Evelyn left without ceremony.

  No grand farewell, no barked instruction. One moment she was in the aisle between tents, tightening the straps on her bracers, and the next she was falling into step beside Seraphine and Rocher.

  Seraphine carried herself like she was going on a stroll. Rocher's face said he was going to war.

  Evelyn split the difference.

  Today their task was to clear a path to Marrud-Vael's castle. They would widen the Church's perimeter beyond the handful of buildings they'd managed to clear and occupy. And if the world felt like cooperating for once, they would help Rocher learn to call up his magic without the need to shove me off a cliff first.

  He caught my eye once before they went. His face was carefully neutral, but there was a question in it.

  Will you be okay?

  I gave him a small nod.

  He returned it. Then he turned and followed the others into the blue glow of the runelight.

  That left Lumiere and me.

  And the second part of today's task.

  I ducked back into our tent and found Lumiere standing with her back to me, hands resting on the edge of a travel chest. Her mantle was id out beside it, folded with meticulous care. She had already pinned her hair, but the pins were not perfectly aligned, the way she usually insisted on.

  She was staring at nothing.

  "Lumiere?" I asked.

  She blinked as if surfacing. "Yes. Sorry."

  "Your mind seems to be elsewhere today."

  "Ahead," she corrected gently. "Just thinking ahead."

  I crossed the small space between us and picked up the mantle. It was heavier than it looked, lined and stitched to hold its shape. I lifted it and draped it over her shoulders.

  She did not move to take it.

  For a moment I simply stood there, hands still on the fabric, feeling the tension in her body.

  "If you don't come back to earth, I'm going to tickle you," I said.

  Her mouth twitched, a bit of color returning to her face. "Don't. You know that never turns out well for you."

  "Then at least share a little about what you're thinking."

  Lumiere exhaled through her nose, almost a ugh. "It's nothing. Truly. Just thinking about the day."

  I studied her face. She was composed, as always. She was also tired in a way she would not admit out loud. The kind of tired that came from constantly being watched.

  "All right," I said, letting it go.

  I adjusted the mantle, straightened the csp, then bent to pick up my satchel. The leather strap bit my shoulder as I slung it on. Habit made me check the contents by touch. Vials. Bandage roll. Small knife. A few packets of dried herbs. Not enough to save anyone if things went truly wrong, but enough to keep someone alive until we could make it back.

  Lumiere finally moved, smoothing the mantle down with both hands.

  We stepped outside together.

  The camp had changed in the past day. The Church had a talent for making temporary things feel permanent. Tents sat in lines. Lanterns hung at equal heights. Padins moved in predictable routes. Every sightline felt curated.

  We were halfway into the central aisle when Bishop Halbrecht appeared.

  He strolled toward us as if he had been passing by. As if he had not been waiting for the exact moment we emerged. His vestments today were reinforced, yered ptes of polished metal over embroidered cloth. A man who wanted both the affectations of holiness and the practical comfort of armor.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Sir Veyne shadowing him.

  That confirmed what I had suspected since the elevator.

  Veyne walked a step behind and to the right, helmet tucked under his arm, expression unreadable. He wore no Church iconography. His armor was too pin, too efficient. If Halbrecht was dressed to be seen, Veyne was dressed to be useful.

  Halbrecht smiled when he saw us, bright and public.

  "Providence," he said, as if tasting the word for its sweetness. "To be accompanied by two lovely dies today."

  Lumiere's expression did not change. "Good morning, Bishop."

  He'd requested an outing into the City. A brief survey of the perimeter.

  "Indeed," he said. "It is a good day to stretch one's legs."

  He said it like he was pnning a walk through a garden.

  "Again, Bishop, let me warn you," I said. "It is still not safe enough to be so leisurely."

  Veyne gave a quiet nod, almost imperceptible, as if he had been waiting for someone else to say it first.

  Halbrecht waved my concern away with an armored hand. "I've heard the members of the Hero party are all quite capable, as evidenced by their lofty titles as of te. I trust in His Highness's judgment... and his eye for talent."

  His eyes flicked toward Lumiere when he said it, then back to me, as if he were weighing reactions.

  Lumiere and I exchanged a gnce.

  Then Lumiere stepped forward, positioning herself beside Halbrecht with the practiced ease.

  "Let us be on our way," she said. "While the path ahead is still clear."

  Halbrecht offered his arm. She didn't take it. She simply walked at his pace.

  He began to lead.

  I fell back a half-step, and slid to the side until I was walking next to Veyne.

  "We meet again, Sir Veyne."

  He bristled.

  Not with motion, but with attention. His gaze slid to me, sharp and annoyed, like he had not expected me to choose him.

  "I thought it fair to warn you as well," I said quietly. "Don't try anything today. You'll regret it if you do."

  Veyne looked me over. Appraising.

  Then he said one word, ft and even.

  "Yes."

  I nodded once and let my pace carry me forward.

  We caught up to Lumiere and Halbrecht just as I heard my name at the tail-end of their conversation.

  "...And that brings us to the topic of Miss Cire," Halbrecht was saying.

  "What about me?" I asked from behind them.

  Lumiere flinched.

  Halbrecht did not.

  "Oh, nothing unkind," he said, tone easy. "We were just discussing the unusual construction of the Hero party. Only the Hero... and four women."

  His gaze swept over us, as if counting.

  "At first I had thought like the others," he continued. "That it was vanity. I understand the instinct of a red-blooded man to, if given free rein in choosing his companions, surround himself with beautiful women."

  My jaw tightened. Lumiere's fingers curled slightly at her side.

  Halbrecht held up his hand, as if anticipating objection. "And I assumed, like everyone else, that the Hero had been fraternizing with his party. Further evidenced by the news—the regrettable loss of Your Holiness's power."

