Terror threatens to consume me as I race to Alessandra’s side. I discard Unrelenting Fire to reach for Ancient Frost, hoping its cold logic will ground me. With a shaking hand, I check her for a pulse. It is there, strong and fast, praise Dead Asclepius.

Blood pools around her where the sword still sticks out of her chest. Desperately, I cast about, looking for something I can use as a bandage. The Foundry has nothing to offer me but dirty metal and rocks. Out of ideas, I reach out and touch the hilt of the dueling blade, wincing as I see how deeply the sword has cut inside of her.

I cannot let her keep bleeding, but I also have to move her. The sword needs to come out so that it doesn’t cut her further. With a thought, I mold the sword, smoothing out its sharp edges, making it easy to pull free. It slides out easily without catching on her flesh.

Blood wells in the open wound, and I curse, not sure what to do. I debate cutting my own tunic into strips, but that will not provide the pressure I need. There is no way to make a tourniquet around her chest. I must find a way to seal the wound, or she will die before I can get her back to the Pelias estate.

A thought emerges from the back of my consciousness, working its way through the barrier of frost that surrounds my mind. Reluctantly, Ancient Frost parts to let this instinct from my hottest Cor through. My eyes flicker to the ruined dueling blade that I hold, following Unrelenting Fire’s whispers.

It could work.

I switch Symbols, banishing Winter for the power of Fire. Still holding the iron sword, I narrow my eyes and place my right hand on the flat of the blade. With my will, I pour the burning essence that I carry into the dueling blade. It does not manifest as fire, but slowly, the temperature begins to rise.

After a dozen heartbeats, the edges begin to turn pink. A few more, and a handbreadth of the metal glows. I grit my teeth, pulling in more essence from the distance furnace, refilling my Cor as it pours out of me. This isn’t congruency. I am not manipulating the iron—merely channeling my heat into it.

Finally, the weapon is a cherry-red. The metal is so soft, it bends in my bare hands. Moving quickly, I peel the torn sides of her tunic away from her wound, exposing the flesh on either side. I let out a long sigh as I slowly lower the red-hot blade toward her chest, preparing to cauterize the wound.

“This is going to hurt,” I warn, but she does not react. Then the iron touches her flesh, and the air is full of a sizzling sound as the two halves of her wound melt together. I grit my teeth, trying to gauge how long I should wait as I hold it in place. I have only been taught how to take a life, not save one. Alessandra murmurs in her unconscious state, squirming against the pain.

I count to ten then lift the sword, nervously eying the wound that I have seared whole. Her flesh is red and burnt, but as I gingerly wipe at it, no fresh blood emerges. Relieved, I lean back on my heels, dropping the still-smoking blade to the ground. Hopefully, that will buy me the time to get her to the medici.

But there is still more to do.

Cursing under my breath, I rise to my feet and eye the man who stabbed her. I’ve already forgotten his name. He is dead. His eyes have been burnt out of his face by Alessandra’s power, his flesh ruined by mine. I cannot just leave him here. Xania might not know what Brennus and his idiot companions decided to do tonight. Leaving the bodies in their condition will only start a war sooner.

I grunt as I bend over to grab him by his belt. Calling upon my Silver strength, I lift him up and over the railing and let him tumble to the floor below. He lands with a sickening thump that makes me not want to look. But I have no time to be gracious with the dead.

Alessandra still has my weapon sheaths. I slide my gladii into them, tossing the belt around my waist before scooping her up far more gently than I did her assailant. She is light in my Silver arms. I wince as she groans as if in pain but does not open her eyes.

“Hang on, just a little while,” I beg softly.

I move quickly, trying not to jostle her too hard, and we make it to the floor in one piece. Her would-be killer is a mess. I ignore him for a moment, scanning the rest of the scene, desperate to find Anas. He has been silent for too long.

Just when I am beginning to fear the worst, I find him. My Twelfth brother is lying on his back, propped against a rail cart in a pool of his own blood. He lets out a sigh of relief at the sight of me carrying Alessandra.

“There you are, Dominus,” he murmurs.

“You can always count on a soldier to be lying down on the job while the officers are distracted,” I say, trying to force a smile.

“Just a quick rest,” he assures me. His voice is weak. I set Alessandra down next to him, just outside of his blood, and step forward to check on my friend.

“Come now, you’ve had worse,” I chide him, noting the dozen cuts that cross his arms and legs. They cut him to ribbons. I suddenly regret killing Brennus’s other friend so quickly. Relief flows through me as I catalogue his wounds. He’s lost a lot of blood, but I see no sign that his organs have been pierced.

“Maybe once or twice.”

“Can you walk?”

