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CYRUS

His heat is like a dream. Like something that never happened.

Maybe he did dream up the whole thing up. Maybe delirium led him to conjure a version of the Hunter that never existed—one who fucked him into oblivion.

His only real evidence is the tenderness in his body, which fades quickly. Too quickly. When it’s gone, there’s nothing but a strange prickle that dances up and down his spine any time Mezor crosses his thoughts.

Rumours fly of at least two companies returning from the wilds of Hell. The serpents’ dens are so thick they cannot cross the shale, so General Leuther sends the mountain patrol out to meet them. All three return triumphant, lugging meat behind them in huge nets.

Cyrus wrings out the rag he’s scrubbing in a tub of grey water. Half the meat will have spoiled by the time they make it back—which means the Generals will get the best of it, then the officers, then the soldiers. Minor demons will eat the rotten stuff and be grateful, unless they sicken and die.

As a lieutenant, he’s never eaten fresh kill from the feast hall. He makes do with gruel and the dried stuff bound for the storeroom, made for soldiers on the long journey to the Seraphim Wall. It’s better than the scraps. But heat left his reserves empty, and for a moment hunger seizes him.

He scrubs harder. When the kill comes in, he’ll be there. And if some of it goes missing on the way to the slop room, well, he’s the only one who knows the real numbers.

Cyrus wakes early on the morning the three companies are due to arrive, and so does everyone else. He’s made himself scarce since his heat, but he won’t get away with hiding today. Cyrus is the stock-taker—he’ll be expected to take stock when the butchery is done. He can only hope the Quartermaster will be too busy to comment on his absence.

The wall is packed. Cyrus shoves his way through the crowd, making use of his size to squeeze into spaces others can’t fit. When the ragged companies finally stagger into view, the wall erupts in clamor. It’s not a glad noise. They’re hungry, and anyone with eyes can see it’s not enough food for the whole Court. No matter how many have died of sickness or been buried in a tunnel collapse in recent days.

Cyrus pushes his way past the soldiers at the front of the line.

“Let me through,” he demands to General Leuther’s pikemen. Their eyes glance over him at first—he’s just another demon. He puffs his chest out and brings their eyes to the blue and gold coat he wears. “I’m here on official business.”

The nearest soldier scoffs. “What business?”

Another demon shoves at Cyrus from behind. “Think you’re too special to wait like the rest of us, huh?”

Cyrus hisses and straightens up, ignoring the rowdy crowd. “Quartermaster’s business,” he says to the soldier shortly. “Go ahead and keep me out, but you’ll have him to answer to.”

The soldiers lift their pikes and Cyrus hurries past. Shouts of anger follow him down the stairs. He pays them no mind. He might be hated, but no one envies his position. All work, no glory.

He goes straight to the tournament guardroom where the companies will drop their cargo. Major Justus and several of his captains already stand guard outside, and Justus gestures for them to step aside as Cyrus approaches.

“Get inside,” he says, opening the door. He follows Cyrus in.

The room is dark, quiet, and musty. The tournament of souls has been empty since the coup, but this room still stinks of violence. Cyrus shudders.

They don’t have to wait long for the companies to file in. Their nets are full, but the stench suggests little about it is a good haul. It’s certainly nothing like Mezor used to bring in. The demons drop their nets and weapons with a clatter, shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Some are injured. Some have telltale bruising around their eyes that points to sickness. All of them reek of blood and ichor.

They retreat to the far end of the room to shed their armor while Cyrus begins marking down their returns. Outside the shouting rises. Justus looks tense and unhappy.

Cyrus fixes his eyes on the nets.

8 young serpents, condition poor

5 young serpents, condition good

1 adolescent serpent, half rotted

1 creature of unknown origin, equal in size to three young serpents ? —

He prods the beast with his foot. It’s large, its long legs trussed up around a pole to make carrying easier. It has a long, elegant neck and a narrow face, with large, milky eyes. Its body is covered in coarse white hair. He’s never seen a beast like it. It’s been bled and butchered, but from the smell that all happened a while ago.

—condition poor , he writes.

