The first of the unmarked men was dragged past the altar, boots scraping against the stone.

  The vicar flinched as if someone had struck him.

  "What have you done?" he said, his voice low but carrying a tight, wounded fury that cut through the crowd's murmurs. "You've brought blood into this holy pce."

  "No one is dead," I said, turning away.

  He rounded on me. "Do not insult me with that. You spilled violence on consecrated ground. You used my pulpit to do it. You used my people."

  "We're saving your people," I said.

  His mouth opened. His eyes darted to the rows of faithful huddled in the pews, oil bright on their brows, to the men frozen as they were hauled away like sacks of grain.

  "This pce was all they had left," he said hoarsely. "And you've turned it into a weapon."

  I ughed, short and sharp. Half of what I knew about the Church was violence.

  "You're a good man, Father," I said quietly. "I'm gd this still horrifies you."

  He turned, exasperated, to Lumiere. "Saintess, did you know about this?"

  She stood near the altar, hands folded, eyes on the doors, not on either of us. Another man was being pulled past her, face rigid, eyes full of panic.

  "I—" she began.

  "No," I said, sharply. "This was me. The tools. The method."

  The vicar's gaze snapped back to me.

  "Her Holiness gave me permission," I said. "I chose how it was carried out."

  Lumiere's eyes met mine. Something tight and unspoken passed between us.

  The vicar's lip twitched. Then a shout sounded outside the chapel, distant but sharp.

  Lumiere's head lifted. "Judgment comes ter. Survival is first," she said. "The bell is already rung. The Duke is moving. So is the Hero."

  She turned and addressed Etienne's men. "We need ten to stay here," she continued. "Guard the faithful. Keep the prisoners contained. Do not brook any exit or entry."

  Her gaze went to the vicar. "That includes you, Father."

  His jaw tightened, but he nodded.

  "Everyone else," she said, already turning toward the side doors, "we go to meet them. The streets will not stay quiet for long."

  She paused, just long enough to look at me. "Sister," she said, her voice lower now. "You're with me."

  The third bell rang.

  Rocher did not hesitate. He had been waiting in the alley beside the chapel, back to cold stone, spear resting lightly in his palm. Etienne stood a few paces away, a shadow among shadows, his men scattered through the market like dropped dice.

  Three.

  That was the signal.

  Rocher pushed off the wall and moved.

  The nearest bandit post was a lean-to by the tannery. Two men, one half-drunk, one bored. They were still ughing when Rocher emerged from the smoke.

  The spear took the first through the throat. No flourish. No shout. Just a wet, surprised sound as the man folded.

  The second reached for a bde.

  Rocher was already there.

  Steel met flesh. He did not watch the man fall.

  Noise was spreading now. Shouts. Running feet. The bell still echoed faintly in the bones of the buildings.

  Good. They were disorganized.

  A cluster of bandits poured out of a dice house across the square. Rocher went straight at them.

  One went down with his knee shattered by the butt of the spear. Another took the bde through the ribs. A third tried to backpedal, tripped over a stool, and died with Rocher's boot on his chest and his knife in his heart.

  There was no room in him for hesitation. Only distance, angle, weight, breath.

  A man rushed him from the side. Rocher caught the swing on his spear shaft, drove his shoulder forward, and broke the man's nose with a crack that sounded like splitting wood. He followed through without thinking, bde sliding under the jaw.

  The body dropped.

  Etienne's men were moving now too, flowing out of alleys and doorways, crossbows thudding, bdes fshing. They were organized. Disciplined.

  They were not Rocher.

  He was already ahead of them, cutting through the heart of the resistance, forcing the bandits back toward the square where there was nowhere to hide.

  Someone shouted for mercy.

  Rocher did not slow.

  The man stumbled, dropping his sword, eyes wild. "Wait, wait, I can..."

  The spear went through his mouth and out the back of his skull. Rocher stepped past him as he fell.

  Later, someone might tell him that he had been begging. That he had been young. That he had been scared.

  None of that existed in the moment. Only threat and clearance.

  By the time Etienne reached him, Rocher was standing in the middle of the square, chest heaving, spear slick with blood, bodies strewn like broken furniture around him.

  Etienne's eyes widened, but there was no time to speak. More were running now. Fleeing into alleys. Throwing down weapons.

  "Do not let them regroup!" Etienne called.

  Rocher moved. He chased them down the narrow streets, cutting down those who were too slow, cornering those who tried to hide. He didn't think about what they had done or what they might have done.

  He only knew what they were.

  Enemies.

  When it was finally quiet, he did not notice right away.

  He stood in a courtyard behind a boarded-up inn, breathing hard, spear dripping red onto the cobbles. A man y at his feet, still twitching.

  Rocher watched the motion for a second.

  Then he ended it.

  Only then did the silence seep in.

  Only then did he realize his hands were shaking.

  He looked down at them, confused.

  A footstep scraped behind him.

