Chapter 3

Melvin Khaur, a member of the Khaur bloodline, albeit a cadet branch, strode down the ground-floor hallway in the eastern wing of his family's Istal estate. Servants darted about, tending to the last-minute decorating and setup that always occurred when a ball was held in his bloodline's estate. Occasionally, he was stopped on his way to the stairs at the end of the hallway, and Melvin made himself available to whatever servant needed guidance. Guests were set to arrive shortly, and Melvin well knew how frantic his chamberlain and servants got at a time like this.

The Istal estate was his and his husband's home, given to them by his uncle. They oversaw those in the bloodline who worked out of the frontier city, which weren't all that many. Most of his prominent cousins resided in New Haven or Helia, working in politics or for the bloodline's many casinos. The rest were scattered across Daijal, calling the major cities and larger towns home, creating a web of information that was easily explained away by familial presence and visits.

Their bloodline's wealth came from gambling, which made keeping up so many properties possible. They paid their taxes on time and in full, and despite their own personal misgivings, those with a seat in the Daijal parliament voted with the majority most of the time unless it directly affected their bottom line. They tried to never use debt slaves if they could help it, but sometimes such horror was required to keep up the fa?ade of a loyal bloodline.

In all, the Khaur bloodline was a bloodline in good standing through exceptional effort.

Istal allowed no casinos within its walls, but his husband's wind-up toy company was a perfect excuse for them to stay in the city. That it also doubled as a means to aid debt slaves through the Clockwork Brigade was a secondary perk. While his uncle might be Lord Khaur and head of the bloodline, Melvin had held the title of Marshal within the Clockwork Brigade for almost two decades, overseeing chains of cogs for Fulcrum.

The Khaur bloodline had distant ties to the Auclair bloodline, a connection he prayed to the North Star that Queen Eimarille Rourke would never uncover. When Daijal had split from Ashion after the civil war, the Star Order's genealogies had also been cleaved. Daijal records might no longer indicate his bloodline's distant past, but there was no guarantee the Ashion records had done the same.

Still, the Khaur bloodline had made a point of aligning itself with the Daijal court, even as it undermined the old Iverson bloodline's power over the years. These days, with Eimarille wearing the crown, Melvin couldn't find it in himself to be pleased that a Rourke ruled once again, not when the result was a grinding war out east that threatened everyone across the continent, whether they wanted to believe so or not.

Melvin let such thoughts slide away as he took the stairs up to the second floor of the estate and then the third. The rooms on that floor were private, meant for the family's use alone, and none of the decorations from below had made their way above. The walls only held portraits of his ancestors and artwork of distant cities, and the private office Melvin favored only held his husband.

Ezra looked up at his arrival, the gas lamps burning brightly on the desk and wall sconces casting a shine to his blond hair. He smiled at Melvin's arrival, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Even after all these years, Melvin never got tired of being greeted with a kiss from his husband.

"You look harried," Ezra murmured against his lips.

"I am glad no one else in the family could make it in time for the ball," Melvin admitted.

A strong arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him close against his husband's side. Ezra set the telegram he'd been reading down on the desk to hold him more tightly. Melvin glanced at it, noting that the missive was from his uncle and completely innocuous. It wasn't even in code, merely plain language, giving them authority to act in his place when the queen was present.

Ezra pressed his lips against the shell of Melvin's ear, voice barely louder than a whisper. "Have faith, my love. We will see the dawn."

Melvin closed his eyes, taking in a steadying breath. It was a risk to speak of such things in a home where Blades walked. The Star Order's never-acknowledged assassins had shown up midweek with soldiers wearing uniforms of the guards typically on duty at the palace in New Haven. Melvin had no recourse but to allow them entry and give them the run of the estate.

He and Ezra kept no security—magical or otherwise—in the office they shared save for a regular lock. To have anything more than that within the estate was to invite questions they could ill afford. Most of their communications with the cogs in the chains they were responsible for came through dead drops and veiled conversation out in public. If Melvin had learned anything from his uncle since taking up the mantle of Marshal, it was how to keep secrets.

They had a reputation as indulgent nobility, with a philanthropic focus on mechanical engineers and a business that focused on children. He and Ezra made it a point to be as careful as possible with how they acted in public to shield themselves and the rest of the bloodline from the actions they took on behalf of the Clockwork Brigade. But for all their carefulness, everyone's secrets were being found out.