“Oh sure.” He wiggles slightly, trying to rise but failing. “I’ll get right on that.”

“Okay, sit tight. I’ll be back for you both.” I rise, intending to go find Timidus, the coachman, and force him to help me. But then I pause, eyeing the three bodies that lie in the middle of the Foundry, and hesitate. The less he knows, the better.

Alone, I commit a crime against the Empress herself.

All three of the Valerus contingent were electi. By rights, their relics are now the property of Diana, minus the tithe that would go to their family for their service. That is the oath that each of us swears, Legion or not, when we are given our Cor Hearts.

Instead of harvesting them, I feed their bodies to the furnace. The fire rages through the glass porthole that I broke with my exit. It accepts my offerings greedily, filling the empty factory with the stench of burning meat. I thrust myself deeply into the arms of Ancient Frost to keep from vomiting as I move about my grim task.

Part of me finds a small sense of poetry in the moment. Atticus and the Praetorians fed my mother and sister to the flames. Brennus killed my friend. Why should I not feed some of them to the fire as well? An eye for an eye may leave the whole world blind, but I would rather live in darkness than with the vision that has been thrust upon me. Besides, my goddess already cannot see.

Another part of me whispers quietly that this is another step down a road that I will never return from. My mother would not be proud of this. But she’s dead; her voice cannot guide me. Only her memory haunts me, distant and cold.

Brennus is the last one to join his comrades in the inferno. There is no one to pray to, but I say one anyway to Dead Pluto, asking him to tell Macer that he has been avenged. It does not make me feel better.

My grisly task complete, I race back to Alessandra and Anas. Both are unconscious but breathing. I let out a sigh of relief as I plan my next steps. There’s no point in bringing poor Timidus in here. He will only see things that can get him killed.

Instead, I walk over to Anas and lift him, using all my Silver strength to throw him over my shoulder like a sack of flour. He is heavy. I stagger under the weight but grit my teeth and manage to find some sort of balance.

Lowering my head, I power my way through the expanse of Foundry and out the door that we entered. Mons Olympus floats above me, a silhouette against the full moon. I curse the dead gods as I carry the heavy former captivus toward the carriage.

“Timidus!” I bellow as I draw close. “Wake up, you sleeping cur!” I am met with only silence. My left hand strays toward the hilt of its gladius.

“Timidus?” I repeat, no longer sure of myself. My animus sweeps around us, checking for attackers lurking in the yard. But I find no swords waiting in the dark. All I can sense is the iron in the carriage, the equipment around us, and in the ore waiting to be processed.

Slowly, I make my way to the coach and look inside. It is empty, abandoned. A growl sounds in my throat as I realize how the Valerus might have known where Alessandra was tonight. I wrench the door open and jam Anas into a seat.

“Don’t move!” I shout at my unconscious friend, turning to sprint back toward Foundry.

Something skitters under my boot as I run through the factory, causing me to stop. Slowly, I bend down to pick up Brennus’s tellus knife from the dust. The weapon feels strange in my grip, too smooth and light to be made of iron. The only texture on the hilt is the raised pattern of the eight-armed krakenus, the sigil of the Valerus family.

I tuck the ceramic blade into my belt as proof for Varus and race back to Alessandra. The young woman has begun to come to, her Silver body working overtime to heal the damage caused by her wound. She opens her mouth to speak, but I silence her.

“Pardon me, Domina,” I grunt, crouching to scoop her up in my arms once more. She protests weakly, but I do not listen. “We are in a bit of a hurry.” Moving as quickly as I dare, I carry her to the cart, loading her into the seat next to the still-unconscious Anas. Worried, I check his throat for a pulse. It is still there but weaker than before. The cushion underneath him is stained red with his blood.

I slam the door to the carriage shut and leap up to the driver’s seat, eyeing it uncertainly. As a boy, I would occasionally be allowed to drive the carts in the fields, so I understand the basics of steering a contraption like this. But a pair of oxen pulling a boy through an open field is a far cry from driving a trained pair of horses in the second largest city of the Empire.

There is no one else to do this. It must be me. I do not know how much longer Anas has. My flames have bought Alessandra a while, but he has too many wounds for cauterization to be practical. The only path to salvation is forward. Leaning forward, I grab the reins in my hands.

“Hyah!” I give the tack a light flip, knocking it against the back of the horses, the way I saw Timidus do when we left. At once, the pair break into a trot, pulling against their harnesses. Tentatively, I experiment in the empty gravel yard, pulling them to the left and right, trying to get a feel for their turning radius.

We complete a tight circle, and reluctantly, I aim them toward the exit, which still sits open, waiting for us. The horses’ hooves echo off the cobblestones as we burst into the empty street.

