9780241740026 by Smakprov Media AB

WE WHO WILL DIE

Chapter One

Magnus brays like a donkey when he laughs. He lounges back in his chair like it’s a throne, idly gesturing for a barmaid to fi ll his cup as he peruses his cards. She sends me a wry look and makes her way from the bar, a bottle of wine in her hand.

The barmaid is responsible for serving both men.

I’m responsible for keeping one of them alive.

And so, each week as I stand in this exact spot, I focus on the money I’ll earn. Money I desperately need.

Heat radiates from the fi re on the wall to my left, turning my eyes heavy-lidded. I shift on my feet, boots clinging to the sticky floor as I force myself to stay alert. My position is a strategic choice. I can see almost the entire tavern, and it’s the best view of the clock hanging above the bar.

Fifteen minutes, and I’ll have earned enough money for a trip to the apothecary. The half tonic I left for Evren isn’t enough to ease the anxiety that gnaws on me day and night.

Magnus stops laughing, and I hear more than one sigh of relief from the patrons sitting at nearby tables. On Magnus’s left, Gaius nods at the barmaid to refi ll his cup, rolling his eyes as Magnus gestures broadly, immediately knocking the cup with his large fist. The barmaid’s bronze sigil flares across her brow, and the cup rights itself, the arc of the wine reversing to splash back in.

The barmaid looks young enough that her power must still feel like an unexpected gift she’s only just begun to unwrap.

Gaius studies his cards, his brows slamming together. When he reaches for his own drink, I catch a glimpse of his hand.

Fold.

But he won’t. I sigh.

I used to love this game. I relished being underestimated, delighting in the way I could swipe piles of coins from players unaware of my reputation. By the time I was old enough to take a seat at the backroom

tables of the Thorn’s most notorious taverns, I was winning enough to supplement my mother’s meager income.

Some part of me still misses the thrill of studying my opponent, of keeping my own expression carefully neutral while I surveyed my hand . . . even though I know it attracted too much unnecessary attention.

At least fi fty people linger over wine, ale, and mediocre food. Tables are packed tight, forcing strangers into reluctant intimacy as they jostle for space. It’s a typical crowd for this time of night—late enough that anyone still here is relaxing after a long day of work or planning to stay until last call, unwilling to go home to their own loneliness.

From behind the bar, Yorick meets my eyes, his bald head proclaiming his sigil-less state. I shake my own head. Stubborn bastard. No matter how many times I tell him he should refuse Gaius entry, he insists he won’t turn away a paying customer. It’s difficult for mundanes to eke out a living anywhere in this city, and Yorick knows that better than anyone.

One of these days, that collection of high-quality wines he’s so proud of will end up in pieces on the scarred wooden floor—along with the mirrored wall behind him. The customers who have been his regulars for the past decade will fi nd their night ruined, and his reputation will be shattered along with his wine.

Another glance at the clock. Ten minutes.

At the table, Gaius still hasn’t folded. Magnus has the better hand. He throws his cards down with a grin, and Gaius curses.

I crane my neck. If he’d played smarter, he could have won.

Gaius’s shoulders tense, and he shifts his attention toward the door. All my senses go on high alert.

When he fi rst hired me, I’d assumed my presence was a way to display both his wealth and his sense of self-importance. I soon learned he had good reason to fear for his life. If I’d known how many men would attempt to kill him for sleeping with their wives or cheating them in business, I would have negotiated a much higher wage.

At least I would have attempted to negotiate a higher wage. Everything they say about beggars and choosers is true.

Gaius’s beady eyes are intent, and his wiry body stiffens. His hand slips beneath my side of the table as he keeps his attention on whoever is walking toward us. Two fi ngers tap against his thigh.

I suppress an eye roll.

This little signal is something he insisted on early in our business relationship. Apparently, for Gaius to look my way would be an intolerable admission of fear.

I drag my gaze across the tavern to the well- dressed man striding toward us.

“Gaius Panthen,” the man shouts, and patrons move out of the way, giving him a direct path toward my client.

He’s taller than Gaius, and his wide shoulders are thick with muscle. I’d put him in his early sixties, but he’s moving with the ease of a man twenty years younger. His silver sigil sweeps out across his forehead, ending at the middle of each of his eyebrows.

Murmurs pick up at the tables nearby. Sigilmarkeds mix with mundanes in Yorick’s tavern, but it’s not often we see a half- crowned silver.

A newly awakened bronze sigilmarked might barely stir the wind—just enough to send leaves skittering across the ground. But as their power matures, so does their command over that power. If they were lucky enough to become a bronze- crowned, that same wind could tear the roof off a house with a single thought.

Silver- and gold- crowned are on an entirely different level. With the flick of their wrist, a silver- crowned could summon a vortex of wind and rain—while a gold- crowned could create a tornado powerful enough to raze an entire town.

A tidal wave of adrenaline crashes across my every nerve. Gaius forgoes any attempt to pretend indifference, shooting me a wide- eyed look. You’d think someone with so many enemies would have learned to swing a sword by now.

I stride across the tavern, and Gaius trails after me. “Orson Norcross,” he mutters.

Orson’s eyes fl ick up to my sigil, and I know what he sees.

Wasted potential.

His gaze slides dismissively from me and slams into Gaius. “You.” His meaty fists clench.

“Ahem.” Yorick cuts into the sudden silence, and Orson slowly turns his head. Yorick’s hand trembles, but he points to the sign on the wall to his right.

No power.

Orson sneers and takes another step toward us, drawing so close I can smell the wine on his breath. “I have no need to use my power,” he

snaps. “I would much prefer to feel your bones breaking beneath my fists.”

A hand slams into my back, and I stumble forward. Gaius pushed me. The coward.

Orson bares his teeth at me. “Out of the way.”

“You know I can’t do that.” At least not for the next few minutes. If Orson had arrived just a little later, I’d already be on my way to the apothecary.

His gaze slides clinically over me, lingering on the sword hilt above my shoulder and the knives strapped to my thighs and biceps.

“I know who you are, champion.”

I stiffen. No one else in this tavern would address me that way. They know better. But Orson lifts an eyebrow, waiting for my response.

“Arvelle is a champion,” Gaius boasts from behind my back. “My champion. And she’ll kill you if you attempt to touch me.”

It’s Gaius who I’d like to kill. I fantasize daily about shoving my blade deep into his throat. Unfortunately, poverty and desperation go hand in hand.

Orson studies me. Amusement fl ickers across his face.

“I see how it is,” he says, returning his attention to Gaius. “I may not be able to kill you now, but I’m betting your little champion isn’t with you every minute of every day.” His expression is one of dark promise. “You took my wife, and I’m going to make you suffer before you die.”

“Not tonight you’re not,” I say.

He nods slowly, never taking his gaze from Gaius, who ducks farther behind me. “No,” Orson agrees. “Not tonight.”

He stalks from the tavern, patrons scattering in his wake.

Silence reigns until Yorick’s voice booms across the tavern. “Music!” he demands, and someone strikes up a cheery tune just as the clock on the wall hits 4 a.m.

Finally.

I reach for my satchel beneath the table.

“You can’t go.” Gaius catches my arm. “Didn’t you hear the man? He’ll kill me!”

“Sadly, our time together is fi nished tonight. Try not to make anyone else want to murder you before I see you next.”