The death of Lord Felipe Beltre in Haighmoor had spread like wildfire in the nobility's private parlors and public broadsheets across two countries within the span of a day. The accusations levied against him—of being a cog, of colluding with the Clockwork Brigade and the Ashion rebellion—had been a guilty verdict issued by Eimarille and not a court, the execution rumored to have been carried out by the only lady-in-waiting to never leave her side.

However Eimarille had come into possession of the identities of cogs, a full cascade failure of the entire Clockwork Brigade had yet to occur. Melvin and Fulcrum had worked fanatically to pick apart the chains at issue, trying to salvage who they could amidst the growing war. But Eimarille's actions of late proved they couldn't shield everyone.

Perhaps not even themselves.

It was why, as soon as the courier had arrived with their military escort and the queen's expectations and a list of invitees, Melvin had only ever been agreeable to everything requested. He'd put on a show of calm pride despite the logistical nightmare of throwing a ball worthy of the Daijalan queen with only a few days' notice.

That had been enough of a reason to call his uncle, and if, in the course of the conversation, he slipped in a code for the rest of the family to stay away, well, no one would know. He hoped, if asked, that Eimarille would accept the excuse of being greeted not by Lord Khaur himself but by a favored nephew and not consider it a slight.

Ezra pulled back a little, letting his hands move to grip Melvin's waist. The expensive blue fabric of his evening coattails brought out the color of his eyes, the fondness in his gaze as familiar as breathing. "Let's get downstairs before the guests arrive. If we aren't in the receiving line before the first knock, we'll never live it down."

Melvin snorted. "Of course not."

Tonight's ball had most certainly not been on their schedule, neither their public nor private ones. It had necessitated pushing back several business meetings and one very important clandestine one dealing with the abhorrent prisoners of war camp that had cropped up a mile away beyond Istal's outer wall.

The sprawling camp of tents and temporary barracks—overseen by better-built watchtowers and guarded by soldiers and automatons alike—was surrounded by temporary fencing meant to keep prisoners in and revenants out. It didn't always hold up.

Several breaches had occurred, necessitating the murder of POWs under the guise of ensuring spores couldn't spread. The bodies were always shipped away, most likely to wherever the death-defying machines were being kept in the field. That they weren't even given proper funeral rites in a crematorium, or their names listed on a memory wall, was sickening.

The location of the death-defying machines was information Melvin had yet to uncover, but the most critical information he had come into possession of was the identity of two high-profile prisoners who were relegated to the barracks in the camp, ever under guard. Baron Emmitt Dhemlan and Baroness Portia Dhemlan, late of Ashion, had been smuggled into the camp after winter receded and were under the heaviest guard.

Since Caris had claimed Rourke as her bloodline, everyone had wondered what had befallen the Dhemlans. Melvin knew they'd been under house arrest in Amari before that shocking announcement. Since then, no one could or would confirm their whereabouts, not until a cog who worked as a prostitute plied a Daijalan officer with enough whiskey to loosen a tongue.

The officer in question helped oversee the POW camp and knew the records of those brought inside its fences that did nothing to keep out the wind that screamed across the Northern Plains. The POW camp outside Istal's walls was a place of death. Melvin couldn't leave Caris' parents out there to die, but any attempt to access the camp without the proper clearance meant one would join the prisoners.

Melvin was skilled at facilitating the movement of debt slaves, at hiding them and passing them off to other chains for escape out of Daijal. When it came to emergency extractions, the best cog for such tasks came out of Helia.

Lady Sabine Garnier was married to a naval captain, doted on by her husband whenever he was ashore, the man ignorant of her position in the Clockwork Brigade. She wasn't directly connected to Melvin through a chain, but as the Marshal, he was aware of her position, and they ran in the same social circles. They'd become friendly acquaintances ever since their first introduction some years back. They were careful to keep their interactions few and far between while adhering to the social manners required of them for their individual stations.

Tonight, in the receiving line, Lady Sabine smiled winsomely at them both as she held on to her husband's arm. She looked splendid in a gauzy sheath gown with a high waist, the deep green fabric picked through at the hem and high collar with bright gold thread. The floral design was meant to invoke the new spring season, a familiar trend everyone indulged in wearing after the snows melted and the barrenness of winter passed.

"A most envious evening, if I do say," Sabine said with a smile that showed off her dimples as she offered her free hand to Ezra, who bowed over it. "I would be ecstatic at the chance to welcome the queen to our estate in Helia."

