Sena caught sight of Hellen sprinting through the rubble line, veil off, hair loose, one hand clutching at her own collar as if to keep it from strangling her. Hellen’s eyes had no target. They snagged on corners, doorways, the mouths of alley, as if the city had become a deadly maze.

  “Hellen,” Sena called.

  Hellen swerved toward the sound and nearly collided with Sena. Sena caught her by the upper arms and pulled her close, forcing her to stop long enough to be anchored. Hellen’s breath came fast, shallow pulls that never seemed to finish, each inhale cutting off halfway, each exhale leaving her with less.

  Sena took the panic straight through the bond. It flooded into her body and demanded space in every corner. The urge to bolt rushed to her limbs. Her own heart paced with Hellen’s tempo.

  “Eyes on me,” Sena said.

  Hellen blinked hard, lashes wet, and her gaze slid past Sena’s face to the lane behind them. Her hands gripped Sena’s wrists with frantic strength, then loosened, then tightened again, as if she couldn’t decide what counted as safety.

  “They’re coming,” Hellen rasped. She got two words out and then lost the rest to another broken breath. “The bell – I –”

  “Save it,” Sena said, and kept her voice even so Hellen could borrow her strength. “Breathe with me.”

  She shifted, turned Hellen, and guided her toward a narrower cut between two leaning buildings. The main street had eyes. The main street had crowds, and crowds turned into mobs. Sena needed cover and an exit, and she needed Hellen out of the open.

  They took the side street at a run. It was narrower than Sena remembered, the walls close enough that someone could reach from a window to the other wall. Rubble clogged the center, forcing them to the edges where doorways gaped. Their footfalls echoed, and then the sounds of boots answered behind them.

  “Halt!”

  Sena didn’t halt. She pulled Hellen faster.

  “Warden! Stop!”

  Hellen held fast to Sena’s hand. The panic spiked again. She kept moving, kept choosing corners and blind turns, every instinct telling her to get Hellen away from danger, back to Rhalir if they could find him.

  They rounded a broken corner into a dead end.

  Sena saw it and knew she’d misjudged the street. A collapsed beam blocked the far exit, stone piled high enough that climbing would take time they didn’t have. A shutter banged somewhere above them, stirred by wind or someone watching.

  Sena dragged Hellen into a doorway with part of the frame still intact, hoping shadow would buy them a breath.

  Three Brighthand men poured into the mouth of the alley behind them. They spread out to take the narrow space like hounds circling a deer. Their cloaks were thrown back. They hadn’t drawn their swords; instead, they each had a dagger.

  The lead man smiled as if he’d found something he’d been hunting all day.

  “Look at that,” he said. “Cornered the goat.”

  Sena stepped in front of Hellen without even thinking. Her hands drew the knife from her belt.

  “We’re leaving,” she said.

  The man clicked his tongue. “You had your chance to leave after the Spire fell, Slewfoot.”

  Another Brighthand moved closer, eyes fixed on Hellen. He looked her up and down with open disgust, then with open interest.

  “So that’s the Heat-drunk Glinnel we’ve all been hearing about,” he said.

  Hellen made a small sound and pressed closer to Sena’s back. The fear flared again, Hellen’s fear snaring on the alley walls and the blocked exit and the knives.

  The third Brighthand laughed. “Didn’t know women could get that way, tell the truth.”

  Sena kept her gaze on the lead man. “Move,” she said.

  He stepped forward instead.

  “All of this is your fault,” he said, voice rising, hungry now that he had an audience of two and no crowd to stop him. “The Spire falls. People die in the lanes. The Brighthand get blamed while you play commander in a ribbon.”

  He snagged Sena’s upper arm hard enough to bruise. She drove her antlers into his face.

  He grunted, staggered, and wiped at his nose. Blood came away on his fingers. His smile widened, as if pain made the game better.

  “There she is,” he said. “Our Warden buck.”

  The second man lunged at Hellen, one hand shooting for her cowl, the other for her wrist. Hellen jerked away. She threw her hands up to shield her face in useless instinct. The Brighthand’s fingers caught fabric and yanked, pulling Hellen’s head back, baring her throat.