The outside chaos briefly grows louder as the door opens to admit General Leuther himself, followed by his ever-present lackey General Andeolus. On their heels is Quartermaster Magnus. Cyrus steps back from the light, clutching his papers as soldiers and minor demons enter last.

Major Justus salutes. “It’s a miserable haul, sir.”

Leuther surveys the gory results. “It will keep the Generals happy.”

“It’s not enough,” Andeolus laments, ever the doomsayer.

Leuther waves him off. “It’ll have to be enough. We’ll have better hunts when the tunnels are complete.”

“None of these idiots are capable hunters—they don’t know a boulder from a den. It’s a miracle they turned up anything. Talos’s lot are the only half-able ones, and they still swear allegiance to the Grey Company?—”

Justus flinches. Leuther’s hand lashes out and Andeolus yelps as Leuther’s claws catch him across the neck, wounding him. He grabs his neck and lurches backward.

“Enough!” Leuther snarls. “Once I’m crowned, the mountain patrol will bow to me. There will be no more talk of this Grey Company .”

The guards at the door murmur to each other. Frantically, Cyrus jots down the last of his notes. Beyond stock-taking, he has another, more important task—to steal away some of the haul. But it’s only a matter of time before Magnus notices him.

As soldiers move in to carve up the kill, Cyrus shoves his implements back in his coat. A prickle touches the back of his neck. His stomach sinks. Magnus’s eyes are on him, mean and narrow.

“Take this down to the slop room!” Leuther points at the most miserable pile of meat. The minor demons hurry to obey and Cyrus seizes his chance.

He scoops up a bucket and goes to his knees in the gruesome pile, scraping bits of scrap over the lip. When he gets to his feet, Magnus is striding toward him.

“Not you,” he snarls. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I have to take this to the pot—” Cyrus yelps, ducking as Magnus grabs at him. He’s not fast enough.

A bony hand closes around his arm. “Where have you been, lazy little rat? Shirking your duties again? I should send you back to the tunnels.”

The blow sends bright pain exploding over the back of his skull. Cyrus grunts as the bucket swings and hits him in the shins. He struggles, but Magnus’s grip is stronger.

“I’ve done my work,” Cyrus retorts, unable to stop defiance from spilling off his tongue.

“Ungrateful brat!”

The butt of the whip comes down again, bruisingly hard. He bites his tongue. Magnus hits him a third time, then the whip’s long tongue lashes against the stone floor with a crack and he flinches. He hates the business end of the whip most of all.

“I should teach you a real lesson. The whip and a week in the cages. Then you’d learn to obey,” Magnus sneers in his ear. Cyrus cringes away from him. Everything about him is foul—his scent, his voice. “Loathsome little beast. I’ve never trusted you.”

“Magnus!” General Leuther barks. “Where’s the report?”

The Quartermaster grunts. The whip disappears and he thrusts his hand into Cyrus’s coat. For a second Cyrus’s heart thunders with fear— the ledgers . The real ones, the ones showing what the Grey Company have been skimming off the top, are secreted away in his breast pocket. But Magnus’s hand closes around today’s report and he tosses Cyrus aside.

There’s always someone bigger and meaner .

Cyrus picks himself up and grabs the bucket before Magnus is even halfway across the floor. Smeared in serpent blood, his skull aching, he flees the guardroom through the side door.

The passage deposits him into a corridor below the wall. The chanting and stamping comes through the ceiling, muffled. He hurries after the minor demons ahead of him who also carry buckets, all of them eager to get to the slop room—the giant trench where gruel is constantly boiled—before someone discovers where the meat is.

As the demon ahead of him turns the corner, Cyrus pauses. He quickly shucks his coat and pulls off his topmost shirt, then wraps a hunk of the least offensive-looking meat in it. He tucks the bundle back inside his coat on the opposite side from his papers, hoping against hope the blood doesn’t seep through—though they’re so filthy by now, he can barely read them.

He buttons his coat back up and picks up the bucket. The coppery stench of blood fills his nose. Cyrus ignores his throbbing head and the wave of despair that threatens to overtake him and presses on. Despair is a luxury he has no time for.

If he thought for a single moment that life would change after one mind-altering heat, he was obviously a fool.