Chapter 36

"How little do you think of me, honestly? You expect me to sit back and kick my feet up while I watch the men head into battle?" Ileana asks, slamming her palms onto the rectangular table in the center of the war room.

"Not little at all, my Lady," Cassius placates. "But think of what you represent to Aegidale. You were a Legion prisoner, and now you command the greatest army in the realm. You are a token of strength, resilience. If you go and get yourself offed by the very people that imprisoned you, think of the devastating message that would send to your people."

Your people. I suppose they are her people now.

Ileana is mundane, but she more than makes up for what she lacks in magical ability with sheer tenacity. I can't fathom a single person having more of a reason to want to witness Legion bleed for their crimes than the Black Hand herself. And I'll be damned if any of these arrogant fools who have never had to endure the perversions of men try to take that from her.

"How do men even see from so high up on that pedestal that they place themselves upon? It would be an affront to prevent the Black Hand from defending her own people," I argue to the council.

I've hardly spoken since we've gathered this morning to discuss strategy. Scouts reported sightings of Legion troops laying low in the valley outside Baregrove. It won't be long now before they stampede into Blackreach expecting to lay siege to the castle, only to meet the Black Art's army outside the keep for the first time.

"Remind me again, Your Grace, how you know your friend?" Sterling drawls, laying the weight of his stare on me.

I had wondered if I would feel guilty being in the same room as Bennett's father—shame at not confessing the real cause of his son's death—but I feel nothing. Except maybe regret that I wasn't the last thing Bennett saw before he choked on his own bubbling blood spilling from his mouth as I wedged my blade deep in his gut.

"Wren has lost friends to Legion's scintillating recruitment tactics," Sin answers smoothly, waving a hand as if to dismiss the brunt of my insult. "She is advanced with her magic. She'll make a great asset," he adds casually.

Sterling scratches the side of his face with one long finger. "I see. You must have had some excellent mentors along the way, Miss—?"

"Just Wren." I dropped my surname the same day my parents tossed me from their lives like I was nothing more than spoiled meat. "And indeed, my Lord. I have been most fortunate." I offer him a smile, hoping he doesn't notice the clenched teeth behind it.

"I must agree with the mage though," he continues, waving a hand towards Cassius. "I think it'd be outrageous to have the Black Hand on the battlefield."

Dusaro mumbles an agreement from inside the steaming mug of tea he brought to his mouth. Aldred remains stoic as if he's more focused on debating the tactical advantages and disadvantages in his own head than with those less experienced in the art of war than himself. Sin leans back in his chair making a tent with his fingertips as if the topic bores him altogether. Anika hasn't uttered a word since the meeting began, and Ileana's face is nothing short of furious.

"Sin will be fighting," I challenge. "So surely it can't be a matter of jeopardizing our assets, my Lord."

"Singard is also our supreme ruler, not to mention incredibly adept at his art. Not being present would be an insult to his people. Ileana, on the contrary, must be protected at all costs."

"If Ileana had a cock, would she be worthy of your confidence then, my Lord?"

Dusaro sucks in a sharp breath as if appalled at my question, but Sin's eyes flare with amusement, and a lopsided grin pulls up the corner of his lips. The same full lips that were pressed between my breasts the night prior, and Goddess help me, I haven't been able to stop thinking about that.

"Maker help them if I did," Ileana murmurs to me.

"It's His Grace's decision," Aldred says, directing his attention to Sin who drops his hands and sits forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"Ileana is more than aware of the risks. She deserves to make them bleed their own blood."

"Singard," Dusaro interjects.

"My word is final," he says, his sharp tone implying it is not up for negotiation.

I shoot Ileana a sideways smirk, and she mirrors me with one of her own.

"Ensure the last of the evacuations are complete by end of day tomorrow," Sin addresses his armies' commander. "I'm riding into the city this afternoon and you," he shifts his attention to me, "are coming with me."

* * *

For a city that's nearly evacuated, a tempest of chaos blows through Blackreach. Several sets of hooves pitter patter across cobblestone roads, distant shouts ring out as soldiers call to each other from post to post, and doors and windows snap shut with audible thumps. What remains of the elite city is closing down, and only the gods know how much damage it'll endure once the fighting commences.

But it doesn't matter. The city could be blown to bits, and the kingdom would see to its full reconstruction before ever throwing a crumb to more impoverished regions. Places like Innodell where families work their hands to the bone, all while wearing threadbare clothing and sustaining themselves on bland, spiceless food. But a city like Blackreach that houses high-ranking lords and ladies will never reap the effects of poverty, no matter how badly it is devastated in the wake of battle.

