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The Elder drew closer to her, so close she could hear the feral click of his teeth.

“If you do something foolish and get yourself killed,” he hissed, “know you could’ve just ended the Queen instead.”

Sorasa thought about pushing him into a gutter. Instead, she scowled at him, lip curled.

“That is a very strange way to tell someone you don’t want them to die.”

His face twisted, his scars catching the edge of the lantern light.

“If I wanted you dead you would be a skeleton in Byllskos,” he hissed back.

Her teeth clenched. “And you would still be chained up in the bowels of Erida’s dungeon, if not dead a thousand times over by now.”

To her surprise, Dom slowed next to her, hemmed in by the walls of an alley.

“Yes,” he said, looking her over. A muscle ticced in his cheek. “Yes, I would be.”

The admission felt like an apology and Sorasa nodded once, accepting it with little fuss. She had the energy and inclination for little else.

“Copper flag. Black wing,” she said again, turning to move.

His reply was barely a whisper.

“Thank you for saving her.”

It takes a great deal to make an Amhara lose their balance. Sorasa whirled too fast, almost slipping on the loose stones of the alleyway. Her eyes widened against the dim light, trying to see a little more of Dom’s shadowed face.

He stared back, unmoving. His pulse thrummed in his throat, a vein throbbing with every pound of his stupid, noble heart.

She swallowed hard, her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.

“This isn’t the time for that, Dom.”

The Elder ignored her.

“Corayne would have died in Gidastern if not for you,” he said. “You saved the realm, Sorasa.”

Too many emotions laced his words, each one easy to see as it flashed across his face. Gratitude, shame, regret. Pride. Respect.

Above all things, respect.

“You sound like an idiot,” she snapped.

Even so, her throat tightened. No one had looked on her in such a way in all her life. In the Guild, there was only success or failure. Success was expected, never rewarded. Never regarded. There were no accolades for the assassins, only the bite of another tattoo, and another contract given. Absently, Sorasa’s hand trailed for her only touchstone.

But the Amhara dagger was gone, sacrificed to a burning tower and a devouring queen. She had nothing but her own mind. And Domacridhan.

“You saved the realm,” Dom said again, his voice carrying.

Her hand closed into a fist.

“Not yet.”

Wayfarer’s Port was chaotic in the best of times, the streets crowded with all manner of folk. Priests, thieves, merchants, smugglers, runaways, foreign diplomats. Sails of every color, flags of every kingdom, shouts in every language of the Ward. As they crossed the Moonbridge, arcing over the Fifth Canal, Sorasa breathed a low sigh of relief. Neither she nor Dom would stick out. They were just two more weary travelers in the throng, chewed up and spit out by Ascal.

Or so Sorasa thought.

They were only steps from the port island, caught up in a throng of pilgrims, when the horns sounded.