Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

in shadows deep where mortals pray
the Lady comes to take away
the lives of all, until revival
without a life, all must stand trial

- "The Second Lady," Verse 2

Lord Galtero and Lord Ra'mes arrive together—King Audrin's older brothers. Galtero, Lord of Hope, is the oldest—he's balding, with a thick mustache and pressed yellow robes. Ra'mes, Lord of Life, is wearing matching apparel, but his garments are white instead of yellow, and the crest on his chest is of a venombeast instead of a mutt. Both sets of robes have fur trims on the cuffs, collars, and hems, and each is belted with a silk sash—Ra'mes is a good deal wider than Galtero, and his belt must be twice the length.

"Lord Galtero, Lord Ra'mes." Killián inclines his head in greeting. "This is my lieutenant, Staffmaster Ko. I trust you both remember Staffmaster Linden."

"Staffmaster Linden." Galtero nods in his direction, ignoring me. "Are you all right? Your face is…not as it should be."

"Training mishap," Linden says. "Good to see you again, my lord."

Audrin and Jebah enter the room, each bearing serving trays laid with ceramic teacups. Audrin's now dressed in red robes with a white dove crest and a hanging sash. A golden crown interlaid with rubies, diamonds, and amethysts is perched upon his brow, and his hair has been coiffed beneath it. He looks younger than Galtero and Ra'mes by at least a decade—he can't be older than thirty. Jebah sits beside him after they finish distributing the teas.

It's pushing 0900 when Lefe arrives, Bardic in tow. Lefe's dressed in matching blue regalia, spider embroidered on his chest, but Bard's wearing the same clothes as Linden, Killián, and me—black silk shirt and pants with the deadcrow crest.

"My father sends his regrets, Your Highness," Bardic says to King Audrin. "He's taken ill again. I'm here in his stead."

"Lady War won't heal him?" asks Galtero. "I thought she could cure anything, as could he with his blessings."

"He's an old man, and he's devoted his live to saving others." Bardic's voice is equally chilled. "Healing takes a toll, even with our Lady's gifts."

"Our Lady?" Ra'mes's smile is slightly mocking. "I thought you forsook the Lady War for Death. It's not fitting that you represent your father in this counsel. Galtero and I would never dare stand for Lady Love, despite our birthrights as Darkblooms."

"I have never forsaken my Lady of birth." Bardic takes the seat on the other side of Linden, and Lefe slides into place between Galtero and Ra'mes. "I am a fighter in Lady Death's guard, but my talents lie in healing. I fight for peace, and I am one with my Lady."

"You've killed," Ra'mes reminds him. "That betrays the oaths you took for War."

"When you join us on the frontline, Lord Ra'mes, you can judge Bardic for his actions." Lefe's voice is almost a snarl. "But until I see you fighting for your realm, I advise you to hold your tongue."

"Bold words from a servant boy."

"I am the Lord of Fate, and you will address me as such!" Lefe's voice rises. "How dare you—"

"Enough." King Audrin raises a hand, and the table falls silent. "This bickering is beneath us. There are matters we must discuss. In the coming week, are each of you prepared to host the festival on your Lady's given day?"

Nods of assent from the Lords.

"In other news— Killián has challenged us to a mirror bout tomorrow evening." Audrin directs this at Galtero, then moves his gaze to Ra'mes. "I trust I can count on my brothers to join me?"

"With pleasure," says Ra'mes.

"So close to your death duel?" Galtero stares at Killián, his expression blank. "I would've thought you'd be preparing—you too, Jebah."

"I'm prepared," Jebah says.

"As am I," says Killián.

Bardic snaps his fingers to get Killián's attention. "We don't have the players," he says. "Lefe said he wanted a break until he gets the Baumé situation under control, and Leómadura…well…"

He trails off, looking deeply uncomfortable.

"Linden and Kempe will step in," Killián says. "We can prepare them this evening."

"You're throwing your staffmasters into a mirror bout with one night of training?" Galtero throws back his head and laughs. "Two minutes. That's how long it will take me to crack them."

Linden throws a sharp glance in Killián's direction. "I can't play," he says.

"Of course you can."

"No, I can't," he says, brushing a strand of blond hair out of his face. "With all due respect, general, I saw what it did to Torrense. And Lefe."

"Lefe is fine." There's an absent, hollow look in Lefe's dark eyes as he speaks. "If Killián needs Lefe to play, Lefe will play."

Killián ignores him. "What about Belén?" he says to Bardic.

