They called for Mia before dessert.

Dona Leona had commanded her to wait in a small antechamber, down in the servants’ wing of the governor’s palazzo. A guard was posted at her door, she was given a simple meal and some watered wine, while the guests in the banquet hall enjoyed aperitifs of stuffed quail hearts doused with brandy butter, followed by a main of roasted honeyfish and kingclaw braised in goldwine.

Mia knew Quintus Messala had served as governor of Stormwatch for six years—he’d been appointed soon after the Kingmaker Rebellion. As a childhood friend of Consul Scaeva and a scion of one of the twelve great familia of the Republic, his wealth and power were the envy of everyone who met him, and it seemed Messala lived to stoke that envy. Mia couldn’t recall an affair as lavish, or a house quite as opulent. The antechamber she sat in was decorated with intricate stucco reliefs, gold leaf, and Dweymeri crystal chandeliers. The man who served her meal was dressed in clothes most marrowborn dons would envy.

She’d sat in the room brooding about her argument with Ashlinn until Arkades had come to fetch her. He was dressed in his finery, falcons and lions on his doublet. Mia was dressed in the armor she’d worn yesterturn, though it had been polished to within an inch of its life. They’d not given her helmet back, but there was little she could do about that. The chances of a Red Church servant being at the feast were low, but still, walking toward the banquet hall, Executus in front and two guards at her flanks, Mia felt as if she were buck-naked and strolling into a scabdog’s den.

“Hold,” Arkades told her, stopping at the door to the dining hall.

The big man turned to look at her, raised a finger in warning.

“Do not speak unless you are spoken to. Remember that all eyes are upon you. You may never have seen the like before, but the people in this room are serpents, girl. They slay with a whisper. Bestow fortunes or end reputations with a word. If you shame your domina’s name, I swear by the Everseeing, I’ll see you suffer for it.”

Black Mother, the torch he’s carrying for that woman could light up truedark . . .

Truth was, Mia knew the machinations of the marrowborn all too well—she’d seen her mother play their power games for years. The Dona Corvere could reduce men to hollow shells and women to tears when she put her mind to it. But Mia wasn’t about to let Arkades know that. Instead, she simply bowed her head.

“Aye, Executus.”

Satisfied, the man opened the door to the dining hall and limped inside. Mia waited, hands clasped. She could hear string music, voices in the room beyond.

“Fine match yesterturn,” one of the guards beside her murmured.

“Aye,” another said. “Bloody spectacular, lass.”

Mia nodded thanks, grateful word of her victory was still spreading. If there had been any chance of Leona selling her off before the venatus, it was as dead as that retchwyrm now. Her domina would have to ponder some other way to pay her creditors—though if all went well this eve, that should prove no difficulty. Wealthy marrowborn often offered patronage to favored collegia, and with the Falcons of Remus the toast of the city, Leona should have no trouble securing investment.

The future of the collegium was assured.

All that remained was securing her place at the magni.

Mia soon heard the clinking of a ring upon a crystal goblet, a lull in conversation. A voice called out in the room beyond; a silk-smooth baritone Mia guessed must belong to Governor Messala.

“Esteemed guests, honored friends, I thank you for visiting my humble home this nevernight. It gives me and my good wife no end of pride to see so many of you here. May the Everseeing watch over you, and the Four Daughters bestow their blessings.”

Messala waited for the polite applause to die before continuing.

“We hold this feast every venatus, to give thanks to friends who grace our city but rarely, and yet, leave their mark indelibly on the hearts and minds of our citizens. It is with no hyperbole that I declare yesterturn’s venatus the greatest seen in our fine city, and I thank each and every sanguila here present, who toiled to make it so!”

Messala paused again for applause. It was a rarity for sanguila to be invited to a governor’s home—blood masters could never hold the status of the true marrowborn. But Mia could see Messala’s acumen in arranging it. The sanguila were popular with common folk, and the love of the citizenry had seen Julius Scaeva flout all convention and sit in the consuls’ chair for three terms. It made sense for Messala to court the men who owned the favor of the mob.

A snake this one, sure and true.

