I step past Nong’s body, sprawled gracelessly in the dirt. My nostrils flare. A cool stillness settles over me as I slash at the archer’s next arrow, snapping it in half.

The archer scrambles back, reaching for another arrow. I rush him, forcing him to draw his sword instead. Our blades meet, his one against my two. My heart beats steadily, my breaths slow, my body given over to the battle calm.

The archer staggers beneath my onslaught, panic in the whites of his eyes. With a flourish, my swords rip his own from his hands. It clatters against the alley wall. I plant my foot in his gut. He falls to his knees, his chest heaving as I rest my swords at either side of his neck.

I could kill him. I could dig my blades into the tender flesh of his neck and let him bleed. His life for Nong’s.

This violence, this capacity to hurt—what was it Saengo had said? This is what Kendara had seen in me all those years ago.

Danger makes you deadly. She’d misunderstood. It had never been danger. It was fear.

The guard pitches backward as my blades close around his neck. Twin lines of red form against the skin beneath his jaw as he rolls away, gasping. He turns to flee, but I fling one sword. It stabs into the back of his thigh. He cries out and collapses. I bend over to yank my sword from his flesh and then lift my other one.

A sword cuts into my path. Our blades meet with a sharp clang. Instantly, I redirect my strike and then pull up short when my eyes meet Prince Meilek’s. Before I’ve even made the decision, I back away, putting space between us.

His gaze flits between me and the shamanborn, assessing the situation. There will be no talking this time. No bids for understanding or kindness. There are only our swords.

A week ago, I’d balked at the mere idea of raising my sword to the prince of Evewyn.

Have your loyalties shifted? I wasn’t lying when I said they haven’t. My loyalty remains with Evewyn. With its people. Human and shamanborn alike, those forsaken by our queen. My loyalties have not shifted—they have simply grown beyond myself.

I raise my swords into the third stance of the Wyvern’s Dance. I can hardly believe my audacity as Prince Meilek frowns and lifts his own sword, copying my stance. Behind him, the injured archer drags himself away.

Kudera whispers a curse. One of the guards I’d knocked out is rising to his feet, his palm pressed against his temple. Kudera pushes Morun into Maiya’s arms as she draws the dagger from her waist. Nearby, water streams down from a gutter, catching the glow of a lantern so that it appears almost like a ribbon of light.