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T HE JADED SAINT WAS A MOODY TAVERN FRONTED BY DARK BLUE awnings, flanked on either side by raucous red pleasurehouses.

Indented into the tavern’s creamstone walls were several shallow domed alcoves, each housing a marble statue of the patron saints of wielding.

A jet of everflowing water shot from Quissari’s fingertip, while eternal fire danced behind the eyes of Incinari.

Thunder cracked above Etanari’s head, while red roses sprang from seed to bloom and back again around Aterrari’s feet.

All of the Saints wore tormented expressions, staring at their respective elements with a look of existential horror.

(There was no real reason for this artistic choice, theologically speaking, rather than a desire to lend a certain edginess to the tavern’s aesthetic.

According to Patron legend, the Saints had actually been quite titillated by their own acts of creation.)

Saffron and Levan stood across the street, outside an enchanted quill shop Auria adored.

Arollan Mile flowed with a steady stream of civilians, all of whom avoided looking at the two tall mages in sinister scarlet cloaks.

The fallowwolf’s gaze fixed hungrily on the drinkers outside the Jaded Saint, as though wondering whom to tear to shreds first.

“Are you going to tell me who Zares is?” Saffron asked, disquiet swirling in her gut. “Or at least why they’re important? Auria will need something to go on.”

“Not if she’s as skilled a researcher as you claim.”

His tone signaled this was a closed matter.

And so Saffron sought victory elsewhere, a tiny grapple for control, no matter how small. A reminder that she was not the kingpin’s dog, nor the fallowwolf trotting at Levan’s heel. She was a powerful mage with her own agency, and she would not fall into step like a leashed animal.

“I don’t think I should wear the scarlet cloak,” she said matter-of-factly. “Auria won’t cooperate if she knows I’m working with you.”

Levan grunted his assent. “Fine.”

“And you should wait outside. There’s a chance you’ll be recognized—Auria has a powerful memory, and if your face has ever appeared in connection with Bloodmoon activity, she will know. She has your father’s file memorized cover to cover.”

At this suggestion, Levan looked at her incredulously. “Let you go in alone? And leave you to say whatever you want to your old Silvercloak brethren?”

“Not whatever I want.” Saff tapped at the brand. Despite the salve, it was raw and tender to the touch, the wound still bright and new. “Or I’ll perish instantly. I have no choice but to act in the Bloodmoons’ favor.”

“You could just not do anything. You could go in and discuss, I don’t know, the new translation of the Saints’ manifesto, and I’d be none the wiser.”

“And lie to you?” Saff gave him a pointed glare. “Wouldn’t that constitute a betrayal?”

His jaw hardened. “You’re not going in alone.”

Saffron folded her arms. “If you’re happy with Auria immediately clamming up and refusing to give you the information you want—or even trying to arrest you there and then—you’re most welcome to join me.”

“You’ve seen how far I’ll go to convince—”

“We went through torture training in the Academy, and only three of us passed first time: me, Auria, and Sebran. You will never break her with pain or fear. You kept me alive for a reason. Because you need me to coax.”

The street felt muted around them. Levan appeared to be grappling internally between logic—what was best for the mission—and a desire not to cede any ground. He wanted her afraid for her life, not ordering him around.

Finally, he relented, clenching his teeth. “Alright. But don’t go thinking you’ll often call the shots like this.”

“Right. Tight collar, tighter leash.” She put on a brooding voice. “ I will hunt down everyone you have ever loved and bleed them dry in front of you. Et cetera.”

Levan’s face darkened. “As you wish. Sen collaren. ”

With a swish of his wand, his leather belt unlooped from around his waist and leapt toward her throat. She blocked it with a swift, practiced forearm, and it clattered to the cobbles.

“Careful,” said Saffron, grinning broadly. “You don’t want to turn me on, do you?”

He squared his tight blade of a body toward hers, though his stare was fixed somewhere over her head.

“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to prove you’re not afraid of me.

You’re cracking big jokes so you won’t feel small.

You’re trying to wrest control of the situation, but the first thing you need to learn is that I control everything . ”

Well. He’d certainly gotten the measure of her fairly fast.

