Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

in bunker rank with ghosts and dreams
hear the Lady Leclère's screams
when she and Life merged into one
the reign of terror had begun

- "Burden of Life," Verse 1

"We're launching a multi-front attack to overwhelm the Xobrites," Killián says. "Lefe and Torrense—your hives are on disruption. They have two command centers set up—one in the Judicial District, one on The Frontier—and you'll be attacking both. Once you're finished with that, turn your attention to the supply line coming down from the mountains. I want it obliterated by high noon. Think you can manage?"

Lefe and Torrense nod. We're back in the cantonment, circled around the map spread over the table—I'm on Killián's right-hand side, and Kempe is on his left. Going around the table in order is Linden, Péri, Lefe, Torrense, Belén, and then a couple of the top denmasters—Jebah, Cyril, Thibaud, and Dominique. Bard's still in the medi-tent, still unconscious—I checked on him this morning, and he wasn't responsive. I feel a little guilty for being here when he's out of action—a medic unstrapped my right arm this morning, undid the binding around my left hand—and aside from a dull throb below my nipple, I feel great. I don't even have a headache.

"Péri, your guerilla units will create a diversion two blocks east of the municipal building," he says. "The Xobs have set up camp for their officers in a library because they think we won't burn it—they're wrong. I've decided it's a worthwhile sacrifice if it means forcing a retreat. Use a hollowood bomb to blow the front doors off the place, then set it on fire—if you can get there before 0700, chances are some of their top officials will still be inside. If they come out with a white flag, negotiate for a retreat—"

"You can't possibly be serious," Jebah says. "They've attempted to seize the Second Circuit's capitol—we must take a firm stance. Not one chain-linker should be allowed to evacuate."

Killián continues as if he wasn't interrupted. "As far as we know, most of their forces are concentrated in the Judicial District," he says. "I want this confirmed as soon as possible. Belén, you'll be supervising the denmasters as their troops do a sweep. Cyril—Shopping District. Thibaud—The Frontier. Dominique—Pleasure District. Jebah, you'll be with me as we take the municipal building and secure the Judicial District. We need as many troops as we can get if we plan to storm the place. Linden, Kempe, Ko—you'll each be leading a den as we take the block. I'll be supervising the hive. Does anyone have any objections?"

"They'll kill the justices as soon as they see us coming," Jebah says. "I have a tactical team—five highly skilled officers trained in counterintelligence—who can be in and out of the place before they know we're there. Let us handle it."

"The justices may already be dead," Killián says. "We don't have time for subterfuge—we need to take the area and force a retreat as quickly as we can. We're running out of supplies at the evac camp east of the city, and we don't have enough resources to keep everyone fed and sheltered. Time is of the essence."

"Assassination of the seven would end the precedent court as we know it," Jebah argues. "We must be extremely careful about how we proceed—unless you're prepared to defend yourself to the Septemvirate when they ask why you damned the Second Circuit's entire judicial system."

"We cannot force a retreat without storming the block."

"Give us an hour, and give me Kempe."

Killián considers this.

"Take Ko," he says at last. "Ko—you're supervising."

Jebah grips the table so tightly that his knuckles turn white. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," he snarls. "Killi—you're putting a 15-year-old kid who hasn't graduated from L-DAW in charge of my covert operation? Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

"Watch your tone or I'll strip you of a title." Killián's voice is beyond cold—some of the flush drains out of Jebah's face. "That 15-year-old kid is now a conduit for Yosif. Our titan will keep me updated."

Jebah whirls to face me, face so pinched it looks like he's sucking a lemon. "How in the Lands of the Living did you manage that?" he demands. "Yosif's beyond picky about who he takes—he's never gone for someone who isn't leading the entire goddamn army. Never."

"Uh…" I rub the back of my neck. "Didn't ask. Didn't want it. Not my choice."

"I'm going to kill myself," Jebah announces. "I swear on Clèr's tits, I'll do it. Someone dare me."

"Dare you," says Kempe.

"Coward," Jebah says. "Do it for me. Quickly—a neck strike, if you please."

"You both are impossibly melodramatic." Killián's lips curl. "Run everything you do by Ko. You have an hour."

"It'll take us an hour just to get there." Jebah's eyes narrow. "Time starts when we get within spitting distance of the building."

"Two, then," Killián says. "When the clock chimes, we're storming the block—even if you're still inside."

"Fine," Jebah says. "Ko—let's go."

I have no choice but to follow.