  Sena’s knife came free.

  She slammed her shoulder into the man’s chest and cut low across his forearm. Blood slicked his skin. He cursed and let go of Hellen. Hellen folded inward, choking on air, both hands pressed to her mouth as if she could hold herself together that way.

  The third Brighthand grabbed for Sena’s knife arm, twisting it outward. Pain shot up to her elbow. Sena dropped the knife and drove her claw down onto his foot, then raked her nails across his face. He roared and stumbled back.

  The lead man shook blood from his nose and drew his sword.

  “You want to fight dirty,” he said. “Is this dirty enough for you?”

  He rushed her.

  Sena grabbed the doorway post, swung her body, and kicked him in the hip. He slammed into the wall and turned with his bade up, eyes gleaming with murder. Sena’s hands came up empty. She had a heartbeat to choose: go for the dropped knife, or get between him and Hellen.

  She chose Hellen.

  The Brighthand’s sword arm lifted.

  Boots hit the alley mouth.

  Six figures in dark coats filled the space behind the Brighthand, moving in a tight line that made the alley look even narrower. The Brighthand froze for a fraction, confused by the sudden appearance, by the discipline of their stance, by the fact that these newcomers did not shout, and by the fact that two of them had the antlers and ears of the Kelthi.

  One of the soldiers stepped past the lead Brighthand’s shoulder and drove a short blade into his ribs.

  The man’s breath left him in a wet burst. He toppled sideways as his knees folded.

  The second Brighthand spun, drawing his sword against the soldier who’d just killed his officer. A shield slammed into his wrist. His knife flew. The answering strike opened his chest, and he dropped in the grit.

  The third tried to run. A thrown knife took him behind the knee. He crashed forward and stayed down, screaming into the dirt until a boot pinned him and hands hauled his arms behind him.

  Hellen’s grip on Sena’s sleeve turned desperate. Sena held her stance, chest heaving, and stared at the soldiers as if she’d suddenly stepped into their story by accident. They didn’t look like rescuers. Their eyes stayed level, their faces blank, their bodies already moving to the next task. They checked corners and doorways and rooflines. One of them kicked the Brighthand officer’s blade away and stepped over the body without a pause.

  Sena tried to catch her breath. Hellen shook against her back, drawing air in broken gasps. The bond carried it straight into Sena’s gut, making her want to run again and find a room with a door that locked.

  One of the Kelthi soldiers glanced at Hellen, then at Sena.

  “You,” he said to Sena. “Move.”

  Sena stood her ground. “Who are you?”

  The soldier’s eyes flicked over her again, pausing on her antlers. “You’re safe with us, girl. All the Kelthi are.”

  Hellen made a thin sound, then pressed her face into Sena’s shoulder as if she could hide there. Sena tightened her arm around Hellen’s ribs.

  “We’re together,” Sena said.

  The soldier didn’t argue. He stepped in, caught Hellen’s elbow, and started walking them toward the alley mouth. Another soldier fell in behind them. A third kept the rear, dragging the wounded Brighthand by his bound wrists as if he were a sack of grain.

  Hellen had no more running left in her, so Sena moved, keeping her hand at Hellen’s back and her own shoulder between Hellen and the soldiers as much as she could manage while still being escorted. They reached the alley mouth, where the street widened and the air carried smoke, sweat, and the sour stink of fear. Beyond the lane, more of the dark-coated soldiers worked in pairs, clearing pockets of Brighthand aggression from side streets with cold efficiency. Many of these men were Kelthi, their antlers rising high, some sharpened to points, others gleaming with dipped silver or gold.

  Civilians pressed themselves into doorways. A child cried somewhere and got yanked into a stairwell by a mother who didn’t look up.

  The soldier at Sena’s side lifted a hand. “Glinnel comes with us.”

  Hellen’s head snapped up. Her eyes found Sena’s and begged wordlessly. The bond surged, and Sena’s body answered before her mind could form a plan. She stepped between Hellen and the Kelthi soldier’s reaching hand.

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  “No,” Sena said.

  His gaze hardened. “You walk free, fellow Kelthi. But the Glinnel will not.”