At least it is night, I think wryly, glaring back at Luna’s full eye that stares down on me as I guide the team through Anteforum’s wide streets. The horses can either sense my urgency or lack of experience, for they lean into their task with glee. More than one person shouts at us in alarm as we race past them.

Another carriage veers in terror as we round a corner at high speed, driving up onto the pedestrian walkway to make way. Their drivers shout in outrage in my wake, but I do not acknowledge them. My oath to Varus tingles in my bones, quivering with the same fear that fills me as I race against the clock, trying to save my passengers.

At last, I spy the familiar wall of the Pelias estate. I am surprised that Sol has not begun his ascent above the horizon, but when I check his pale counterpart, I am surprised to learn that it has been less than half an hour. It has felt like an eternity as I made my way through unfamiliar streets, trusting the horses’ sense of direction more than my own.

“Open the gate!” I bellow as I approach the entrance to the courtyard. A pair of Ironbound guards eye me from the wall, confusion evident on their faces.

“In the name of Senator Varus Pelias, open the gate, or I will open it for you!” I threaten. Something in my voice must convince them, for the doors begin to swing wide open. The team, which had begun to slow, break into a trot at the sight of home.

Please let me not be too late.

We sweep into the courtyard in a spray of gravel as I pull on the reins, forcing the horses to an abrupt stop. The wood of the carriage groans at the abuse, but I ignore it. I’m already leaping from the driver’s seat before we’re completely at a halt.

“Medico!” I shout as my feet land on the ground. It is like I never left the legions. I am a decurion again, ordering soldiers around. Four guards race up to me, hands on the hilts of their swords as they try to figure out if I am a threat. My finger shoots out, stopping them in their tracks.

“You, fetch me every medici that’s in the compound right now. Tell them we have two combat victims that need immediate aid.” The Ironbound’s eyes flare wide, and after a moment of hesitation, he salutes and sprints toward the dormitories.

“You, fetch me Dominus Varus at once. I do not care if he’s in the bath, I do not care who he’s in bed with. Bring him to me. Do I make myself clear?” This one’s face pales, but he too salutes me as if I am his commanding officer.

“Yes, Dominus,” he shouts before racing toward the main house, arms pumping.

“And you.” I wheel on the third guard, who no longer looks caught off guard. He’s older than the rest, an experienced veteran. “I want every guard in this estate awake on the walls now. Full battle kit.”

“On whose authority?” he sneers. “You are not my master. Why should I listen to you?”

I do not have time for this. I whirl on him, snarling as I close the distance in a handful of heartbeats. His hand flashes toward his gladius, but he never even manages to pull it free from its sheath. His Copper speed is no match for me. My left hand catches the top of his hilt, holding it in place before he can complete his draw.

My right fist connects with his face, knocking him on his back.

“You!” I snap at the remaining soldier. “Every guard. Full battle kit. Now.” The fourth man looks at his sprawling friend, then snaps to a salute before racing to obey my commands. I leave the groaning guard in the dust, turning back to the carriage and pulling its door open.

“Everyone still alive in here?” I demand, trying to force some levity into my voice as terror clutches at me. Anas is far too pale. He leans bonelessly against the wall, looking more like a sack of potatoes than a man. I check his pulse—it is faint.

“MEDICO!” I bellow again, spinning to find myself staring into the face of one of Pelias doctors, a woman dressed in a white nightgown, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. She flinches at my shout but does not flee.

“More are coming, Dominus,” the first guard tells me, giving me a sharp salute. “Medico Jahns was the closest.”

“Well done. Hurry the rest of them up. We don’t have time.”

“What’s the situation?” the medico asks, sounding almost bored as she slides past me to investigate the inside of the carriage suspiciously. “Surely we do not need to rouse all of the—dead gods, is that the heir?” Her voice changes to a squeak. All of the guards stiffen in shock, their wide eyes tracking from me to the dark interior of the carriage.

“Tell them to run faster!” Jahns snaps, turning to shout at the guard who brought her.

“This guard’s wounds are more severe⁠—”

“I will see to him after I check on her,” Jahns interrupts me firmly, climbing into the cart. I open my mouth to protest but close it silently. It will do no good. What is the life of a slave compared to that of the heir of a palatine house?

“What happened?” Jahns’s voice is clinical and cold as she crouches to examine Alessandra’s wound.

“She was stabbed by a dueling blade,” I tell her, looking at Anas, trying to see if he is still breathing. His chest moves, and I cling to that motion with desperate hope. There is still time. “She was bleeding heavily and unconscious. I cauterized the wound before bringing her back here.”

“You did this?” Her head whips around to glare at me in suspicion. I raise my chin as I hold her gaze.