His hand tightens. “If you think I’m paying you—”

Our eyes meet and the color drains from his face. I know what he

sees in the wasteland of my eyes, and it’s not pretty. Slowly, Gaius releases me, shoves his hand into his cloak, and pulls out a gold coin.

I pluck it from his palm. “I’ll see you next week.” If he’s not dead by then.

With coin in hand, I tug my cloak around my shoulders and head out into the frigid night.

The moon hangs pregnant in the sky above my head, barely piercing a dense shroud of fog. This part of the city isn’t the worst . . . but it’s close. Fog’s Edge was originally named for the heavy mist that clings to the streets here, wrapping everything in a damp cloud. But centuries ago, a magistrate drunkenly referred to the district as the thorn in his side. The name stuck.

I hurry down cobblestoned streets, each worn by time and thousands of booted feet. I’d memorized the bewildering maze of alleys and shortcuts before I was old enough to know my own name. I know which brothels the sigil- crowned like to slip into through discreet entrances. I know which taverns cater to vampires with darker interests. And I know which streets I wouldn’t dare walk down without risking a slit throat.

Laughter cuts through the night, sudden and sharp. Near a crumbling fountain at the end of the street, a group of youths heckle one another, the glowing sigils on their brows bathing their faces in light.

I turn right, keeping my strides measured, unhurried, my head lifted high. Two city wardens cross the street, their leather boots thudding heavily with each step. The moonlight glints off darkened steel helmets, the city’s insignia stamped into the steel.

The wardens’ leather breastplates have been embossed with the same emblem, as have the hilts of their short swords. Midnight blue cloaks announce their presence in any crowd, while the plume of dark horsehair extending from the tops of their helmets is more than a little ridiculous.

I’m not foolish enough to draw their attention. The wardens aren’t strolling through the Thorn because they’re here to protect us. They’re not here to investigate the recent murders or ensure business owners can work without fear of extortion schemes and shakedowns. Most of the time, they’re the ones lining their pockets with coercion and intimidation.

Pressing myself into the wall, I wait them out. Within moments they’re gone, and I’m on my way again. A scuffle

sounds to my left, and I cut my eyes to the alley. Two men and a woman stand crowded together, most of their bodies hidden within the shadows. The woman lets out a low moan, her cheeks tightening as she sucks on one of the men’s fi ngers. Her veins glow faintly through her skin, like a highlighted map, the luminescence morbidly beautiful.

Glister. It’s a short-lived high, but a popular one in the Thorn. The woman’s eyes roll, mouth parted in bliss. The man pulls his fi nger free and smiles as she slumps against the stone wall. His gaze shoots to me and he presses his finger into the powder cupped in his hand. With a grin, he lifts that fi nger and beckons for me to join him, the glister glowing like a star.

“Want a taste, beautiful?”

The empty euphoria stamped on the woman’s face is all too familiar, and bile burns up my throat. Turning, I continue walking down the block, ignoring the low, taunting laugh behind me.

As usual, Perrin’s apothecary is open. And as usual, it’s hot and humid, despite the chill of the air outside. I step inside, untie my cloak, and nod a greeting at the older woman standing by the counter, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.

When Perrin fi nishes measuring out a handful of sleeping berries for her, she turns to go, and I step up to the counter.

“I need a lung tonic,” I say.

He grimaces, displaying crooked yellow teeth. “Can’t. Someone came in and bought the last three this morning.”

My gut twists. That someone must be truly desperate if they’re buying so many tonics at once. But I can’t fi nd it in me to care about their misfortune. I’ve got more than enough of my own.

“When will you get more?”

“Next delivery isn’t for three more days.”

I can feel the blood draining from my face. Perrin leans against the counter between us and sighs, the lines of his craggy face softening.

“Try Golinth. He’ll charge ten percent more, but he gets deliveries three times a week from his supplier. He’ll have it in stock.”

“Thanks.”

Except Golinth doesn’t have it in stock.

And neither does the next apothecary, five blocks west.

Panic beats at me. Someone has been buying up the exact lung tonics my brother needs.

All of them.

I would’ve heard if the Thorn was facing a sudden outbreak of lung disease. So who is taking all the tonics? And why?

By the time I make my way home, the sun is creeping above the city to the east, the Thorn slowly coming to life around me.

In this district, families are wedged into insulae, with up to fi fty people housed in the apartments—some of them stretching seven stories high. A ground-floor apartment is a luxury, and one I’ve never taken for granted. Thanks to my mother’s father, we were able to grow up without the threat of eviction.

The familiar silhouette of our home appears among the haphazard structures of our street. Tucked between two taller insulae, the facade is a blend of weathered stone and wood, ivy clinging stubbornly to the cracks in the stone, as if nature itself is trying to hold the building together.

Behind the dark, wooden front door, my brother waits for the tonic I don’t have.

Dread expands in my stomach. Up until this moment, the greatest risk to Ev’s life has been our poor fi nancial situation. I’ve managed to handle that—barely—by taking as many jobs as I can. But without the tonic . . .

Evren is dead.

My head spins, my lungs so tight I almost miss the man leaning against the wall of my house, his body half hidden in the shadows. From the look of his elegant overcoat and polished boots, he’s not from the Thorn. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

“Who are you?”

He smiles, flashing fang.

Vampire.

An old, powerful vampire if the chill emanating from him is any indication.

Evren’s cough rips through the night, audible even through his wooden shutters.

The vampire’s smile widens. “My name is Bran. I serve the emperor.”

My stomach clenches. While sigilmarked powers are visible and visceral, vampires command the unseen. They bend shadows to cloak their movements, create illusions that blur reality, use telekinesis to

strike without warning . . . their powers span from subtle, quiet manipulations to the kind of overwhelming control that makes their victims question everything they thought they knew.

I change my position, planting myself fi rmly between the vampire and the door. Bran can’t get in unless invited. But he could still attempt to lure my brothers out.

“And what exactly do you want, Bran?”

The vampire lifts one pale hand, revealing two glass vials of vibrant purple liquid. Every hair on my body stands on end.

Lung tonics.

It’s all I can do not to lunge at him. But my speed is nothing compared to his, my strength insignificant. And if Bran truly serves the emperor, he’s likely even more powerful than I’d fi rst assumed.

He smiles, cheeks creasing, eyes empty. “I fi nd I need your particular skills.”

“I have no skills. I’m an occasional bodyguard. That’s it.”

He raises an eyebrow at my flat tone. “And yet you won the Sands six years ago.”

My vision wavers and I barely refrain from reaching out to lean against the door.

Winning the Sands is dangerous. I did it anyway, because I had no choice. In the process, I announced to anyone watching that I was a trained killer. Winners’ names are public record. And killers are valuable in this empire.

The vampire has been spying on us. He knows exactly what we need, and he’s the one who has been buying the tonics. I’m sure of it.

My lips are turning numb. “You need to leave.”

Bran takes a step closer, and my head clears, my pulse steadying. I may not be able to kill him, but I can make him hurt before I die.

He goes still, slowly lifting his hands in front of him as if I’m a cornered animal. “Complete the Sundering and I’ll save your brother’s life.”

More coughing from inside the house, as if to punctuate the vampire’s offer.

“Not interested.”

“Your brother is very sick. You’re barely keeping him alive.”

My hand tightens on the hilt of my dagger. Typical of a vampire to discover exactly what I need the most and then offer it to me under the pretense of benevolence. This isn’t the fi rst time someone has tried to

bribe me to fight. But it hasn’t happened for years. And no one has attempted to make me swing my sword for the emperor before.