  If they separated them here, Hellen would vanish into whatever protection meant to these men, and Sena would never see her again.

  Hellen’s fingers tightened on Sena’s arm. “Please,” she whispered, and the plea came out raw.

  The soldier took a step closer and reached for Hellen’s upper arm. Sena struck his wrist hard enough to knock his hand aside. His eyes widened in surprise.

  “She’s under my care. You will identify yourselves.”

  Two more soldiers shifted their weight, arranging themselves so the street became a cage with an opening only they controlled. Sena’s hand went reflexively to her belt, searching for the knife she’d dropped in the alley. She lifted her empty hand again and set her stance the way Rhalir had taught her: knees bent, weight forward, ready to strike and ready to run.

  The Kelthi reached to grab Hellen again. Sena shoved him, then swung a fist into his throat. He staggered, choking, and she hated the sound it made, hated that she’d brought violence to a Kelthi man. A soldier caught Sena from behind, arm hooking around her ribs, lifting her off balance. Sena drove her hoof down onto his foot and twisted, elbowing back into his gut. He grunted and loosened his hold long enough for her to turn.

  “Enough,” one of them barked, the word carrying.

  “What are you people doing? That’s the Warden, you idiot,” cried a Brighthand from across the street, and Sena recognized him as one of Captain Callahan’s men. Beside him was Rhalir.

  “Rhalir!” Sena cried. “They’re trying to take Hellen!”

  The Brighthand shouted something else and got shoved against a wall by another dark-coated pair. With a quick turn of the head he spotted Sena.

  “Sena, stand down – It’s Lady Catherine’s men –”

  She watched Rhalir pull the Brighthand to his feet.

  Sena drew her arm back to strike again – if she could just get Hellen to Rhalir she’d be safe – but she stopped as a new presence entered the street, silencing these new interlopers.

  A woman stepped into view beyond the soldier’s shoulders, moving through the occupied space as if it had already accepted her rule. Her coat was clean royal blue velvet with gold inlay. Beneath it was shimmering silver mail. Her hair was tucked into her glittering helm, which was decorated with black wings on either side. Her eyes took in the scene in one sweep: dead Brighthand, shaken Glinnel, two Kelthi that were not her men fighting, her own men hesitating because the situation was no longer simple.

  The woman’s gaze fixed on Sena.

  “What is this?” she asked, and her tone carried command the way polished brass carried shine.

  One of the soldiers started to answer. Sena didn’t wait. She stepped forward, keeping Hellen behind her.

  “I am Sena Haloisi, the Warden of Ivath,” she said, planting her hooves. “And this Glinnel is under my care.”

  The woman’s eyes flicked to Hellen. Her mouth tightened, more judgement than concern. Then she looked back at Sena as if she’d found a stain on a banner.

  “Ivath has a Warden,” Catherine said, tasting the title. “How ambitious.”

  Sena kept her shoulders squared. Hellen clung behind her, fingers locked into the cloth at Sena’s elbow. Sena had the only thing she’d fought for, and Catherine was looking at it like a toy.

  Rhalir pushed forward from the edge of the knot of bodies, his face set hard. Captain Callahan’s man hovered a step behind him with his hands half raised.

  “Lady Catherine,” Rhalir said.

  Catherine didn’t turn to him immediately, studying Sena, and when she finally spoke, the words went past Sena and landed in Rhalir’s lap.

  “Is she yours?” Catherine asked.

  Sena’s skin prickled. Hellen’s panic flared in the bond.

  Rhalir’s jaw stayed still. His voice held.

  “Sena is the city’s Warden, my Lady. Ivath was in need of one.”

  Catherine’s mouth curved a fraction, as if she were watching a child trying to lift a sword.

  “Ivath was in need of one,” Catherine repeated. “So you put your lady in waiting in a crown.”

  “Warden Sena has proven competent,” Rhalir said, the steel under his tone obvious. “If you came for a report, you may ask for one.”

  Catherine’s gaze shifted at last, sliding over Rhalir’s face and posture, the bruised disorder around him. Then her eyes flicked to Hellen.