“I did.” Something in my stare unsettles her, and she looks away as more people race up to the carriage. Three more medici, in similar states of undress, shove their way in, all trying to get a look at Alessandra.

“This guard also need—” I begin, but an older man with white hair cuts me off, waving dismissively.

“He will be looked at next, boy.” My gaze travels down to the dark red stains on the cushion of Anas’s seat. Fire and Ice move together for once, united by their rage. A cold anger begins to burn in me.

The sound of my gladius pulling free from its sheath rings through the night. The temperature of the air plummets as the Ancient Frost in my blade pulses threateningly. All four of the medici freeze, slowly turning to look at me with wide, terrified eyes.

“Forgive me, Domini,” I sneer, the honorific making it clear what little I think of them. “Is it somehow possible that the four of you are so unlearned that it is necessary for all of you to look over the heir? Surely one of your attentions can be spared for the man who bled in her defense?”

There is a moment of long, terrible silence.

“What are you going to do, boy?” the old man asks at last. “Kill us if we do not help your friend?”

“He probably would kill one of you to make a point.” Varus’s voice is sharp and clear as the senator arrives like a winter storm. “But you will obey him, for he speaks with my voice.”

“Yes, Dominus. Forgive me.” The medico cows at once, bowing his head and scuttling to Anas’s side. I turn to the side to make way for him, sheathing my sword slowly. My eyes find Varus’s, and he tilts his head in summons.

Reluctantly, I obey leaving my companions in the medici’s care and stepping out into the night. A brass horn begins to sound, blowing six short notes in a variation of the legion muster call. Varus’s head rises to look in the direction of his guard barracks before turning back to me, eyes dark.

“Valerus?”

“Valerus,” I confirm. I draw the tellus knife from my belt and flip it in my hand, offering it to him hilt first. He takes it slowly, looking down at his hands for a long moment.

“I gave this to Briannus as proof.” His voice is calm and dangerous. Another enemy added to the list. A chill runs down my spine to see him so cold. “So much for the Empress’s moratorium.”

“It was Brennus.”

His head snaps up in surprise, and he gives me another long look. “Does he live?”

He had not expected Xania’s son to attack us personally. Part of me thinks that Xania wouldn’t have either.

I shake my head. “No survivors.”

He cocks his head, studying me more closely. His eyes track to my gladii, which hang from my belt. I know what he is thinking. The swords are intact despite battling a Fidelis. How did I manage to beat him? I say nothing—to be defensive would only increase the suspicion. After a moment, he nods, accepting my word.

“Where are the bodies? How long until they are discovered?” he asks, his eyes flick to over my shoulders, tracking the medici that are working on his daughter. A part of him is with her, only concerned with being a father. But he knows that there is more riding on this.

“I burned them,” I admit, confessing my crime. “They will never be found.”

A stream of guards begins to thunder into the courtyard behind us, shouting orders as they race toward the walls. We stand tranquil amongst their chaos, like a pair of rocks as the tide goes out.

“Burned them,” he repeats softly when there is no one around us. He knows what that means for the relics.

I nod without flinching.

“Your idea?” he asks, nodding at the complement of guards manning the walls.

“What would you do?” I reply, tilting my head toward the carriage behind us. The medici have begun to move Alessandra and Anas. I do not speak my question aloud, for fear of inviting Thanatos’s shade into this house, but he takes my meaning all the same. The loss of his child would trigger a landslide.

His eyes harden, and he glances at the walls again. “Well done,” he says after a pause. He claps me on the shoulder, a gesture that is more symbolic than anything. Every eye in this courtyard is on the pair of us. He tells all of them that I carry his favor.

“Medico, will my daughter live?” he calls when his hand drops.

“She is stable, Dominus,” Jahns answers after a moment. “She will have a horrible scar, but the cauterization likely saved her life.”

“And her guard?” Varus looks at me as he asks, showing me a glimpse of who he is. How different he is from the drunks who sat on the Argentum Consilio. If only all the senators were cut from the same cloth as him, the world would be a better place.

“Too soon to say, but I’ve seen Ironbound survive worse, Dominus,” the male medico who works on Anas replies. Relief floods through me, I know some of what Anas has already lived through. This isn’t where his story ends.

Over Varus’s shoulder, Pliny rushes into the courtyard, emerging from his library like a gopher. His eyes take in everything at a glance, but they settle on me with a weight of certainty that tells me he knows what I have done.

For the first time, I inspect my own arms. The paint that hid my Copper Cor is gone, burned away by the heat of the Foundry furnace. White rasa veins still show among the network of veins that run through my body, but there are more Silver ones than before, plain for anyone with eyes to see.