Making it through the Sundering is the entry point to the Praesidium Guard—formed to protect the emperor, his vicious family, and the Sigilmarked Syndicate.

To conquer the Sundering, gladians must enter the emperor’s arena three times in what is known as the tria proeliis. I wouldn’t survive the fi rst. I haven’t fought for six years. I’m slower, and my ankle . . .

I shake my head, taking in the vampire in front of me. This doesn’t make sense. Thousands of people train day and night for a chance to be one of the one hundred gladians to enter the Sundering each season.

“Tell me what you really want.”

Bran smiles, carefully hiding his fangs. A nice, nonthreatening vampire.

“You will make it through the Sundering, and then—when the time is right—you will kill someone very important.”

“Who?”

Hatred glitters in Bran’s eyes. “Vallius Corvus.”

A laugh bubbles out of me before I can prevent it. This has to be someone’s idea of a terrible joke.

“The emperor? The most powerful, well-protected man on this continent?”

“I will help you achieve this task.”

“Oh, that’s fi ne then,” I say. “Sounds like a plan.”

He gives a short nod and then narrows his eyes. “Sarcasm.”

“Look. I’m not an assassin. I’m sure you know many people far more qualified for such a task.”

He smiles, but his eyes remain hard. “Believe in yourself, and you can achieve almost anything.”

“Your motivational speech could use some work. You want me to conquer the Sundering, join the Praesidium Guard, and kill the most powerful man in this kingdom in exchange for a lung tonic?”

He frowns at me. “Of course not. Fight for the emperor, kill him when it is time, and not only will I give you these tonics, but I will send your brother to the healers in Nesonias.”

Rolling up his sleeve, Bran holds out his arm, displaying his wrist. Two interlocked triangles. The emperor’s mark.

My fists clench before I can control them, and I have no doubt Bran

has noticed. Nesonias is my brother’s only chance for a cure. It’s why every move I make is with the goal of moving all of us north. Bran’s mark proves that the vampire can easily ensure Evren is healed. All it would take is a simple order.

Bitterness floods my mouth. It’s been a long night. The next few days are likely to be worse. And the vampire taunting me with my brother’s life is like a handful of salt rubbed in an already festering wound. “I won’t even get close to the emperor. I step foot in that arena, and I’ll die.”

“I don’t think so,” Bran says. “I saw you fight once, champion.”

“I was younger then.”

“Give yourself some credit.”

My head aches. I want nothing more than to go inside, check on my brothers, and take a short nap before breakfast.

“I attempt to spy for you, attempt to kill the emperor, and I’ll wish I was dead. If I die, what happens to my brothers?”

“I’ll make sure the sick one is healed. Completely. As soon as the emperor is dead, I’ll free your brothers and you may join them. With enough money from your time in the arena to start a new life.”

“Good night, Bran.”

Black eyes narrow, and a chill crawls up my spine at the malevolence in his eyes. I can practically feel his years pressing on me. Three hundred at least.

“That’s not how negotiations work.”

“This isn’t a negotiation. I said no.”

“You’re killing your brother.”

I barely hide a fl inch. My entire body turns hot. “We both know I’ll have a target on my back from winning the Sands all those years go. I’m all my brothers have. If I die, they’re both dead anyway. Now get away from my door.”

His gaze lands on my brow, and I know my sigil has flared. “It must be difficult,” he muses. “Feeling the gap where your power should be. Becoming a gladian would likely help with that. It may not give you power, but it will give you respect.” Tucking the vials away, he smiles at me. “I’ll give you until midnight to think about it.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Midnight,” he says as if I haven’t spoken. In a movement too fast to see, he’s gone.

Chapter Two

There’s no worse feeling than watching someone you love die. The helplessness slices you into pieces. And grief sets those pieces on fi re. Until you’re nothing but ash.

My brother’s coughs rip through the early morning silence. Wheezy, pain-fi lled, exhausted coughs.

I push the door shut behind me and reach for the salve, the tonic, the crystals. Stumbling into the wall, I curse and reorient myself, aiming for his door— left open while he sleeps for exactly this purpose.

Evren’s already sitting up in bed when I reach him, his thin body shuddering as he fights for each breath.

“I’m here.”

Pushing his shirt open, I spread the salve on his chest and neck, give him a crystal to hold, hand him the last of the lung tonic, and begin chanting.

He reaches for the tonic, his eyes miserable.

“We can’t . . . afford . . . this,” he gasps out.

“Shhh. Drink it, Ev.”

Evren swallows. I keep chanting, urging the crystal to glow just a little more. To eke out just a little healing power.

I rub his back, and his coughing begins to ease, each breath deeper than the last.

“That was a bad one.”

“I’m sorry.”

I ignore that. “Do you think you can rest a little now?”

He nods, eyes already drooping. When he nestles into his pillow, I’m lightheaded with relief. These attacks are coming closer than they ever have before. And we can’t afford not to have more lung tonic on hand.

An image of Bran’s face fi lls my mind, making my head pound with barely suppressed wrath.

Poking my head into the next bedroom, I fi nd owlish brown eyes staring back at me. “He’s fi ne,” I tell Gerith.

His mouth twists. At fourteen, he’s already reached the age where

he will no longer let me see him cry, but his eyes are still swollen some mornings.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask him.

Gerith shakes his head. But he moves his leg aside. Hiding a smile, I enter his room and sit on the side of his bed.

Long, thin fi ngers brush his woolen blanket. “Do you ever wonder what our lives would be like if Uncle hadn’t taken your winnings?”

Every fucking day.

I can’t look at the table in our kitchen without seeing the note my uncle left. The words I’m sorry just as hollow as the empty space in my closet where I’d carefully hidden the money we needed for a better life.

Less than a day after I’d won the Sands, our uncle was gone. And so was our future. A healer for Evren. A small but comfortable house on the coast in Nesonias. Fresh seafood every day. Vegetables from the small garden I’d learn how to tend. An education. Not just for my brothers . . . but for me too.

“There’s no point looking back.”

“I’m not looking back. I’m looking forward.” His chin juts out. “One day, I’m going to fi nd him, and I’m going to kill him.”

“You won’t be able to,” I tell him, mock seriously. “Because I’ll fi nd him fi rst.”

Gerith smiles, but it’s shaky. “How could he do it? I just . . . I don’t understand.”

Of course he doesn’t understand. I don’t understand.

“Ger—”

“You risked your life to win that money. We had everything we needed.”

“I don’t like to talk about that time,” I say. His eyes are solemn. “Because of her. And because of him.”

Grief rips into me like a talon, stealing my breath. He’s not talking about our uncle now.

Occasionally, I think I’m doing fi ne, that I’m moving on with my life, and then I hear her name. Or I’m reminded of him.

“Yes.”

Gerith studies my face. “One day, when I’m big, I’ll fight in the Sands. We’ll get enough money to cure Ev. And we’ll all leave.”

My smile freezes on my face.

I’ll die before I let my brothers step foot in any arena. Every move I

make is with the goal of getting both of them far from Senthara, where the emperor’s delights are no more than a distant memory. But I know better than to say such a thing. As the twins have grown, so has their male pride.

“Time to get up.”

He nods, and I leave him to dress. Pulling off my boots, I keep my sword strapped to my back, still . . . perturbed by my vampire visitor.