"Please." Jebah shakes his head. "Like she'd ever let you or me in on her sordid history with Médéric. The woman has too much pride—she'd rather die."

"Péri, then."

"I'll tell his wife each and every secret I can get out of him," Galtero warns. "For the rest of his life, he'll have no privacy—I'll make sure of it."

"I always liked Jasiel," Ra'mes says musingly. "Pretty woman, pretty daughters. It would be a shame for Péri to lose them."

"Those are my goddaughters, so watch your mouth." A hint of color rises into Killián's cheeks—he looks angrier than I've ever seen him, fists clenched on the table. "No alternates, no shields—Bard and me versus Audrin and Jebah."

"I think not," Audrin says.

"Terrible idea," Jebah agrees.

"You hide behind Galtero!"

"We let him play first," Jebah says. "That's the game. It's not our fault he can beat you every time."

"Were you sleeping with Brid Naya'il?" Killián's voice is low as he addresses Jebah. "Tell me now, and we don't need a mirror bout."

"Killián, don't imply something so terrible and salacious." Despite the words, King Audrin's expression is unbothered. "She was my fiancé. I won't sit here and let you disrespect her memory."

Bardic looks astounded. "Killián, why would you think—"

"I'll make you a deal," Jebah says. "If you can find a team, and if we play—winner keeps Lady Death. No need for us to duel in the Colosseum come Monday—I'll take the position as Audrin's Grand Vizier and let you keep Yosif's scythe. The kingdom could benefit from Lady Death's counsel—she'd be worth as much in the courtroom as on the frontline."

"Are you serious?" Audrin asks. "Who are you, and what have you done with Jebah?"

Killián's voice rises to a yell. "You are asking me to gamble Brid Naya'il—you can't possibly think I'd accept such a challenge."

"She hates serving you." Jebah's voice is cold, cruel. "We both know she'd prefer me."

"I am the Lord of Death," Killián says. "Get that through your skull before it gets you killed."

"So be it," Jebah says grimly. "Monday, brother."

Killián turns to me—his tawny gaze is hard. "Would you play?" he asks.

"I signed in Bathune," I say. "Do what you will with me."

"My mental shields were groomed into me from birth, and it still took sixteen years to defeat Achille," Audrin says. "And he was a sinner—we're talking upwards of thirty marbles. You cannot expect a child who has deserted Love and Loss to hold his own against Galtero."

"Thirty seconds." Galtero's gaze is hungry as a hawk's. "That's how long it would take me to claim your soul, Staffmaster Ko. Thirty seconds."

"I don't have one of those, apparently."

"Of course you do," he says, as if we're talking about a loaf of bread. "Everyone has a soul. I'd sell it to the highest bidder. Slaves make the Lands of the Dead far more hospitable."

"Do you really think I have a soul?"

"Only if I beat you," he says. "I should warn you, though. I've never killed and never strayed from my wife, my first—may she rest in peace—nor my second. These are the only two women I have lain with, and I did not engage in premarital coupling. I have never had sinful thoughts for a woman I was not actively courting. I have never had sinful thoughts for men. I have never masturbated. I'm a puritan who would die before forsaking the vows I took to my Lady, and not once have I been accused of impropriety in my sixteen years as Lord of Hope. My finances are in order, I am not an addict, and my son and daughters are top of their class in school. I don't even need to shield myself with ancestors—you will find no sin within me."

"Lefe hates playing Galtero," Lefe says to the table. "Galtero is the worst."

"You said you'd sell my soul," I say. "How is that not a sin?"

"If I win your soul, I can do what I wish with it," he says. "Selling souls gains me loyalty from departed lords—Lady Hope covets followers in all the lands. These are the terms of the mirror game. Do you still want to play me?"

"How do I lose?" I ask.

"You would have to concede."

"As long as I don't concede, I don't lose?"

"Lefe has never conceded," says Lefe. "But…it gets bad, Lieutenant Ko. Really, really bad. You have to ride the waves until he's finished with you, and he takes his time. He breaks open your mind and pulls your memories apart. It feels like eternity, and there is no escape."

"Lefe's a devout puritan too," Galtero says. "He's followed the rules, and he has no sin. That said, I know the sore spots to prod."

He nudges Lefe with his shoulder. Lefe flinches away, his expression stricken.

"He goes after Lefe's daughter," Lefe says. "Lefe's Eagleamé. She was a good girl, and she did nothing wrong—she deserves to rest."