Saffron boxed her shoulders, grateful for the fact she stood at six feet tall. “I’m sure your father would love to hear that. Where I come from, that’s called insubordination.”

Something flashed behind those dead eyes, and for the first time, she got the impression her barb had landed. “Who do you think feeds my father all his information? Who do you think tells him exactly which strings to pluck?”

“Whatever gives you a reason to get out of bed in the morning,” Saffron said blandly.

“I’m going in. Maybe you could peruse some quills to pass the time.

” She shrugged off her scarlet cloak and handed it to him, as though he were a cloakroom attendant.

“You seem the type to write long, flowery letters to loved ones.”

As soon as her back was turned, he uttered the low sling of a curse.

Warm leather clamped around her throat. Levan yanked her backward so hard she lost her balance and slammed to the cobblestones, pain shooting up her wrists and forearms as her hands broke her fall. He knelt beside her, jamming his wand beneath her chin as his father had done mere hours earlier.

“You’re not as clever as you think you are,” he whispered, breath tickling her ear.

“Because you know what you’ve just done?

You just told me who didn’t pass torture training on their first try.

You’ve exposed your cohort’s weak spots.

And now my father will know exactly where to press if you don’t stay in line.

We can torture Naszi, Flane, and Villar for information, knowing that their torture will hurt you . Two ravens, one rock.”

The belt dropped to the cobbles like a dead adder.

Levan offered her a hand up, an impenetrable look on his face.

As their gazes finally locked, heat prickled across her cheeks, up the back of her neck.

Loathing, or exhilaration, or a deep, dark mortification at the way he’d so effortlessly collared her on the street like a rabid dog.

He had won control, had won power, as he had so many thousands of other times in his sinister life.

And now those piercing blue eyes looked down on her from above, glittering with victory.

The only thought that steadied her, that mitigated the shame, was the image of that forked killing spell driving into his stomach.

She would overpower him eventually. She just had to bide her time.

Ignoring his outstretched palm, Saff climbed to her feet and stalked across the pale flagstones of the wide, tree-lined boulevard that was Arollan Mile.

The long, leafy stretch leading up to the Palace was named for the house that currently sat the throne, though it hadn’t been anything but Arollan for four generations.

At the center of the boulevard sat a vast water fountain in the shape of a sundial, mosaicked with tiles of sapphire and emerald.

It was after darknight, but the sundial still somehow had a shadow.

A young mage in a plain black Practer’s cloak idly manipulated the impossible shadow, winding it back and forth as though toying with time itself.

A pair of older Augurests with shaven heads and eyelid tattoos scowled at him as they passed, and one of them looked downright frightened.

Since the Dreadreign and the subsequent slaughter of Timeweavers, tension between the Augurests and the Patrons was constantly simmering below the surface of the world.

Saffron couldn’t see that changing in her lifetime.

Naturally, there wasn’t an Augurest to be seen inside the Jaded Saint.

In the dimly lit tavern, a bard sang an angsty tune of love and war.

Dark ivy hung from the ceiling in tangled knots, and pale spores floated hazily across the air.

The center of the wooden floor was carved with the Saints’ symbol—an overflowing chalice inside a laurel wreath—and more rough-hewn marble statues were dotted around the tavern.

Vesari, the patron saint of brewing, held a tray of complimentary flamebrandy shots by the entrance, which was probably bordering on blasphemy in the eyes of more devout Patrons.

Thankfully, Saff had never been all that pious.

She grabbed a shot and tossed it down her throat, relishing the after kick of spice and warmth.

Next, she performed her ritualistic scan of the room.

There were two exits—the front entrance she came through and a small door behind the bar that led to the alley—and a couple of potential threats, in the form of overly drunk patrons and the furtive glances of a known pickpocket.

But none of these threats were as great as the one seared into her flesh.

Her former cohort sat in the far corner, lounging in a booth, Auria and Tiernan laughing carelessly. In their gleaming silver cloaks, they all looked relaxed and proud, content in the knowledge that they were doing right by Atherin, by the world.

And now Saff was dragging them down into the city’s dark underbelly with her.

She strode over with a false smile plastered over her face.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, barely able to hear her own voice over the bard’s song.

Nissa blinked up at her in surprise, her hands clutching an empty flamebrandy tumbler.