at play here.

She looked at the book under her arm, running her fingers across the timeworn cover. The tarnished brass clasp.

“Seek the crown of the moon,” she muttered.

“ . . . we have until midbells . . .”

The girl hooked her thumbs into her belt.

Realized she was dying for a smoke.

“Time enough to take my library books back.”

* * *

Her cell smelled like piss and stale misery.

The straw was musty, the bucket in the corner crusted in filth and flies. Mia had been escorted from the Pit, Teardrinker nodding farewell as she was taken out through the gates. Four heavyset legionaries had marched her across the roiling marketplace, finally locking her in a holding pen inside a large administratii building. Though her price was settled, coin had yet to be paid. She had a few hours before her new domina took full possession. A few hours to pull together the tattered threads of her plan.

“ . . . we must inform the viper . . .”

Mia scowled at Mister Kindly. He was only a darker shape against the shadows thrown by the bars across the floor. The cells beside Mia’s were empty, but she kept her voice a whisper.

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that.”

“ . . . you have another term less flattering . . . ?”

“You could use her bloody name.”

The not-cat made a sniffing sound; impressive for a creature without lungs.

“ . . . we were supposed to be purchased by leonides. leonides’s daughter bought you instead. the viper has no way of knowing this. she and eclipse will be waiting for us at leonides’s collegium in whitekeep as planned . . .”

“That was something of an oversight,” Mia admitted.

“ . . . this entire plan is oversight and folly, stitched together by jiggery-fuckery . . .”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“ . . . a pity, then, that the viper does not . . .”

Mia sighed. “You’ll have to go tell her. Can you make your way to Whitekeep?”

“ . . . i am certain i can find a ship to stow aboard. but what will you do . . . ?”

“What else can I do?” Mia shrugged. “Train in Leona’s stable. Fight. Win. The destination hasn’t changed, just the starting point.”

“ . . . and where do i tell the viper to meet you? where is your new dona’s collegium . . . ?”

“I’ve no fucking idea.”

“ . . . o, aye. you certainly know what you’re doing . . .”

Mia flipped the knuckles at the shadowcat, dragged her matted hair behind her ears. She was still covered in dried blood, old sweat, dust. Sitting in the straw, she tried not to picture the faces of the men she’d killed in the Pit. She’d needed to impress, and she’d done so . . . after a fashion. She’d killed dozens who’d stood in her way before now. But still, those Pit fighters had only been doing as they were bid . . .

“I feel like shit,” she sighed.

“ . . . you do not smell particularly pleasant either . . .”

“That’s not what I—”

“ . . . you cannot afford to pity those men, mia. swimming this deep, your compassion will only serve to drown you. you must be as hard and as sharp as the men you hunt . . .”

“If not for the pity I took in my final trial at the Red Church, I’d have been at the initiation feast when Ashlinn and Osrik poisoned the Ministry. We’d all be dead.”

“ . . . you’re just going to keep rubbing that in, aren’t y—”

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and the not-cat faded away like smoke. Mia looked up to see an administratii unlocking her cell. The man was stocky, bearded, clad in white robes marked with the three suns of the Itreyan Republic. Beside him stood a young boy in a short-sleeved novice frock, carrying a tall chair and a mahogany box.

Dona Leona walked softly into the cell, followed by one of the most well built men Mia had ever seen. He was Itreyan, perhaps in his mid-thirties, thick beard going gray at the edges, thick hair swept up and back in a long tail. His skin was like leather, and a particularly vicious scar bisected his brow, cheek and lip, twisting his features into a perpetual scowl. His stare was bloodshot, and he leaned heavily on a walking stick, its handle shaped like a lion’s head. Looking down, Mia saw he was missing his left leg below the knee, an iron pin affixed there instead.

He scowled at Mia with steel-gray eyes, his voice like cracking stone.

“She’s a girl.”

Dona Leona raised one perfectly manicured brow. “I noticed.”

“’Byss and blood, Dona, you dropped a thousand silver on this slip? I’m not a miracle worker. I need good clay to work with.”

“She killed five men in five minutes,” Leona said. “She was worth every coin.”

“A bloody good thing, then. Since we’ve not a beggar left to our names.”

“We’ve two other purchases this trip, both fine stock. And you’ve no cause to rebuke me, Executus. If you weren’t out drinking the Garden dry yestereve, you’d have been with me this morn when I made purchase.”

The big man grunted, looked again at Mia.

“On your feet, slave.”

Mia complied mutely, stood with hands clasped. The man limped in a circle around her, iron leg clanking on the stone. He poked the muscle at her gut, squeezed her biceps with massive hands, checked her teeth. Mia endured the inspection silently, eyes downturned. She could smell goldwine on his breath.

