Blancheless initially attempted to pry Beth's fingers apart, then resorted to hammering clenched fists against Beth Keton's ribs. The blows landed with such ferocity that Beth Keton suspected each impact might fracture another rib. Nevertheless, she persevered as Blancheless's strength gradually ebbed, until her assailant could merely clutch weakly at Beth's forearms.

  Blancheless's silver-gray irises began their slow ascent beneath cold lunar illumination. (Upon closer examination, she possesses a striking beauty,) Beth Keton maintained her lethal pressure. "A pity no one will see that pretty face again."

  Blancheless's hands ultimately surrendered their vigor, descending lifelessly to her flanks, inadvertently toppling the wooden table's tray. Glass fragments scattered across the floor anew. (At last, death claims her.) Beth exhaled profoundly, "What was destined to shatter has shattered; what was fated to perish has perished..."

  An unexpected warmth originated at her throat, suffusing her entire form in an instant. She perceived a scorching torrent erupting from her trachea, as though her capacity for speech itself were being forcibly extracted. Pain manifested swiftly—a second surge, followed by a third, then a fourth...

  Only when Blancheless discarded the blood-slicked glass shard did Beth Keton's torment cease. By then, however, she had transcended the threshold of physical sensation. Despite applying the same stranglehold technique to her own neck that she had employed against Blancheless, she could not stem the arterial fountain. She fell sideways into the spreading pool of her own blood.

  Blancheless convulsed with violent coughing. The queen's attendant was compelled to expel a mouthful of blood before her lungs could welcome the oxygen they had been so desperately deprived of. After a moment, as she wiped the viscous fluid from her chin, she finally registered the searing pain in her hand. The improvised weapon that had severed her opponent's life had exacted its price from her as well. Blancheless drew her lacerated fingers to her mouth, and unbidden tears began their inexorable descent.

  She enfolded her knees within her arms, contracting against the bedframe, transitioning from subdued whimpers to unrestrained lamentation in a single heartbeat. She remained uncertain regarding the wellspring of her grief—whether she mourned the extinguishing of another's existence or the irrevocable transformation of her own. Blancheless Liwendell had spent seven years in servitude since exchanging her leather cuirass for courtly attire to accompany Claire's matrimonial retinue to Cynthia. She had acclimated to every aspect of handmaiden existence. Yet tonight, the metallic-salt amalgam of blood and tears upon her tongue persistently evoked memories she had deliberately obscured, experiences she had consciously consigned to oblivion. She had convinced herself that her heart no longer harbored aspiration, no longer experienced the visceral compulsion to elevate a blade skyward; she had persuaded herself that she was no longer the girl who could vanquish all her brothers with merely a wooden sword—that fabled "Lady Knight," daughter of Earl Liwendell. Adopted daughter, as the truth later revealed. She could never erase the memory of her parents' expectant expressions as they dispatched her, convinced this journey would metamorphose her into an authentically alluring noblewoman. Blancheless had naively concurred, believing that by adorning herself in silken garments, mastering needlework, acquiring the art of maintaining dignity while flirting with men, and delivering precisely calibrated flattery to the queen, she would manifest as the quintessential aristocratic female. She had envisioned matrimony with a nobleman of comparable station, bearing seven or eight robust offspring, and devoting herself to their nurture to counterbalance the anguish and isolation inherent in her husband's inevitable dalliances. This was the future she had projected for herself. She had been wrong. The blood and tears before her proved it. Swords, daggers, glass shards, corpses—these comprised her authentic existence, the life for which she genuinely yearned. In recollection, her brother Hagel Liwendell had derided her clandestine sword practice, proclaiming she would never experience a knight's existence. "Even we men lack the autonomy to determine our destinies," he had declared, patting the familial emblem adorning his shoulder. "What chance does a woman have?" His expression had reflected satisfaction as she relinquished her wooden sword. She equally recalled the moment within the palace when, after countless instances of self-restraint, she had finally wielded the ceremonial sword adjacent to a knight's armor. Queen Claire had witnessed this transgression, but her countenance had radiated the warmth of vernal sunlight. "It's perfectly acceptable, Blannie. Even women possess the prerogative to chart their own course." She would eternally cherish the entirety of their nocturnal conversation; in her estimation, Claire embodied the sister she had never been granted.

