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“Thisis planned?” he blanched, gesturing to the haphazard collection of strength matches, spilled ale, and jeering courtiers. Oscovko bellowed through it all, stomping his boots and smashing glasses with each victory.

Sorasa kept her own watch on Sigil. The Temur woman drank more deeply of her ale, her smile growing with every win, even as the Treckish soldiers lined up to challenge her.

“Trec and the Temurijon are old enemies, with a long history of rancor and bloodshed,” Sorasa explained out of the corner of her mouth. “Emperor Bhur nearly wiped Trec off the map in the last conquest. The old veterans remember the wars, and the young soldiers are wary to fight alongside us weak, whimpering women.”

At that Dom laughed outright.

“So here we are. The match table is Treckish tradition, a display of friendship as well as strength. Let them see that Sigil is just as good a soldier as anyone in the room, and just as willing to fightwiththem, not against them.”

Dom furrowed his brow, unconvinced. “And this contest will do that?”

“That’s the idea,” Sorasa said.

“I see.”

She could tell by his tone he did not see, and she huffed a despairing breath. For all his years and all his immortal gifts, Domhad less court sense than a peasant child. The machinations and manipulations of a royal court were beyond his grasp, or simply beneath his concern.He wouldn’t survive a week of Amhara training, Elder or not.

“Andry’s doing well,” Dom muttered, nodding down the table.

Indeed the squire had a tally of wins, remaining on the bench even as others were eliminated. But the match clearly didn’t suit him, and after taking down an older soldier, Andry stood back from the table with raised hands. Sorasa had expected nothing less.

“And what of you?” the Elder added, his eyes trailing over Sorasa’s own hands. He lingered on her tattoos, the ones she shared with all her brethren, living or dead. “Did they not teach this in your guild?”

“I’d rather cut a man’s throat than hold his hand,” she bit back, folding her palms away. “Besides, we Amhara are not meant to be remembered. We kill and we disappear. We don’t stand around and beg for praise.”

“Well, you’ll be the first, then,” Dom said, matter-of-fact.

She pursed her lips, confused. “The first?”

He only blinked at her, as if the answer were obvious.

“The first Amhara remembered,” he said roughly, his green eyes boring into her own. “If we can save the realm, that is.”

The first remembered.Sorasa turned the words over in her mind, trying to comprehend them. They seemed to stick together, refusing to come undone, like a tangled knot. Amhara served the Guild, served the legacy of the greatest assassins, served Lord Mercury, served each other, even, but never themselves. Never the singular. Never one above the rest, and especially not above Mercuryhimself. The Amhara valued glory above almost all things, but for the Guild. It was not their way to rise alone, to carry their own names beyond the walls of the citadel. She felt her cheeks go hot. Even thinking about it felt wrong, running up against the teachings hammered into her bone and blood.

Dom continued to stare at her, going quiet amid the chaos of the feast. He waited, a mountain unmoved by a storm.

“It is not the Amhara way,” she muttered, her voice weak.

He shifted, the firelight playing across his face. “You are not Amhara anymore.”

The words felt like a knife in her heart, a killing blow. But also a lifting weight. Her breath caught in her throat, both sensations warring in her mind.

“I have no desire to be remembered,” Sorasa finally said, the words stilted and forced. “Surviving all this will be good enough.”

“Agreed,” he rumbled, going stone-faced. “We’ll make it through.”

Liar,she knew, noting the hard set of his jaw. But Sorasa kept her mouth shut.If the immortal dies, so be it. So long as Corayne lives, the Ward has a chance.

Though that chance is small already.

In her mind, she walked the path ahead of them, through the Gates of Trec and into the Gallish foothills, to a lost temple overrun with Taristan’s foul creatures. It would be a daunting task, with too many variables for even Sorasa to count. She gritted her teeth, fighting off despair before it could set in.

But then a Treckish lord stood from the table. He was easily the biggest person in the room, taller even than Dom, barrel-chestedand formidable, his beard forked into two braids, with thick iron bracelets at each wrist to mark his high status. He was no simpering courtier like the lords in Ascal, strangers to war and hardship. Sorasa sized him up as he walked toward her, his intent clear in his gray eyes.

She sucked in a breath and braced herself. Normally, she wouldn’t think twice about turning down a man’s advances, but she didn’t want to offend anyone either, no matter how annoying they were. They needed the Treckish support. It was a small needle to thread.

But the Treckish lord stopped abruptly, his gaze jumping from Sorasa to Dom beside her. He drew himself up, puffing out his chest, and raised a glass of purple wine in his meaty fist.