“She’s too short,” he declared. “No reach in these arms.”

“She is fast as the wind,” Leona replied.

“She’s too young. It’ll be years before she’s ready for the sand.”

“Five men,” Leona repeated, “in five minutes.”

“She’s a girl,” the big man growled.

“So was I,” the dona replied softly. “And you never thought lesser of me for it.”

“One sniff of her and the men will lose their fucking minds.”

“Did my father not say the same about me when I’d visit the collegium? And was it not you who asked that I be allowed to stay? To learn?”

“A different tale, Mi Dona. You were the domini’s daughter. This slip’s going to be down in the barracks with the rest of them.”

“And until she proves herself in the Winnowing, you will ensure my investment comes to no harm,” Leona said coolly.

“She’ll never survive the Winnowing.”

“Then you will have the distinct pleasure of saying ‘I told you so,’ Executus.”

The big man scowled at Mia. She met his stare, just for a second. Fury burned in the blacks of her pupils as a silent vow echoed in her mind.

You’ll be eating those words come truelight, bastard.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“They call me Crow, Mi Don,” she replied, eyes once more to the floor.

“Do I look a fucking don to you, girl? You will address me as Executus.”

It was all Mia could do not to bury her knee in his bollocks. Punch his teeth loose from his jaw and dance on his head.

“Yes, Executus,” she replied.

The man glowered, his expression turned all the darker by his scar. Bladework, she reckoned. Probably earned somewhere on the sand. He moved like a fighter. Graceful and powerful, despite the missing leg.

“We sail on the morrowtide,” Leona said. “The sooner we return to Crow’s Nest and begin her training, the better.”

Mia’s heart surged in her chest.

“ . . . Crow’s Nest?” she whispered.

The slap knocked her back into the wall. Her head cracked on the stone and she collapsed to her knees, gasping. She was back on her feet in a moment, eyes flashing with hatred as she glared at the man who’d slapped her. But quick as silver, the executus’s fist crashed into her belly, sending her to her knees once more.

He’s fast . . .

Mia felt a brutish hand in her hair, dragging back her head as she gasped in pain.

“You forget your place, girl,” the big man said. “If ever again you speak in presence of your domina without being spoken to, I’ll set my blade to your tongue and feed it to my fucking dog. Do you hear me?”

Patience . . .

“Yes, Executus,” she whispered.

The man grunted, released his hold. Mia glanced up at Leona, saw the woman regarding her with a cool, imperious gaze. Whatever her opinion of Mia’s martial skills, it was clear her new domina had no issue with her man’s brutal methods.

After a moment’s tense silence, Dona Leona turned to the administratii, still waiting patiently in the corridor.

“Come, then, be about your work.”

The administratii shuffled into the cell, his novice beside him. The boy plonked the tall chair down beside Mia, opened the mahogany box he carried and proffered it to the administratii. Inside Mia saw a collection of iron needles. Powders in stoppered phials, small bottles of ink. Her shadow surged, fear swelling in her belly. She knew this was coming. It was all part of the game. But still . . .

“Sit,” the administratii said.

Mia dragged herself up from the floor, glanced at the buckles and straps on the chair’s armrests. They obviously intended to bind her for what came next. She knew if she spoke again, she’d only earn herself another blow. And so she fixed her stare on the small barred window, the blue sky beyond. And she remained standing.

The executus growled deep, raised his hand to strike.

“Do as you’re—”

“No,” Dona Leona said, watching Mia with curious eyes. “Let her stand.”

“All respect, Dona Leona,” said the administratii, “but this is no simple inkwerk. The process is arkemical. The pain immense. She is likely to swoon.”

Mia thought back to her scourging at Weaver Marielle’s hands and almost laughed at the word. That same laughter twinkled in the Dona Leona’s eyes.

“A hundred silver says she does nothing of the sort.”

The executus groaned softly. The administratii looked taken aback.

“I am not a gambling man, Mi Dona.”

“But you are a man who insists on telling me what I already know?” Leona’s tone turned razor-sharp. “I grew up in the finest gladiatii collegium in all the Itreyan Republic. I know how a damned slave brand works. Now proceed.”

The administratii almost succeeded in stifling his sigh. He turned to the box, set about unstopping phials, mixing components into a shallow glass bowl. The poisoncrafter in Mia watched with interest, noting the way the arkemical concoction came together, bubbling and hissing and spitting black.