"Your denial borders on delusion," Galtero says. "She killed herself, and the Testaments take a clear stance on suicide. More to the point, she chose nonexistence—what kind of father would allow his daughter to be so tormented he'd lose her forever?"

"Stop it!" Lefe covers his hands with his ears. "We aren't playing!"

"Killián, you cannot let Lefe go back into the mirror." Audrin sips his tea, lips pursed. "Galtero would break what's left of the poor man. Surely your sister's secrets can't be worth this."

"I'm not losing Lefe—or Ko, or Linden." Killián speaks with finality. "I'll play Galtero myself."

"Because that's gone so well for you in the past," says Galtero. "You chose a life of sin, General Killián—you stand against your father, and you stand against your Testament."

"In the twenty years since I took Yosif's scythe, I have successfully led numerous campaigns." Killián's voice is quiet. "I have fortified defenses and repelled invasions. I have implemented blockades and embargos, financed weapon innovation and training programs, and established a network of espionage networks with the living and dead alike. You forget the Battle of Whispering Woods, the Siege of Ironhold, Operation Silent Blade—my greatest accomplishments. I am not a saint, but I have devoted my life to serving L'Anglimar. You have never fought for this realm—you use your Lady's gifts for your family's gain and little else. You are a selfish, cowardly, egotistical bureaucrat who married a woman a third your age—"

"Not a sin," Galtero snarls. "Dulce was 20 when we wed. She was grown—and I advise you speak with respect when referring to my Lady Hope. She's your daughter's headmistress, after all—she could make Brid's life very difficult. We wouldn't want that, would we?"

"Don't threaten me," Killián says. "She's six years older than your son—I consider her a child."

"Yet you allowed a 15-year-old to serve on the frontline?" Galtero slams his teacup on the table—amber liquid sloshes over the lip. "Don't think I haven't heard about the Battle of Crête Déchiquetée. When you usurped your father, you changed the age of frontline servitude from twelve to sixteen. You can't even follow your own procedures."

Anger clenches my hands into fists, coils in my stomach like a venombeast. I don't like this man—I don't like the way he's talking to Killián, the disrespect he's showing a venerated general of twenty years. I ended up on the frontline through no fault of Killián's, and extenuating circumstances notwithstanding, I don't regret it. Galtero seems like a bully, and I've met bullies before—I put up with Souteneur Kolton for fourteen years before leaving L-Street. The thing about bullies is they like to talk smack, puffing out their chests and asserting their dominance all over the place whenever they feel inadequate. I'm not going to sit here and let him pick us all apart—Killián, Brid, me. I don't have a lot of pride, but I've got enough to put my foot down.

"Okay," I tell Galtero. "I'll play you."

Galtero folds his hands on the table before him. "You would risk your soul for a petty squabble between the general and his brother?" he asks. "Clearly the King's Guard recruits the best and the brightest from children's schools."

"I should warn you," I say. "I grew up on L-Street. I spent my entire childhood being told by my sisters' pimp that, when I grew up, I'd be owned by anyone with four francs and an hour to kill. I watched my sisters go through Hel every night to keep us afloat. When my baby sister got sicker and sicker, there was nothing I could do to save her. I fought on the frontline and killed half a dozen men just to keep myself alive. I've been tortured, beaten, and mutilated. I've heard every insult there is for someone of my birth caste. You will not break me."

The table lapses into silence.

"Every single thing you just said will make you terrible at the mirror game," Galtero says mildly.

Killián looks at Bardic. "Segolé, maybe?"

"He's not coming out of retirement," Bardic says. "Not for this."

"We could talk to Min."

"Aminder hates us."

"If Ko plays, I'll play," Linden says. "Brothers don't let brothers lose their souls without a fight."

"We could put Linden, Kempe, and Ko in the mirror tonight," Killián suggests. "Top two play with us tomorrow."

"You'd gamble their souls over this?" Bardic says, disgusted. "Really, Killi?"

"I have faith in my soldiers."

"No one's losing their soul," I say, blood pumping—I want to see Galtero humbled, want to prove myself to Killián, want it more than I've wanted anything in a long time. "We can do this. Right, Linden?"

His artful features are thoughtful. "Might be fun."

"Not fun," Lefe says. "But better you than Lefe."

"It's settled, then." Audrin pounds his fist on the table. "Onto other matters. Let's do this in order of churches—Killián, what's your proposed agenda for the Day of Deceased?"

###

"We're skipping the Feast of Affection," Killián tells Linden and me when we're back at the carriage. "Omer, take us home—training begins as soon as we find Kempe and get to the crypt."