“Now,” Messala continued. “Each sanguila has brought their champion, that we may marvel. But for you, dear friends, I’ve arranged a gift more marvelous still. Through the generosity of Dona Leona of the Remus Collegium”—Mia heard a murmur ripple through the guests—“I am pleased to present the victor of yesterturn’s Ultima, and one of the finest warriors to set foot upon the sands . . . Crow, the Savior of Stormwatch!”

The doors were flung wide, and Mia looked out into a sea of curious faces. Hundreds of people were in attendance—the cream of society, gathered in pretty knots or lying on divans around the vast room. The hall was marble, frescoed, tall windows thrown open to the let in the cool nevernight breeze. Plates were laden with food, goblets overflowed with wine, wealth dripping off the walls.

Mia recognized this world. She’d grown up in it, after all. Daughter of a marrowborn familia, raised in opulence just like this. So much wealth held in so few palms. A kingdom of the blind, built on the backs of the bruised and the broken.

And nobody born to it ever questioning a thing.

Governor Messala stood at the center of the room—a handsome Itreyan man with dark, piercing eyes. The divans were arranged about his own, and guests were seated according to their status. Mia saw Dona Leona at a place of honor on Messala’s right side, Arkades beside her. Furian loomed behind, dressed in a breastplate of iron, bracers and shin guards crafted like falcon’s wings. The champion was practically seething, staring at Mia with hatred in his eyes.

But when she looked at him, still . . . that hunger . . .

That want.

Mia noted other sanguila around the room, recognizing their sigils. A heavyset man wearing the sword and shield of the Trajan Collegium. A one-handed man that could only be Phillipi, a former gladiatii who’d started his own stable. And there among them, Mia saw an overweight man wearing a frock coat embroidered with golden lions. She recognized him immediately—the man who’d offered to buy her for a thousand silver priests, and been bested by a single coin.

Leonides.

He was still sat close to Messala, Mia noted, even though he hadn’t fielded a fighter in the Ultima. She wondered again at that, and at Leona’s revelation that the governor had long favored the Lions of Leonides. Looking about the room, another might have seen a simple banquet. But Mia saw a spiderweb, sticky strands spun among the guests, vibration thrumming to the center of the web. And at the heart of it was Dona Leona, a goblet to her lips, sitting blithely at the spider’s right hand.

Leonides himself seemed unremarkable in many ways. Too fond of his food and drink perhaps, but no kind of monster. He sipped his wine and affected a yawn, pretending not to notice Mia had entered. But she saw how he watched, the glittering blue eyes he’d gifted his daughter not missing a thing.

Thus, the greatest monsters get their way, she realized.

By looking just like the rest of us.

Beside Leonides stood his hulking bald executus, Titus, the girth of his arms straining his silken shirt. And behind Titus, Mia saw an ominous figure, at least seven feet tall, cloaked and cowled despite the heat.

. . . His champion?

“Good Crow.”

The governor’s voice snatched Mia from her reverie.

“Come forward,” he beckoned. “Let Stormwatch see its savior.”

Mia marched into the room as commanded, the guards in step beside her. The guests weren’t so crass as to applaud her presence—Mia was property, after all, and quality didn’t clap when a pet successfully performed a trick. But she could feel an arkemical current in the air nevertheless; curiosity, admiration, even desire. Just a turn ago, she’d had tens of thousands of people on their feet, roaring her name. That gave her a kind of gravity, she realized. The same kind of magnetism Arkades wore like armor, the other gladiatii in the room fought to attain. Primal, perhaps. Steeped in blood.

But power nonetheless.

“I commend you, good Crow,” Messala said, “and give thanks on behalf of the citizens of our city. Not only did you treat us to a spectacle unlike any other, but through skill and courage, the lives of no few of our citizens were rescued from calamity.” The governor raised his goblet, joined by the many guests around the room. “Aa bless and keep you, and Tsana ever guide your hand.”

Mia bowed. “You honor me, Governor.”

“You honor us, as does your domina.” The governor turned with a smile to the woman at his right, raised his goblet to Leona. “My thanks to you, gracious Dona, for allowing opportunity to see our savior up close.”

Leona inclined her head. “I am your humble servant, Governor.”

