“Saving Wesley saves the city. It’s as simple as that. And if you and Saxony have a problem, then maybe you’re the ones doing things wrong.”

Truth be told, Tavia was tired of justifying every action she took, or making excuses so it seemed like she wasn’t overstepping boundaries everyone else had created around her.

She was a busker.

She was the best busker that the capital city of Uskhanya had and maybe Saxony’s people were too scared or too unwilling to get their hands dirty, but Tavia wasn’t. Her people weren’t. They were going to do whatever it took to get the job done, even if it meant aligning with monsters.

5

WESLEY

Wesley Thornton Walcott didn’t cry.

In the list of terrible things he’d done in his life—and Wesley liked to keep track of things like that—he was sure crying had never been one. He knew that memories were fickle, of course, but he trusted his mind to keep hold of important stuff like that.

Those were the things that needed to be remembered if he was going to hold a grudge properly, and if there was one thing Wesley Thornton Walcott did well, it was hold a grudge.

Wesley didn’t cry in the face of death.

He didn’t cry because he had only half a family—the half that gave him a house but not a home, that protected him but did not love him, that stared at him like he was something so very other in a realm of strange magic and monsters.

He didn’t cry when he crossed lines and burned bridges.

He didn’t cry when he threw away friendship for leadership.

And he didn’t cry when Zekia clawed through his mind, or when her shadow demon clawed through his body. They could try to break Wesley into a thousand pieces, but he wouldn’t give them that. He’d fought his way up from the streets of Creije and there was no way he was going to go down without a fight.

“Fighting is hard,” Tavia said. “Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is just give in.”

She sat beside Wesley in the cell, her grin sly as ever, while the low glow of night filtered from the cracked window, reflecting the sky in the pool of Wesley’s blood.

“Don’t you ever just want to give up?” she asked.

She shuffled closer to Wesley and squeezed his hand.

“It’s okay if you do.”

Wesley held on to the sound of her voice, like a cliff’s edge, even though he knew it wasn’t really her voice at all.

He’d learned that by now.

He knew better.