Linden slides onto the plush seat beside me, and Lefe takes the place on his other side. Bardic sits next to Killián, arms crossed over his chest, expression closed-off. Brown, shoulder length hair hangs to his shoulders, falling in a curtain around his face. His stern features, striking and wolflike, give no indication as to his mood. The carriage rumbles to a start, bouncing over the cobblestone path that leads back over the bridge.

"We're expected to make an appearance," Lefe says.

"This is more important," Killián says. "Audrin was right—it takes years to prepare for the mirror game, and we have twenty-four hours."

"I'm going to the festival." Bardic's voice is clipped. "I'll take the children—you do what you must."

"I need you to help me train them."

"Lefe can do it."

"You're better at using the ancestors to shield," Killián says. "Lefe has no cover."

"Ko, Linden, and Kempe have no ancestors to shield them," Bardic says. "They'll be on their own—my presence would do nothing. Lefe's advice would carry them further."

Killián's turned in his seat to face him. "You think this is a bad idea."

"One of your worst."

"What would you do if it was your sisters?"

"Let it go," Bardic says. "My sisters are adults, and the past is the past."

"He wants Brid Naya'il. I cannot afford to let him claim Lady Death."

"And you think you can keep this from happening by dragging commoners into the mirror?"

"They're elites. The di Vivars of lore will stand with them."

"Against Jebah?"

"It's our best chance."

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"Fuck's sake, Killi—Ko's a Whoreson, and Linden and Kempe have their own shite." Bard's voice is low, angry. "Your best course of action would be to spend the day preparing for your death duel—if that were your plan, I'd spar with you myself. Hoping to defeat Jebah in the mirror is a fool's goal, and don't pretend that's not your plan."

"If I can break his mind, there will be no death duel."

"You're bigger. You're stronger. You'll win."

"My hands shake every time I lift a blade," Killián hisses, olive skin flushing. "If your father was well enough to treat me, or if he was willing to pass on the birthright to you before he died, perhaps things would be different. None of the treatments you've given me are working."

"Give them time!"

"I don't have time!"

"Please don't fight," Lefe says. "Lefe hates it when you fight."

"We aren't fighting," they snap in unison, both whirling to face him.

They are. We all know it.

###

The entrance to the crypt is located to the right of the di Vivar palazzo proper. A massive set of wrought iron gates marks the entryway. We exit the carriage, and Omer guides the horses back in the direction of the stables. A grand, arched entry of basalt stone is directly beyond the gates. We enter. Somber epigraphs, centered with the family crest of the deadcrow, decorate the stonework. Pointed arches, ribbed vaults, and flying buttresses give the structure an eerie appearance—cathedral-like. Life-sized statues of hooded figures holding torches and scythes line the walkway—Killián lights them with matches as we pass. The ceiling is high and vaulted, with dark wooden beams and iron chandeliers that hold flickering, ghostly blue flames. The hall is filled with a heavy, echoing silence, broken only by the occasional drip of water.

The walls are made of the same dark stone as the exterior, carved with bas-reliefs of the skeletal form of Lady Death. In one, she has her arms around a dying soldier, seven arrows protruding from his chest. In another, she's surrounded by bones—glittering jewels are interlaid into the wall. Mythical creatures—spectral wolves, a three-headed dog—guard her in a third. There are hourglasses, skulls, ravens, wilted flowers—all carvings, all beautiful and intricate.

Separate rooms branch off from the main hall, each dedicated to different branches and generations of the family. At the far end of the hall stands an obsidian altar, inlaid with silver ruins. Tall candelabras hold black candles. Benches surround the altar—at the center is a two-way mirror, a chair on either side.

Bardic went to find Kempe—it's just Linden, Killián, Lefe, and me. The sound of our breathing is the only noise until Killián speaks.

"Welcome to the crypt," he says at last. "Would you like to see the chambers where you'll be laid to rest?"

"Our corpses will get their own rooms?" Linden asks. "You treat your elites so well, General."

"You'll share with the other members of my guard," Killián says. "This way, if you please—"

"Hard pass," Linden says. "Too morbid for me. Let's get to it, shall we?"

"Very well." There's a touch of disappointment in Killián's voice. "Take seats on either side of the mirror."

Linden sits on one side of the mirror, and I sit on the other. The chair is hard and uncomfortable, and I shift a bit restlessly. Killián goes to the altar, opens a drawer. He returns with a pipe, packing it as he moves toward us. He lights it with the tip of a match and hands it to Linden.