Perturbed is a good word. It implies I’m feeling slightly unsettled. A little uneasy. Not dry-mouthed, slick-palmed, and dizzy with fear.

The lung tonics from Nesonias are keeping my brother alive. What else is Bran willing to do to make me fall in line?

I push the thought away. I’m used to being on the defensive. I do it every day while guarding the kinds of people who make enemies simply by breathing. I don’t enjoy being reactive, but I know better than to wring my hands, worrying.

If I travel to Mataras this morning, I’ll be back within a couple of days. The apothecary there will have the tonics we need. I’m sure of it. I hate the thought of leaving Gerith and Evren, but I doubt the vampire cleaned out the apothecaries in nearby towns.

Padding into our tiny kitchen, I open the cool box. The crystal inside is dull, and the aether keeping our meager food chilled is a faint hum. After I replenish Evren’s lung tonics and pay the emperor’s everincreasing taxes, I’ll have just enough to fi ll the aether crystals. Gerith desperately needs a new pair of boots, but they’ll have to wait.

My chest pangs. He’d never complain, but I know his feet became soaked last time it rained. I heard Evren and Gerith murmuring about it when they thought I wasn’t listening.

The milk ran out two days ago, so I make the porridge with water, seasoning it with a pinch of salt in place of sugar or honey.

The twins are grumbling at each other in one of their rooms, their voices muffled by the door. Neither of them enjoys mornings. By the time they slouch into their chairs at the table—Evren pale and drawn, Gerith wincing at the sight of the thin porridge—faint sunlight streams through the window. The fi rst light of dawn makes Gerith’s blond hair glow, while Evren’s hair is so dark it seems to swallow the light. Born just minutes apart, they couldn’t be more different—in both appearance and personality.

When Gerith turns his head, pale ribbons of sunlight brush his

gold sigil in a fl icker of brightness that fades when he shifts out of the sun. My lungs squeeze, and I force the fear away. My power may not have woken, but that doesn’t mean my brothers will face the same devastation. They won’t be like me.

Sigilmarked are born with latent powers, our potential revealed by the color of our sigils, and how much they grow over time. All sigilmarked children gain a handful of minor abilities like basic shielding, conjuring a spark with a fl ick of their fi ngers, purifying small amounts of water, or quickening the growth of plants. Between the ages of eleven and fifteen, their true power emerges—sometimes two if they’re exceptionally gifted or blessed. A rare few receive power granted by the gods they worship.

“Arvelle?”

Forcing a smile, I drag my gaze away from Gerith’s sigil. “I need to go to Mataras today. Remember—”

“We know.” He rolls his eyes with a grin. “Come straight home, don’t talk to anyone.”

A knock sounds on the door. Gerith gets to his feet, but he knows better, and I slide past him. Visitors this early are rarely a good thing. My right hand reaches for the handle, my left drifting close to the hilt of my knife as I open the door.

A small, thin girl stares up at me. Blond curls tangle around her gamine face, and I catch a glimpse of a bronze sigil beneath the strands covering her forehead. Her sigil has extended slightly, which means she’s likely older than she looks.

Fifteen, maybe sixteen.

I open my mouth to tell her she has the wrong house, but her gaze sweeps past me, blue eyes sparking with light.

“My name is Sarai,” she announces. “I’m here for breakfast.”

My eyebrow shoots up. “Oh, you are, are you?”

Her mouth turns down. “He didn’t ask?”

I heave a sigh, sending a narrow- eyed stare over my shoulder. It’s impossible to tell which “he” she’s talking about, since both my brothers are thin-lipped, gazes on the ground.

“Come in,” I tell her.

She sails past me before I can change my mind, sitting next to Gerith, whom she gives a dark look.

He meets my eyes. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“Never mind. It’s nice to meet you, Sarai. I’m Arvelle.”

She beams at me, all embarrassment forgotten, until the rumble of her stomach cuts through the silence.

Her cheeks heat, and all of us pretend we’ve lost our hearing. I hand her my bowl. “You’ve chosen a good morning to visit, Sarai. I’m not hungry.”

Sarai’s food disappears within moments. I don’t ask her where her parents are, or when the last time she ate was. But her thin arms wrap around my stomach when I remove the empty bowls.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Within minutes, they’re ready to leave. Both my brothers share a tutor with sixteen other children. While the tutor has no training, he completed a few years of study himself, and one of our neighbors suggested pooling a few coins each month for his time.

This might be their only chance at any education at all. In just a few weeks, their hours with the tutor will be replaced with hours training for the Sands. Unless I can find a way to get us away from this empire, they’ll be walking into the emperor’s arena in just a few years themselves. Only after they survive the Sands will they be able to begin learning a trade.

My mouth turns dry. Evren is so weakened by his condition, he can barely lift a sword.

Pushing the thought away, I open the door. “Thanks, Velle.” Gerith grins at me. “I’m sorry I forgot to ask about Sarai.”

“It’s fi ne. Go learn something.”

Evren follows the others. He hasn’t said a word, but his cough has lessened, and I know he’ll ignore any suggestions to stay home and rest, so I press a kiss to his forehead. “Be good.”

He attempts a weak smile, his gaze dropping to the ground. Regret floods me. They were the last words I said to him the day the mine exploded, killing anyone nearby. Evren was far enough from the explosion to escape with his life, but not his health. His lungs were scarred, and he’s crippled by the knowledge that he shouldn’t have been anywhere near the mine.

It wasn’t his fault. He was only eight years old, and our mother had promised me she would keep both of them safe. But nothing I say or do lessens his guilt.

I watch them go, shoving and wrestling as they disappear into the Thorn.

The crystals in the shower are out of aether, so the water is cold. I grimace through it, refusing to wash my hair until I pay for the crystals to be replenished later. After, I pull on leather leggings, a fitted shirt, and my boots. Weapons are next, followed by a thick cloak.

Thankfully, the lock on our door still holds enough aether to keep the apartment secure. Not that we have anything to steal. I turn it, step outside, and immediately begin to shiver in the chilled air.

One day. One day, we’ll go north. To warmth and humidity. Where my brother can breathe easier, and no one knows who I am. Where they can get a proper education. Where I don’t see ghosts around every corner. Where we can start fresh . . .

In the meantime, Fallon is waiting in the Thorn’s small training arena. And if I’m not there to make disparaging remarks about her knife skills, she might become overconfident before it’s her turn in the Sands.

I’m grateful for my cloak, even with the sun on my face. The sun will burn away the worst of the chill within a few hours, but the dampness will remain, as it always remains in the Thorn.

At LeaSt ten people are training today, all of them carefully ignoring one another. Nothing reminds you that you might end up killing your neighbor quite like practicing next to them each morning for years.

I don’t know why I work with Fallon every damned day. She once told me she wants to win the Sands and join the Praesidium Guard. She may have the skill, but she’s not a natural killer. And the Sundering rewards ruthlessness.

I sigh. I train her because if I leave her to her own devices, she’ll bounce into the emperor’s arena with the enthusiasm of a puppy. And she’ll die.

Her footwork is improving, but she still hesitates when forced to use her left hand to swing her sword, as if her body is screaming at her that the movement is unnatural.

“You’re doing it again,” I call.

She spots me and curses. “I’m almost as fast with my left hand as my right.”

“Almost isn’t good enough.” The words are bitter, and I force myself to take a long, slow breath. “Show me your mixed drill.”