“She is quite magnificent, aye?” Messala said to his guests, walking around Mia and admiring the view from every angle. “The goddess Tsana made flesh. ’Tis one thing to bear witness from the boxes, quite another to see her here, neh?”

Leona smiled. “Who’d have thought one so fair could be so fierce?”

“I’d wager she could best any three of my houseguards.”

Leona smiled wide, basking in the adoration. She shot a poison glance at her father, Mia noting Leonides’s face was flush with anger. And as a thought seized her, Mia saw the dona look to her executus, lips curling in a devious smile.

“Perhaps you and your guests desire a demonstration, Governor Quintus?”

The man tilted his head, playful. “Would you indulge us, Mi Dona?”

“It would be my honor to pit my Crow against your finest man,” Leona said. “E navium, of course.”

Messala raised an eyebrow, looked among his guests. “What say you, friends?”

Arkades frowned at the suggestion, obviously displeased. Mia herself didn’t much fancy the thought of performing for the elite’s amusement—she was black and blue from her battle against the retchwyrm yesterturn. But the marrowborn were well charmed with the dona’s suggestion, and impressing with a simple bout did seem a sensible way for Leona to secure the patronage she so needed.

Still . . .

Mia looked to Leonides. Back to Messala. Trying to shake the ill feeling crawling on her skin.

The governor turned to one of his guards—a burly lump with biceps as thick as his neck. “Varius, perhaps you’d be kind enough to oblige?”

The big man nodded, took a gladius from the guard beside him, and tossed it to Mia. Snatching it from the air, she looked to Dona Leona, who simply gave an encouraging nod while Furian—obviously incensed at being overshadowed—glowered in the background. Space was cleared by the governor’s servants in the center of the room, and Mia took up her place, sword raised, trying to shake her misgivings. The guard drew his own blade and bowed to the governor, set his eyes on Mia.

“I beg pardon, honored Governor,” came a voice. “If I might interject?”

All eyes turned to Sanguila Leonides, standing by his divan and bowing low.

“Good Leonides?” Messala asked.

“Gracious host, I mean no offense to your man,” Leonides said. “But if we are to see the Savior of Stormwatch at her finest, might I suggest she cross steel with one trained in the arts of the sand?” Leonides turned glittering eyes to his daughter. “Unless the Crow’s sanguila feels she is not fit for the task?”

Leona stared at her father across the crowd, her face a mask of perfect calm. But Mia’s hackles were raised. She could see the trap now. With a few buttered words, Messala had manipulated Leona into putting a sword in Mia’s hand, and Leonides could make his daughter look the coward if challenge was refused. And yet, Mia knew the man wasn’t fool enough to propose a match without some advantage.

It seemed finally the dona had a sense of the danger herself now, eyes flickering to her host, back to her father, remaining mute a moment too long.

“She hesitates?” Leonides smiled to the other guests. “Understandable, of course. Remus Collegium has only three laurels to its name, and our Crow here is but a babe upon the sands. Perhaps our savior needs a few turns to rest her wings before she is fit to fight again, neh?”

Mia saw Arkades whisper in his dona’s ear. But Leona raised her hand in annoyance, and the man fell silent. She glanced once more about the room, the faces of the assembled marrowborn—folk she might have sat among as an equal were she still married to a justicus. Patrons she now needed to keep her collegium afloat. Mia could see that desperate need to impress in her eyes. The same desire that saw her bid at the Gardens without thought, spend beyond her means, dress as if she were attending a gala every turn. And as Mia’s heart sank to see her so easily goaded, warning trapped behind her teeth, Leona inclined her head and smiled.

“I thought only to spare you embarrassment, Sanguila Leonides. But I gratefully accept your offer. My bloody beauty will meet any man from your stable, steel to steel.”

“Man? O, no, my dear, you misunderstand.” Leonides motioned to the robed and hooded figure looming beside him. “I’d thought to keep my Ishkah here in lieu until the next venatus, as I’ve only just secured her purchase. But in honor of good Governor Messala, and fighting e navium, I see no risk in a small preview to whet appetites now.”

He turned to the figure, speaking softly.

“Be gentle with her, my lioness.”