"Here's to Yosif," Linden says, and raises it to his lips. A sweet, cloying stench hits the air when he exhales.

I'm next— Killián hands me the pipe. "Do I have to?" I ask.

"I won't force you," he says. "But this will be considerably harder if you're sober."

"Marix took me into the mirror just by calling upon Lady Loss."

Killián stares at me. "When did this happen?"

"Yesterday."

"What did you see?"

"A scene from his childhood." I rub the back of my neck—my temples are throbbing. "His death. A battlefield."

"You're cursed," Lefe says. "Damned. I'm with Bardic, Killián—this is a terrible idea, especially if the boy is still in contact with Marix."

It will be fine. Marix's voice, a light brush behind my aching forehead. They'll get nothing from you—you'll see. This will be easy. Probably.

I take the pipe from Killián, press it to my lips. The inhale is acrylic, burns my lungs. I cough. The first thing I notice is the headache—it's gone, replaced with a light, floaty feeling. I cough again, then again—my head spins. My tongue feels too thick, sticky and sweet. The mirror seems to ripple in front of me. It's as if I'm looking at my reflection in water instead of a looking glass. Is it my imagination, or have my eyes turned black? I seem shiny, all over, as if I'm backlit by the sun instead of candles.

"Lefe and I will chant you in," Killián says. "Pay attention, and try to remember the words. I'll give you a copy of them tonight so you can practice for tomorrow."

He moves behind Linden—I can see the top of his head above the mirror. Lefe's reflection appears behind my own, and he leans over my shoulder to see himself. His harsh features are unsmiling, and his long black braid brushes the table.

"Mirror of Fate, we call to thee," he says. "Open your depths, so we can see."

"Through your glass, we seek the threads." Killián's voice is different than I've ever heard it before—monotone, inhuman. "Where secrets lie, where truths are bred."

"Ladies and spirits, hear our plea. Guide us through eternity."

"We walk the web, the threads you weave. Into the past, our souls we leave."

"Lady of Death, by your hand. Show us where our spirits stand."

"From Love to War, from Life to Loss. Show us the truth, show us the cost."

"In this mirror, our sins unfold. In your depths, our secrets told."

The mirror is definitely glowing now—it's so bright I can barely look at it, and Lefe and my reflections are gone. I feel a tugging sensation in my gut—I'm leaning toward the glass without meaning to, pulled by some unconscious and immeasurable force. My head spins, my eyes water—it's as if the world has turned sideways, and gravity is pulling me from the mirror instead of the ground. I can barely make sense of the words, can barely track what Lefe and Killián are saying. The sweet stench in the air—in my mouth—is all-consuming.

"Guide us true, through night and day." Killián's voice is a growl, wolf-like. "Till web unwinds and fades away."

Lefe's response is equally raspy. "By the mallow's mystic light. We enter never-ending night."

"Mirror of Fate, take our sight. Let us enter. Let us fight."

It happens suddenly—one second I'm leaning toward the mirror, and the next I'm falling through. It breaks apart, shattering into fragments that turn to chilly liquid as I sink through them. My body burns, but I've never been so cold—I'm shivering, gasping, sweating. My stomach jolts with the familiar sensation of falling, falling, falling—it doesn't end. The world around me is pitch black. I open my mouth to scream, but the force of downward momentum rips the yell from my mouth. There's pressure on all sides as if I'm entombed in a stone, plummeting at an unfathomable speed. I gag up bile and try to spit—the acidic taste replaces the sugary undertones of mallow.

I land suddenly and without pain. White light flashes. I'm in a room surrounded by mirrors—upward of twenty reflections stare at me. I turn, see my back, see myself at all angles. The floors are mirror, the ceilings are mirror, and I'm caught in a web of golden threads that connect the glasses to each other, to me.

"Linden?" I say, voice shaking.

No response.

"General Killián? Lord Lefe?"

Nothing. My voice echoes strangely and sounds oddly quiet, as if it's being sucked into the mirrors.

"Marix?"

Here.

"What's happening?" I say without thinking.

The mirrors shatter—shards of glass embed themselves in my neck, my torso, my hands. Blinding pain comes in waves—I scream. My own voice refracts back at me from all sides, up and down, right and left—what's happening? What's happening? What's happening? And there's quiet, mocking laughter that I've heard once before. In Leómadura's office.

I told you I would get you if you came into the mirror.

Then Killián's voice, loud, unwavering. "If you don't know what's happening, you're doing something wrong."