With a nod, she turns, her long red hair flying with the motion. Her sword sweeps through the air as she nimbly switches her hands, holding her right arm at her side as if it’s now useless. She pants, gazing at me.

“Better.” I nod.

“Want to spar?”

“I would, but I need to go to Mataras. I’m only here today to remind you that you’re still too slow.”

She glowers at me, and her knuckles turn white around the hilt of her sword. But when her gaze drifts behind me and her cheeks heat, it’s not difficult to guess who she’s looking at.

Carrick.

He’s leaning against the wall at the edge of the training arena, and for the barest moment, I see another man in his place, a hint of a smile curving his lips as he watches me train.

I blink, and it’s just Carrick once more, the silver of his sigil glinting in the sunlight as he pushes tousled blond-brown hair off his face.

“Work on that mixed drill,” I mutter to Fallon.

“I thought I’d walk you home,” Carrick says as I cross the clearing to him.

“I’m not going home.”

He folds his arms. “Then I’ll walk you wherever you want.”

“Carrick.”

“Another body turned up. Heart missing, just like the others. It’s not just mundanes, either. Three sigilmarked have been killed in three weeks. Two of them went missing in the middle of the day.”

I chew on my lower lip. That makes nine bodies since the fi rst death less than two months ago. I’m not surprised Carrick is paying close attention. He knows everything that happens in the Thorn.

“Evren and Gerith—”

“They’re with a group of friends. Those who went missing were alone.”

“Fine.” I turn, striding toward the road. He effortlessly falls into step beside me.

Who would want to do such a thing to the people here? Taking their

hearts would suggest there’s some ritualistic purpose to the murders, and yet it could merely be a fi nal insult from a deranged killer.

Carrick nudges me with his elbow. “What are you thinking?”

I tell him my thoughts, and he casts me an appreciative look. “I’m leaning toward the fi rst option. Taking someone’s heart is timeconsuming. Messy. But the wardens refuse to investigate.”

“Shocking.” I take a left, marching past Perrin’s apothecary and heading toward the main thoroughfare. Years ago, Kas and I used to pick flowers in her garden and sell them to nobles along this road as they traveled back into Lysoria.

“So,” Carrick says, and I ready myself for his next words. He’s so predictable at this point that I could almost mouth them along with him.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“You know I’m not.”

“And don’t you think that’s a shame?”

We’re walking past a bakery, and the warm, inviting aroma of freshly baked bread makes my stomach howl.

Unsurprisingly, the hunger pangs don’t improve my already dark mood.

I narrow my eyes at Carrick. The only reason he’s continuing this line of questioning is because I’m the only woman he knows who doesn’t blush and stutter when he’s around.

“No.”

Ignoring Carrick’s wounded expression, I consider my route to Mataras. The Thorn’s residents rely on a system of favors and debts to get what we need. Leofric owes me a favor, and since Harriston owes Leofric a favor—and Harriston also regularly travels to Mataras to trade for leather—I’m hoping Leofric will get me a ride in Harriston’s cart.

“It’s been years, Velle.”

And just like that, Carrick has crossed a line. My nails cut into my palms and I force my hands to unfist. “Stop.”

Carrick shakes his head at me. “I know you both liked to think you were fated or something. A great love story. All I can see is that he left you, and instead of moving on, you’re frozen in time.”

His words slice and slash, carving away pieces of me. The pieces I need to function.

Of course it would be today of all days when Carrick decides on a full-fledged attack. I pick up my pace, barely avoiding a horse and cart

as the owner curses at me. If I don’t make it to Harriston before he leaves, I’ll have no way to get to Mataras.

My head spins as Carrick pushes me back against the closest wall. “He is never. Coming. Back.”

I shove him in the chest. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“I think part of you still hopes for it.” His expression is agonized.

“Then you don’t know me at all.” If I ever saw Ti again it would take everything in me not to kill him.

Knocking Carrick’s hands away from me, I pivot, stalking back down the street.

“Did you ever think maybe I don’t want anyone? I’m doing just fine.”

He lets out a hoarse laugh. “Fine? I haven’t seen you smile for six years. You’re hard and cold. You can’t just push everyone away for the rest of your life.”

My breath shudders out of me. Carrick takes hold of my wrist, a shark smelling blood. “Life doesn’t have to be this difficult. Marry me, and we’ll leave. We’ll take the twins and go somewhere warm.”

He could make it happen. His father is one of the wealthier residents of the Thorn, but Carrick has never relied on his family’s money. No, he’s worked since he was old enough to dream of getting out of this place.

He’s offering me everything I want. Except I used to fantasize about hearing those words before—long ago, from another man.

I shake my arm warningly, and Carrick lets me go with a rough curse. “I won’t wait for you forever, Arvelle. I want a family someday. I want it with you, but if you’re determined to waste away in this place . . .”

I stop, pushing a strand of dark hair off my face. “Enough.” My voice comes out weaker than I expected. The problem with Carrick is that he knows me too well. He knows how much I hate it here. He knows I’ve always longed to see the markets of Hillian, the fortress of Direcliff, the Sirensong Isles.

But I can see exactly how this will go. I’ll put my trust in him. Worse, I’ll trust him with my brothers too. I don’t have another heartbreak in me. When it falls apart, I’ll fall apart too.

“I’ve got to go.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You’re making a mistake.”

Probably. Sometimes it feels like all I do is make mistakes. Why should this be any different?

“Goodbye, Carrick.” He frowns at me, opening his mouth. “Velle!”

I whirl. And the slow, sickening sensation of doom slides over my body as I meet Gerith’s eyes. His face is so pale he looks gray, his cheeks streaked with tears. He’s panting, leaning over, out of breath from running.

“It’s Ev.”

Chapter Three

I’m sprinting instantly, dimly aware of Carrick and Gerith falling into step next to me. But I’m soon leaving them behind as I hurtle through the streets, dodging mothers with children clutching their skirts, couples walking arm in arm, pickpockets fl ittering through the crowd.

Oh gods. Oh gods, please.

My lungs burn, but I push my knees higher, pump my arms harder.

Something is breaking inside my chest.

No. This is not it. This is not how I lose my brother.

This is not happening.

I slide around the corner, and our home comes into view.

Evren lies slumped next to our front door, gasping for breath. Bran stands a few feet away from him, a thick cloak pulled up over his head, his expression calm as he watches my brother suffocate.

“What did you do?” I demand, aiming for Evren.

“I didn’t touch the child,” the vampire says, his voice dripping with offense.

“Evren. Just breathe.”

Red blotches stain his face, his breaths little more than shallow gasps. He clutches at my shirt and attempts to speak. But he can only achieve a choked wheeze.

If I could, I’d rip out my own lungs and hand them to him.

Gerith drops down next to me, his face white. Behind him, Carrick curses. “We need to get him to a healer.”

His words are useless. I’ve been to every healer in the Thorn and none of them can ease these attacks for longer than a few days. Besides, we don’t have time. This is worse than any attack Evren has suffered through so far. I pull him even closer, as if my proximity can give his lungs the air he needs.

“Would these help?” Bran pulls two lung tonics out of his cloak pocket.

Carrick goes very still. Slowly, he gets to his feet. The vampire

ignores him. Overconfident bastard. I’ve seen Carrick fight, and he might not win, but he would make Bran hurt.

“You know they will. Please, give them to my brother.” I’m not too proud to beg. Not when Evren’s eyes are this wide. Not when he’s staring at his twin as if he’s silently saying goodbye. Not when Gerith is shaking, tears streaming down his face.