A murmur of excitement rippled across the room as Leonides’s fighter stepped forward into the sparring space. This was a treat no one had expected—to see champions cross blades for the marrowborn’s own private amusement. The guests smiled wide, teeth stained dark with wine, pulses quickening at the thought of blood in the water. Mia raised her sword, sunslight glinting on the edge.

“Ladies and gentlefriends, honored hosts,” Leonides said with a dramatic sweep of his hand. “May I present the latest addition to my pride. A foe fiercer than the Black Mother herself, a terror among her kind, whose very name means ‘death’ in the tongue of the Dominion. It has taken me years to secure a prize like her, but in all my time beside the sand, I have never seen her equal. I give you my next champion, and the next victor of the Venatus Magni . . . Ishkah, the Exile!”

Leonides dropped his hand. And as the crowd gasped in wonder, his challenger sloughed off its robe to reveal the figure beneath.

“Four Daughters . . . ,” someone breathed.

“Almighty Aa . . . ,” another whispered.

Maw’s teeth . . .

Mia swallowed thickly, shadow rippling at her feet.

A silkling.

Mia had read about the denizens of the Silken Dominion in Mercurio’s books as a child, but she’d never thought to see one in the flesh. Looking at Leonides’s fighter, Mia could see she was almost certainly female, hips curved beneath her studded leather skirt, six arms folded over the subtle curve of her breasts. She was seven feet tall, her skin chitinous, a green so dark it was almost black. Her lips were painted white, two large, featureless orbs set in a smooth, oval face, six smaller eyes scattered across her cheeks like freckles. She had no eyelids with which to blink. From her readings, Mia guessed the silkling was young, but in truth, she had no real way to tell.

The silkling reached up to her back, drew forth six glittering blades, each gently curved and razor-sharp, etched with strange glyphs. As the assembled marrowborn murmured in astonishment, she wove the weapons through the air in an intricate, twisting dance, the steel whistling as it sliced the air. Finishing her display, Ishkah spread her arms like fans, blades poised and pointed directly at Mia.

The girl glanced to Leona, Arkades, Furian. The dona’s face was stone, but her eyes were dark with fear, seeing now how simply she’d been played. And yet, with the marrowborn now awash with excitement, she dare not make an overture to end the bout prematurely. Leonides looked to his daughter and smiled like a cat who’d stolen the cream, the bucket, and the maid to boot.

He played her like a lyre. If I lose here, the people of the city might still sing my name. But the people of influence and power . . . they’ll sing only of the Lions of Leonides. And Leona’s chance of patronage goes up in flames.

Mia saw the trap revealed. Paused a moment to admire its simplicity. She saw the strands of the web between the governor and Leonides, the invitation that had brought Leona here with her guard down. Plying her with a wine or two and a bevy of compliments from folk above her station, manipulating her into a fight she couldn’t afford to lose, and yet supposing she couldn’t ever win.

We’ll see about that, bastards . . .

“ . . . are you certain about this . . . ?” came a whisper from her hair.

“Are you certain you could shut up for the next minutes so I don’t get killed?” she muttered.

“ . . . ah . . . probably not . . . ?”

“Exactly.”

Truthfully, Mia had never been less certain about anything in her life, but she had no choice—to lose here would mean the collegium would still be up to its neck in debt, all her work still at risk. And so, she turned to one of the guards who’d praised her victory before they entered the hall, glanced to the blade at his waist.

“Might I trouble you for a loan, good sir?”

The guard drew his sword, handed it over dutifully. “Tsana guide you, lass.”

Mia took the blade with a nod of thanks. And cutting her swords through the air, Mister Kindly doing his level best to shut up for a few minutes, Mia took her place in the sparring ring, eyes locked on the silkling’s.

“This contest will be fought e navium,” Governor Messala reminded them. “A hand raised in submission will signal an end to the bout. Fight with honor, and for the glory of your collegium. Aa bless and keep you, and Tsana guide your hand.”

The crowd hushed, the music stopped, and all Mia could hear was the thunderous beating of her own heart.

“Begin!” Messala cried.