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  Blancheless Liwendell laughed, like a child, through her tears. She attempted to cleanse her face, uncertain whether she was removing the bloody residue or merely redistributing the macabre palette across her features. Upon regaining her vertical orientation, she methodically searched Beth Keton's remains. Her investigation proved fruitless—all identity-affirming possessions had been methodically eliminated. After momentary deliberation, Blancheless resolved to examine the wardrobe.

  At the foundation of Beth Keton's clothing repository, she discovered the letter. "The Three Sacred Swords... Godma's insignia?" The queen's attendant unfolded the communication. Her complexion rapidly blanched. "Fortuitously, I thwarted her machination, that venomous Godman operative." She secured the document. "I must immediately apprise Her Majesty."

  She gathered Princess Rebecca into her arms and departed with urgency, abandoning three female forms to their eternal slumber within a single chamber.

  Deborah Borealis lingered within the penumbral recesses. "Why do you persist in remaining?" Monica Dunston's voice betrayed evident fragility.

  "I merely... sought to confirm your well-being." Despite having articulated no fewer than fifteen valedictions to the copper-tressed young woman, she remained.

  "I am perfectly fine... naturally," Monica replied with characteristic disdain. "This isn't Cynthia, not some perilous locale on the precipice of conflagration. This is Brigar—inherently secure. What conceivable concern could exist?"

  "I wish to express contrition regarding my pronouncements during our assembly," Deborah lowered her gaze. "Though you may find it objectionable, I conveyed factual reality. Cynthia's fate is irrevocably sealed."

  "You pronounce an entire nation's death sentence before it has even ascended the scaffold." Monica Dunston reclined upon the bed, maximizing her distance from Deborah. "You too are Cynthian by birth, Deborah. Your metamorphosis confounds comprehension."

  "For me, Cynthia represents merely a repository of recollections," Deborah Borealis settled at the periphery of Monica's bed. "Those memories inflict profound discomfort, yet provide fragmentary consolation." Her gaze lingered upon Monica's unblemished nape with undisguised affection.

  "Felled timber laments its roots; the exiled yearn for their native soil," Monica Dunston, perceiving Deborah's intense observation, subtly adjusted her position. "You may disavow your Cynthian heritage, and you may observe Cynthia's immolation from Brigar with clinical detachment. Such capacity eludes me, Deborah. I possess conscience, emotional faculties, and patriotic devotion. Unlike you, I am not a bloodless, animated cadaver."

  Prominent venous structures manifested across Deborah's tightly compressed fists. "Your comprehension of my nature remains incomplete, for which I harbor no resentment. You possess limited insight into my character, which similarly evokes no animosity. Simply understand... every action I undertake is predicated upon your welfare..."

  "Cease employing such grandiloquent justifications for self-indulgent emotionality, Deborah." The flame-haired woman's tone radiated provocative intent. "Your motivation is exclusively mercenary—your personal advancement, King Royce's aggrandizement, and Brigar's prosperity. Can you comprehend the profound tragedy inherent in your willful identity amnesia?"

  "Terminate this discourse..." Deborah Borealis emitted a bestial growl. "Your understanding is fundamentally deficient, Monica. I have no desire to..."

  "Consider this," the red-haired woman abruptly elevated herself to a seated position, her face mere inches from Deborah's. "Can you identify why I offered no resistance during your initial nocturnal infiltration of my bedchamber, when you divested me of my garments and awkwardly bestowed kisses across my entire form?" Monica's eyes appeared infused with the same incandescent hue as her tresses. "It stemmed from pity, Deborah. You manifested as a canine creature—a wretched, desolate, affection-starved puppy, tail oscillating in desperate courtship. And presently," she sampled the saline moisture at her lip's edge, "you remain fundamentally unaltered. My familiarity with your essence has achieved such profundity that it engenders visceral revulsion."