Bran says calmly, “I will. Just as soon as you agree to our deal.”

“Deal?” Carrick grinds out.

“I need to present the emperor with a gladian.” Bran leaves out the little detail about being his spy and killing the emperor. “Your choice.”

Carrick’s laugh is bitter, terse. “No.”

“Velle,” Gerith says, taking his brother’s hand.

Evren clutches at my shirt until I meet his eyes. He’s shaking his head frantically at me, still wheezing too much to speak. His lips have a blue tint, the muscles around his chest and neck bulging.

My brother is dying right in front of me.

“Agree to our deal, and your brother is healed,” Bran croons.

Carrick takes a single step closer to him. “Hand over the tonics.”

Bran raises one dark eyebrow. And then he drops one of the vials.

I cry out, but it’s too late. The vial shatters against the ground, glass scattering, the tonic nothing more than a violet pool of liquid on the stone.

Useless. Wasted. Gone.

“Oops,” Bran says. This time, when he smiles, he reveals fang. I recognize it for the threat it is, and I pull one of my knives. One of my silver knives.

His eyes flare, but that smile remains on his face. He believes I’m bluffi ng.

I don’t bluff.

“Drop the last tonic, and I’ll kill you.”

“Your brother will die.”

“But so will you. I have a feeling Evren would like that.”

“So would I,” Gerith says.

Bran holds the tonic higher. “A simple vow.”

Evren slumps in my arms, losing his battle for breath.

This is so much bigger than I’d ever thought. Bran needs me to kill the emperor, or he wouldn’t have gone to this much trouble.

I was outmatched the moment the vampire decided I was going to do his bidding. And if I’d agreed to his deal last night, my brother wouldn’t be close to unconsciousness right now.

I know when my back is against a wall. And I won’t watch my brother die. “Fine.”

Carrick hisses a curse. “Arvelle.”

I ignore him. “Give me the tonic fi rst,” I tell Bran.

He hands it over.

I know the moment I pour it down Evren’s throat that it won’t be enough. But his breathing evens out slightly, and Gerith’s pale face regains a little color as he wraps his arm around his brother’s shoulders.

“Allow me.” Bran bites one of his wrists until blood drips down his arm. When he leans down, pressing it to Evren’s mouth, Carrick retches. Gerith turns green. I ruthlessly pinch Evren’s nose, making him swallow.

He does. Vampire blood won’t cure the disease in his lungs. But it’ll heal the damage this attack has done to his body.

Within a few minutes, Evren’s breathing has evened out, and he’s able to sit up against our front door.

Gerith gets to his feet, bares his teeth, and lunges at the vampire, brandishing a dagger.

One of my daggers. He must have snuck into my room again.

Carrick yanks Gerith off his feet, plucks the dagger from his hand, and throws it to me. I catch it as Bran frowns at them both.

Gerith swings uselessly at the vampire, straining against Carrick’s hold. “One day I’m going to kill you.”

Bran rakes him with an unconcerned look, then turns to me. Even with his heavy cloak, he must have paid more money than I can even imagine for the sun tonic that allows him to be out at this time of the day. Those sun tonics are rumored to turn vampires mad, but Bran certainly doesn’t seem to be suffering.

“We leave in two hours.”

“Two hours?”

“I’ve wasted enough time here. Be ready to leave. And, Arvelle”— he

smiles—“a deal is a deal. If you try to run, I will kill both of your brothers.”

Turning, Bran disappears. The blood drains from Carrick’s face as he releases Gerith.

“What was that, Velle?”

I open my mouth but can’t fi nd a single word. I’ve just dug my own grave.

Dimly, I’m aware of Gerith helping Evren to his feet. Tears slip down Evren’s face as he stares miserably at me.

My lips are numb, but I force my next words out. “Carrick, I need you to stay with them for a little while.”

He takes a step toward me, arms already outstretched. “Don’t do this. Maybe . . . maybe you can ask him.”

Just minutes ago, he was reinforcing that I have no one else to turn to. I let out a hollow laugh. “Even if I could fi nd Ti, do you truly think he would care?”

He left me on the worst day of my life. And a small part of me—a stubborn, cantankerous part I’m not particularly proud of—would rather die than ask him for anything.

I push the thought away. I’m running out of time.

“Look after them until I’m back. Please.”

Carrick nods, and with one last look at my brothers, I break into a run, feet pounding along the cobbled streets. I can’t fall apart. There’s no time. But heat sears my eyes, and my throat swells until each breath burns like acid.

Two hours.

I sprint past taverns and fountains. Past Perrin’s apothecary and the small market where I was supposed to refi ll our aether stones tomorrow. I push through crowds, ignoring curses and yells. I dodge around obstacles, bolt through alleys, until fi nally, nally, I reach the outskirts of the Thorn.

If this is happening—and some part of me is still sure it’s not happening—I have one chance.

Leon.

He still lives near the woods, next to the large clearing where his daughter and I once trained every day for years leading up to our turn in the Sands. Back then, this cottage was charming, with a large veg-

etable garden next to the roses Kassia babied. The roses we used to pick and sell to nobles.

Now, the fence has fallen in places, and the roses . . .

I slow to a walk, attempting to catch my breath. My stomach turns, and a sour, rancid taste climbs up my throat. Once, the twins considered Leon to be their surrogate grandfather.

But that was before I failed.

I force myself to walk up the steps, not bothering to knock. He won’t answer anyway.

A few weeks after Kassia died, I left food by this door. The animals ate it, the man inside too stubborn to take what I was offering. When I’d returned, I hadn’t been able to stifle my bitterness at the waste.

I’d slammed open his door and roared at Leon that the bread had come from my brothers’ dinner that week, and he hadn’t even had the decency to pretend to eat it.

He’d snapped back that I was too cowardly to face him after costing his daughter her life.

The accusation wasn’t anything I hadn’t thought myself. And yet I would’ve rather swallowed poison than hear those words from him.

Leon had stared at me, regret shadowing his eyes, but his blunt chin had jutted out. He’d refused to apologize. That was fi ne. We both knew I didn’t deserve apologies.

But I’d shoved more bread and meat in his cool box. And he’d eaten it. I continued to visit at least once a week. For Kas. Because she would have done the same for me.

And gods, she would have been horrified by the state of this house.

The once vibrant garden is now overgrown with weeds, the paint on the wooden siding is faded and flaked, and the blue shutters Kas loved are now hanging askew.

This house was once Leon’s pride and joy, bought with his winnings from his year in the Sands.

Straightening my shoulders, I walk inside. The cottage smells stuff y, as if Leon hasn’t opened a window in months. His fi re is burning low, a pile of kindling strewn messily on the hearth.

Leon steps into the room; his gray eyes are blurred with sleep, and a pillow crease slices across one cheek. He’s still a large bear of a man, with a wide, stubborn jaw and high forehead. Both his dark hair and

unshaven beard are shot through with silver in places, the sight making my stomach twist.

“I won’t be able to visit anymore,” I say.

Silence stretches between us as he stares at me. Finally, he turns away.

“Fine. I don’t need you here.”

I stare at the back of his neck. His skin used to turn a light umber each summer as he trained us outside, but now, he’s paler than I’ve ever seen him. It’s as if his grief has diminished him somehow. As if it’s sucked the marrow from his bones.

“I’ll be competing in the Sundering.”