The shards fly from my body, pulled by golden threads. The mirrors reform as if nothing happened. I drop to my knees, red on my hands. Blossoming across my chest. I don't see my reflection anymore—instead I see a mirage of images reflected all around me. All seem to depict the same boy, ranging from a baby to a young man in his early twenties—Linden. A woman rocks a blond toddler in her arms, his head on her shoulder. A preteen races toward a red barn, followed by a tottering child, a little girl. A young woman—pretty, dark skinned, Kempe—is crying on one of the bunkbed sets in Colçon's Tower—Linden has an arm around her and looks deeply uncomfortable. In another, he's lying on his back on a bed, a girl's naked body riding him—

"Don't look at that." Linden's voice, sharp, all around me. "That's private."

"There's no such thing as privacy." Marix's voice—not a thought in my head, but an actual voice, dulcet and smooth as the last time we met in the mirror. "Not here. Walk through the reflection, Lieutenant Ko—let's meet Cleo Tallulah."

"Stay away from her!" Linden's voice, frantic. "Who are you?"

"I'm Ko," says Marix. "Time ends when you concede."

I have no choice—I'm falling toward the mirror.

###

Linden's stretching on the castle quad, chest pressed to his legs, folded in half. The same girl approaches—flaming red hair, blue eyes, finishing school garb with an embroidered shawl. The sun is rising over the Pinenuts, the sandstone walls gleam, Colçon's tower rises to the right.

"I've been watching you," she says, playful, teasing. "Nice time on your death sprints. Got a name, soldier?"

He looks up, sweaty, half smile on his face. "Linden Rosepétale. And you?"

She ignores the question. "I like your accent. You a farm-boy?"

"Fourth Circuit, born and raised. Are you a vestal?"

"Dame," she says. "My father is stationed in the First Circuit—he's a soldier too."

"What's his name? I might know him."

"Doubt it," she says. "You got another run left in you?"

"What do you mean?"

"If you catch me, you can keep me," she says, and then she turns on her heel and sprints away.

Linden pushes himself to his feet. Follows.

###

They're sitting across from each other, a booth at a bar. A serving girl brushes past—Linden's eyes follow, Cleo watches him watch her. Two mugs of ale sit on the table between them. She's wearing a pretty dress, floral patterned, not her finishing school outfit. When Linden turns his attention back to her, she's scowling.

"You know her?" she asks.

"Took her out my first week in the First Circuit," he says. "It didn't mean anything."

"Your first lie." Marix's voice, mocking, quiet. "Why wouldn't you tell her about your first, Linden? Why would you take her to that pub when you knew Perrine was on shift?"

"Bad break up?" asks Cleo.

"No break up." His smile is charming. "One date, darling. I didn't know she'd be here."

"Lie two. Lie three. Lie four."

The common room is warm and bustling, filled with conversation, laughter, and the occasional outburst of song. The air is thick with the smell of roasted meat, baking bread, the tang of brewing beer. Heavy wooden benches and tables dominate the space, their surfaces scarred from years of use. Some of the tables, including Linden and Cleo's, have built in chessboards—Linden moves one of the pawns forward. A large, stone hearth occupies one wall, roaring fire within. Above the fireplace hangs an assortment of weapons and hunting trophies. Cleo stares into the flames—doesn't look at Linden, or the board.

"Why'd you leave the Fourth Circuit?"

"I got restless." Same smile, same tone. "Enlisting was always my dream."

"More lies," Marix says mockingly. "This poor girl."

"It wasn't a lie!" Linden's mouth doesn't move—instead, his voice seems to come from all around us.

"Why didn't you tell her about what happened to your family?" Marix's voice is cold. "Were you afraid of her pity, or afraid of getting close?"

"Neither!"

"Your past consumes you. Perhaps if you kill enough Xobrites, you'll forget what they did to your sister. You'll forget how you failed to protect her."

"I wasn't even there!"

"But instead of saying that, you said enlisting was your dream. This girl never knew you. She loved you, would've loved you for the rest of her life—but she never knew you. Do you regret keeping her at arm's length, or do you sleep better knowing she loved a liar?"

###

They're tangled in the bedsheets of a bunk in Colçon's tower. Bottom bunk pushed against the right-hand wall, beneath the window—looks like my bed, actually. Beneath the silkroot sheets, they appear to be naked. Her head is on his chest, his hand is in her hair. She has a vacant, empty expression on her face—he's out of breath.