I ride next to Sin on a chestnut-colored horse, Dusaro trotting along on the back of an all-white steed on the other side of his son. We veer right onto a long street flanked on either side by small shops with vivid awnings and flowers arranged in large decorative pots by the doors. Above our heads, large cauldrons are hoisted to the rooftops, later to be filled with boiling water infused with iron shavings.

"A ballista will be set up outside the keep should any of them make it that far," Dusaro says, pointing with his chin towards the castle's towers rearing up in the distance like the city's personal backdrop.

"They won't make it that far. None of them are making it through this," Sin says quietly with a shake of his head.

In an alley to my left, a small group rigs up torn bags of flour to trip wires, and another ballista is posted at the far end. And as if anyone could dodge that kind of attack in such tight quarters, the roofs on either side are stacked with quivers and arrows.

A high-pitched shriek has the three of us turning towards a woman in a deep blue cloak with a small girl no older than five clutched to her side. Two armored soldiers loop their arms around her elbows and drag her backwards, her daughter's knuckles white from clinging to her mother's loose-fitting cloak.

She kicks her legs out in front of her, desperate to gain leverage to stand her ground. "You cannot do this to us! When this city burns, some of us are left with nothing!" she shouts, seemingly to no one in particular.

Sin and Dusaro take off towards them while I hang behind, still in ear shot, but not close enough to be in the way.

"She's one of them, Your Grace. Don't know about the kid," one of the guards says, prying the young girl's hand from her mother.

"DO NOT touch her," she yells, flailing her legs out to try and kick the one who grabbed her daughter.

"She's one of what?" Sin asks.

"Legion. We found her tampering around with some traps, trying to disarm them. When we approached her, she tried slashing us with nails that weren't human."

"The sentence for treason is death," Dusaro spits from his horse's back.

"Go to Hell," she snaps back at him.

Sin hops off his horse, his black riding cloak billowing out behind him, and approaches the woman. My hands grip the reins tighter.

"Stay away from her," the woman yells, trying to put her body between the girl and Sin.

He pauses a few feet away from them. "Why were you tampering with our traps?"

She scoffs, and her mouth twists into a scowl. "Because if you're willing to destroy the only homes some of us have, your people deserve to die along with us. I have no dealings with Legion, Your Grace, but that doesn't mean I despise you any less."

"We have safe houses set up for the entire city. You would be protected," Sin placates.

"And what of after? Sure, you can rebuild our homes with your fancy tools and all that coin, but some of us don't have the means to get back what we must leave behind. I've been out of work for months because no one will pay me because of what I am. Because of the prejudices your people created," she says, yanking one of her arms free and jabbing a finger at Sin.

"Enough of this—lock her away until we have time to deal with her appropriately," Dusaro says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"What skills do you possess?" Sin asks, unphased by the woman's spiteful tongue and ignoring his father's remark.

"I'm a healer. I owned an apothecary, but once everything went to Hell, folks stopped coming around, and I lost the business. Ironic, isn't it? I have enough herbs and tonics in my home to heal an entire army, and you're going to let them go up in smoke as your men bleed in the name of vengeance."

"The healing temple can always use more skilled hands. Temporary medic tents have been set up outside the city for now—take her there and ensure she's properly paid for her labor. Make sure the child has something to eat upon arrival," Sin says to the guards. Turning his attention back to the woman, he adds, "The kingdom sponsors all supplies for those on the payroll."

She clicks her tongue. "You're delusional if you think they won't oust me as soon as they find out what I am."

"Are you going to tell them?"

She looks at him with a dazed look and in her hesitation, Sin addresses the guards at her side again. "Tell them nothing more than she's a skilled healer and is being placed at the temple by special assignment of the Black Art. They don't need to know where her magic comes from or what activities she partakes in in her own time. Is that understood?"

They nod, and each mirror a salute before escorting the woman away, her scowl now melting into disbelief. When Sin turns his back to her and mounts his steed, relief colors her cheeks, and she scoops up her daughter, now walking with the kingdom guards willingly.

As Sin settles back in the saddle, Dusaro tsks with a shake of his head, his long braids bouncing with the movement. "You're too soft, boy."

With a slap of the reins, I catch up to them and fall in line next to Sin. I study his profile and note the hard set of his jaw as if he's trying really hard not to look at me. I don't know if he spared the woman out of mercy, or because he feared I would make good on my vow to expose him should he continue feuding with transcendent-kind. But it doesn't matter.

The right choice was made.