Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

her eyes are cold, her gaze is stern
for every soul must take its turn
inside time's grasp, she holds the thread
a path where many fear to tread

- "The Weaver," Verse 2

"Thanks to Lefe breaking through the northern blockade and obliterating their defenses, we've managed to force a retreat and pin them to the Judicial District," Killián says. "They still have the municipal building, but that's a problem for tomorrow—right now, our troops are exhausted."

We're in a four-post cantonment in the scrapyard, just behind the line of medi-tents. Kempe found an abandoned table and dragged it over here—a map of Valenès with X's over the municipal building and surrounding points of interest is splayed over the surface. Torrense, Péri, Lefe, Belén, Bardic, Linden, and Kempe circle Killián around the table. I'm a little off to the left, seated in a camp chair—the only one who's seated. The exertion from the day drained me, and I'm shaking so badly I'm a little worried I might pass out. I try to keep it together for the sake of my cohorts. I'm already the youngest one here, the weakest—I don't want to be the one who kips out as well.

"Does anyone have any ideas as to how we liberate the municipal?" Péri asks. "My scouts report the prisoners are being kept in the courtroom—they have an entire pride guarding the building, and they're ready to assassinate the prisoners if we attempt a penetration."

"We could use the tunnels?" Kempe suggests, tapping an X that marks a sewer grate outside the perimeter. "Get in, take the guards, withdraw with the justices."

"There's no entrance from the sewers into the building," Péri says.

"Damn." She chews her lip. "They'll see us coming from anywhere else."

"Who all have they got?" asks Lefe, monotone as always. "Anyone we know?"

"Justices Estienne, Gaspard, Brice, Arsene, Abélia, Lucrese, and Adolphe," Killián says.

"In other words, the entire precedent court," Péri adds. "Top tier. Good men and women."

The way people on L-Street talk about the top tier of justices that run the Judicial District, they're rich and corrupt assholes who make bank by taxing us out of our minds and throwing anyone who fails to make rent in the stocks—but it's not worth arguing the point. The Second Circuit is known for Valenès's judicial system almost as much as it's known for prostitution—the Faculté de Droit is supposed to be almost as good as the First Circuit alternative, the law school in Lady Love's Academy of Science. It chucks out well-spoken attorneys faster than rabbits can breed, and graduates have their fingers in every courtroom across the realm. All of it comes back to the precedent court in the Judicial District—they work directly with the Septemvirate to interpret legislation that's enacted realm-wide. If all seven of the justices are killed, it would bring the empire's legal system to a standstill.

"We'll sleep on it." Killián looks around the cantonment—the dark circles beneath his eyes are prominent. "It's been a long day, and you all need rest. I've posted fores on watch, and our scouts are circling the Judicial District—if they attempt to break free from the pin, we'll know about it within an hour. Meeting adjourned."

I start to get to my feet, but Killián stops me.

"Hang back," he says, meeting my eyes. "Lefe, Bardic—you too."

The others leave us, ducking out from under the low-hanging canvas. Killián, Lefe, and Bardic approach me—it feels a bit like I'm being circled by wolves. Lefe folds his arms over his leathers. His pointed features are impassive—so are Killián's and Bardic's.

"Okay, Linden said he needed my help—" I begin.

"We're not on you for disobeying orders a second time." Killián's voice is flat. "That's not why you're here."

"We're gonna do some sketchy shit," Bardic says with a grin. "First—do I have your permission to do an all-over? You'll need your strength for this."

"What's an all-over?" I ask, more than a little nervous.

"I'm going to use mind magic to heal you," he says, as if this should be obvious. "Well…it's closer to body magic, although most practitioners consider them one and the same. Usually it's my father's privilege as lord, but…well. He's ailing, and I've decided it's time for me to attempt my birthright. I'll fix your back. Your hand. Your arm. I'll probably pass out—I expect to be unconscious for the next day, maybe three—but like I said, you need your strength."

I look at Killián, then back at Bardic. "You can fix me? Just like that?"

"Healing magic is my birthright," he says. "I think I know what I'm doing."

"Comforting."

