Rhalir’s answer came at once. “The Underveins cut the city in half when the Spire went down. Civilians were challenged by lack of access to foodstores. We’ve had supply routes where we can. The earth remains unstable. We have had several tremors violent enough to take down buildings.”

  Catherine stared at him. “I asked what I am missing.”

  Rhalir frowned, then checked the expression before it could go any farther. “As Warden Sena will no doubt be willing to explain, Elder David is handling Dagorlind supply agreements. He negotiates mainly with High Glinnel Andrew, but negotiations have proven difficult. We have also allied with a small but loyal group of Brighthand led by Captain Callahan of the city guard, who have been instrumental in keeping the peace with the remainder of their order.”

  Catherine’s gaze slid to the slate on the table, where Sena had written the day’s routes, then crossed them out as lanes failed.

  “You write for him?” Catherine asked, still not looking directly at Sena.

  “I write for the city,” Sena said, and she heard the edge in her own tone too late.

  Catherine turned her head a fraction.

  “Your Glinnel seems unwell,” Catherine said.

  Hellen froze with the cut at her lips, her eyes glassy and wide. Sena pressed a hand to Hellen’s shoulder.

  Catherine’s gaze steadied on Sena’s hand before shifting away. “One would think a Glinnel would travel with an escort,” Catherine said. “Especially in a city where Brighthand are hunting antlers.”

  “Brighthand cornered us,” Sena replied. “In an alley.”

  “We cleared them,” said one of Catherine’s soldiers from the corner by the window. The words carried no pride; it was a simply stated fact.

  Catherine nodded. Her eyes returned to the shelf by the washbasin, to the two remaining cups, to a folded shawl draped over the back of a chair by the hearth, worn soft along the edges. A second cloak hung on a peg behind the door.

  She didn’t comment on any of it.

  Rhalir tried again. “The city needed someone to coordinate. Sena stepped in.”

  Catherine’s gaze snapped to him with a sudden focus. “You’ve had time to appoint a Warden,” she said, “and you’ve had time to house a Glinnel.”

  Hellen’s breath snagged, her knuckles going white on her cup.

  Rhalir’s voice stayed even. “Hellen came to us to assist with recovery efforts after the Spire fell. She has operated as a central point of contact between the Glinnel and the Ashborn, more recently taking on more subtle information-gathering roles.”

  “Information gathering,” Catherine echoed. “One might think you’d choose a Glinnel with a hardier constitution.”

  Hellen swallowed and tried to speak. “I – there were alarms – I went –”

  Her voice broke.

  Sena couldn’t take it anymore. She eased the bag from Hellen’s shoulder, then reached past Hellen and pulled the torn veil from the pins that still dangled in Hellen’s hair. She brought the bowl of pins closer, finding the longest pin and the cleanest edge of cloth.

  Hellen lifted her chin in surrender, eyes dropping, as if allowing Sena to fix her veil was another humiliation, but a necessary one. Sena pinned the veil back from Hellen’s face and secured it under the remaining comb, quick and sure. She had done it before. Hellen had let her.

  When she finished, Hellen inhaled a longer breath, her shoulders lowering a fraction.

  Catherine watched all of this with cold interest before stepping further into the room at last. She stopped at the table and placed her gloved fingertips on Sena’s slate.

  “How many runners do you have,” she asked, “that answer to you.”

  Sena’s mouth went dry again. “Six who come when I call,” Sena said. “A dozen who come when they can.”

  “And how many answer to Captain Rhalir,” Catherine asked.

  Rhalir didn’t flinch. “Enough.”

  Catherine’s gaze held hid for the first time since they’d entered. “Enough is not a number, Captain.”

  Rhalir’s voice stayed controlled. “We’ve lost people.”

  “Then speak plainly. How many?”

  Rhalir gave her the number. Sena watched Catherine’s eyes narrow, doing the math without writing it down.

  Catherine lifted her hand, and one of her soldiers at the door leaned in. “Send word,” she said. “I want the west lane secured within the hour. I want Brighthand disarmed, and cut down where they resist. I want their captains presented to me alive if possible, including this Callahan. And find High Glinnel… what was his name? Andrew? He must be held captive until I summon. That is all.”

  The soldier left at once.