  Hellen’s veil hung in tatters. Her hair had come loose from its pins. She looked like prey.

  Catherine’s stare stayed on her for a long moment, and Hellen withered beneath it. The Dagorlind training ran deep; Hellen’s body wanted to offer itself up as proof she wasn’t dangerous.

  Catherine released a soft laugh. “And what draws this Dagorlind to hide behind Ivath’s Warden instead of kneeling as she should?”

  Hellen didn’t answer.

  Sena stepped a half pace forward. “Sister Hellen is under my care. She was attacked by Brighthand. Gratefully your men intervened, but in the confusion they attempted to separate us.”

  Catherine’s eyes snapped back to Sena. “You speak out of turn with astonishing confidence.”

  Sena held her ground. “I speak on behalf of my city.”

  Catherine looked her up and down in a slow inspection. “Your city. When did you acquire a city, Sena Haloisi? Have you learned leadership skills while trimming claws and folding linens?”

  Sena’s mouth went dry. This was an old game: make the servant explain why she deserved to stand upright.

  Rhalir moved a fraction, as if he’d step between them. Catherine lifted one hand and two of her soldiers shifted to block him without touching him. One Kelthi, one human. Their faces stayed blank. Their loyalty stood in their stance.

  Catherine didn’t even look at them.

  “I asked a question,” Catherine said. “When did you acquire a city?”

  “When Lord Balthir abandoned the task and none with a title was there to take command.”

  “But Lord Balthir’s second in command stands before us,” she said, gesturing at Rhalir. “Where is Elder David?”

  “He is our liaison between the Dagorlind and the Ashborn in regards to supply distribution.”

  Catherine tilted her head, considering. “Why would a ruling force require a liaison, Captain Rhalir?”

  “All due respect, Lady Catherine, but circumstances in the city –”

  “We will not be detangling this here,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Captain Rhalir, escort us to your quarters.”

  Rhalir held his posture. “My quarters are across the river cut. The lanes are unstable.”

  Catherine’s eyes slid past him to the mouth of the alley, where her men were dragging bodies out of sight. “Then walk fast.”

  Lady Catherine’s soldiers shifted at once. Two peeled off and took the corners of the street. Another pair moved ahead, clearing a path with their shoulders and the promise of steel. The Brighthand onlookers who’d been gathering at the edges went still, then melted back, watching her for their chance to be brave only after it was safe.

  Sena stayed behind Hellen, one arm firm around her ribs. Hellen’s breath still came in broken pieces. Sena kept her close, vowing with every flex of her fingers that she would keep Hellen safe.

  Catherine started walking without waiting to see who followed. “Guide me,” Catherine said. Rhalir fell in beside her, half a step back. Sene caught the old instinct of rank and etiquette written into every muscle. It rankled Sena to see it.

  She followed along with Hellen. They took a more open lane and Catherine’s soldiers spread into a wedge around them, human and Kelthi mixed, antlers rising above helms, ears flicking at every alley mouth. They worked the street the way a crew worked a ship: each person knew the next person’s job, and nobody wasted motion.

  A Brighthand runner approached at an intersection, breathless, eyes bright with panic. He looked ready to throw himself in front of Catherine’s column with an accusation. One of Catherine’s soldiers stepped into his path and put a hand on his chest, stopping him with a gentle force that still left no choice.

  The runner tried to speak. “Lady Catherine, The Elder Council request parlay –”

  The soldier didn’t answer, only guided him to the wall and held him there until Catherine passed. Catherine didn’t turn her head.

  Sena understood the rule Catherine brought with her. The city could shout all it wanted, but it wouldn’t change where the boots went.

  Hellen stumbled on a loose stone and SEna caught her before she went down. Hellen gripped tightly to her still, embarrassed and ashamed at being seen as weak.

  “It’s alright,” Sena murmured, and kept her face forward so no one could read her mouth. “Keep your feet. Keep moving.”

  Hellen tried. Her gaze stayed low, tracking stones and cracks and blood streaks. When she looked up, it was only to find Sena again.

  Catherine spoke without looking back. “You let Brighthand run lanes like that?”