The silence grows teeth that gnaw at me. Slowly, Leon turns back. His eyes are no longer blurred. No, now they’re cold gray steel.

Twenty years ago, the emperor made the Sands compulsory for sigilmarked.

Winners of the Sands are strongly urged to join the ranks of the Praesidium Guard. Although others must still undergo rigorous qualification, victors are immediately granted the chance to compete in the Sundering. But for me—and Kas—competing in the Sundering was never the goal. All we wanted was to survive the Sands and fi nally start living the rest of our lives.

My hands begin to shake, and I shove them in my pockets.

“You would disrespect her memory that way?” Leon demands.

Gods, he always knows just where to strike. My throat is so tight, I can barely speak, and I force myself to take a slow, deep breath. “I have to.”

“You have no business getting into that arena.”

“I know. I still have to do it.”

“After every intake, fewer than half of those who compete will still be breathing. Of those survivors, another third will die while training as novices for the Guard.”

I’m well aware of the statistics. And still, my heart falls into my stomach.

“I know this too. It doesn’t change a thing.”

“Get out of my house.”

“Fine. Carrick will look in on you.”

“Out!” Leon roars, and a gust of wind slams his front door wide open. His silver sigil glows, his face reddens, and the tiniest spark of satisfaction lights within me. At least when he’s furious, he looks like he’s alive again.

I stalk toward the door. He shadows my footsteps, unable to leave it alone. “What are you thinking?”

Turning, I stare into his lifeless eyes. And I tell him about Bran. I tell him Bran wants me to make it through the Sundering. I don’t tell him about the other part of my deal with Bran. The part that involves cold-blooded murder. If I’m caught, at least Leon will be able to swear he had nothing to do with it.

Leon leans against the doorframe, steadying himself. “Why would a vampire show up and blackmail you into the Sundering?”

I don’t reply and he narrows his eyes. “It’s a death sentence.”

“Either I go, or my brother dies.”

His eyes turn distant, dazed. “I trained both of you,” he says. “You were two of the fastest with a sword I’d ever seen.”

My throat aches. “I know.”

“And still, my daughter died.” His eyes sharpen. “Now, you’re old and slow, and that ankle is going to give out on you at some point. You will die too.”

“I’m not old.” I feel old.

“We both know arena years aren’t the same as birth years. You walk with a limp when it’s cold.”

I have no idea how he knows that, since he never leaves this house.

“What part of I have no choice do you not understand?”

“Last time you had no choice either.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Oh, I know it’s not the same. You were reckless. Both of you. You thought you could play the game and win—without consequence. When the reality was the game was playing you. And now, you want to try to play that game again. But you’ve lost the spark that made you great. You do this, and you die.”

“I just have to make it through the Sundering.” My words are fast, desperate. “I do that, and my brothers have a future.”

Leon just shakes his head.

“I’ll be fi ne.” I turn to go, throwing one last comment out. A comment I know will burrow deep. “Merrick will train me.”

Stunned silence.

I pick up the pace, taking long strides back down the path.

“Merrick?” Leon is nipping at my heels, likely moving faster than he has in years.

I’m a piece of shit for manipulating him like this. But I have no choice. I am slower, although I’ll fi x that. But I’m also harder. The part of me that was capable of joy was killed when my best friend took her last breath. And any softness I had left fi nished bleeding out the moment I learned Ti was gone too.

Unless Leon trains me, I’m dead. And he’ll do it, because allowing me to go alone would be like spitting on his daughter’s grave.

I’m counting on that. Because I’m a cowardly worm. And because he’s my only chance.

“Arvelle.”

My name is a cold blade, and I turn to face it.

Leon stares at me. He knows exactly what I’ve done. Why I came here. And malice wars with bitter fury in his eyes.

“I’ll think about it.”

Chapter Four

My muscles are trembling with fatigue by the time I make it home. The vampire is once again leaning against our door, Carrick standing next to him, eyeing him distrustfully, my brothers positioned behind his large frame.

The street is quiet, our neighbors nowhere to be seen. But I catch a face pressed to a window in the apartment above ours. When I raise an eyebrow, the face disappears.

I return my attention to my brothers. “Go inside and make sure you’ve got everything you need,” I murmur. “Carrick will help you.”

Carrick’s face darkens further at that, but he follows my brothers into the house.

At this point, I have no leverage. But vampires are sly and cunning. It’s in their nature to ruin lives. A simple word in the wrong place, and I could spend the rest of my life as Bran’s slave.

Bran leans close enough that I can catch the faint scent of blood on his breath. The air around him is several degrees colder, which means he is a direct descendant of a First—one of the vampires created by Umbros himself all those centuries ago.

Typically, the older a vampire is, the more power they have. But that’s not always true. I’ve heard of centuries- old vampires who can barely manage a basic shield, while others just a few years turned will radiate raw, untamed power.

Those who are sired by the Firsts are powerful from the moment they begin to transition. And those who are naturally born of the Firsts?

I shiver. Bran gives me a pleased smile.

“Here are the terms of our agreement: You will enter the Sundering as a gladian. While you’re training with the other gladians, I will attempt to give you information that may help you in your task. You will not strike at the emperor until after the Sundering, when I say it is time. You will not tell the Primus of your plans. You will not warn either him or the emperor.”

He pauses, as if waiting for me to argue, and I stare at him. The Primus is the leader of the imperius—the emperor’s elite cohort.

“I may not be a trained assassin, but I’m not an idiot.”

“Once the emperor is dead, I will heal your brother and release both of them. You may join them in the north.”

“No. Evren can’t wait that long. I want him healed now.”

Bran slowly peels himself away from the door. “And lose my leverage? No.”

“We both know you’ll still be holding my brothers hostage. That’s more than enough leverage.”

His smile is small, pleasant, his fangs tucked neatly away. “A compromise. Your brother’s lungs will be healed once you have completed the Sundering.”

“No.”

His eyes harden. “Yes.”

My nails slice into my palms, and I release my clenched fists before Bran smells blood. He just ensured I can’t throw any of the challenges. I’ll have to win all three in order for Evren to be cured.

I let out a low growl. “There are thousands of people training to be in this exact position. And likely hundreds more who could get close to the emperor. Why did you decide to stalk me?”

He frowns at the word stalk. “Anyone who has made it this far and entered the emperor’s arena is already there for their own reasons. You, however, don’t want to be there. You were never planning to be there. Which makes your hands clean. Exactly what I need for my purposes.”

A chill slides down my spine. Every move I’ve made was to ensure I’d never have to fight for the emperor again. It’s bitterly ironic that those very steps have led me right back to this exact situation.

Can I really become a cold-blooded murderer?

Evren’s face flashes before my eyes, his lips blue, the muscles in his neck straining as he fights for air.

I take a deep breath. Vallius Corvus is a monster. His obsession with conquering and collecting kingdoms to force beneath his own banner has cost countless lives—both in Senthara and across this continent. And when force doesn’t work, he sends his imperius out to persuade foreign rulers to hand over their crowns.

His taxes are crippling. He provides few services to the poorest of his subjects, all while bragging about the progress he has created within the empire.

But most important . . .

He’s the reason Kassia is dead.

Meanwhile, Bran took one look at the Thorn—at my life—and decided I was nothing but a tool he could use for his purposes.

He thinks I’m weak. Broken. Easily manipulated. He’s going to learn otherwise.