"It is certainly an honor for us," Ezra replied. "Lord and Lady Garnier, the Khaur bloodline welcomes you. So nice to see you away from the sea."

Lord Payton Garnier was a tall man five years Sabine's senior, with a rugged face carved from the sea winds that blew across the Gulf of Helia. His smile was genuine, and he'd always been friendly at previous social gatherings in Helia where they'd interacted. Tonight, he looked quite dashing in his naval uniform, the ranking pins and medals showcasing valor glinting against the crimson of his jacket. When he offered his gloved hand in greeting, his grip was firm but not overwhelming how some officers' were.

"Well met, Mr. Khaur. You do your bloodline a great service for putting on such a grand occasion in such a short amount of time," Payton said.

"A pity my uncle could not be here to see it. I would like to think we did him proud," Melvin said.

"You most certainly have."

"I'd ask if you were here on holiday, but the war gives no time for breaks. How fares Daijal's navy?"

Payton smiled, the pride in his gaze that of a military man who knew his place. "I was granted leave for a few weeks and ended up being summoned to Istal for some strategy meetings. Sabine decided to join me. As to the navy, we are holding the waters that belong to us."

Sabine smiled up at her husband, the adoration in her gaze not a lie, for Melvin knew how much she cared for Payton. "I couldn't bear the thought of not seeing you while you were on land."

Payton lifted her gloved hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles. "I am glad you wanted to accompany me. I'm even more thrilled we were invited tonight."

Melvin knew it was as much to be with her husband as it was to do the work of cog, though she would never admit it. Sabine and Payton smiled their goodbyes and moved away. Melvin and Ezra didn't pay the pair any more attention than they did with their other arriving guests. Melvin's throat was dry by the halfway mark of the arrival hour, but his chamberlain had positioned a servant nearby, who quickly offered up a tray of water and wineglasses. He chose water for the moment, passing the glass to Ezra to drink out of when he finished.

They were in the midst of welcoming one of the city's court justices when the sound of trumpets echoed through the open doors, signaling Queen Eimarille Rourke's arrival. Melvin smoothed his hands down the front of the waistcoat that matched the color of Ezra's suit, hiding his nerves behind a quick smile directed at his husband. "Let's hope we did our bloodline proud."

The receiving line broke up, their chamberlain quickly ushering the latecomers to the side as Melvin and Ezra left their spot beside the grand stairway to position themselves closer to the double doors. Melvin resisted the urge to crane his head about to peer through the doorway for a better view of the drive and the people present there. He didn't fidget, having learned not to when he was a boy, but he couldn't help but brush his hand over the front of his jacket again, palm skimming over the faint shape of his wand secured in an inside pocket.

Melvin had long made a name for himself as a magician skilled in parlor tricks. He would never be a match for someone who could cast starfire, but having his wand close at hand brought him a false sort of comfort. These days, with the war in full fight, he never went anywhere without it.

A flurry of motion on the porch made him straighten up, smile perfectly in place and attention on Daijal's queen as she stepped through the doors amidst the chamberlain loudly announcing her arrival. "Her Royal Majesty Queen Eimarille Rourke."

The applause that rang through the large foyer echoed against the walls. Eimarille paused just past the threshold, gracing everyone with a lovely smile, head held high beneath the weight of the crown she wore. She was beautiful, Melvin could admit, but her beauty hid a cruelty she couched as service to her country.

He let those thoughts slide away, allowing no hint of his true feelings to show on his face or in his voice as he bowed deeply to the degree appropriate for the monarch, no more and no less. "Your Royal Majesty, on behalf of my uncle, Lord Khaur, my husband and I are honored and delighted to welcome you to the Khaur bloodline's Istal estate."

Eimarille's gown was a shimmering green with gold details around the full skirt. Melvin could just make out the repeating constellation of the Viper, the representation of Daijal's guiding star god. Her gold-and-diamond crown had lone spines protruding from the flower filigree base, a representation of sunbeams. It sparkled with every movement of her head, her thick blonde hair styled into an updo that put the long line of her neck and back on display.

She smiled at him, her expression open and pleased, as if she truly did care. "I know Lord Khaur is diligently working on several war bills back in New Haven with his heir. It was kind of you to fill in for him on such short notice."

"No notice is ever too short when it comes to making you feel welcome, my queen. We are proud that you chose our bloodline for your ball." Melvin gestured subtly at Ezra, smiling fondly at the other man. "May I introduce my husband, Mr. Ezra Khaur?"