  Rocher spun and struck. Steel hissed through the empty space.

  Evelyn was already out of the way, coat fring as she twisted aside with zy precision.

  "Easy, Hero," she said. "You keep swinging like that, you'll gut someone who deserves to live."

  Rocher's spear was still leveled at her chest. His pulse roared in his ears. For a second he could not fathom why she was not dead.

  "Don't come up behind me like that," he said ftly.

  She lifted both hands, palms out, though her smile was sharp. "There it is. No perimeter. No rear guard. Just you and whatever's in front of you."

  Evelyn's gaze flicked over the blood on his spear, the bodies in the alley, the way his weight was banced for another lunge.

  "You're back to fighting like you used to," she went on. "Like a cornered animal. Tearing everything apart before it gets close enough to touch you."

  Something in his chest tightened. He didn't know why.

  "I cleared the square," he said. "The bandits are broken."

  "I know," she replied. "I came to tell you Etienne's men are mopping up. No one is in any mood to fight back after they saw what you did."

  She stepped a little closer, slow enough not to trigger him. "You can rest for now."

  Evelyn pced a hand on his shoulder as she stepped past him.

  "Can you..." He swallowed. "Can you tell me how I should have fought? I mean, how I was before?"

  She stopped.

  "No," she said. "I wasn't the one who taught you that. Sera did."

  "The Sage?" He raised an eyebrow.

  Evelyn nodded. "Sera taught you how to find strength in others. Lumi taught you how to find mercy in that strength."

  "And you? What did you teach me?"

  A wry smile touched her lips. "How to not be such a good little soldier boy. Something I'm trying to relearn myself."

  She turned to go.

  Rocher opened his mouth. Closed it again.

  The question was there, hot and urgent.

  Cire.

  He looked down at his hands. They were slick and red, fingers still curled as if around a hilt that was no longer there. His gaze lifted to the spear, to the bodies, to the narrow mouth of the alley beyond.

  And for the first time since the bell rang, a thought broke through the noise.

  If Cire saw him like this...

  He did not finish it. But the fear settled anyway.

  I moved with Lumiere through the narrow nes behind the chapel, past doors barred too tightly and windows that watched us with the care of hunted animals. Somewhere ahead, steel rang. A shout cut short. Then nothing again.

  "You should not have taken that from me," Lumiere said softly.

  I gnced at her. "What?"

  "The bme," she said. "In there."

  "I meant what I said."

  "I know."

  We walked a little farther before she spoke again.

  "I don't need your protection, you know," she said. "I realize I often let you indulge me, but I'm still your senior."

  "It's not that," I replied. "There are simply things a Saintess can't be seen doing. Not if you want that mark on their brows to keep meaning something."

  "You make it sound so reasonable when you say that," she said. "But I have known you too long, sister."

  I did not answer.

  At the end of the street, a pair of Etienne's men stood watch, bdes bare, oil still bright on their brows. They let us pass without a word.

  Beyond them, the market square y in ruin. Tables overturned. Dark stains spread across the stone. Bodies y where they had fallen, some already being dragged away. The air smelled of iron.

  My steps slowed without my meaning them to.

  I saw him before he saw me.

  Rocher.

  He stood at the mouth of a narrow alley, spear in hand, shoulders heaving, hair damp with sweat. Blood marked him from colr to boots, not in clean lines but in smears and spshes, as if the violence had reached out and touched him everywhere at once.

  Something in my chest went cold.

  I'd caught glimpses before. In the Forest.

  Of the Hero that the Crown Prince had curated. Stripped down and sharpened. A man with everything human burned away until only function remained.

  He turned.

  For a moment, his eyes were still somewhere else. Still measuring distance. Still counting threats. Then they found me.

  Whatever he saw on my face made him stop.

  He looked down at himself. At the blood. At the weapon.

  "I'm..." he began.

  The word died.

  Behind me, Lumiere slowed but didn't step forward. She let us have the space.

  I approached him.

  "I asked for this," I said quietly.

  I had rung the bell. I had sent him into this.

  He shook his head. "You didn't choose the method. I did."

  I shook mine. "I never asked you to be gentle," I said. "Only to win."

  My hands curled into fists, trembling.

  Rocher's grip tightened on the spear. Then, deliberately, he lowered it and set it against the wall.

  "Cire," he said. "Can I..."

  He stopped. Swallowed.

  "Can I hold you?"

  I looked at him. At the blood on his sleeves. On his knuckles. On the colr of his shirt.

  He followed my eyes. His shoulders slumped.

  "Right," he said. "Never mind."

  I forced my hands loose. "Oh, whatever," I said. "I needed a bath anyway."

  I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.

  He froze for a heartbeat. Then his arms came around me, careful at first, then tighter, as if afraid I might disappear.

  "I'm sorry," he murmured into my hair. "For this."

  I rested my forehead against his shoulder.

  "I know."