  “They were already running them,” Rhalir said. “WE didn’t have enough bodies to stop them and keep civilians fed.”

  Catherine gave a short, dismissive sound. “You had enough bodies to send for me. You had enough bodies to raise a Warden.”

  Sena kept her eyes on Catherine’s shoulders. If she looked at Catherine’s face, she would want to answer. If she answered, she would give Catherine what she wanted: a servant snapping at her superior in the street.

  Rhalir’s voice stayed even. “The Warden has kept the city from tearing itself apart.”

  Catherine’s gaze flicked sideways at him, then forward again. “We’ll see.”

  They crossed an open stretch where rubble had been cleared into heaps along the edges. The space left people exposed. A few civilians bowed their heads as Catherine passed. Others stared with open resentment. A child clung to a woman’s skirt and whispered something. The woman covered the child’s mouth and pulled her back, eyes wide.

  Catherine’s pace never changed. Her helm caught light when it found it – a lamp placed high, the glint of moonlight. The black wings on either side made her look larger than she was, a shape built to be noticed.

  They turned onto a narrower lane with intact doorframes and shuttered windows, a district that had been wealthy enough to build in stone that lasted longer. They were close to their lodging, quarters kept here because it kept them more or less central to the city.

  “You called Elder David your liaison,” Catherine said. “To the Dagorlind.”

  “Yes,” Sena replied.

  “And you are Warden,” Catherine said. “Appointed in the rubble, endorsed by a captain, blessed by catastrophe.”

  Sena steadied her voice. “Appointed because people were starving.”

  Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve learned to speak above your station.”

  “I’ve learned to speak as Warden, Lady Catherine.”

  Catherine watched her for another long beat, then turned, as if filing away her answer.

  They reached the door to the building Hellen, Rhalir, and Sena had been sharing. Two of Catherine’s soldiers moved ahead and checked the entry. One nodded. Catherine stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Rhalir followed. Sena guided Hellen after him, keeping her body between Hellen and the soldiers’ hands.

  The stairwell smelled freshly cleaned, a task Sena had caught Hellen in the middle of just that morning, as if cleaning the steps would cleanse her of the sin she’d meant to commit this evening. Sena thought once about the bell, the task Hellen had been given, the bag handing heavy under Hellen’s cloak. She’d have to think about that later.

  Footsteps echoed off stone as they climbed. Catherine’s men filled the space behind them, and the narrowness made Sena’s skin itch. She kept moving anyway.

  At the landing, Rhalir reached for the latch.

  Catherine stopped him with two fingers raised. “Open it,” she said, “and then stand aside.”

  Rhalir’s hand froze for a breath, then he obeyed. The latch lifted. The door swung inward.

  Sena stepped over the threshold with Hellen pressed close, and she saw the room the way Catherine would see it: the light of sight, the exits, the signs of living, the signs of compromise.

  Catherine walked in and halted. Her gaze swept once across the space, taking inventory with the same cold speed she’d used on the street. Her eyes went first to the table shoved close to the window for light, the slate with runner marks, the pile of rolled bandage cloth, the lantern with a fresh wich laid beside it. Then the shelf, with its three cups, cracked pitcher, and a bowl that held pins and bits of twine. Then the hearth, this, too, freshly scrubbed. The inner door was half shut, the bedchamber beyond, and Sena counted her blessings that it hadn’t been left wide open, where one of Hellen’s veils surely hung on a bedpost.

  Two of Catherine’s soldiers entered without waiting for invitation either. One took the corner by the window. Another drifted toward the inner door as if it were an exit. A third stayed near the stairwell, back to the frame, hand ready at his belt. Their faces stayed blank, their eyes busy, their bodies set for a fight.

  Sena guided Hellen inside and felt Hellen’s legs soften halfway to the table. She guided her to sit. Sena pulled a stool from under the table and set it behind her. Hellen sat hard, one hand on the edge, the other clutching at the torn veil.

  Sena crossed to the shelf and took the pitcher. She poured and pressed the cup into Hellen’s palm.

  Catherine watched all of this, motionless.

  “Now,” she said, voice calm, “tell me what I’m not seeing.”