The administratii dipped his needle, raised it to Mia’s face. The novice stood behind her, held her head steady. The girl forced herself to be still, grit her teeth. Lining up the steel against Mia’s cheek, the administratii hefted a thin jeweler’s hammer. The girl held her breath. And without further foreplay, the administratii smacked the needle through Mia’s cheek and straight into the bone beyond.

Black fire. Burning agony. Mia’s eyes grew wide, pupils dilated, the pain lancing through her skull and stealing her breath away. Her knees buckled, black stars bursting in her eyes. The administratii stepped back, obviously expecting her to fall. But with her shadow swelling, chest heaving, the girl remained on her feet.

Mia looked at Leona. The dona was watching her with a growing smile.

“Well?” the woman asked the administratii. “Proceed!”

The man shrugged, and with no more pause for drama, began hammering the needle into Mia’s cheek, over and over again. Small series of three tiny blows, each like a thunderclap in her head.

tapTAPTAP

tapTAPTAP

Fingernails digging into her palms.

White spots swelling before her eyes.

The room rolling beneath her like a ship in a storm.

tapTAPTAP

tapTAPTAP

The anticipation was the worst of it. The moment between one sequence and the next. That tiny respite that seemed an eternity, waiting for the pain to begin again. Adonai’s scourging, Marielle’s weaving . . . nothing she’d ever felt in her life had come close, made all the worse by the bitter thought that in this moment, to the world outside this cell, her life was no longer her own.

tapTAPTAP

If not for Mister Kindly, she thought she might have broken.

tapTAPTAP

But at the end

after all the pain

all the praying

cheek bleeding

legs trembling

Mia still stood.

“A good thing,” Dona Leona declared, “that you are not a betting man, sir.”

The administratii packed up his gear without a word. Aiming a poison glance at Mia, he gave a curt bow to the dona, and with his novice trailing behind, swept from the cell with a rustle of black cloth. Leona turned to her executus with a triumphant smile.

“You ask for clay to work with, Executus? I give you steel.”

The big man looked at Mia with narrowed eyes. “Steel breaks before it bends.”

“Four Daughters, you’re never happy are you?” Leona sighed. “Come. We should let her rest. She will need her strength in turns to come.”

The dona cupped Mia’s face, wiping her wounded cheek with a gentle thumb. Sapphire blue eyes burning into her own.

“We will bleed the sands red, you and I,” she said. “Sanguii e Gloria.”

Gifting her a final smile, Leona swept from the room in a flurry of blue silk. The executus limped after her, locked the door behind him. The clank of his iron leg faded with his dona down the corridor.

Mia sank to her knees. Her cheek was swollen, throbbing with pain. Her palms were bleeding from the press of her nails. She ran her fingertips over her skin, feeling the raised ridges of the two interlocking circles branded just below her right eye. But beneath the remembered agony, her mind was racing, the dona’s words tumbling inside her skull with the echoes of the hammer blows.

They’re taking me to—

“ . . . crow’s nest . . . ?”

She glanced up at the not-cat, once more cleaning his not-paw with his not-tongue. Licking at parched lips, she tried to find her voice.

“It was the home of the Familia Corvere. My familia. Consul Scaeva gave it to Justicus Remus as reward for ending my father’s rebellion against the Senate.”

“ . . . and now leona owns it . . . ?”

Mia shrugged mutely. The not-cat tilted his head.

“ . . . are you well . . . ?”

Her father, holding her hand as they walked in fields of tall sunsbell flowers. Her mother standing atop battlements of ochre stone, cool wind playing in her long dark hair. Mia had grown up in Godsgrave—her father’s role as justicus meant he could never stay away from the City of Bridges and Bones for long. But every few summersdeeps, they’d traveled to Crow’s Nest for a week or two, just to be with one another. Those had been the happiest turns of Mia’s life. Away from Godsgrave’s crush, its poison politics. Her parents seemed happier there. Closer somehow. Her brother Jonnen had been born there. She remembered visits from General Antonius, the would-be king who’d hanged beside her father. He and her parents would stay up late into the night, drinking and laughing and O, so alive.

All of them gone now.

“ . . . i should go. find a ship bound for whitekeep. tell the viper to seek you in crow’s nest . . .”

“ . . . Aye,” she nodded.

“ . . . will you be all right while i am gone . . . ?”

The thought should have terrified her. She knew if Mister Kindly weren’t there, it would have. For seven years, ever since her father died, the shadowcat had been beside her. She knew he had to leave, that she couldn’t do this all by herself. But the thought of being alone, of living with the fear he usually drank to nothing . . .

“I’ll be well enough,” she replied. “Just don’t dawdle.”

“ . . . i will be swift. never fear . . .”

She sighed. Pressed her hand to the brand on her throbbing cheek.

“And never, ever forget.”