###

Jebah introduces me to the team as we mount up—five total, all older than me by at least a decade, all pridemasters in his den. There's Gérard Brochard, a balding man with a tight smile and a long, hooked nose. Reine Kemaigre, who favors me with a grin and a wave—she's got three titles pinned to her chest, a face full of freckles, and a cascade of flaming red hair. Évrard Larousse, who has also got three titles—he looks about the same age as Jebah and is strapping up his horse so tightly the beast grunts. Aurélia Hébras, a heavy woman with small eyes and impossibly full lips. Last is Ladislas Beauregard, who looks the closest to my age—even he must be in his late 20s. He's the only one who speaks to me after introductions are made.

"Does she have a name?" he asks, gesturing to my white steed.

"I call her Akee," I say as I swing myself onto her back. "After my sister."

"This is Lenka, after my daughter." He gestures to his own mount, who's the same shade of chestnut as Sinope—I wonder if they're related, if Lady Death's guard breeds steeds like mutts. "She's 4. My daughter, not my horse."

"We'll get you back to her in one piece," I say. "Are you married?"

"He has two wives," Jebah says over his shoulder. "It's illegal in all the Circuits except for Five, but don't judge—he takes care of them."

I couldn't imagine having one wife, let alone two. I stare at Ladislas. "Is Jebah serious?"

"One for the womb." His grin is toothy, demonic. "One for spare parts."

I have no idea what that means, but I don't ask follow-up questions—seems like a don't ask, don't tell sort of situation. We start the ride to the Judicial District, passing the ragged sign at the end of the strip—Leisure Street // Stay Safe—and cutting down Main Street. We stay in a tight pack so Jebah can brief us as we move—even though Killián put me in charge of this operation, it's clear he's the one giving orders. I'm more than okay with that. I have no idea how to organize a covert operation.

"Listen up, pack," he says. "We've got a critical mission ahead of us, and failure is not an option. The municipal building is heavily fortified, seven hostages presumed to be in the courtroom. This isn't just about freeing them, although that's top priority—we're reclaiming this city and showing the Xobs they can't take prisoners in the homeland." He seems like he's gearing up to give a motivational speech, if he's not doing it already. He's not saying anything I don't already know, but his tone is compelling—I find myself hanging onto every word, and the delivery is thoughtful and unrehearsed. Considering my rousing speeches could use some improvement, I wonder if I should be taking notes.

"We have the advantage of surprise, and we know this territory better than they do," he continues. "We'll move swiftly and silently—we'll leave our boots with the steeds two blocks east and approach on foot. We need to be ghosts. In and out before they know what hit them."

"Can you use mallow to do spirit recon like the general?" I ask, genuinely curious. I've pulled up on his left-hand side, Gérard closing in on my own left, and I can see his face as we ride forward—it's grim, determined.

"Kind of." His voice is short. "I can conjure Brid Naya'il—she'll be our eyes as we approach. Gérard and Reine, you'll be creating a diversion up front. I have hollowood, black powder, and nails for shrapnel in my kitbag—blow up whatever shit you can as close to the building as you can manage without being seen. We need their attention on you, thinking the main assault will come from that entrance. Évrard and Aurélia, you'll flank from the east. Use the service tunnels to avoid detection. Once inside, secure the lower levels and ensure no reinforcements cut us off. Ladislas, Ko—you're with me. We'll take the servant's entrance. It'll be less guarded, and we can use the hollowood distraction to slip inside. We move quickly, neutralize any threats, and get the hostages out safely. Everyone understand their orders?"

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Murmurs of assent all around.

Solid plan. Yosif's voice, inside my mind. Relies on brute force and the element of surprise, but Jebah's predictable like that.

"Yosif just called you predictable," I tell Jebah, not sure why I say it—the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

His sculpted features twist into something ugly. "Remind Yosif he hung himself after killing his son and his lover—leaving his daughter and wife damn near destitute, might I add."

"Did he really?" I ask, intrigued. "Be real with me—are there any titans who led decent lives?"

Slitting Vandame's throat was an act of mercy. Yosif sounds like he's somewhere between surly and enraged. He was comatose—and he was not my lover. Tell Jebah to watch himself, or he'll be scrubbing my floors when he ascends.

No response to the son thing? I think—I don't mean to. It's hard not having any privacy in your own mind, thinking thoughts before you can stop them.

That was regrettable, is his only response.

