I join him in the shadows of the castle, where even the walls become inseparable from the dark. I wait, letting the night wrap itself around me—the distant crackle of stretching trees, the satin warmth of air against my neck. The sharp smell of blood that closes in on my left.

I dodge, my hand shooting out to grasp his arm. With a sharp twist, I snap his wrist. He grunts in pain, his sword falling from his grip. I catch the hilt with one hand while the elbow of my other arm smashes into his face.

Dark-gray blood spurts from his nose. My knee meets his gut. He grunts again, stumbling. Another punch to his jaw, and he sprawls into the dirt. His shadows melt from his body, sinking into the earth like water. Beneath the disguise is the simple tunic that all the castle servants wear under their uniforms.

A quick scan of the area confirms our fight hasn’t drawn the attention of any guards. That’s good. Judging by his silence, he doesn’t want the attention, either. Also good. I lift his sword, admiring its razor edge as he gawks up at me, bewildered, white hair mussed.

“You’re good with this.” He might have gotten in more than a small nick if not for Saengo. I twirl the sword. The blade sings through the air. He sucks in his breath as the metal stops a hair’s width from his neck. “Who are you?”

His lips flatten, nostrils flaring as he draws a slow, deep breath. My mouth stretches into a smile that makes the blood drain from his face. His fingers flex against the earth.

“Just kill me already, shaman,” he says through his teeth. “I won’t tell you anything.”

“Are you absolutely sure about that?”

“Inferni take you,” he spits.

I lean over him, speaking low. “You must not have very much practice in this sort of thing. Allow me to explain. When I ask you a question, you answer. And when you don’t …”

The sword stabs through the fleshy skin between neck and shoulder. His back arches as his mouth opens on a silent scream. As I expected, his control suggests he’s had training not unlike my own. Blood wells around the blade, trickling down his collarbone and pooling at the hollow of his throat. Should it disturb me how easily I can hurt him? How his pain can move me so little?

“Why are you trying to kill me?” I suspect I know the answer, but I’d like to hear it from his lips.

“You bring nothing but destruction,” he hisses. “You are a weapon of the shamans to be used against my people.”

“Are you a servant here in the castle?”

The corners of his lips pull downward, and he doesn’t reply.