Quick as silver, Mia struck with both blades, steel ringing as the silkling parried with four of her own. Dancing forward, she struck again at head and chest, but her foe blocked again with ease. Countering this time, the silkling launched a flurry of strikes at Mia, the air a whispering blur. Mia was pushed back, desperately blocking the incoming blades, until she was forced beyond the edge of the sparring circle. The marrowborn around her skittered aside, eyes on her swords. But the silkling didn’t press, returning to the center of the ring and waiting with her weapons poised in a glittering fan.

Mia titled her head, felt her neck pop. Tossed her hair from her eyes. And stepping up to her foe, she launched another salvo.

She’d always prided herself on her skill with a blade—she’d trained hard under Mercurio, and harder still in the Red Church, her natural speed combined with utter fearlessness and an uncanny aim. But even her best foes had only met her with two blades of their own—never six of the cursed things. Wherever she struck, the silkling’s steel was waiting. Whenever she left a gap, Ishkah forced her back. The silkling had the size, the reach, the speed. And worse, Mia knew she wasn’t giving her all. Just as Arkades had warned the first turn she set foot on the sand in Crow’s Nest, Ishkah was studying her form in readiness for her final assault.

And so, seeking to even the scales (how is six blades against two fair, she reasoned), Mia reached out to shadow at the silkling’s feet.

None in the room would have noticed it—the dark shivered only a little. But as the silkling stepped forward to strike, she found her boots fixed fast to the mosaic tile at her feet, the long shadows cast by the sunslight outside. A moment’s hesitation from her foe was enough, and Mia struck hard, a blinding series of strikes that broke through Ishkah’s guard and opened a long, ragged wound on her shoulder, just shy of her throat. The crowd gasped in astonishment, blood as green as poplar leaves sprayed from the wound. Mia knocked another of the silkling’s swords flying, and aimed a blow low to sweep her foe off her feet.

And then, just like the first turn she set foot on the sand in Crow’s Nest,

she lost her grip on the shadows

and her foe stepped aside.

Mia’s strike went wide, the silkling’s blade’s flashed, opening up a shallow cut across the girl’s knuckles and sending her sword spinning from her hand. Mia tried to counter with her other blade, but was met by a wall of steel, Ishkah striking with an empty fist, driving the breath from the girl’s lungs. Mia staggered, the silkling twirled behind her, smashing her across the back of the head with the flat of her blade. Cathedral bells rang in Mia’s skull, the whole world blurring to double as her legs were knocked out from under her and she crashed senseless to the floor.

The silkling stood above her, blades poised to strike.

“Yield,” she demanded, with a voice like dry cicada wings.

Mia’s brow had split on the tile, her head still ringing. Fingernails clawing the ground, she blinked the blood from her eyes and struck out with her feet, trying to knock the silkling down. Ishkah sidestepped like a dancer, pressing her blades to Mia’s throat.

“Yield,” she said again.

Mia looked to Leona’s crestfallen face. To Arkades, shaking his head in disdain. And finally to Furian. Staring into his dark eyes, she knew, sure as she knew the turn she’d faced Arkades—the bastard had wrested her grip on the shadows, allowed her foe to slip free.

Teeth bared.

Rage boiling in her belly.

“Even a dog knows when it is beaten,” came a voice from among the sanguila.

“Perhaps the fault lies not with the dog,” Leonides replied, “but with its mistress?”

Leona’s cheeks were spotted with rage as she looked at her father, stepped toward him with clenched fists. Arkades whispered—some word Mia couldn’t hear—and the woman fell still, face flushed, eyes burning.

“Yield,” she commanded.

“ . . . yield, mia . . .”

Just a turn ago, she’d stood triumphant among tens of thousands of people, every one of them chanting her name. And now, she lay on her belly like a whipped pup, the marrowborn around her tittering with amusement. Mia looked to Furian, hate boiling in her chest, the edges of her shadow rippling. She could feel the dark in her, the black, wanting to stretch out toward the Unfallen and tear him limb from bloody limb. But the blades at her throat, the memory of her familia, the thought that none in this room could know what she truly was—all of it helped her to fight down the rage, stow in her breast to cool. Not forgotten, no. Nor forgiven. Never.

And slowly, Mia raised one trembling, bloodstained hand to the governor.

“ . . . Yield,” she whispered.