We cross the rotted planks of the bridge, and this time I'm sure someone really will fall through—no one does, but one of Lenka's hooves sends a splintery plank into the flowing river below us. Ladislas swears and almost falls off the steed. We enter the Judicial District without further problems and head down Route de Pierre. It's a different path than the one I took to the school yesterday, and a battle clearly took place here. The facades of once-stately buildings are scarred by fire, their windows shattered, the walls blackened by smoke. A building that looks like it was once a library has collapsed, and sheets of grasspaper float down the street, carried by the light breeze like fallen leaves. Makeshift barricades have been erected from overturned carts, broken furniture, and hastily gathered debris—the sidewalks are blocked in many places, and it takes our horses a considerable amount of time to navigate all the obstacles. The remains of market stalls, now empty and overturned, line the streets. Some stalls are still smoldering, their ruins scattered and looted.

Small groups of guardsmen patrol the streets, some mounted, some on foot. Jebah greets a few of the nestmasters by name—they must be from his den. A statue depicting a stone justice in a floor-length robe has been knocked into the fountain below. His face has been painted with graffiti, and a slur has been scrawled across his chest. We pass two corpses—one soldier, one civilian, the first with a sword impaled in his chest and the second burned beyond recognition.

As we move deeper into the city, signs of battle fade. The buildings here are tall and unburned, regal. Constructed from fine stone and adorned with intricate carvings of scales and hourglasses, they rise up from the well-maintained street like gibbets. We pass a large brick wall that runs between two buildings, bisected by two separate murals—one of Lady Love, the other of Lady Fate. Lady Love is depicted with a serene and compassionate expression, adorned with ethereal golden robes and surrounded by doves, interwoven vines, and hearts. Lady Fate has an enigmatic and stoic expression, her eyes deep and all-seeing. They seem to watch me as I pass, following my movements. The backdrop of the mural shows a cosmic landscape with swirling galaxies, shooting stars, and the vast expanse of space. Hourglasses, spinning wheels, and interwoven golden threads surround her. Jebah presses two fingers to his lips and flicks them in the Lady's direction.

"Never had much patience for Love or Fate, but I suppose they serve a purpose," he tells Reine, who's riding at his right-hand side. "More Valenèsians should choose Death, enlist, and get out of this shithole."

Reine's expression doesn't shift, but her freckled cheeks flush. "I grew up above a pawn store in the Shopping District, sir."

"Really?" He sounds genuinely surprised. "You don't clip your vowels like Diable here."

"We spoke Circuit-tongue at home. My father was an attorney. My mother ran the shop."

"So did we," I protest, wondering why everyone seems to have a problem with the way I talk. "Mostly. Do you miss Valenès?" I ask her.

"Hel no," she says. "Got out of here the second I was old enough for Bathune."

"Sort of proves my point, doesn't it?" Jebah glances at me, a radiant smile twisting his features into someone who might be worth knowing. "Don't pretend you didn't do exactly the same thing."

I have no response to that. I remind myself what he did to my hand—no grin, however beaming, can erase that from my mind.

"We should dismount here," Reine says, pulling her reigns. "Municipal building is two blocks away, thereabouts."

I didn't know that—but if her father was an attorney he probably worked around here, so I take her word for it. We dismount—I slide off Akee's back and rub my inner thighs. My feet are a little tingly, so I shake out my whole body and crack my neck. We tie up the horses in a manicured garden between a law office and a bank. The area is meticulously maintained—I wonder how they get enough water to keep the grass so green—the flowerbeds are in full bloom, and the trees are carefully pruned. Benches and statues of historic figures I don't recognize provide a serene atmosphere, and the scent of blossoming jasmine lingers on the air. We line up our boots on the wooden planter and leave them there.

Shoeless, we turn on Rue de l'Etoile and make our way down the deserted street. The pre-battle jitters I always feel before an altercation makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and goosebumps erupt on my arms beneath my bracers. The usual bustle of activity in this part of town is eerily absent. Abandoned carts, overturned crates, and scattered papers litter the streets—must've been a chaotic evacuation that preceded the Xobrite takeover. Many buildings on this avenue bear the marks of a recent skirmish that was absent on the last street—windows are shattered, doors are broken off their hinges, and the occasional plume of smoke rises from nearby structures. Scattered weapons and bloodstains on the nearby ground hint at a fierce resistance put up by defenders. The occasional body is covered hastily with cloth, and I'm thankful I don't have to see the eyes of the deceased. The soldier and the civvy we passed on our way here will haunt my nightmares—the way their limbs were twisted, the gaping stares, the burns on the woman. Jebah holds up a hand to stop us as we reach the end of the street, and we duck into an alley.