  Catherine’s orders continued as if she had always been here. “Post a pair at the stairwell. A pair on the roofline. No one enters this building without being searched.”

  Rhalir’s expression tightened, almost imperceptible. Sena saw it anyway. This was their space. Catherine had taken it in the span of a sentence.

  Catherine’s eyes returned to Sena. “How long have you been using these quarters as your command post?”

  Sena’s mouth opened, then closed. Any answer would be a confession. She chose the truth that sounded the least like intimacy.

  “Since shortly after the Spire fell,” she said.

  Catherine’s gaze moved past Sena to Hellen. “And you,” Catherine said. “How long have you been here?”

  Hellen’s eyes flicked to Rhalir, then back to Catherine. She tried to speak again and managed a few words this time.

  “After the Spire fell, there was another quake that took the Glinnel dormitories,” she explained. “Since… since then.”

  Catherine’s eyes slid to the shawl on the chair, to the third cup, to the pins in the bowl.

  Catherine turned back to Rhalir. “You called Elder David a liaison,” she said. “Does that mean he answers to you now?”

  Rhalir’s gaze stayed level. “He answers to the Warden.”

  Catherine nodded. “Then here is what will happen next,” she said. “I will receive your report in full. You will provide names. You will provide numbers. You will provide the location of every remaining Brighthand captain who believes he can act without consequence.”

  Catherine lifted her hand toward the doorway. One of her soldiers stepped out and held the frame like a post. “Bring runners,” Catherine said. “Two Brighthand. I want witnesses who can repeat instructions and can enter Brighthand strongholds to relay messages.”

  The order went out. Footsteps sounded in the landing. A runner’s voice rose in the corridor and was cut off at once. Someone was guided in, then another. Within moments, the outer room held more bodies than it could comfortably contain. Cloaks brushed the table edge and boots scraped the boards. Sena saw familiar faces among the Brighthand, eyes wide, mouths tight, trying to read which way the city had tipped.

  One of them was Reginald, the Brighthand who was bonded to Tessa, the one who had so gently cared for her after she’d been attacked in the streets.

  He looked worse than he had in the room with Tessa. His damp hair clung to his temples. His eyes fixed forward with the stubbornness of a man trying to keep a brittle spine intact. A few days ago he’d taken a glass from Tessa’s shaking hands and said he’d hold it until she was ready. He had tried to make gentleness look not only possible but ordinary in a city that punished it.

  Catherine addressed the room, level and unhurried. “Brighthand containment,” she said. “Any Brighthand who attempts to rally a crowd against my soldiers will be cut down. Any Brighthand who draws steel will be cut down. Any captain who refuses to surrender his men will be cut down. Take these terms back to your ranks, and understand: there is only one path to survival, and that is in peaceful, immediate, and complete surrender. Is that understood?”

  Reginald’s head snapped up. “You can’t –”

  Catherine didn’t turn toward him. She lifted two fingers, a small and careless gesture, like she was brushing lint off her sleeve.

  One of her soldiers drove a fist into Reginald’s stomach with enough force that he folded at the waist, air spilling out of him in a hoarse burst. His knees hit the boards. He tried to inhale and couldn’t find the next breath.

  “You may consider that small mercy the extent of my patience, bellringer.”

  Sena stopped forward before she could stop herself. “Lady Catherine –”

  Catherine’s hand stayed raised. Her eyes remained on the Brighthand in the doorway. Reginald gagged and tried to speak anyway, one hand braced on the floor. “Warden Sena – she –”

  The soldier kicked him hard in the ribs and Reginald collapsed onto his side. Two hands caught him under the arms and hauled him upright as if he weighed nothing. His boots dragged against the boards as they pulled him toward the door.

  Catherine turned her head at last, gaze sliding to Reginald as he was dragged past.

  “Execute him in the street,” she said. “I want the sound to carry.”

  Hellen rose so fast her stool scraped the floor. The bond surged, fear and outrage tangled together until Sena’s own blood turned hot. Hellen’s hands lifted, empty and pleading.

  “No,” Hellen said, voice breaking and finding itself again. “Lady – no. He hasn’t –”

  Sena heard herself speak over Hellen without intending to. “Stop. This Brighthand saved a Kelthi woman from an attack on the street. He is a loyal friend to our cause.”