  Lumiere's face went still.

  "This is not me judging," Halbrecht added smoothly. "It is simply my estimation of a man."

  He walked with an unhurried pace, boots striking stone in steady rhythm.

  "Men like His Highness and the Hero," Halbrecht continued, "and even His Majesty—men with the blood of the First Men running through their veins—all understand something fundamental. A man's duty is to be selfish. To conquer. People, nd, even women. And in doing so, secure what he has taken."

  I gnced at Lumiere.

  Her gaze remained forward. Her posture was perfect. If I didn't know her better, I might've believed she was unfazed.

  But I did know better. I could see how her shoulders had drawn back, as if she were bracing against a cold wind.

  "As events have unfolded," Halbrecht went on, "each one of you heroines have proven yourselves, in one capacity or another. Your Holiness, of course, needs no introduction. Lady Evelyn became master of two guilds. And most recently, Lady Seraphine has earned the title of Sage."

  He paused. "The only one I cannot quite put a finger on... is you."

  His eyes settled on me, direct.

  "What is it that makes you so special?" he asked.

  Lumiere and I looked at each other.

  We said nothing.

  Halbrecht's smile did not change. "You are obviously a talented apothecary," he said. "Master Georg attested as much in his report."

  "Not an apothecary," I corrected. "Technically I'm not licensed yet."

  Halbrecht's brows lifted. "Even more unusual. The Church has no shortage of talented apothecaries, yes... but most of them are content to be precisely what they are. They do not find themselves standing shoulder to shoulder with saints and heroes."

  He tilted his head. "I cannot wrap my mind around you. Why you are standing where you are today. Why His Highness has taken such an interest in you."

  "Ah." He caught himself. "I mean no offense by that. I genuinely am curious."

  "No offense taken," I said. "I'm not entirely sure myself. But the fact of the matter is: I have the job. I can only do my best to meet expectations."

  Halbrecht ughed, genuinely amused.

  "If I hadn't heard the words from your mouth," he said, "I might have thought a man wrote them."

  He tutted to himself.

  "Expectations," he continued, tasting the word. "Expectations were the lifeblood of the First Men. From birth they knew what role they would occupy. Warrior. Bcksmith. Potter. They had such crity and conviction. And never had to question their lot in life."

  "But that's not what fascinates you," I said.

  Halbrecht gnced at me, intrigued.

  "No, what you're interested in is the hierarchy of it all," I said.

  His mouth twitched.

  "The scriptures," I continued. "They sing songs of the First Men's heroics. But there are no songs about nurses. Or caretakers. Or those who cleaned the blood off the stones after the heroes came home."

  Lumiere's gaze shifted, thoughtful.

  "There's nothing in recorded history about their women," she added quietly. "Not in any detail."

  Halbrecht smiled, almost indulgent. "They are there."

  Lumiere frowned. "What do you mean?"

  Halbrecht did not answer immediately. He let us take two more steps before he spoke, as if he were choosing a moment.

  "Cendre. Mireille. Ysanne. Aveline..." he listed.

  My stomach tightened.

  Lumiere's frown deepened. "Those are the names of weapons. Cendre the Great Axe. Mireille the Rapier."

  Halbrecht's smile sharpened. "Yes."

  He stepped deftly around a fallen pilr.

  "There is a well-known saying," he said lightly, "that once anointed, the warriors of the First Men took no lovers—that they were married to their swords."

  He gnced toward me, as if inviting a reaction.

  I did not give him one.

  "Lesser known," Halbrecht continued, voice still mild, "is the literal origin of that saying."

  Lumiere tilted her head, slow and cautious.

  Halbrecht walked on, hands csped behind his back.

  "Just as the men knew what they were destined for from birth," he said, "a handful of their women knew as well. They lived their entire lives devoted to the men they had been assigned to."

  He paused, turning slightly. "Knowing that eventually, they would be sacrificed... so that their souls could be forged into the most powerful of living weapons."

  His tone had shifted, becoming reverent, like he was speaking of a holy rite.

  "The ultimate form of devotion," he finished. "Their reward was that their names would go down in history."

  Lumiere's breath caught.

  Not loudly, but enough for me to feel it.

  Her hand flexed at her side.

  I reached out and squeezed her shoulder once, a quiet anchor.

  Then I looked at Halbrecht and let my voice go cold. "Why are you bringing that up now? How is that relevant?"

  Halbrecht lifted both hands, palms out, as if I had accused him of something unfair.

  "It's not," he said quickly. "I meant nothing by it. It is simply a fascinating piece of culture. Something like that would now be considered barbaric, of course."

  His tone smoothed again. Public. Reasonable.

  But his eyes lingered, just a fraction too long, as if he were watching to see what the story did to us.

  He lowered his hands.

  "Thank the Goddess we live in a more enlightened era," he said, almost softly, "where names like Seraphine, Evelyn, and Lumiere might mean something in the history books other than the names of swords."

  Lumiere did not answer.

  Her face had gone pale beneath the nternlight.

  I felt a fre of anger so sharp it made my fingers itch for the knife in my satchel. Not because of the story itself... but because of the ease with which he had chosen it. The precision of the cut.

  A padin appeared ahead of us at a jog, then slowed as he approached, falling into a respectful bow.

  "Your Grace," he said in a low voice, pitched for Halbrecht alone.

  He inclined his head, listening.

  The padin spoke in a hushed report, words lost under the echo of distant footfalls and the soft clink of armor.

  Halbrecht's expression did not change, but something in his posture tightened. A subtle shift. A recalibration.

  He looked ahead.

  "Good," he said. Then louder, for all of us. "It appears that we've secured a forward base."

  He resumed walking, the same unhurried pace.

  But the air around us had changed.

  And Lumiere, beside me, had gone very still.