Across the street is an imposing structure made of pale stone, with grand columns supporting a majestic portico. The façade features intricate carvings that I can't make out from this distance—I think they're faces. Draped over the entrance and off balconies are the banners and flags of the Xobratic realm—purple trimmed with gold, a long vertical line with a shorter horizontal line two thirds of the way up. Osyrus once told me the God they worship was strung up on one of those things by his palms, but I think he was having me on—who'd celebrate torturing, mutilating, and murdering their own deity?

Jebah snaps twice, tilts his head to the side, and waits. He's silent for about four minutes before he breaks the silence.

"Bee says the coast is clear," he says. "For now. We have seconds—if that."

He extracts materials from his kitbag—a hollow piece of wood, a flask of black powder, a jar of nails—and hands them to Reign.

"Stay safe, and meet back here with the justices," he murmurs, then makes the gesture for split up—two L's with his index finger and thumb, moving his hands in separate directions. Ladislas and I follow him as he ducks his head and sprints across the street—I see a flash of chain-link on one of the balconies, a patrol on the lawn, but no one seems to spot us. We make it to the right side of the building beyond the pillars and crouch against the stone, breathing heavily. Jebah peers around the side of the building and swears softly.

"They're coming," he says, and unclasps his scythe from his back.

"How many?" Ladislas asks.

"Six."

Ladislas and I draw our blades, move into a triangle position behind Jebah. They come around the wall suddenly, silently, and without warning—one second we're alone, and the next there's a prolonged clang as the Xob at the front of their diamond clashes his sword against Jebah's scythe. I move without thinking, driving the javelin tip into the nearest weak part of chain-link armor—between the shoulder and the chest plate. Someone screams—a fighter drops to their knees. I twist the javelin point, pull it out, slip the scythe blade around his neck and pull it toward me, leaning back to maximize my bodyweight. It's a quick decapitation—his head lands on the grass, bounces once, comes to a rest. Bile rises in my throat, but there's no time to vomit—four other Xobs bear down on me. Jebah takes one out, slashing behind the knees and pulling forward. I flank, cutting off a war scream by driving the javelin tip of my bistaff into his throat. Blood squirts from the gaping wound, covering my hands, my face. My mouth is slightly agape—flecks of the acidic gunk coat my tongue.

"Behind you, Diable!" Ladislas shouts, and I whirl, scythe raised.

Three chain-linkers approach, their blades drawn. I duck under one, throwing myself to the side as his blade splits the air where my head was two seconds ago. I parry as another one strikes, jump as the third slashes my legs. His blade licks my shoulder—I barely feel it and throw a two-arm strike-through that nearly slices him in half. He's taken off his chain-link—he's the only one who's done so—and that's his undoing, really—his torso is still connected to his legs, but not by much. He falls, gurgling blood from between his lips. I sidestep his corpse and plunge my javelin tip into the next one's face—his nose smashes, his face tears open. It's impossible to see the flesh of my hands through the layer of red.

Jebah finishes the last one off with two slashes and leaps over the corpse. "Move, move, move," he hisses, and then we're running down the side of the building toward the servant's entrance. He tries the knob—it's locked. His boot crashes against the wood to the right side of the lock, and the door shudders open with a heart stopping crash. We cross the threshold certain we've been heard—that was so far from quiet it's not even funny. Jebah holds up a fist when we close the door behind us, signaling for us to stop.

"Wait here," he says, voice barely more than a breath. "Listen."

From somewhere outside, an explosion splits the air.

"Good timing," Ladislas mutters.

"Nice victory, soldiers," Jebah says roughly. "Three-to-nine isn't a jest. You're not bad with that blade, Diable."

It's a sign of a good officer, being encouraging and shit, but I find myself staring at him like I've never seen him before in my life. Maybe it's the compliment, or maybe it's the fact that he never calls me Whoreson—either way, I'm liking him more and more, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. The guy's a monster. He stormed Gidad, a civilian village, for the sole purpose of territory expansion. His policies are ruthless and leave no room for negotiation or retreat. He mutilated my hand. He's not a nice person—but he's being nice right now, and that's all sorts of confusing.

He sees my startled expression and grins. "Can't be the first time you've heard that. What—no one ever stroked your ego at L-DAW?"

I don't know how to respond to that.

"Enough lollygagging," he says when it's clear I'm staying silent. "To the courtroom! Allons-y, soldats."