Ezra bowed again. "Queen Eimarille, it is an honor."

Eimarille kept smiling, gloved hands clasped together in front of her. Terilyn stood to her right and a little behind, the Urovan wearing a sheath gown much in the style of Sabine's from earlier. Her jewelry was more delicate and refined than Eimarille's, but Melvin didn't trust she wasn't armed. She wouldn't be a Blade if that were the case.

"Ezra, so nice to meet you. I understand you are a toymaker?"

"Yes, my queen. I own a business that makes wind-up toys."

Eimarille brightened at that. "Oh, lovely! I'm sure Lisandro would love a toy from your workshop."

"I would be happy to gift the young prince a set."

They chatted a little longer before Melvin smoothly segued their conversation into escorting Eimarille through the guests toward the ballroom. Ezra offered Terilyn his arm as well, and the other woman took it with a polite smile. Eimarille was adept at social niceties, remembering everyone's name and social status as they orbited around her through the next hour of greetings.

Melvin kept close, facilitating introductions and giving Eimarille the spotlight she didn't need to fight for, not as queen. If she wasn't the architect of the war—wasn't the one signing off on the murders of cogs and debt slaves—he could possibly appreciate her political deftness. But that would happen only if she walked a different road, and as everyone knew, the Twilight Star had set her down this one.

"Have you and your husband always lived in Istal?" Eimarille asked him in a rare break between guests.

"Yes. It is where I went to school and where his family's business is located. We met here, and we feel safe here," Melvin said, lying just a little bit.

"Even with the war?"

The question was innocuous if it had come from anyone but Eimarille. "The war is needed, my queen. How else are we to bring Ashion back into the fold? You are doing what the previous king could not, and my bloodline supports your efforts wholeheartedly."

"Yes, your uncle is quite vocal in cajoling others to vote his way in parliament back in New Haven. I do appreciate his support. Are you happy out here in Istal?"

"I must admit, the bustle of New Haven is a bit much some days. Even with the war, Istal has always been slower-paced."

Eimarille smiled gently at him, her gaze warm. "You stay for your husband, do you not? He married into nobility, as I recall."

Melvin was glad for the gloves he wore, that the sudden clammy sweat on his palms would be absorbed by the white cotton. "Yes. Politics has never been his favorite thing. He has always much preferred making toys for children."

"A worthy job if ever there was one. Your bloodline has been nothing but supportive, unlike some over the years."

He inclined his head, keeping his voice steady. "You are our queen."

"Some don't believe so."

"Then they are wrong."

Eimarille nodded, her gaze cutting away, and Melvin felt as if he could breathe again. "Of course they are."

Melvin escorted her onward, trying not to hold himself so stiffly that she noticed, but her words were like the klaxon of a warning siren. They rang in the back of his head for the next few hours, through dances and conversation, through the well-wishes of Istal's high society as he did right by his bloodline.

The estate wasn't as large as others in Istal, but it was well maintained, and the rear garden, with its topiary maze and bubbling creek, was a favorite for quiet assignations. It was in one of the groves, as they waited for the fireworks to burst in the sky at the end of the ball, that Melvin came to understand his road would continue.

Another guest's would not.

"You and your husband have been excellent hosts, Mr. Khaur," Eimarille murmured as she stared at the sky. "It is a pity not everyone's loyalty is as unquestioned as yours."

Melvin couldn't help but stiffen at her words, gaze flickering to Ezra, finding his husband looking back at him with a blank gaze, expression still that of someone enjoying the ball.

The night air was warm enough, but Melvin felt chilled to his bones. He abruptly realized Terilyn had disappeared from Ezra's side, but Melvin couldn't afford to look for her. Eimarille required all of his attention. "Pardon?"

"I know what occurred in Haighmoor is being whispered about amongst high society. I take no pleasure in removing traitors in such a way, you must understand."

Eimarille gestured almost lazily with one hand, and a moment later, Sabine was shoved out of Payton's arms and into the center of the small garden grove. She fell to her knees on the flagstones with a cry, catching herself with her hands. Payton lurched toward her with a protesting sound that he immediately strangled when Terilyn pressed the blade of her stiletto against his throat.

"None of that, please," Terilyn said in a low voice. "You are not being judged here, but if you persist, you will be."

Payton's eyes were wide, face gone bone white beneath the distant illumination of gas lamp lights. His arm remained outstretched, but he didn't move, Terilyn's warning keeping him rooted where he stood. The distant boom of fireworks filled the eerie quiet that had settled over this small corner of the gardens.

