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“The Amhara took you from a village in Madrence, somewhere on the coast.” She ran her tongue over her teeth, as if savoring a delicious taste. “You used to whimper its name.”

“We may have different pasts, but our future is the same,” Luc answered stiffly, reciting the old Amhara teaching like a prayer. “We serve the Guild, and its lord.”

The others echoed his sentiment. “We serve” sounded among them. Sorasa even felt the words on her own lips, begging to be spoken. She snatched them back.

In the center of the clearing, Dom shifted toward his sword, his movements so slow and silent, near imperceptible.

“I used to envy you, Luc,” Sorasa breathed, taking a step toward him.

Luc did not move, unbothered by her closeness. He knew her measure, and she knew his.

“You envy me still,” he said, shaking his head.

“You were so lucky. You remembered your family, your home. Something outside the citadel walls.” Sorasa feigned a smile of her own, riling him. “I never could.”

“We have only one family, you and I,” Luc growled, his black eyebrows drawn together. Then, to her surprise, he put out a hand, the sun on his palm facing her. “Let us bring you home.”

He’s mocking me,she thought, her cheeks going red as anger flared in her chest. Her ribs itched and she snarled.

“Oh, Luc, I carry your home with me wherever I go.”

She violently pulled her tunic aside, showing the long design inked into her skin. It ran the side of her body from ribs to hip, oil black tattooed on bronze skin. Most of it was beautiful, her name and her deeds, her great glories and achievements laid out in a trophy no one could ever take away. The script was Ibalet, the tongue she’d chosen, and something more ancient, the tongue of the Amhara long dead. She felt a dozen eyes run along the tattoo, tracing each letter. The assassins all had ones just like it, their own ribs marked and inked.

On the ground, Dom stared too, his emerald gaze roving over her exposed ribs and stomach. It wasn’t difficult to guess at the Elder’s thoughts.Here is a lifetime of death written in my skin, impossible to ignore or forget. Here is everything he hates in me made flesh.

The wind picked up, chilling her skin, but Sorasa refused to shiver. She wanted them to see it all. She wanted them to remember the last time they’d seen her, pinned to the floor of the citadel atrium.

Luc’s eye snagged on the place where her abdomen met her hip, muscles flowing taut and coiled. The last piece of her tattoo was not beautiful, nor intricate. The final lines were half carved, made of ink and scar.

Osara.The word was a brand in her flesh and her mind.Osara. Osara.It burned still, naked to the world and a dozen eyes, her shame and failure laid bare. Sorasa wanted to scream.

It was Kojji who held me down, his knee between my shoulder blades.Pain flared in Sorasa’s memory.And Agathe kept her dagger to my throat, a breath away from slicing me open.

“You all watched while this was made,” she breathed, her voice going ragged.

Luc nodded, slowly pulling his eyes up her ribs, over the ink, through her history, until he reached her face. “I remember,” he said. “We remember.”

Sorasa Sarn did not expect an apology from any Amhara. She knew them, and herself, too well for that. They would never show regret and never speak against the Guild. Neither would she. She ached for it still, even now, when every Amhara blade in the world was set against her.

The wind stirred the trees again, shaking the branches. The Amhara stood out more sharply, unmoving against the wind, their dark forms anchored in place. Sorasa’s grip loosened on her tunic, and the soft, worn fabric fell back into place. She took a steadying breath, tasting death in the air. She glanced at Dom again. His chest rose and fell as he heaved a breath of his own. His sword remained at his side, the massive blade all but begging to be drawn.

“And you remember too,” Luc said, closer. “Lord Mercury can be bought.”

Sorasa barked a true laugh, in spite of everything. “Name his price, then.”

“Walk away now, Sarn,” Luc said sharply, every word a knife. “Leave the Elder, leave the Cor girl. And be welcomed back.”

She laughed again.

“I’m supposed to trust your word, Luc?” she spat. “I’d sooner kiss a jackal.”

“That can be arranged,” one-eyed Selka rasped from the edge of the clearing. A few yards away, Jem laughed.

Luc silenced them both with a twitch of his fingers.

“It is written in citadel stone. Your pardon,” he said. “And Lord Mercury sent a token of goodwill. It will grant you safe passage.”

Then he slipped a hand into his leathers, grasping for something. Sorasa braced for his dagger, the same one they all carried, black leather and bronze.A token of goodwill,she thought, scoffing to herself.Lord Mercury sent you to slit my throat. No more, no less.