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She hadn’t…she hadn’t done anything to stop them.

She was not an Isfolj anymore.

She was no one.

TWENTY-FIVE

Eavus couldn’t stop blinking. He blinked out of the tent, blinked his way to the barracks, blinked at the food slopped in his wooden bowl and blinked at the spoon in his hand.

Annihilation. That was what the new emperor had in store.

“Submit, or die.” That’s what the prefect had said. It was even the emperor’s new motto, apparently. Submit to glory. Submit to greatness. Submit to gore. Something that began with g.

And all Eavus had to do was deliver the message. Make his way north once again, on his own, quietly and quickly through the woods and fens and rivers to the fortress at Norbucum to inform the commander: Ask the tribal leaders only once.

And then kill them all if they refuse.

There were so many. So many tribes, so many clans. That’s what he should have told the prefect—you can’t tell the difference because they’re all different, and all the same. But not in the way the Aleterians presumed. They were families, interrelated over generations just like the nobles in Aleteria, with hierarchies and loyalties and old feuds. Would they submit? Some would, of course. Others would resist. Others would run, hide. But they wouldn’t be able to run from Aleteria. That’s what he had tried to tell them. That’s what he had tried to tell Revni. They had no idea, none of them, what an empire looked like. Revni had thought the streets of Colcium were impressive. She couldn’t shut up about that damn statue, thinking it was some kind of masterwork. He hadn’t had the heart to tell her it was a piece of slop, carved by an artist cutting his teeth in the middle of nowhere. How could she have known what to expect in Lordinius? With its spider webs of alleys and walls and buildings. Much less Aleteria itself, the heart of the empire, statues on every corner, the technology they had—carts and aqueducts and builders that made bridges three stories high. And the people. Endless people. Experts and advisors and soldiers and slaves, an endless supply of money and bodies to throw at a problem.

And this island was a problem. It wasn’t wealthy enough to pay proper tribute; its people too violent and not yet cowed enough to provide labor. It needed to do one or the other. It had no other use.

Eavus’ gut twisted, but he forced the food down. It was tasteless and warm, both things he needed right now. He couldn’t have handled much more. My mind has always been free, he used to say, but was it? It was filled with Aleterian thoughts, with the knowledge that whether he delivered the message or left it to someone else, new legions would arrive within months. Less, perhaps. Aleteria was coming, with or without his assistance. And the money—That too was included on the encrypted slip of paper. Five times his standard pay. And the recommendation to use his services—a promotion. Emissary, liaison, he didn’t know what they’d call him. Viper, perhaps, would be more fitting. After they’d healed him, told him where they lived, trusted him.

He never did get the details of that treaty.

The prefect had posed it as a choice—it was a dangerous route. He’d have to travel it alone, through enemy territory, and arrive within sixteen days or else be labeled a defector and a price put on his head. But it wasn’t a choice, not really. If he had said no, the commander would have wondered why. He couldn’t risk that kind of suspicion. The prefect still had the ability to punish him for losing his regiment. Eavus suspected the only reason he hadn’t been subjected to the typical punishments was because of the new circumstances. What was a soldier without a regiment? What was a slave without a master? He felt like an orphan again, which made him think of Revni, which definitely wasn’t helpful.

Revni. What would she think of him? He had insisted, over and over again, that he was more than his soldier’s uniform, that he wasn’t the same. She had accused him of being cold, brutish, calculating. He supposed to her mind he was all of those things, but he didn’t feel like it. He felt empty and alone and scared, overwhelmed with the magnitude of what was about to happen to the people here. It was fitting, probably, that the regular meal had already been taken. The tables were empty, except for him, the night guards preparing for their shifts and the day soldiers preparing for bed, all of them loud. Low grunts and grumbles, the clinking of armor and shuffing off of boots. Eavus was an island, a lone figure in the center of it all, the only one that knew the truth. The one that was about to ensure it would happen. For all his talk, he was exactly what she’d presumed. Aleteria spoke, and he obeyed. Money was offered, and he took it. His brothers-in-arms took her away from him, and he let them.

What else was he supposed to do? He was one person in a vast system that had existed for thousands of years before him, and would continue existing for a thousand years after. You couldn’t let yourself think about these things, you couldn’t dwell on it, because then where you would be? Paralyzed, that’s where. Unable to move forward. And moving forward was all there was. The Aleterian empire had order, wealth, opportunity, and why? Because of slaves. Because of harsh generals with sharp whips. Because of money, too. That promise of coin, anyone able to grab his portion if only he had the will and the stamina to keep going. There wasn’t space in his life for anything beyond that. The daily exhaustion of living took too much out of him.