"I should warn you I'm better at healing with traditional methods," he says. "My rabbit broke a leg when I was 12, and that was the last time I attempted this—I ended up in the medi-center for a week and a half. But I'm older now, and my father is stepping down. I'd rather practice on you than someone in critical condition. The stakes are lower."

What's the worst that could happen?

"Sure," I say. "Have at it."

He touches a single finger to my forehead and says a rapid-fire string of French words that end with, "Amon."

A blinding white light flashes in front of my eyes—I can't see anything, feel anything. My body grows as hot as if I'm walking through fire, then cold as if I've been hit by a snowstorm. When the light fades, my back is pain free for the first time all day. I flex my left hand—my fingernails are back. I move my right arm, extend my elbow—no ache. Nothing.

"Holy shit," I say, and look up at Bardic.

His eyes roll back in his head.

He drops to the ground.

Killián catches him with one arm. "I'll take him to the medi-tent," he says to Lefe. "Stay with Ko."

I get to my feet as they leave, jump up and down. I've never felt so alive, so fresh—it's as if I've slept ten hours and eaten a full meal. I reach under my leathers and press the spot on my back where the blade went in—nothing, no raised skin, not even a scar.

"The Lord of War can do that?" I ask Lefe. "That's incredible. Impossible. What can you do?"

Lefe's face twitches. "Lefe can walk through time."

"That's it?"

"Is that not enough?" He sounds annoyed. "I know we won't be able to take back the municipal building tomorrow. Or the next day. I know the justices will die. Probably."

"Probably?"

"Future-reading is not an exact science. Lefe has seen eight million possible outcomes. Seven million, nine hundred thousand and ninety-eight end with extermination."

"So…there are two outcomes where they live?"

"Ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and two. You're bad at math."

"Those seem like pretty good odds," I say.

"Lefe will sign you up for a statistics course at L-LAS when we return to the First Circuit. You're in desperate need of it."

Fair enough.

Killián returns to the cantonment, his expression grim. "Feel better?" he asks me.

"It's incredible," I say. "I didn't know he could do that."

"It's the birthright." He surveys me. "Are you ready?"

"For what?"

"To go back to Leómadura."

The smile drops from my face. I feel like he's just punched me in the gut.

"What?" I say. "No."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"Yes."

"I'm not doing that."

"You must," he says. "We're fixing this."

I shake my head. I open my mouth. I close it. I look at Lefe—his eyes are as cold and dark as a hawk's. Killián is watching me carefully, but there's no sympathy on his features—no emotion at all, actually.

They're actually going to make me do this.

I won't.

I can't.

"How?" I say, voice small.

"First, you're going to take my soul." Killián isn't joking—his tone is dead serious. "Then I'm going to choke you out. Then Lefe's going to choke me out. We'll find where Leó is hiding out in the Lands of the Dead—there, Yosif will join us and escort him to his trial. He'll be damned and sentenced, and the souls he's captured will go to Lady Death. You'll return my essence to Yosif, and Lefe will resuscitate us with helleborne. Any objections?"

It's quite the plan. "That's insane."

"I think it's one of my better schemes."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"It will."

"How the eff am I supposed to take your soul?" I demand.

In answer, he unclasps Yosif's scythe from his back and holds it out to me.

"A nick should do it," he says. "My forearm, if you please."

I don't know what to say to that. This entire situation feels unreal, impossible—what he's asking me to do goes beyond the depths of unaskable. I stare at him—his impassive features, the scar running down his brow, the fierce nose and unsmiling lips. I blink rapidly, fold my arms over my chest. I don't take the scythe.

"You can't possibly want this," I say.

"It isn't ideal," he says. "But it's the only way to ensure I go where you go."

"I don't want you there."

"We need to deal with this, Lieutenant," he says, as if we're talking about the city of Valenès and not the state of my immortal soul. "It isn't going away. You asked me how to fix this—this is the way."

