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The little man was screaming in Aleterian, pointing her out— He was betraying her. He was turning her in.

Revni closed her fist. The object wasn’t heavy. She might break it if she squeezed too hard. But behind him there was already a scuffle—Aleterian soldiers fighting each other, which didn’t make sense—and before her mind could catch up, the little man was shoved brutally to the side and a tight grip was squeezing her upper arm, yanking her into the room. Revni was spun against a thin, hard chest, an arm choking her, pain suddenly shooting through her armpit.

What was happening? Hot breath filled the shell of her ear. Revni had a sudden fear of her captor’s teeth. He was speaking Aleterian. Her vision was going spotty. The little man pressed himself to the wall, babbled words. The man holding her switched to Isfolj.

“I’ve got a little blade right here.” He twisted it—it wasn’t deep, but it felt like fire, like a thousand needles moving at once. Revni cried out. “If I move it a few breaths left or right you’ll bleed to death too quickly to be of use. Is this servant correct? Do you plan to kill me with a cloak pin?”

The prefect.

Revni barely realized she was still holding the object. It was ornate, ridiculously oversized, and for a brief moment she ran through how she could use it—hit him in the head, or open it and stab him in the eye—but it was thin and delicate, and another sharp jab of pain loosened her grip. The cloak pin hit the ground with a deadened thump. Carpets, Revni had the vague thought. Fancy. The searing sting and equal relief of the blade’s withdrawal. Revni gasped at air, her vision swimming. Faces blurred into view, making her stutter backwards, but it was only a mural, filling the whole wall. A woman with tall hair pursed painted, red lips. Irrational, to feel annoyed at it. The prefect still had hold of her with one hand, twisting her arm behind her, his other hand digging the blade in, this time next to her spine.

“If you move, this knife goes into your kidney.” He pressed. Revni sucked in a breath, but allowed herself to be pulled.

The prefect barked at the little man, who scrabbled for the closet and disappeared. He’d bring more soldiers, more guards. Her mind had cleared enough that it was racing. One of those soldiers near the door was on the floor now—unconscious or dead, she couldn’t tell—but if she could twist out of this, maybe she could get his weapon. It was beside him on the ground. The other two soldiers were still grappling, a muzz of red capes and helmets and grunts. One hitched forward—he had a slight limp—and delivered a quick punch that allowed him to get underneath the sword arm. Revni’s breath seized in her throat.

“Eavus?”

The soldier froze—barely a moment, a turn of his head—before he finished wrenching the first man’s wrist and transferred the sword to his own hand. He spun, slashed, high in the thigh, under the other man’s armored skirt. Blood bloomed. The first man fell, yowling, but Eavus took a step towards Revni.

“Are you ok?”

His chest was heaving, catching his breath. She didn’t realize at first that he’d spoken Gerstunt, but Revni’s breath hitched. The air went out of her. Him. Alive. Here.

Are you ok?

That was who Eavus was. A sword in his hand, a knife to her throat. And yet…Are you ok?

The man who held her said something in Aleterian, turned her arm harder. Eavus spit an answer.

“You don’t speak Aleterian, and yet my traitorous soldier seems to know you.” The prefect brushed his lip along her ear, sending her skin crawling. “Dressed like a Lordinius street urchin, and yet here you are all the way up in Norbucum.” The prefect gave a low chuckle. “Ah, the glory of empire! I’ll speak Isfolj then, and Ricaea Marceas can live in ignorance the rest of his very short life.”

He backed towards the open closet door, tugging her with him. Eavus stuttered forward, but the grip on her shoulder forced a whimper and Eavus froze.

“I’m going to pull you through this door, and then I’m going to make you squeal. And when loverboy follows me into the dark, as he inevitably will, I’ll kill him. And if either of you miraculously survive, I’m going to make an example of you. I’m going to tie you to a post and pull your intestines out. I’m going to let the cats and the rats and the birds have an absolute feast.”

Where was her god now? But she knew the answer to that: Death wasn’t particular. As long as he got his.

“You know, I almost hope you both make it. I feel like the two of you could be quite the spectacle. It’s always good to remind soldiers of the consequence of disobedience.”

Another step, another moment where she was helpless. Eavus was just standing there, like a statue. He didn’t know what was happening. He would follow—she knew he would, because that’s what Eavus did, came after her every time—but this time he wouldn’t survive it. Neither of them would. Panic rose, even as the god whispered in her ear.

Shhh. My child. You promised.

But she hadn’t promised him. She’d promised all the gods at her Soti Faes—and to die, yes, but not like this.

Eavus’ worried look, his own helplessness—That glass heart of hers, that taloned bird of prey inside her chest, it suddenly shattered and shredded and understood everything.

You couldn’t love a person for who they might have been, only who they were—but he was born of Aleteria, as she was from Isfjold, and what chance did that give them? Why were the only options violent raiders hoarding wealth or stern enforcers hoarding land? Wasn’t there something in between? What about people like Sulvi, who weren’t fighters but would jump in with both hands to lift you up? And Eavus—he’d made such terrible mistakes, and she shouldn’t care about him, but she did. And she’d chosen him, over and over, because he didn’t leave what he did to fester, he tried to fix it. Even now, even here—why was he fighting? Why was he in trouble? She didn’t know, but she could imagine, and it made everything clearer, like a rescue cutting through the fog.

What she saw in him, what she wanted, was the person he could be with her, and she with him. A third option, entirely different from the ones that had been set before them both. A change of fate.

Her love for him defied the gods.

And now she was being punished for it.

“Eav—” Revni tried, but she felt the sharp pain of the blade piercing skin and her own wince cut the word.

“Not yet.”