Eavus finished eating the stew. It was thick and gloppy, more vegetables than meat, but the army fed them well. A legion’s strength is in its stomach, they always said, and it was true. Eavus would need a full belly to do what he was about to do.

TWENTY-SIX

Eavus never came to the slaving district. He didn’t purposefully avoid it—or so he told himself—it was just that there was no need. He preferred the familiar comfort of the barracks, or the luxury of the riconoi streets, with their freshly-scrubbed walls and clean servants beating carpets or hurrying on errands. Sometimes he imagined that, one day, he might live in a place like that—Officers’ Row maybe, or even Acorn Lane. A tavern on one corner—a good one, where the wine was watered just enough to keep everyone polite—and a clean bathhouse on the other, with thick towels and heated floors and all the other little extras that made you forget the world outside was terrible. He’d have one of those troughs at his front door, so guests could wash their feet before they entered, with a whole pile of towels next to it just for the purpose. That felt like real class.

The smell hit first, familiar and yet not—like horses, or pigs—before it registered that it was human. Sweat and feces and grease. Eavus had known a recruit who had shattered his bone, and the camp doctor tied his arm to his body and told him not to move it for six whole weeks. That’s what the slaving district smelled like. Like an old bandage that had just been removed.

Eavus’ stomach turned as he reached the market area. It was empty, of course, closed for the night, but the daises were permanent structures, and it wasn’t hard to imagine the men and women and children who’d be standing there in the morning, put on display, shouted at, poked. It could have been me, Eavus thought gratefully, before suddenly remembering that, once, it had been. The market he’d been sold at was different. He didn’t remember much. Only that he was herded about with other young boys, always in a crowd. It had been dusty and hot. He didn’t remember how it smelled. He’d been an honored member of the House of Caea for so long, he hadn’t thought of himself as one of Them.

What was he even doing here? He had thought to simply check on her, but the truth was, he was torturing himself and he didn’t deserve it. Yes, she’d be sold, but look at him. Respected, ranked, making a decent living. With the funds from her sale, he might even have his freedom before the leaves changed color. Did the leaves change color in Isfjold? There were places in the North where they didn’t—nothing but pines. He’d have to ask her.

You can’t ask her, you idiot. Of course. She likely wouldn’t care that he was going to get his freedom. Understandable. Still—he was grateful. She’d made it possible. Would that matter to her? Probably not.

Lost in his thoughts, he’d barely noticed that he’d reached the holding areas. He pinched his nose, turning his head. Cages and cages of people—some larger, stuffed with a dozen or more, some smaller, holding only two or three. Eavus gave a tight nod to the guards standing duty as he passed. A few of the younger guards saluted him, and he tried not to laugh. Put on a fancy hat and you could fool anyone, apparently.

What was he doing here? If he even found her, what would he say? He wasn’t sorry. Well, maybe he was, but only because it was the way the world worked. He was sorry she’d gotten wrapped up in it, he supposed, but how could he be sorry when she was the reason his life was about to work out exactly as he hoped? His new mission weighed on him like a stone around his neck, but once it was done? That little home in Acorn Lane could even be possible.

And then he saw her, huddled in the back of a wooden cage. She was alone. Her head was down, her knees pulled up, but those intricate Isfolj braids were unmistakable. She’d redone them once, on the journey, her fingers flying, lengths of hair twisted and held between others. It had fascinated him, her hands so fast they’d almost seemed a blur. She shifted; she was naked. His fault, that. He still had a few coins left from the sale of her clothes. He’d spent the rest already, on drinks for Sev and Fira and Costae, on a gift for Tireni Parlus. She moved again, clearly trying to get comfortable, but at the sight of her bare breasts, a small surge tightened his pants, and just as suddenly he felt angry at his body, like it had betrayed him. What had he thought would happen here? What had he pretended happened to pretty female slaves? He hadn’t known when he came here exactly what he intended, but that anger pulsed through him. Without thinking it through, he found himself marching to the slave trader, propped against a wall.

“I—” Eavus’ throat was tight, his fists clenched at his side. The words came out before he knew to say them: “I’ve changed my mind.”

The trader spit something into his hand—a seed, a piece of gristle, whatever it was that he was chewing—and examined it.

“That slave girl—” Eavus gestured in Revni’s direction, but he couldn’t bear to look at her. “She’s mine. And I’ve decided not to sell.”

The slave trader finally discarded the bit of waste. He was heavyset and soft. His face didn’t even have a hint of stubble, and it made him look younger than his gray hair suggested. “That’s not how it works.”