  Catherine’s eyes snapped to Sena, and for the first time since entering her attention landed on her fully, hard and direct. It pinned Sena in place more effectively than hands on her arms.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “You give me orders now?” Catherine asked. The words carried amusement, and beneath that sat the rusty teeth of threat.

  Reginald made a choking sound as they dragged him through the doorway. His eyes found Sena. There was no accusation in them, only panic and the stunned betrayal of a man who believed decency counted for something.

  Sena moved again, placing herself in the line between Catherine and the door, even though the action was likely meaningless and possibly even hostile.

  “This man is one of Callahan’s,” Sena said. “He and his fellows have assisted us with food distribution, guarding our supplies and our people, and have operated as ambassadors between Ivathi citizens and the Ashborn. If you kill this man you send the message to all the Brighthand that allying themselves to our cause carries the threat of death from within.”

  Catherine’s gaze didn’t waver.

  “Bring him back,” she said at last.

  Relief hit Sena so hard it made her dizzy. She didn’t let it show on her face. Hellen sagged a fraction, one hand braced on the table edge.

  Catherine watched that relief pass through them, watched the way Sena held her ground. “So there is something of a leader in you, after all. For now you will set that skill aside. As of this moment, You will relinquish your duties as Warden and return acting command to Captain Rhalir.”

  The Brighthand runners gasped. Rhalir’s gaze stayed fixed on Catherine. Sena waited for him to refuse, to protect the structure they’d built out of the rubble. He did neither. The moment stretched long enough for Catherine to take it as consent.

  She had done this in front of the Brighthand intentionally. So they would return to their fellow with the message that Sena was no longer Warden of Ivath.

  She turned to Rhalir as if Sena had been resolved into a useful category.

  “Now, Captain Rhalir,” Catherine continued. “This Callahan. Can he be trusted to enforce my terms with the rest of the Dagorlind?”

  Rhalir nodded. “Callahan can be trusted.”

  “Then we will send Sena’s pet Brighthand to relay the message personally.” They dragged Reginald back into the room. “Your act of decency has been noted, Brighthand, and with that barest measure of moral fiber your life is purchased. I trust you remember my terms as given to you? Find Captain Callahan if he still lives. Relay my terms, and this further: The Holy Order of the Brighthand is hereby disbanded. He will issue an order of surrender, and then, if he wishes to save the lives of any under his command, he will obey my summons directly. Escort him here. Do you understand?”

  Reginald nodded. “Yes,” he said.

  “You will address me as Lady Catherine or My Lady, Brighthand,” Catherine said.

  “Yes, Lady Catherine.”

  “Off with you.”

  Reginald met Sena’s gaze with a complex flash of gratitude and betrayal, and then he slunk down the stairs with the other runners, all with their own messages.

  Catherine continued issuing orders, as if the room had never been interrupted by a man being broken and dragged toward death.

  Once the runners spilled down the stairwell and the doorframe cleared, Catherine turned her attention back to the three of them as if the rest of the room had been a demonstration for an audience and this was the real work.

  “Now,” she said, and the word landed with finality. “We return to what really matters.”

  Sena stood near the table, hands curled at her sides, pulse still running hard from watching Reginald evade his end. Hellen kept her eyes on the table. Rhalir’s posture stayed composed, but Sena could see the strain in the set of his shoulders, the way he was calculating routes and consequences while Catherine occupied his space.

  “A Glinnel is a strategic asset,” Catherine said. “She is also a beacon. Brighthand will hunt her. Dagorlind will attempt to reclaim her.”

  Hellen’s fear spiked and Sena stepped closer, putting herself between Hellen and Catherine’s nearest soldier.

  “We’ve kept her safe,” Sena said. “She’s been a conduit to the Dagorlind when Elder David cannot reach them. You take her away from us, you sever a line you haven’t yet mapped.”

  “You kept her in a room that functions as a command space,” Catherine replied. “You have kept her beside a Warden whose authority hinges on persuasion.”

  Sena’s cheeks burned. She forced herself to stay even. “Persuasion is how we’ve kept civilians alive, Lady Catherine.”

  “It is also how you’ve kept Brighthand comfortable,” Catherine said. “Comfort is not control. Hellen will be guarded by my soldiers. She will be housed in a secure location. She will not remain mistress to a Captain under my charge. We don’t make wives of the conquered.”

