And Orfeus could fight Faolan and doubtless die, for in all their sparring sessions it had never been Orfeus who won. Unless Faol’s feelings ran as deep as Luga seemed to think. If he loved her, she might be able to win, and kill Faol.

Her stomach roiled. She took a step back, dropped to the ground in a crouch for a moment, mouth clenched tight until the nausea faded.

Slowly Orfeus pushed back up. Luga stood watching her with interest. She reached out and took the sword out of Luga’s hands.

She shifted the hilt in her hands. It felt all wrong, too long and unwieldy.

Luga stood there and smiled. “We can make it a proper fight,” he said, and lifted his hands slightly, fingertips trembling. “Even like this, though, I would beat you. Fox, it will be challenging to hold on to your new power, but you can do it.”

Orfeus tried to ignore him. The metal was cold.

If she killed him, Faol would never forgive her. Faolan would also hate killing her, though, or so Orfeus hoped.

Either way would hurt Faol, but only one way would leave Orfeus alive.

Luga just stood there, orchestrating all the horrors that had plagued her these last months and the beauties she’d thought she won on her own.

Orfeus lowered the sword. “No,” she said. “Absolutely not.” She felt firmer every second, though the ground seemed to sway under her feet, and blackness swarmed and ate at the edges of her eyes. “I’m not playing into your hands, and I’m not giving you a scrap more of me. I’ve lost too much to you already.”

She offered the sword back to him with a sarcastic little bow.

Luga stood surveying her. “I see,” he said. He sighed out, and his breath smelt sour, acrid, like smoke. “Disappointing. Still, a good leader plans for these things.” He frowned. “If not an honourable death, at least a useful one.”

Orfeus frowned. “I won’t die easy,” she said, though she ached.

Luga smiled. He took the sword, and drove the blade into his own chest.

Orfeus reached out too late. The sword dug into his flesh, a slick sound of cutting meat. She made a choked noise, staring, but Luga made no noise, though sweat sprang to his brow.

With a heave he pulled the sword out of his flesh. It came out cleaner than she would’ve thought. Sitting up here, he’d kept the blade whisper-sharp.

“Why?” Orfeus said. Her Blood was still gone, she could not heal, and he was already lifting the blade again and lining it up with his lungs.

Luga smiled with blood on his mouth. “They all know…how these things go,” he said, voice ragged but triumphant.

He shifted the sword. It still had the mark of her hands upon it. “Oh, you bastard,” Orfeus said, digging her fingers into her palm.