They stood at the crest of the ridge, half facing east, the other half west. Sunlight glinted off jewel eyes and sank into the rock of their faces, chests, arms, three-fingered hands. They scowled, gray sexless sentinels waiting for gods who never would return. The newly Penitent guarded the ridge for weeks as stone voices worked on their ears and stone wheels ground their bones, preparing them for duty. The first Penitents had been hewn from living rock here. The story ran that Makawe shaped them to guard for his return. The truth was more complex: Makawe carved a handful first, and after the wars the Order hired Craftsmen to copy and refine those models, make them bigger, stronger, faster.

Penitents jutted from the ridge like jagged teeth from a green jaw.

Kai climbed. She was not the only one who walked this road—watchmen and watchwomen and Penitents passed alongside her—but still she felt alone.

Claude had described Penitence like this: The statue directed your mind. You saw what it believed you should see. You did what it believed you should do, until your will and the statue’s merged. Then, at last, it let you go.

She shuddered, and pressed on.

Watch houses squatted below the ridgeline: low structures with angled roofs, thick walls, and tall black-tinted windows. Kai’s path led to the largest building, which was dug back into the hill. Posted signs warned of dire fates for trespassers. A carved slab above the door read: West Claw Station House.

Watchmen did not tend to be creative with their names. Penitence broke creativity out of them.

Kai entered a dark lobby lined with dark plaques and dark furniture, and told the duty officer she wanted to see Claude. The officer looked up at her, blank, and Kai searched the woman’s haggard face for a sneer. She saw none, but that didn’t mean much. A sergeant dispatched into the station house returned a few clock-ticked minutes later. “Follow me, ma’am.”

He ushered her down one long windowless hall, and, turning right, down another. Black wood doors punctuated the hall at regular intervals; none bore name or number or any markings she could see.

The sergeant stopped at a door like all the rest, stood aside, and waved her in. She stared into the matte, into her own shadow, and knocked.

Claude opened the door. He did not seem surprised to see her—though, of course, the sergeant would have warned him. Kai hadn’t given her name, but his coworkers knew her face. That had been a good thing, once. He closed the door once she stepped inside.

“New office,” she said.

“Yes. You remember I was promoted.” He walked back to his desk.