"My father is going to kill me," she says.

"Who's going to tell him? Me?"

She shoves him. He laughs.

"Promise you'll marry me?" she says. "Promise?"

"I swear, I swear," he says lazily. "C'mon, Cleo, we're soulmates—"

"I get it!" Linden's voice, all around us, not from the bed. "I get it, okay? I was a dick. I broke her heart. You're a better man than I am, Ko—you never would've pumped and dumped. Is that what you want to hear?"

The figures, intertwined on the bed, freeze into statues.

"I want to hear you concede," Marix says.

"Premarital sex is worth losing my soul over?" Linden's voice is anguished. "You've got to be fucking kidding me, Ko."

"You ruined this poor girl's life," Marix says. "She failed the virtue test when she graduated finishing school—did you know that? She was a dame, not a vestal—without her marble, she had no prospects. Her father disowned her, sent her to live with an aunt in Sojoz. He had such high hopes for his little girl, and now they don't speak."

"It's not my fault he's an idiot!"

"You destroyed any shot she had at happiness," Marix says. "For what—a couple quick fucks? A girlfriend to keep you happy while you survived L-DAW? Someone to make you feel good after Perrine destroyed your self-esteem? You are a shallow, disloyal, pitiful excuse for a man."

"Seriously, Ko?" I've never heard Linden sound so angry. "I loved her."

"You loved feeling like a big, tough soldier. You loved forgetting the weak little boy who lost his family. You loved sneaking around behind Lady Dulce's back. You never loved this girl."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"All those poems you gave her were about Perrine—how do you think she'd feel if she knew that? Should we tell, or keep it private?"

A hint of panic creeps into Linden's tone. "If she's really in the Third Circuit, how the eff would you tell her that?"

"There are ways."

"We broke up six years ago—she's moved on. She wouldn't care."

"What would your sister say if she knew you were just as sinful as the Xobs who raped her? Just as frail, just as much a slave to your own lust? So focused on your own desires that you'll take what you want from any woman who looks in your direction?"

"What the actual everloving fuck, Ko?"

"Your sister would hate you, Linden. She'd hate the man you've turned into."

"Stop it—"

"She'd hate you, and you know it's true."

"Ko, I swear to Yosif—"

"She'd hate you for what you did to Cleo."

"I concede!" Linden's voice cracks. "I concede, you stupid piece of shit—just shut the fuck up and let me think!"

###

There's a tug in my gut, and then I'm falling upward. I'm thrust from the mirror with the force of an exploding hollowood bomb, and then I'm back in the wooden chair. On the other side of the glass, Linden is panting. He gets up, storms from the room. A door slams.

I turn to face Lefe. Killián joins us on this side of the mirror—Bardic and Kempe approach too. All of them are looking at me with strange expressions on their faces.

"I'll go after him," says Kempe.

"I'd give him a moment," Killián says flatly. "He just lost his soul."

"What?" I say. "No. I don't want it."

I do. Marix, once more a thought and not a sound. We barely scratched the surface on what we could put him through, and he folded like clean laundry at the first onslaught. I was right—he is weak. That was fun. Thanks for playing.

"It wasn't me!" My voice rises. "It was Marix!"

"We know," Killián says. "So does Linden, I think. Usually it goes back and forth—a scene for a scene—but we never saw anything of yours. That's…not normal."

"I'm going after him," Kempe says, and she ducks down a hallway that leads northeast. A door creaks shut behind her.

"I don't think we should send Kempe into the mirror with Ko," says Lefe. "Something is happening."

Killián looks at him sharply. "Got a theory?"

"Yes. You'll hate it."

"I hate most of the things you say," Killián says. "That doesn't mean I don't want to hear it."

"Ko's been levelled."

"Marix couldn't," Killián says. "Not from Hel. Not without a flesh vessel in the Lands of the Living."

"You're sure about that?" Lefe's voice is careful, controlled.

"It's complex magic. Dangerous, cruel—and it's been illegal for almost twenty years, regardless of caste. You know this—you helped me draft the legislation."

"Lefe wants to play you," Lefe tells me. "You, not Marix. Do you consent?"

No, says Marix.

"Um," I say haltingly. "Marix says no."

"It's not his choice—it's yours." Lefe's gaze is steady. "We're dealing with dangerous shite, Ko. In the dark days, all the servants in the First Circuit were leveled by their lords. Lefe included. Lefe might be able to help you—maybe. It depends how much of your mind is left."

