Josiri Trelan stepped out of the rain, his raiment so filthy that Melanna didn’t recognise him at first. He held an amulet about his neck as tightly as a castaway clutching driftwood, and his eyes were wild.

“Stay back!” Aedrun bellowed in accented Tressian. “You’ll not harm the prince while we live!”

Josiri threw his head back and laughed. Then he gave a formal bow and stepped aside. “Go. You’re free. The guards are attended to, but there’ll be more coming. The simarka won’t harm you. I give you my word as a Trelan.”

He seemed to find this last uproariously funny, for he laughed again.

“This is a trap,” hissed Aedrun.

Melanna’s father pursed his lips. “If so, it’s an exceedingly strange trap. Daughter? You’ve spoken with the man.”

She considered. “What have we to lose?”

He chuckled. “We should make that the family motto.”

Aedrun frowned. “My prince . . .”

“Enough. The decision is made.”

Melanna’s father at their head, prisoners threaded through the unmoving simarka. Slowly, at first, but with growing confidence as the constructs made no reaction.

“Head north for the forest.” Josiri shouted to be heard over the rain. “You can cut east from there.”

Aedrun shot him a suspicious look and clambered through the breach. A heartbeat later, he beckoned back for Melanna’s father. “Come, my prince.”

Melanna hung back. She ignored the rain pooling in her collar and stared at Josiri. “Why?”

“Because you were right. They’ll never stop taking from me, whatever I do. But this victory? The battle I won? The prisoners I took? That my sister likely died for? These things, I can take from them.”

Melanna gazed at him, unable to untangle the swirl of sorrow and glee he wore like a cloak. “I’m sorry.”

“Ashanal!” shouted Aedrun. “We must go.”

She lingered all the same, recalling Ashana’s words. You’re an empress. You speak for a people. That sword cut both ways, didn’t it? In vengeance, and in unsought kindness.

“I owe you for this, Josiri Trelan,” she said. “The house of Saran owes you. Ashana watch over you and your kin.”

The last of the joy slipped from his expression. “Go.”

Melanna vanished into the rain. Josiri, abuzz with defiance and fear, let Gavamor’s amulet fall at his feet and propped an elbow on the nearest simarka.

“Well, that’s that,” he said softly. “Makrov will be here soon. Viktor too, I shouldn’t wonder. And then someone will think to send you after them. Can’t have that, can we, Samias? Do you mind if I call you Samias? You look like a Sam.”

The simarka offered no opinion. Like cats of all stripes, what wisdom it had it kept to itself.