I rub my temples with my fingertips. I look at Killián, look at Lefe—they're both watching me with serious, scrutinizing expressions. I weigh my options. On one hand, I want to get this dealt with. Eternal damnation hangs over my head like a swinging noose, and I'm tired of being afraid. On the other hand, what Killián's proposing is crazy. I don't want to take his soul, even if it's only temporary. I don't want to know what's inside his mind—how does that even work? It's a nice offer—I have no idea why he's willing to do it, what I've ever done to earn his trust—but it seems like the sort of thing only someone really stupid, or really desperate, would do.

Am I that desperate?

I guess I am.

I take the scythe from his outstretched hand.

It's a completely different sensation from touching my own blade. Immediate warmth spreads through my fingertips, up my arm. Whispers surround me, speaking softly—I can't make out what they're saying, but I hear the murmur's clearly, and neither Lefe nor Killián's lips are moving. My hand begins to tingle as I raise the blade—it's so damn heavy, much heavier than mine. Longer, too. Holding it with one hand is difficult, even with my renewed strength, so I use two. The warmth spreads to my other palm, my other wrist. It's like holding fire—not hot enough to burn, but enough that I have the instinct to set it down.

Killián rolls up the sleeve of his leathers, revealing a forearm perforated with scars. Not just the ones he got at L-DAW, I see with closer examination—cig burns too, from his forearm to his wrist. Neat little circles, white and indented, healed over with time. Two thick cords circle his wrists—one has a pendant with a scythe, and the other is adorned with Cahal's clover.

"Where do you want it?" I ask, voice shaking.

He taps his forearm.

I lower the blade.

As soon as it makes contact, a tugging sensation pulls me forward. I feel it in my gut, behind my forehead. The whispers grow louder, and this time I can almost hear what they're saying—almost. Blood drips from the shallow scrape, runs down his wrist and to his fingers. He shakes his arm.

That's when the visions hit me.

Distantly I'm aware of falling to my knees. The next thing I know I'm curled in a fetal position on the ground—my back is on fire, and hot, sticky liquid trickles down my vertebrae. My throat splits with a scream, then another—nothing compares to this all-encompassing agony, not breaking my arm or getting my nails cut off. The lashes come one after another, and someone is screaming profanity at me—hate words, slurs.

The pain ends as suddenly as it began.

I open my eyes. I'm staring up at the ceiling—I seem to be in a closet, still curled on the ground. Clothes hang around me, formal wear and dress shirts, none of them in my size. Yosif, I breathe without meaning to speak. Yosif, I think I'm dying, I think he's really killed me this time, and then I hear laughter, the kind you hear from someone who's been around a while and has seen it all. You'll live, a voice says, deep and methodical and completely sure of itself, and I feel the pain again—the fire crawling down my back, the ache on my thighs, the burn on my wrists…

I'm staring at a girl. We're on a balcony overlooking the back gardens of the di Vivar family palazzo. She has dark, curly hair braided back into a crown, brown skin, picturesque features. If Lady Love looks like a portrait model, this woman could stop a bull on a rampage. She has the biggest eyes of anyone I've ever seen, which give her the vague appearance of a baby animal. They're deep and rich, almost black, flickering with torchlight. Just looking at her is enough to make me forget how to breathe.

"I could never do it," she says with a shudder. "Kill someone. Are you really going to deploy when you graduate?"

"I've killed before," I say, and suddenly I'm there—my knife is on a woman's throat, and she's screaming through a gag, hands and feet bound, sprawled out on a table like a sacrificial lamb. Médéric is beside me, his hand on my hand, forcing the blade into her flesh, and behind us men are chanting kill the cheating whore, kill her, kill her, and then I'm back with the woman on the balcony and against all odds my lips are twisting into a smile.

"Not much different than killing a deer," I say, and put an arm around her shoulders. She snuggles against me, and I kiss the top of her head. "You'll never have to do it, my love. The Xobs will never make it this far south. I'll keep you safe. I promise."

I'm holding hands with a young man writhing on a medi-bed, most of his face gone, a gaping hole where his left eye should be. I'm telling him I'll tell his wife, his son, he died a hero.

I'm holding an infant in my arms, potato-like and newborn, and my heart is beating so fast it feels like cardiac arrest.