"My mind?" I open my mouth, then close it. "Wait…what? What does it mean to be leveled?"

"It means your mind has been compromised," Lefe says. "Think of thoughts as coming from a wiggling line, one that can be caught like a mouse in a trap. Once levelled, your thoughts are read, monitored—they can even be altered. Stronger men than you have been forced to do things against their will—most take their lives eventually. There is no privacy, no secrets, no escape. It's a never-ending mirror game."

"Ko, this is important," Bardic says. "Are you hearing anyone's voice besides Marix's?"

"No."

"Not even Yosif's?"

"I don't think so."

"He's been trying to reach you since you converted," Killián says.

"Would he sound different from Marix?"

Very, Marix informs me. You'd know the difference between us. You haven't heard him—he's being blocked. It's a miracle you're able to hear me, frankly—but I'm using a backdoor that's been open since you swore yourself to Loss.

"Levelling is a brutal, painful process," Lefe says quietly. "There's nothing like it—it's worse than the mirror game. Would you tell us if someone had gone through your mind?"

"Of course," I say, fighting the rising nausea. It takes all my willpower not to throw up on the floor of the crypt. "Would I definitely know it if I'd been leveled?"

"Lefe did," Lefe says. "Every servant's worst fear in the dark days—the call of a master to private counsel. The staffmaster who did it to Lefe is dead—one of Médéric's—and Baumé helped Lefe win back control of Lefe's thread, but now Lefe cannot tell the difference between Baumé's thoughts and his own. It's a problem. A big one. Lefe would like to believe all the evil, cruel thoughts are Baumé's, but he doesn't know. He'll never know. Same thread. Same wiggle."

"I feel like I'd know if that were happening to me."

"That would depend on who levelled you, and why they did it." Killián isn't looking at me—his stare is fixed on Bardic. "Before it became illegal, some lords would level their children in order to monitor them—keep them out of trouble, help them prepare for the mirror game."

"That happened to you?" I ask, not believing what I'm hearing.

"Yes." His voice is flat. "I didn't know what was happening when I was a child, just that my father always seemed to know too much. Yosif assumed control of my thread when I was fourteen—the wiggle, as Lefe calls it. It became dangerous for my father to know my thoughts. Life threatening, even. Yosif gave me privacy from Médéric, and I can differentiate between my own thoughts and Yosif's. It's much more successful than the Lefe-Baumé situation. Easier to live with."

I turn to Bardic. "Have you been leveled?"

"Goodness, no," Bardic says. "My father would never. It's evil, Ko—pure evil. Once it happens, it can never be undone—just rerouted."

"Marix could've done it to me when I was in the medi-center," I say, worried. "After Gidad—that's when I first heard his voice."

Marix's thought-voice sounds affronted. I'm protecting you, you little shit.

"There's one way to find out," Lefe says. "Mirror game. Lefe, Ko. No Baumé, no Marix."

"Is that even possible?"

"The mirror is the one place where it is possible, actually," he says.

Lefe has twenty years of experience fighting in the mirror—twenty-six of playing mind games, Marix thinks in my mind. He's been levelled since he was eight years old. He will destroy you.

"Lefe won't destroy Ko," Lefe says, as if he heard that—I wonder if he did, wonder how any of this is possible. "He'll just…prod. A little. Ko—do you consent?"

Yes. No. What are my options here? If someone levelled me—and given my dream last night, I have a distinct theory as to who might've been able to do it without me noticing—Lefe might be able to help. On the other hand, I'm not sure I want to know. This is all so real, so scary—the idea that my mind might not be mine anymore, that I may have lost every semblance of privacy without even realizing it. Is this just the beginning? How much worse is it going to get? Will Marix be able to protect me?

Not if you go in alone. Marix's voice. Your choice.

He heard that…no privacy, then. Not even in my own mind.

"Okay," I say. "Let's do it."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Killián asks Lefe. "Going into the mirror isn't good for you, Lefe."

"Against Galtero, no." Lefe looks me up and down. "Against a kid with no mirror experience—easy. So easy. Ko was raised by Akeeva, and they're both kind. Very kind. Lefe will be fine. Ko—you'll let Eagleamé rest?"

"Sure," I say. "You won't…uh…go into the office?"

"What office?"

I rub the back of my neck. "…Leómadura's office."

"Oh. That. Lefe will be careful as he walks the web. We won't go there."

"Fantastic," I say, not entirely comforted—Lefe's weird, and I'm not sure I want him wandering around the depths of my mind.

Still—better him than Leómadura.