Eliana’s heart stuttered and sank.
Quill. It had to be him. There was the faint limp in his gait, from a wound sustained during the invasion.
And there, waiting for him, were a woman and three small children.
Harkan swore under his breath. He pointed at the children, signed with his hand. He and Eliana had engineered a silent code years ago, when she first started hunting alone after Rozen’s injury. He had insisted she not go by herself, and so he had learned to hunt and track, to kill, to turn on their own people and serve the Empire instead—all for her.
No, came his message. Abort.
She knew what he meant. The children weren’t part of this job. Quill was one thing, but the idea of handing innocent children over to the Lord of Orline… It wouldn’t sit well with Harkan.
Honestly, it didn’t with Eliana either.
But three rebels waited at the courtyard’s shadowed entrance: Quill’s escort and protectors. There was no time, and it was too big a risk to spare the family. She and Harkan had to move quickly.
She shook her head. Take them, she signed back.
Harkan drew a too-loud breath; she heard the furious sadness in it.
Below, Quill’s head whipped toward them.
Eliana jumped off the roof, landed lightly, rolled to her feet. Thought, briefly, how it was a terrible shame that she couldn’t sit back and watch herself fight. Surely it looked as good as it felt.
Quill drew a dagger; the mother fell to her knees, begging for mercy. Quill pushed his hood back. Middle-aged, ruddy-faced, and intelligent in the eyes, he had a serenity to him that said, I fear not death, but surrender.
Four seconds later, Eliana had kicked his bad leg out from under him, relieved him of his knife, struck the back of his head with the hilt. He did not rise again.
She heard Harkan land behind her, followed by rapid footsteps as the other rebels rushed into the courtyard. Together she and Harkan had them down in moments. She whirled and flung her dagger. It hit the wooden courtyard door, trapping the eldest child in place by his cloak.
The others froze and burst into tears.
Their mother lay glassy-eyed on the ground in a bed of rotting petals. One of the rebel’s daggers protruded from her heart.
Eliana yanked it free—another blade for her arsenal. She wondered why the rebels had killed the woman. To protect themselves?
Or to grant her mercy they knew she would not otherwise receive.
“Fetch the guard,” Eliana ordered, searching the mother for valuables. She found nothing except for a small idol of the Emperor, crafted from mud and sticks, no doubt kept on her person in case an adatrox patrol stopped her for a search. The idol’s beady black eyes glittered in the moonlight. She tossed it aside. The children’s sobs grew louder. “I’ll stay with them.”
Harkan paused, that sad, tired look on his face that made her hackles rise because she knew he hoped it would change her, one of these days. Make her better. Make her good again.
She lifted an eyebrow. Sorry, Harkan. Good girls don’t live long.
Then he left.
The eldest child watched Eliana, arms around his siblings. Some impulse stirring deep inside her urged her to let them go, just this once. It wouldn’t hurt anything. They were children; they were nothing.
But children couldn’t keep their mouths shut. And if anyone ever found out that the Dread of Orline, Lord Arkelion’s pet huntress, had let traitors run free…
“We were afraid the bad men would take her too,” the boy said simply. “That’s why we wanted to leave.”
The bad men. A tiny chill skipped up Eliana’s neck. The masked men from the docks?
But the boy said no more than that. He did not even try to run.
Smart boy, Eliana thought.
He knew he would not get far.
? ? ?
The next afternoon, Eliana stood on a balcony overlooking the gallows.
Lord Arkelion lounged at the east end of the square, the high back of his throne carved to resemble wings.
Eliana, watching him, folded her arms across her chest. Shifted her weight to one hip. Tried to ignore the figure standing in a red-and-black Invictus uniform beside His Lordship’s throne.
From this height, Eliana couldn’t tell who it was, but it didn’t matter. The mere sight of that familiar silhouette was enough to turn her stomach.
Invictus: a company of assassins that traveled the world and carried out the Emperor’s bidding. The most dangerous jobs, the bloodiest jobs.
It was only a matter of time before they recruited her. She imagined it daily, just to see if the idea would ever stop terrifying her.
So far, it hadn’t.
Probably Rahzavel would be the one to come for her. Eliana had seen him at a handful of His Lordship’s parties over the years. Each time, he had requested a dance with her. Each time, his flat gray gaze had dared her to refuse him.
Oh, how she’d wished she could have.
“An invincible bounty hunter,” he had crooned in her ear during their last dance together the previous summer. “How curious.” He had threaded his cold fingers through hers. “You’ll make a fine addition to our family someday.”
When Rahzavel came for her, he probably wouldn’t even let her say goodbye to her loved ones before escorting her overseas to Celdaria, the heart of the Undying Empire—and to the Emperor himself.
Welcome, Eliana Ferracora, the Emperor said in her most awful dreams, his smile not reaching his black eyes. I’ve heard so much about you.
And that would be the end of life as she now knew it. She would become one of the elite—a soldier of Invictus.
She would become, like Rahzavel, a new breed of monster.
Today, however, was not that day.
So Eliana watched, tapping her fingers against her arm, wishing His Lordship would get it over with. She was hungry and tired, and Harkan was beside himself with shame. And the longer they stood there, the more desperately he would expect something from her that she couldn’t give him:
Regret.
The Empire guard marched Quill and the eldest child up to the gallows. It been constructed in the ruins of the temple of Saint Marzana, the revered firebrand of the Old World—the world before the Blood Queen Rielle had died. Before the rise of the Empire.
Empire soldiers had almost entirely demolished the temple when they seized Orline. Once, the temple had been a grand array of domed halls, classrooms and sanctuaries open to the river breeze, and courtyards draped in blossoming vines. Now, only a few crumbling pillars remained. Saint Marzana’s statue, standing guard at the temple entrance, had been destroyed. A likeness of the Emperor now loomed there instead—his features masked, his body cloaked. Gold, black, and crimson banners flanked his head.
The plaza beneath him was crowded but quiet. The citizens of Orline were used to executions, but Quill was popular in certain circles, and not even His Lordship often slaughtered children.
When Eliana and Harkan had presented the captive children to him, Lord Arkelion had smiled kindly, inspected the younger ones’ teeth, and sent them off with one of his mistresses. The children had reached back for their brother, wailing all the way down the throne room until someone had, blessedly, shut the doors.
But the eldest child had not cried. And he was not crying today, not even as he watched the executioner raise his sword.
“The Empire will burn!” shouted Quill, his hair plastered to his scalp with sweat.
The sword fell; Quill’s head rolled. An uneasy wave of sound swept through the crowd.
Only then, his face splattered with fresh blood, did the boy start to cry.
“El,” Harkan choked out. He took Eliana’s hand in his sweaty one, rubbed his thumb along her palm. His voice came out frayed. He had not slept.
She had slept like the dead. Sleep was important. One could not hunt without a good night’s sleep.
“We don’t have to watch,” she told him as patiently as she could manage. “We can go.”
He released her hand. “You can go if you want. I have to watch.”