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The prefect gaped like a fish at the market. The other Isfolj were already running down the hall, shouts and screaming carrying in through the open door. Eavus smelled smoke. Those bells were beginning to get irritating. They made it hard to think.

“In the name of Aleteria—” Some soldier, on his knees—one of the ones that had been guarding the meeting—crawled forward, raising his weapon. No! Eavus’ mind shouted, because he could see it so clearly—the short reach, the Isfolj seeing him coming, such an awkward, desperate move to hamstring the big warrior— But the Isfolj spun, ax arcing, and Eavus knew that horrible squelching snap. The Isfolj cursed, then ran. The soldier crabbed back, howling, his stump of an arm gushing blood.

“Do we go after them, sir?” That was one of the other guards.

“Yes, yes, go!” The prefect looked around, at a loss. Eavus adjusted his helmet and pushed to standing, but his ankle went the other way, and he caught himself on the table. Get up, Marceas! His first commander’s voice screamed in his ears.

“You there! Slave! Grab that sword!”

Eavus didn’t realize the prefect meant him at first, but the only other person in the room was the wounded soldier whose howls had turned to shocked whimpers.

“My—my arm. Somebody. Get my arm.”

He started to crawl towards it, and the prefect snapped at Eavus more firmly. “Get that sword and follow me.”

Eavus’ stomach turned. The hand on the floor was still gripping the hilt. The fingers were still fleshy. Of course they were. But he peeled them off, picked up the weapon, and followed.

“Flairius!” It was another Isfolj—he hadn’t been in the room. He was struggling against the guards that held him. “This isn’t us!”

“Up, soldier, up.” The prefect took the stairs two at a time. “Check my rooms.” He waved Eavus to go ahead of him. Eavus hurried, resisting his limp. He glanced back for confirmation, but the prefect gestured again. The room at the end. Two guards were already there, looking aimless.

“It’s clear, sir.”

Sir. Eavus would have snorted, if he wasn’t so confused as to what was happening.

He turned back. “Clear, sir.”

But the Isfolj from downstairs had somehow caught up. He was clutching distance from Flairius’ sleeve. Eavus stuttered a horrified intake of breath and leaped towards them, but the man only gripped the prefect’s arm.

“This isn’t us, Flairius. We came to you with a proposal!”

The prefect held up a hand. Eavus screeched to a stop, breathing hard. Gods, that ankle.

“Then where were you when my bells started ringing, Erik?”

“Taking a piss! I’m telling you, Flairius— It’s probably some local scrapper starting something he can’t finish. Just listen! Your emperor is dead.”

Eavus froze. How— But the prefect spoke the words first.

“How do you know this?”

“Before anything happens, before you make any rash decisions—I want to remind you of how well we work together. We’re not like these savages.” He threw a hand towards the growing chaos. “You need someone on your side.”

Eavus was barely listening to the proposal the Isfolj man outlined. It was brutal, mercenary, unfeeling—and Eavus’ heart raced quicker with every word.

Revni. Never mind whatever nonsense the man was spewing—it wasn’t a Revni-type proposal, which meant Revni wasn’t with the Isfolj. But she’d been here. She was here. It was the only explanation. Because if the other messenger had arrived with the news of the emperor, he’d have gone to the prefect, not to the Isfolj. Eavus would be dead, not standing with the prefect in the palace. Revni was right here, somewhere in the city. All he had to do was find her.

“This is just the start of it,” the Isfolj went on. “Let us keep the peace. Right now. We lock the city gates, and we’ll make sure no Arnean survives the night. With the Isfolj on your side, there’ll be no threat—not from the outside, and certainly not from in here.”

Eavus finally caught up to what they were saying. Wait. What he was suggesting—it would be a complete slaughter. Wait. This wasn’t the plan. Eavus’ hand actually went to his hip, to check if he’d somehow delivered the message already and messed it up. But no, it was still there. He hadn’t yet had the chance to explain.

“Sir—”

The prefect held up a hand. Eavus’ fingers flexed. The encryption. The prefect was a government official. He’d need proof. He wouldn’t just take the word of⁠—

“I’ll consider it,” the prefect said. “Guards.”

Eavus breathed relief. The tone was a dismissal. Polite diplomacy, that was all.