To his credit, Bran doesn’t draw it out. He rattles off our amended agreement, then leans down, one cold hand taking my chin and tilting my head with practiced ease. His sharp fangs sink into my neck.

My hand slides instinctively down toward my knife. Bran catches my wrist, squeezing until it cracks.

A scream rips from my throat, and he releases me. “Must you be so difficult about everything?” Sharp teeth slice into his own wrist, and I instantly shake my head, stepping back.

With a sigh, Bran moves too fast for me to evade. He shoves his wrist against my mouth, clamping his hand onto the back of my head and holding me in place.

“Shall I pinch your nose the way you pinched your brother’s?” Bran’s blood pours into my mouth, burning through my body. My wrist cracks again, the bones welding back together, and I cry out, the sound muffled against his skin.

He pulls his arm away, casually sealing his wound with the fl ick of his tongue.

It has been a long, long time since I last drank vampire blood.

Cool sheets. Warm skin. The sharp, coppery taste of my own blood as he kissed me like he would never let me go.

I push the memories away. My entire body is buzzing, my bruises gone. I’d almost forgotten just how miraculously vampire blood heals fresh injuries.

Bran smiles at me, my blood coating his teeth. “Delicious, hmm?”

Fury surges through me. Reaching for my water fl ask, I swish my mouth, spitting leftover blood on the ground between us. “I’ve had better.”

His eyes turn cold. “Some gratitude would not be unwelcome.”

I tuck my water flask away. “For healing the wrist you broke?”

He curls his lip at me. “It’s time to go.”

Bran doesn’t attempt to wrangle an invitation inside, and I slam the door in his face. In the kitchen, Carrick sits slumped at the table,

Gerith and Evren waiting quietly across from him, canvas bags by their sides. They’re pale, shell-shocked. My heart twists.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell them. Ducking into my room, I search the back of the closet for the whispering mirrors I bought six years ago. The mirrors I bought because I missed Tiernon so desperately when he wasn’t around, I wanted to be able to talk to him daily.

My mouth floods with bitterness and I swallow it down, placing one of the mirrors into my bag, along with weapons and clothes.

“Don’t do this, Velle,” Evren says behind me. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, and he stands tall. Thanks to Bran’s blood, he looks stronger today than he has for months. Years.

I haul my bag over one shoulder and hold out my arms. He steps into them.

“It’s going to be fi ne.”

My brother shakes his head, burying his face against my shoulder. When did he get so tall?

“I don’t want you to die.”

I ease him away until I can look down into his face. Something in my chest wrenches at the devastation in his eyes. “I swear to you, I will do whatever it takes to stay alive, Ev. You’re going to go and get healed, and then I’ll come and fi nd you.”

“Do you promise?” Gerith asks, leaning against the door.

“I promise. But if they hurt you—if they go back on their word— run. Look and listen for any opportunity you can. If you need to escape, go. I’ll fi nd you. I’ll always fi nd you. Promise me.”

Both of my brothers look spooked. But they promise.

“Did you talk to Leon?” Evren whispers, his brow furrowed.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m hoping he will come with me.”

“He’ll keep you safe,” Evren says, but his voice cracks. He meets my eyes, and I wrap my arms around him, squeezing tight.

Gerith’s gaze drops to my ankle, his eyes worried.

I wink at him. “I drank vampire blood.”

His nose wrinkles and he gags dramatically. I can’t help but smile. “My ankle feels better than it has in years.”

“But it’s not fi xed.”

“No.” Vampire blood is miraculous for fresh injuries. But my ankle was never set properly by a healer all those years ago.

Gerith gags some more. Evren laughs. It’s forced, but it’s a laugh.

“Vampires rarely give their blood to humans,” I say. “You’re just jealous.”

Leaning over, I hand Evren the second mirror. “Take this. I’ll be able to talk to you every day.” As long as I win enough money to replenish the aether in my mirror.

Three challenges. That’s all the Sundering is. I win the tria proeliis, and I can leave. As long as I kill the emperor too.

I have the strangest urge to burst into unhinged laughter.

Kill the emperor.

The very idea is absurd.

Grabbing my bag, I steady myself and follow my brothers into the main room.

Carrick is waiting, and I gesture for him to follow me into the kitchen.

“If something happens to me . . .”

“It won’t.”

“If it does—”

“I know. I’ll fi nd them and make sure they’ll be safe. I’ve got contacts in the north, and I’m going to try to make sure someone will keep an eye on them. Gods, Arvelle . . .” He swipes a hand through his hair.

“I have to look at this as an opportunity. It’s everything I’ve wanted for my brothers. Evren will be healed. Both of them will be safe, and unless the emperor succeeds in adding Nesonias to his empire, they’ll never have to fight in the Sands.”

“Velle.” He’s looking at me like I’m a ghost.

“As fascinating as this is, it’s time to go,” Bran’s voice comes from the open door behind us.

Carrick leans close. “Keep your head down, your eyes open, and fight for your life,” he mutters.

I nod. “Goodbye, Carrick.”

His face is tight as he watches us leave. And I’m more than happy to go. The last thing I need is anyone else looking at me like I’m already dead.

TraVeLinG BY LeY line is usually reserved for vampires and wealthy sigilmarked who are at least half- crowned bronze—although they occasionally bring their mundane servants along with them. I’ve never

even stepped foot in the nearest ley station, which is three districts north of the Thorn.

Bran is all business, scanning a piece of parchment as we approach the station after sunset. Next to me, Leon is a grim, silent presence, a huge canvas satchel slung over each of his shoulders. He arrived at my house at the last possible second, his expression resigned, his eyes smoldering with fury.

He hasn’t said a word. But he’s here.

Gerith and Evren stare, wide- eyed as we enter the ley station.

The building rises from the ground like a monument. Stone pillars have been carefully etched with sigils that glow gold as we walk by them. The marble beneath our feet is polished to a gleam, the entrance giving way to a huge hall. In the middle of the hall, a statue of Ghaleros dominates the space.

The god of travel and trade towers over us at ten feet tall, his lips curved in a gentle smile. One hand extends forward, holding a coin, while the other clutches a staff topped with a stylized compass. His robes are adorned with his symbols—coins, ships’ sails, carriage wheels. But the most prevalent, carved into his chest, is the symbol for the ley lines—a circle with six curved lines spiraling from the center.

“Come along,” Bran says, and we pass a sigilmarked who pauses to bow his head to the statue before adding several coins to the pile at Ghaleros’s feet.

Bran sneers at the statue. Vampires worship only Umbros, and they enjoy showing contempt for the sigilmarkeds’ gods.

To my right, a group of women walk past the statue. Since they’re sigilmarked—and around my age—they must have fought in the Sands. But from their relaxed body language and easy conversation, it’s almost as if the experience didn’t leave a mark on them. They seem . . . normal. Happy.

Loneliness cuts through me, sharper than the sword strapped across my back. But there are worse things than loneliness. Like having people in your life, trusting that they’ll always be there, and then losing them.

Evren slips his hand into mine—something he hasn’t done for years. Gerith is tense, his own hand in his pocket, where I’m relatively sure he’s hiding another of my stolen daggers.

I could take my brothers’ hands. We could sprint toward the ley line

9780241740026

BOOK ONE IN THE EMPIRE OF BLOOD SERIES

BOW BEFORE THE GOD OF RUIN.

WE WHO WILL DIE

WE WHO WILL DIE

STACIA STARK

WE WHO WILL DIE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four