Have they told the people, Evie wonders? Have they told them anything? Have they even bothered to feed them a string of lies to conceal the fact that an invading force has seized control of the western border and has its sights set on their city?

Invaders, Evie thinks to herself. We’re invaders now.

Behind her, Sirach stirs beneath the silken sheets of the bed they’ve shared since taking the garrison. Their temporary quarters once belonged to a Skrain captain and the steady string of pleasure girls and boys who kept them entertained at night. They’ve uncovered evidence in the form of perfumes and oils and several toys hidden beneath the bed, none of which belong in a military barracks.

Evie isn’t certain even now how she and Sirach ended up together; everything immediately following the Battle for the Border, as the Legionnaires are calling it, felt unreal to her, like a dream. Nothing ever feels wrong in a dream. There’s no hesitation and no inhibition.

Enjoying each other’s body has undeniably brought her repeated bliss. However, Evie can’t deny that taking her first bath in months was even better.

Evie listens to the rustling of Sirach gathering the sheets around her naked body and slipping from the bed. Her bare feet padding across the room make even less sound, and in the next moment Sirach envelopes Evie in the sheet, pressing against her bare back and embracing her gently.

“Can’t you sleep?” she asks.

Evie lightly grips Sirach’s arms and leans against her gratefully. “I barely remember what sleep feels like.”

“Then I feel I’ve failed utterly at my task.”

Evie smiles. “Not at all.”

She rests her chin on Evie’s shoulder. Sirach’s gaze fixes on the lights in the distance.

“It’s like one big, bright jewel with a thousand eyes that sparkle in the dark,” she says. “And we’re going to pluck it from the bedrock.”

“You make it sound quite lovely. You have a gift for that. A siege, however, and sacking a city isn’t lovely. It will be wading knee-deep through streets filled with blood and shit and screams of pain and fear and death. It won’t look like a jewel then.”

Sirach grins, kissing along the outline of Evie’s collarbone. “You know what I really like about you?” she whispers.

Evie tenses, feeling the prickling of flesh that should be wholly unrelated to her shoulder.

“You’ve seemed to develop a lengthy list over the past few nights,” she says.

“Besides those things,” Sirach amends.

“What’s that?”

“You utterly refuse to become what you quite clearly have become.”

Evie shakes her head. “I don’t know what that means.”

Rather than explain, Sirach poses a new question: “Are you saying we shouldn’t attack the city?”