Chapter 4 Nevelyn Tin’vori

Nevelyn's exhaustion was twofold.

First, her fingers ached. A bone-deep pain that only faded when she was asleep. In her waking hours, she felt that subtle throb as she worked, practicing patterns or mending cloaks. Her brother insisted that she was pushing herself too hard, but Nevelyn knew their timeline. She knew the level of skill she needed for their plan to work. Nothing short of perfection would do.

Physical pain was one thing, but the frayed nerves from using too much magic felt even worse. She'd taken up the craft of weaving—braiding magic into the threads of garments. It suited her. A quiet and contemplative craft that relied on looking at the larger pattern of things. That was all in her wheelhouse, but actual weaving demanded hour-long spells. Each one was brutally taxing, difficult to sustain, and frustratingly subtle.

The approved artisans of the Weavers Guild could craft weightless cloaks capable of turning away arrows as effectively as plate armor. Nevelyn understood why warriors spent a fortune on such items. Not only because they were useful, but because the supply was limited. Even the simplest boons were immensely difficult. Magic that reduced sweat or lowered anxiety or increased one's strength. She'd successfully enchanted two items in thirty attempts thus far. Luckily, those had sold for enough to cover the cost of more practice materials and nearly half of their rent. Gods knew they had little enough money.

A floorboard creaked.

Nevelyn had drifted in her thoughts—somewhere between the dreaming and waking worlds—and now her vision of their little flat snapped into focus. She sat at the kitchen table. It was a sad circle of faded wood held upright by uneven legs. There was a bed in the far corner, sectioned off by a partition they'd salvaged from a nearby alleyway. Her brother's lover and artist—Cath Invernette—sat on the edge of that bed, her foot tapping out a nervous rhythm.

The poor thing.

She'd returned two hours ago. Alone. Dahvid had been approached after his recent victory in the gladiator pits. According to Cath, both guards had worn Darling's mark. Nevelyn had done her best to calm the girl down—after all, this was their plan—but even she had been unsettled by the suddenness of the invitation. It wasn't meant to happen this soon. Dahvid needed more time to train. She needed more time to hone her craft. The steps of their plan were moving along at too rapid a pace. Nor did it help that they were nearly out of money.

On the other side of the partition sat Nevelyn's lonely cot. Even in her current state of exhaustion, it hardly looked inviting. The sheets were harsh and scratchy. Her pillow looked like it was on the verge of unraveling if someone simply tugged the wrong thread. She had slept there for months, but only when she reached points of pure exhaustion, when her body and mind simply shut down from overwork. How long, she thought quietly to herself, could she go on like this?

There was a gentle click.

The lock on the door turned. Cath bolted to her feet. Nevelyn smiled as her brother entered the room. Dahvid offered her a quick wink. Always so confident. Like many of the Tin'Voris who'd come before them. Too confident for his own good.

"And?" Nevelyn asked quietly. "Did you meet him?"

Dahvid ignored her question, gliding across the room to Cath instead. He set a kiss on the girl's cheek, all while whispering reassurances. The sight brought out yet another ache in Nevelyn. She'd not been touched in what felt like years. There was no time—she told herself, on the loneliest nights—for such frivolities. Maybe one day. After they'd accomplished their revenge.

Her brother turned to her. "Yes. I met Darling. What a frightening creature."

"I warned you."

"That you did," he said. "But all our preparation worked. I'm his newest prizefighter."

Cath sighed. "Finally, some good news."

Nevelyn wasn't certain about that. She asked the question that would determine if the news was actually good, or if it was a fine wine laced with hidden poison. "Where's your first match?"

Her brother hesitated. She saw the way he shifted so that Cath couldn't quite see his expression, and she guessed the answer before he said it.

"The Western Pits."

She shook her head. "That place is brutal, Dahvid. It's too soon. We must delay."

"I'm ready. I'll be fine for the first few fights, at least. He'll want to display me, Nev. That's how it works. He needs to build my reputation first. A string of victories. A few easy wins. That'll buy me some time. At least a few weeks. And then…"

"He'll set up a title bout," she finished. "I know how it works. I'm the one who scouted the matches and cataloged the rotations, remember? I know Darling's whole system. He'll set you up against one of his best to draw a big crowd. And if he picks the wrong one? At worst, you'll be killed, Brother. At best, he'll force you to use some of the tattoos earlier than we'd planned."

Dahvid shrugged, like death was nothing to him. Like the murders of their parents and their brother were not the exact reasons they were here now, scraping an existence out of this hovel. Nevelyn let out a sigh.

"Cath, what about his next tattoo?"

There were drawings on the far wall. Several images they'd discussed at great length. The last couple of attempts had failed to properly settle into Dahvid's skin. It had created the first tension she'd seen between the two lovers. It was always easier to laugh when things were going well. Cath confirmed her guess.

"We might need more time."

Nevelyn cut a concerned look back at Dahvid. "You're not ready."

"Not ready for simple head-to-head matchups, but you want me to eventually win a gauntlet? Explain how that works, Sister."

"To win a gauntlet, you will have to guard your biggest secrets until the very last possible moment, Brother. A fight against one of Darling's handpicked champions will force you to reveal too much too soon. As if we haven't discussed this a hundred times. I will not lose another brother.…"

"Ease up, Nev."

This came from Cath. She was a bridge between them. Dahvid, headstrong and quick to act. Nevelyn, spiderlike and cautious. Whenever they could not find a middle ground, it was Cath who stepped forward to offer one. Much like Ava once had. Nevelyn softened at the expression on the girl's face.

"Fine. You've done good work, Brother. Father would be proud." She took a deep breath. "Ware and Ava would be, too. You know that I am just being cautious. It's all that I'm good at."

He grinned wildly at that. Cath smiled too. At heart, both of them were dreamers. Creatures of great optimism. They believed that they could leap off the cliffs the world offered and events would simply work out in their blessed favor. It fell to Nevelyn to actually supply the logistics that allowed them access to those bright, imagined futures. There were logical steps that needed to occur. Passion was not everything. Dahvid thought that emotion could triumph if you simply had enough of it. That was something their father had imparted to him, and that impracticality—that lack of looking at the larger picture—was exactly why House Tin'Vori was destroyed in the first place.

Not again. Not while she was in charge.

"Let's celebrate, then," Nevelyn sighed. "Down at the Severed Head?"

Dahvid looked surprised. "You're not too tired?"

Her eyes flicked over to the unwelcoming bed with its lackluster sheets.

"Not nearly tired enough. Let's go. Cath is right. This is good news."

Her brother hefted a sack of coins from one hip. Nevelyn recognized the fabric. It was likely the same sack they'd used to escort him to Darling. It looked like the cloth she'd often seen in the hands of pit masters, after a fight ended. They always slid them over the heads of the dead, not wanting the audience's stomach to turn when they saw the lifeless eyes rolling. People liked the killing. The startling color of blood leaving a living body. They didn't care for what came after, though. Corpses and shit and ruin.

She saw a brief and frightening glimpse of Dahvid lying on his back in the arena sand. A faceless pit master sliding a similar sack over his head. And then her mind flicked back to the present. The sack was just a sack. The coins inside sounded like they were laughing at her fears.

Dahvid was grinning.

"Drinks are on me."