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So he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and walked in the other direction, away from the crime scene where Alessi ruled, and away from the district he had just started to feel almost comfortable calling home.

Because, like her, he also needed time—though for an entirely different reason. It was beyond foolish to walk the streets like this, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that the murderer had just killed and that the attacks weren’t random.

Whatever was happening, he was safe.

And he hated himself for even thinking that.

His footsteps echoed on the cobblestoned streets as he made his way through Dameral, the lone sound in the empty night. He didn’t let himself think about the way, just went where his feet took him, following the route that was imprinted in his soul.

A route he hadn’t walked in months.

He walked down the steep side road that wound down the hill of Dameral, his pace as steady and even as the heartbeat in his chest, following the road down towards the piers. Not the docks where the merchants’ ship came and traded, bringing goods in and out of Aeravin—no, he had left that behind with Alessi.

But the little strip of seafront that the Unblooded had been able to hold onto for themselves. A jutting piece of land with a rocky shore and steep inclines, where small-time fishermen eked out a living hauling in daily catches and prayed that their little dinghies wouldn’t crash against the rocks.

Towards the little outcropping that had become the closest thing the Unblooded had to a graveyard. If Aeravin could even be said to have a graveyard.

All bodies were burned in the end—Blood Workers and Unblooded, nobles and peasants. For the price of the blood in the body, a family could have their loved ones cremated and the ashes would be returned to them to do with as they wished.

Some kept them—a reminder of the loved one they lost. Most, though, returned them to the earth or to the water.

The outcropping was deserted. Of course it was. Midnight had come and gone, slipping away to the bleak hours when all sensible people were already abed. And even if it weren’t so late, no Unblooded was foolish enough to go out alone anymore.

None but Samuel Aberforth.

He climbed the thin, sandy path in his fine shoes, uncaring of the damage the dirt and stones did to the fine leather, savoring the harsh whip of the sea wind against the skin, brine on his tongue and salt in his eyes. It was a precarious climb, but the view at the top was spectacular.

Behind him lay the city of Dameral in all its glory. A city of blood and steel, of finery and tatters. There were buildings that stretched up to the skies, built of brick and marble, that contained the future of Blood Working, and tenement houses of wood and glass, barely standing, where the Unblooded lived.

It was a city of contradictions, of flaws, of pain and beauty and a resilience that Samuel admired. A city that he loved and hated in equal measure.

Before him lay the sea—wild and unstoppable, crashing against the cliffs and chipping away at the stone, smoothing it bit by bit, year by year. The slope down was sharp and slick, stained grey by the ashes of so many Unblooded who had been cast back to the ocean, with nowhere else to go.

Ten years ago, Samuel had first come here to scatter his mother’s ashes and to make a promise to himself and to his mother, for everything she had done for him.

He had broken that promise many times over, and for what?

Sinking to his knees, he hung his head, letting the spray of water and salt soak into his clothes, his skin, freezing him to the bone. He deserved it, for everything he had done and become. For all he did and didn’t do.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, to no one at all.

For there was no one there to hear him. No one to absolve him of his guilt. He had become everything his mother feared, and there was no going back.

Pushing himself to his feet, he glanced once more towards the ocean—then turned away.

He knew he’d never be back again.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Shan

Shan stared at the invitation from the King in her hand, the weight of the paper comforting despite the words that crossed the card, written in bold, clear strokes. She had been expecting it all night, ever since the last body with its gruesome message had shown up, since the details of that murder scene had leaked immediately, since the rumors had spread throughout Dameral like a wildfire, consuming everyone along the way.

Blood and steel, the reports were in the morning papers.

She should have gone directly to the King. She should have pulled Samuel more firmly into her investigations. She should have hit the streets, searching for more clues to tie these newly dead together and discover the truth behind their shadowy lies.

But instead, she had focused on her brother. She had returned home, scouring through every bit of information she had, looking for something—anything—to absolve him.