  Hellen’s eyes flashed with shame and wounded pride.

  Sena nearly put a hand on Hellen’s shoulder, but she stopped, knowing Catherine was watching for exactly that.

  “She is not Rhalir’s mistress,” Sena said.

  Catherine glanced at Sena’s hand, then back to her face. “Ah, of course not. She’s yours.”

  Sena’s breath caught. “That’s not –”

  Catherine raised a hand toward her soldiers. “Take the Glinnel,” she said.

  Two soldiers moved at once, one Kelthi and one human. They came from either side, leaving Hellen nowhere to turn. She stood anyway, the stool scraping the boars. Her cup tipped, water spilling across the table. She made a small sound, apology and panic braided together, and reached for the cup as if fixing the mess could fix what was happening.

  Sena stepped between them. “No.”

  The human soldier stopped with his hand half raised, waiting for Catherine’s orders.

  Catherine’s eyes stayed on Sena. “Move.”

  “Don’t make a spectacle of locking away the Glinnel,” Sena said. “They are not soldiers.”

  “Remove Sena Haloisi from the path,” Catherine said, and her tone suggested she was asking for a chair to be shifted.

  Hands closed around Sena’s arms before she could take a breath to brace. They gripped her bicep and forearm and turned her away from Hellen, forcing her back a step. Sena fought the instinct to thrash, aware of the room watching, aware of her old life rising in her muscles, the life where she let herself be handled, to make it easier to survive.

  “Rhalir,” she snapped. “Tell them to stop.”

  “Lady Catherine, this is unnecessary –”

  Catherine’s soldiers shifted toward Rhalir, angling their bodies so any forward motion would become a choice that turned into blood on the floor.

  Catherine didn’t look at Rhalir, keeping her eyes on Sena, and Sena saw the point of it. Catherine wanted Rhalir to choose between keeping a line with his own people and protecting the freedom of a Glinnel.

  Hellen’s voice came out thin. “Rhalir – Sena, please.”

  Sena twisted toward her, fighting the soldier’s grip hard enough that pain bit into her arm. “Let her go!”

  Catherine spoke, and the words were a blade held flat against Sena’s throat.

  “You are not her keeper.”

  It was no threat of death or violence. But it erased her. It stole the argument away from Sena and left her with nothing but emotion, and emotion was exactly what Catherine refused to negotiate with.

  Sena stood there, held by stronger hands, watching Hellen escorted toward the stairwell like a prisoner. Rhalir met her eye, and she knew if she asked it of him he would draw his blade and fight, even though he was vastly outnumbered, because he loved her, and he loved Hellen, and these were things the Kelthi did for love.

  But she could not ask that of him.

  Hellen turned her head, eyes wet, mouth parted, and Sena saw the apology written all over her face. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

  Sena couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even reach.

  Hellen disappeared down the stairs with the two guards. Footsteps receded into the lower corridor. The room felt newly rearranged, every object in it suddenly belonging to Catherine.

  Catherine turned toward Sena and made another small gesture.

  The guards dropped Sena’s arms. Her skin burned where they’d gripped. She was grateful again for her bond during this Heat for preventing this from being a tantalizing experience rather than what it was – a disturbing one. She kept her hands at her sides and forced her breathing into something controlled, because she refused to give Catherine the satisfaction of watching her crumble.

  Catherine stared at Rhalir and Sena with open contempt.

  “You have been living in a city that collapsed,” Catherine said. “You have been mistaking survival for governance.”

  Rhalir’s voice stayed even. “Balthir left. We didn’t have an army any longer.”

  “And yet you found time to play house,” Catherine mused.

  Sena’s head snapped up. Heat rose to her face. “We have not –”

  Catherine cut her off with a look that made Sena’s words die in her mouth.

  “I did not ride into Ivath to find Morgan’s second in command hiding behind a maidservant with a borrowed title,” Catherine went on, “and a Glinnel trembling at a table in your quarters. I did not ride into Ivath to discover that the circle Morgan trusted has been replaced by whoever happened to be nearby when the roof came down.”

  Rhalir’s eyes hardened. “Sena took action in a time of distress, and her actions drew allies to her cause. Her decisions have kept the city from starving.”