I'm in a sitting parlor listening to a young girl play the harp—she's little, can't be older than ten. When she looks up at me, I see she has Lefe's almond-shaped eyes, his pointed features. Her lips quirk into a smile, and I clap.

I'm pressing a lit cig into my wrists, but my hand is too large, my fingers too thick—it isn't mine, this isn't me. My toes curl at the burn, the smell of roasting meat.

I'm in another closet, but this time I'm not alone. I'm with a man, but it's too dark too see who it is—his hands are on my chest, his tongue is in my mouth. The door swings open with a bang like a hollowood blast and I whirl to face Segolé. I jerk away from the man, shove his hands off me, step toward the sudden light. My stomach drops to my toes and terror slams against me, waves of terror, the kind that makes you feel like you're about to feint. "I thought the rats got in here again." Segolé's voice is as flat as a board. "Maybe they did. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. Fucking fuck, I need a drink."

The door closes.

I'm standing on a massive bridge, looking down at a flowing river 200 feet below, deciding whether or not to jump.

I'm in a bed, a child on either side of me—a little boy and a little girl—a book with pictures open on my lap.

My stomach is twisting, my eyes are damp, and I'm staring down the bloody, twisted body of a young woman curled up on the Colosseum sand.

That's enough. Killián's voice, inside my mind. You're lost.

I open my eyes.

I'm curled on the dirt floor beneath the cantonment. Killián and Lefe are hovering over me, their faces swimming into focus before my blurry gaze. Killián is ashen, sweaty—his olive skin looks pale, drops of sweat beading on his hairline. Lefe looks completely unbothered.

"So—you have Killián's essence." His tone is clipped. "Were you able to navigate, or did you sink?"

"Drowning would be an apt metaphor," Killián says. "He had no idea what he was doing. No rhyme or reason to Fate's flashes."

"In my defense, I've never stolen a soul before." I can't bring myself to meet his eyes—it feels like 10,000 beetles are burrowing beneath my skin. "Sorry, general. I didn't mean to…um. Well. You know."

"Don't apologize. This was the plan."

"Right." Lefe claps his hands together. "Who do you want to choke you out—Lefe, or Killián?"

"We're actually doing this?" I push myself into a seated position.

Killián rises, taps his foot, looks annoyed. "I didn't give you my soul so we could explore my wonderful childhood together."

"You grew up rich," Lefe says with a sideways glance. "You're fine, brother."

"Yes, money solves all problems and I've lived a blessed life." Killián's voice is taut as a hangman's knot. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

He's embarrassed. I'm not sure how I know it—or what he's embarrassed about—but I know it with more certainty than I've ever known anything in my life. It's as if I can feel his emotions as well as the sensations of what's going on in his body right now—the tight pressure in his chest, the heat behind his blinking eyelids, the pain in his temple, sharper than the one in my own, as he tries to forget seeing Brid Naya'il's body curled in the sand, the sting of the belt lashing his back, the gut-churning humiliation of being found in the closet with Bardic, the brush of the wind against his face on the bridge, the bitter pain that comes with remembering Lefe's daughter. It's all tied together, a writhing mass of guilt and shame, and I'm filled with the unceasing desire to get high, to chat with spirits, to help others move on, to forget, and I feel these emotions as strongly as if they're my own.

Killián moves behind me. His arm snakes around my throat—with some maneuvering, he gets me in a choke hold.

"Are you ready?" he asks.

"Can I tap out?" I manage to ask.

"No."

His arm tightens around my throat. White stars explode behind my eyes. I grip his wrists, his forearm—my finger slips in blood from the nick on his arm. I try to inhale and find that I can't—I'm immobilized, numb, sensation slowly slipping from my limbs and extremities. I tap his arm, first lightly and then more fiercely, but his grip doesn't lesson. I'm choking now, choking on my own tongue, choking as I gasp for air that isn't there and blackness descends…

My last thought is I can't do this.

I think I must say it into his mind, somehow, because he responds. His voice, the vibration of his chest, is the last thing I experience as I sink into blackness, and I focus on that instead of the agony of oxygen deprivation.

"Of course you can." His voice is quiet, kind. "You're stronger than you think you are, Kolton Diable. I'll see you on the other side."