Across the room, Tarkan lunged, wielding a jewel-encrusted saber. Atrius’s hood had fallen back. The two of them faced each other down with the vicious focus of wolves preparing to tear each other apart.
The edge of my opponent’s axe caught my veil as I pulled away, tearing it partially from my face. Frustrated by the fluttering fabric, I ripped it away, and swung back to counter— But my attacker’s eyes went wide. His axe clattered to the ground. His shock rippled all the threads in the room.
“Vivi?” he breathed.
Naro.
All at once, the familiarity hit me. The sound of his voice brought it back.
At the last second, I diverted my strike. I nicked his ear and sent myself stumbling against the sofa.
I whirled around.
The blood drained from my face. Weaver, it felt like it drained from my entire body. My hands were numb. I needed to fight, but couldn’t make myself move.
His presence was so different than it had been then. Blurry with years of drug use, older, harder, and scarred.
And yet—how could I not have recognized him?
How could I not have recognized my brother?
You have no brother, the Sightmother reminded me. Sylina has no brother.
“Vivi,” he breathed. “It’s you—even with that thing on your face I—”
He staggered toward me, and I pulled back.
Hurt reverberated through his presence. Confusion.
He lurched forward again, and I took another step away.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he said.
I couldn’t think.
I couldn’t think about any of this now—
Behind me, Atrius let out a wordless hiss of pain as Tarkan managed to get a shot in, wounding his shoulder. He recoiled, then turned back to his assailant, crimson murder in his eyes.
Tarkan.
I was here for Tarkan. Tarkan was the goal.
That was all that mattered now.
I let that little ball of fire in my stomach grow, let it burn away my confusion and fuel my focus.
I drew a thread between Tarkan and I and stepped into it easily, reappearing behind him.
But he was fast. He’d seen his guards fall to my Arachessen tricks. As soon as I reappeared, he flung his elbow back.
Pain stabbed through my ribs.
I wavered, but held my stance.
He whirled to me just as I swung my sword.
When I was a child, I thought Tarkan stood twenty feet tall. He seemed that way from the tops of his parade carts, from the statues of him hoisted in the town squares.
He was not twenty feet tall. He was six feet, maybe, if that. And yet when he loomed over me, for a moment, I felt that way again. Like he could crush me.
But I wasn’t a child anymore. I wasn’t powerless.
I let out a roar and blocked his strike before he could land it. Countered before he could move. I opened a gash in his side, earning a curse and snarl. To his credit, he didn’t waste his breath on taunts.
He lunged at me, then fell abruptly backwards, like a puppet yanked by the strings. Beads of crimson hung suspended in the air. His threads warped, as if manipulated by an outside force.
Atrius.
The two of them tangled again. Tarkan was off-balance, startled. The next strike had him reeling.
Atrius could have finished him then. I saw the opening. I knew he did, too.
But yet, Atrius held him for a moment. Shot me a glance over Tarkan’s shoulder.
And he nodded at me.
The understanding snapped into place. He was presenting Tarkan to me. He was giving me this. I didn’t know why. I didn’t have time to question it.
I swung, aiming right for Tarkan’s exposed back—
—And someone knocked me away.
My back struck the wood of the sofa, forcing the breath from my lungs, pain shooting through my spine.
Naro pinned me down, his chestnut hair falling over his face.
I snarled, “Get off me!”
“I can’t.” He shook his head, his face hardening, despite the wrinkle of confusion over his brow. “You can’t. You—”
I do not have a brother.
Sylina does not have a brother.
I told myself this before whacking Naro across the face with the butt of my sword, sending him sprawling off the couch.
I leapt to my feet. Atrius had Tarkan against the wall now. It was the end.
Tarkan’s face was a mask of hatred—his presence vibrated with it. He knew death was coming for him.
“Fine,” he snarled. “See how my city—”
But Atrius was not in the business of allowing final words to those who didn’t deserve them.
He now had Naro’s discarded axe in his free hand. With a single clean strike, he carved it straight through Tarkan’s throat. Blood spewed, painting graceful arcs across Atrius’s face, the carpet, the furniture. Some of it landed on me.