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Revni had gone numb. She found a ladle. She dribbled water on Sulvi’s lips, poured it over her eyes, said a prayer to Idi.

Maybe there was no Idi. No Kyrianos. Maybe there was no other god at all.

Because it had suddenly become all too clear what god had been driving her. All this time, all the way since she’d left Eavus. There was no justice here, no sweet relief.

This wasn’t Kyrianos.

Prefect, the voice reminded her. She pushed herself to standing, because there was nothing else.

The tall torch by the archway was made of iron. Despite the fire burning at its top, the stand was cold against her palms. Revni looked at Sulvi one more time, but she was another piece of meat on the floor, like the boy, like the basket of dead birds. So much waste. Revni’s soul was flayed. She could feel the lashings, over and over.

She was tired of fighting that burning in her heart. Surrender was so much easier.

Revni pushed, hard. The torch fell with a heavy clank into the jars of oil—nutty and rancid—and licked into the sacks of flour. Flames popped into being and lizarded up the walls.

Revni turned her back to the inferno she’d created, pausing only to pick up her sword. It didn’t make sense, to burn the place down behind her.

But the god of death didn’t need a reason.

Everything belonged to him.

FORTY-THREE

The prefect slammed through the wooden doors, and Eavus had no choice but to follow. Men were gathered, which Eavus had expected, but what he had not expected were the rugged faces of Isfolj. He felt an annoying pang of recognition at those braids, their swords and axes leaning against the wall. Eavus tugged the sleeve of the guard that had brought him.

“They’re allowed in with weapons?”

The guard shrugged. “Things run differently here.”

The prefect threw his hands towards the cries of panic beginning to rise outside in tandem with the bells. “What is the meaning of this?!” he stormed.

Many of the bearded warriors had leaped to their feet at his entrance, but they looked as confused as Eavus felt.

“You called this meeting,” the prefect accused. “You came to me with urgency, asked for new terms, upend years of treaties that were fairly negotiated—and it was just, what? A chance to attack?”

“Flairius, sit down⁠—”

The prefect’s name is Flairius? Eavus didn’t know why the name tickled him so. Whoever was on bell duty was really making the most of it, though they were harder to hear in here.

“I am a prefect of Aleteria! You do not command me!” He spun towards Eavus, towards the two guards that accompanied him, to the four stationed in the corners. “Legionaries! Arrest these men!”

“What for?” one of them shouted, but the others were already going for their weapons.

“Legionaries!”

Eavus felt himself leap forward, almost against his will, the pull of orders impossible to resist. He lunged into the first man in front of him, grappling the man’s knee and slamming his shoulder into his hip. The man smelled like bear grease. Eavus pressed closer, wrestling the man down, his ankle giving a twang of protest.

“Get off me, pup,” he growled, but Eavus put his knee on his arm, trapping him. “Toer, get this feather off of me!”

Eavus’ side exploded in pain. His grip loosened, and someone yanked him from behind, tearing him away.

“Put them in holding!”

Eavus blinked his focus back. He wasn’t bleeding. Gods, had that just been a punch? The big man helped the man on the floor up. Eavus scrambled for them both, but the butt of an ax came down, clanging onto his helmet and rattling his brain. Eavus saw stars. The floor hit him from behind, hard.

“Jurls!” someone shouted, and then the room was clearing.

“You remember this, Flairius.” An older man, solid muscle, had the prefect by the neckline, an ax in his other hand. “We didn’t kill any of your boys. You remember this!”