Sabine raised her head, gaze focusing not on her husband but on Eimarille. She leaned back, resting her weight on her heels, hands clenched in the gauzy fabric of her gown. "My queen, there must be some mistake."

"I am no queen to cogs," Eimarille said, staring Sabine down.

Her words drew sharp gasps from those nearby and privy to the execution about to take place. Melvin reached without looking, his hand finding Ezra's and gripping tight. He didn't look away from Sabine, didn't want to know if some other Blade was coming up behind them in the shadows. If they died tonight, they'd die together.

Eimarille stepped forward, her heels clicking against the flagstone in between the sound of exploding fireworks. "You have operated out of Helia on behalf of the Clockwork Brigade for quite some time. While your husband has served his country well at sea, you have betrayed it."

"I know not what you speak of. I am loyal to Daijal."

"You are loyal to a false queen in the east."

Sabine pushed herself to her feet, the motion somehow hiding her retrieval of her wand until it didn't. She raised it not at Eimarille but at herself, resting the tip against her right temple. The clarion crystal there brightened as she called forth the aether, her magic curling against the skin of her face and loose strands of hair. Payton's shocked gasp told Melvin the naval captain had never been privy to Sabine's most closely guarded secret. "Caris Rourke is the rightful queen of Ashion."

Gone was her subservience, and in its place was a righteous fury that Melvin felt in his bones, though he dared not ever show it. Sabine stood beneath the glow of gas lamps and magic, facing off against a woman who had signed her death sentence before she'd ever set foot on the Khaur bloodline's estate.

The sound of safeties being clicked off pistols made Melvin jerk, and he gazed wildly about at the guards whose weapons were now drawn and pointed at Sabine. Terilyn hadn't moved from Payton's side, her stiletto still resting against his throat. The Blade's attention wasn't on anyone but Eimarille, who stopped arm's distance from Sabine, one slender hand turning palm up, starfire flickering into existence in the cradle of her fingers.

The molten light of starfire brightened the area considerably, as if an impossible miniature sun rested in her hand. Melvin couldn't see Eimarille's face, only the back of her, but her voice was thick with regret he almost believed she truly felt. But it was all a lie, he knew. Eimarille was the puppet master holding Maricol's strings, granted that right by a star god at odds with the rest of his brethren.

"You dishonor your husband's bloodline," Eimarille said.

"I loved my husband, unlike the way you pretended to love yours," Sabine said. The magic at her temple grew brighter, gaze becoming distant. "And I loved my queen. For her, I will forget."

Sabine was a magician skilled in mind magic, and to turn it on herself to protect the memories and names of the cogs she worked with was a sacrifice Melvin didn't feel worthy of. Not when he stood silently by as Eimarille cast her starfire at Sabine, the magic-driven flames licking at the gown she wore and the flesh beneath it.

Payton's cry couldn't be drowned out by the fireworks as Sabine went up in starfire, never uttering a sound, forgetting how to at the behest of her own magic if she was lucky. Ezra's grip on Melvin's hand was bone-bruising, and he could hear the shallow way his husband breathed beside him. The smell of burning human flesh had Melvin turning his face aside, trying not to gag, trying not to cry, feeling desperately, achingly guilty that it was neither himself nor Ezra who'd been the focus of Eimarille's ire and glad for it.

The ball in Haighmoor and the one tonight and all the rest on Eimarille's social calendar were nothing but staged executions. In every home that held them, a cog would die, and there was precious little Melvin could do from here on out other than order the chains to flee east. Doing so would cripple the Clockwork Brigade in Daijal, and perhaps that was Eimarille's desire all along.

"I am sorry you had to find out this way, Captain," Eimarille said in a soothing voice that did little to slow the trip-hammer of Melvin's heart.

Melvin watched Eimarille comfort Payton, breathing shallowly so as not to take in the smell of Sabine's death. The captain's grief and shock was like an opera mask painted on his face, the man having aged a decade in moments. Payton's gaze remained riveted on the smoldering remains of his wife, who was nothing but ash and whose name would never be written on a memory wall.

Despite the roiling in his gut, Melvin rallied himself to do his duty to his family, hoping that Eimarille's edicts were for Sabine alone tonight. He let go of Ezra despite it being the last thing he wanted to do. Melvin didn't need to fake the solemn expression on his face at all as he approached Eimarille and Payton. He dutifully rocked to a halt when a soldier got in his way, pistol holstered now but hand resting on the sturdy brass grip. Melvin sketched a shallow bow in Eimarille's direction when she looked over at him, no hint of remorse in her eyes.