Satisfied, the silkling removed her blades from Mia’s throat, sheathed them at her back. Governor Messala looked among his guests, the mood now shifted, tinged with red. Tension was thick in the air, not just from the bloodshed in the circle, but the obvious enmity between Dona Leona and her father. If there was one thing that entertained the rich and idle more than bloodshed, it was scandal. To see it played out in front of them was better sport than any venatus under the suns.

“You deceived me,” Leona said, voice trembling.

“You deceived yourself,” her father sneered. “When you started that backwater collegium. I warned you, Leona. The sands are no place for a woman, and the sanguila’s box is no place for you.”

Leona glanced to the silkling. “Don’t look now, Father, but your champion appears to have breasts.”

The crowd tittered as Leona scored her point. Emboldened, she continued.

“But perhaps you don’t intend to field her on the sand at all? I noted your collegium’s absence yesterturn in the Ultima, when mine was claiming the victor’s laurel. All the better to unveil her like some cheap mummer in a two-beggar corner show, and cheat me of my glory behind closed doors?”

Leonides’s face darkened.

“If you think yourself cheated,” he declared, “let Aa and Tsana decide. The next venatus is at Whitekeep, five weeks hence. I will field my Ishkah against your Crow. And since you so desperately need it, dear daughter, I shall wager one of my berths in the magni against the winner. But a fight to the death this time, neh?”

Leona looked to the marrowborn about her, opened her mouth to sp—

“I fear the contest unbalanced,” said a voice. “And the crowd would cry the same.”

All eyes turned at the growl. Arkades, the Red Lion of Itreya, stood by his mistress’s side, glaring at his former master. His face was twisted in a scowl, his scar cutting a deep shadow down his features. Mia could see the cold enmity in his eyes, looking at the man he’d once fought and bled for.

“I commend you on your find, Sanguila Leonides,” Executus continued, glancing at the silkling. “I have never seen her equal either. Not in all my years upon the sand. But six blades against two? What honor lies in contest such as that?”

Arkades looked at Mia still sprawled on the floor, then to Furian behind him.

“Especially when our collegium’s best is absent the match.”

Leonides looked his former champion over with a calculating smile.

“A fair point. Never let it be said Leonides does not know the will of the crowd.” Glancing around the assembled marrowborn, the showman in him rose to the fore. “Bring your best three champions to Whitekeep, then. Ishkah will face them all. Six blades to six. No quarter, no submission. A match for the ages, neh?”

Arkades shook his head. “I wou—”

“Done.”

The marrowborn looked to Leona. The sanguila stood still as stone, glare locked on her father. Mia could see the hate there, pure and blinding. She knew that hatred well. The fire of it. Keeping you warm when all else in the world was black and cold. Keeping you moving, when all else in the world seemed simply to drag you down.

She wondered what Leonides had done, exactly, to earn it.

“Done,” Leona repeated. She glanced about the smiling marrowborn, the wine-stained teeth, eyes glittering. “I will see you in Whitekeep, Father.”

Leona swept from the room, Furian following close behind. Arkades and Leonides stared at each other a moment longer, former master and former champion, now bitter rivals. The executus limped over to Mia, loomed above her expectantly. The girl struggled to her feet with a soft groan, blood gumming her lashes shut, her head pounding with pain. Stumbling behind the big man as he strode from the room.

“Arkades,” Leonides called.

The man stopped, turned to look at the smiling sanguila.

“When next you speak to her, thank your domina for sparing me the mistake of your little Crow’s purchase. If your mistress seeks to recoup some of her losses, I’ve a pleasurehouse in Whitekeep always looking for new quim.”

Leonides looked Mia up and down with a sneer.

“Perhaps she’d fare better with a different kind of sword in hand.”

An amused ripple flowed through the crowd. Arkades turned and limped from the room without a word. Mia followed, head hung low, dark hair draped about her bloodstained face. She knew it was foolish, that she shouldn’t let this pompous fool get to her. That in winning the magni, she’d have to defeat Leonides’s best fighters and see him taste the shame of defeat anyway. But still . . .

But still . . .

Rubbing this prick’s face in his own shit had now become a burning priority.

Personal now, bastard.