  “That was your office!” Catherine snarled. “That was the charge placed in your hands when Morgan trusted you at his table. If the city required a Warden, you were meant to be that hand. If action was necessary, it was your hand meant to close around it!”

  Her next words came with brutal veracity undercut by the fire of her rage.

  “If you were unable to lead, Rhalir Daingean, you were meant to die with a blade in your grip before you ceded the work to a woman trained to pour wine and anticipate a lord’s moods.”

  The room stilled. Sena’s ears rang in the silence. Catherine’s eyes flicked away for a brief moment, taking in the two of them, the fragile coalition that would snap if she shattered it completely. She inhaled, then returned her full focus to Rhalir.

  “Sena Haloisi has done what she was trained to do,” Catherine said. “She has kept people agreeable. She has kept tempers cooled. She has kept the city mannered enough to pretend it is still a city. You even tried to soothe me with a touching story of knightly heroics. But I am not here to spare heroes. I am here for an end to this conflict.”

  Her gaze cut to Sena for the first time in a stretch, and Sena felt the sentence land as a verdict.

  “Manners do not hold a lane,” Catherine continued. “Manners do not disarm a zealot. Manners do not stop a knife from appearing at your back when the crowd turns.”

  Her tone hardened again as she returned to Rhalir.

  “Do you understand the difference between keeping a population fed and keeping it governed? Between moving bread and moving loyalty? You have allowed men with holy slogans to learn your routes and your faces while you congratulate yourselves for avoiding riots.”

  She paused, and when she spoke again the fury sat like a red coal inside each word, no longer spewing flames but deadly hot all the same. “Polite people still die. Often first. They die smiling, because they have been trained to call the blade behind their backs ‘unfortunate,’ and to trust that someone who can afford vulgarity will arrive in time to save them.”

  Catherine stepped closer to the table and placed her gloved hand on the slate, smearing the water that had spilled, blurring Sena’s careful lines. The gesture was casual. The insult was precise.

  “You have allowed your own command space to become a shelter where you sleep among civilians and tell yourselves you are merciful.”

  Sena’s nails bit into her palms. “We are merciful.”

  “You are weak,” Catherine said. “Weakness does not stop an execution. And it certainly does not keep the Dagorlind from tearing the city apart.”

  Rhalir’s voice dropped, controlled. “You don’t know what we’ve been facing here.”

  Catherine put her full gaze on him, and Rhalir took the blow without flinching, the way a soldier took a hit he’d earned.

  “I know what you were,” Catherine said. “You were Morgan’s blade. You were the man who could take an impossible order and make it real. You were the man who knew where to stand so others followed. I look at you now and see a captain who has filled his quarters with women in the middle of a siege he refuses to end.”

  Rhalir didn’t speak.

  Catherine’s smile was brief and cruel. “Tell me, Captain,” she said. “Which part of your body has been leading since Morgan vanished?”

  Sena’s breath caught. Anger surged so hot in her head that she saw spots.

  Catherine held up a hand before Sena could answer. “Save your outrage. I have no interest in your love stories. I have interest in outcomes.”

  She stepped back, taking them both in.

  “Now,” Catherine said. “You will keep it together. You will give me the names and the routes and the captains and the caches. You will point me at whatever you have been circling without striking. You will do it fast, because my army is already deployed, and the city will learn its new rules before daybreak.”

  Her eyes stayed on Rhalir. “Captain. You will remember who you are. You will stand in the role Morgan chose for you, and you will stop behaving as if this is a personal tragedy you can endure in private.”

  Rhalir bristled. “Morgan isn’t here, Catherine.”

  “Indeed. But I am.”

  She met Sena’s eye, and the next sentence swung closed like a door.

  “Warden,” Catherine said, the title a mockery on her tongue, “you will advise when asked. You will obey when ordered. If you cannot do these two things, you will return to folding linens and let someone sturdier keep the city alive.”

  Sena stood there, stripped in front of the table she’d been using to keep people fed, the cup still on its side, water seeping across her notes. She wanted to lunge at the stairwell. She wanted to run after Hellen. She wanted to spit in Catherine’s face.

  But she did nothing.

  She kept her feet planted. Catherine had taken her authority, and the only thing Sena had left to protect was the self she’d built out of hunger and grit and the refusal to kneel.