"I'll have my servants handle the…mess, my queen. Perhaps it would be best if we finished up inside?" Melvin asked.

"An excellent idea. If you've a private room we may use? I fear the good captain is in need of a respite," Eimarille said.

"Of course. Let me escort you both there."

The guard let him pass after that, and Melvin wasn't at all surprised to find that Terilyn remained by Eimarille's side. Ezra stayed behind long enough to usher everyone who had borne witness to Sabine's execution back into the estate, the whispers about what had occurred already spreading amongst the guests. Melvin desperately wanted to keep Ezra with him, but Eimarille required all of his focus.

He escorted the queen and the shell-shocked captain into the library at the other end of the wing, allowing Terilyn to enter first. Only when she gave a nod did Eimarille guide Payton inside, speaking low and soft to a man whose world she'd burned to ash. Melvin was careful to keep the horror, anger, and grief off his own face, knowing that to mourn now would leave his bloodline suspect.

Payton sank onto the chaise, cradling his head in his hands, not quite able to muffle his sobs. Eimarille didn't try to console him for his loss, only his ignorance. "You didn't know. She hid her lies well."

"She was my wife," Payton gasped out.

"She was a cog, but that has no bearing on you or your bloodline. You are not at fault."

Payton finally lifted his head, eyes wet and reddened, and looked up at her beseechingly. "My queen, I am no traitor."

Eimarille touched her fingers to his cheek. "I know. You would have met her same fate if I had information otherwise. Be at ease, Lord Garnier. Your bloodline remains untarnished. I only execute those that are disloyal."

"I am loyal, my queen."

"I know you are."

Melvin stayed put, watching as Eimarille promised lies to a man too grief-stricken to appreciate them. He knew, even if Payton didn't, that if Eimarille wanted the Garnier bloodline excised from the nobility genealogies, it would be.

Eventually, Payton was given a glass of whiskey from Terilyn, handed off to a guard, and hopefully escorted home and not someplace where his body might turn up in a gutter.

Then it was just Melvin and Eimarille and the lies he lived that he hoped were enough to save him. Sabine had, in the end, saved the chains around her, as well as keeping secret Melvin's position as the Marshal. Her own magic had carved out her memories, so even if Eimarille had imprisoned her, there would be nothing left to take. Merely a husk of flesh that was little more than a revenant, and Eimarille had seen her be not even that in the end.

There in that room, he silently prayed that Sabine danced amongst the stars.

Eimarille studied Melvin with keen eyes. "This war makes strange bedfellows of those who should know better."

Somehow, he unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "So it seems."

"Your bloodline will hold only good favor for allowing my Blade to flush out traitors to the crown."

At that, he sketched another bow, all the years of his boyhood learning the dance of manners guiding him when he only wanted to hide. "The Khaur bloodline only ever wishes to aid the war effort and support your rule. We are at your command."

"Indeed."

Melvin straightened, forcing himself to meet Eimarille's gaze, wondering if he'd soon feel the sharp edge of a knife slide into his back. She studied him with gray-blue eyes that gave nothing away, but in the end, she let him keep his life.

Eimarille headed for the door. "I believe it is time we said our farewell to the guests. You have been an excellent host, Mr. Khaur."

Melvin turned to follow her out, doing his best to pretend he wasn't lightheaded at escaping death in that room. Still, her actions were a reminder of the damage done to the Clockwork Brigade, and he knew his family's future faced a ticking clock.

After Eimarille and the guests departed, after the remnants of Sabine's life had been swept up into a vase as a makeshift urn to be dealt with in the morning, after silence settled like mourners at a memory wall, Melvin and Ezra found themselves alone in their bedroom. They undressed in silence, sliding beneath the covers and holding each other close. Melvin never once let go of his clarion crystal–tipped wand, for all the good it would do if a Blade slipped through the shadows.

In the dark, with the memory of Sabine's death playing through his mind, Melvin was never more cognizant of what was at stake than in that moment when war came knocking at his door. For war was never famine; it was always feast. It ate the lives of people in its path, swallowed their hope, and burned their freedom to ash. War was a glutton never satisfied, bones of the conquered churning beneath the boots of an army that kept driving forward.

War had teeth, and it would always bite.