But the chaos of battle is always the greatest enemy, and something impacts my shoulder, sending me reeling toward Aldo. He reacts instantly to the opportunity, lifting the point of his blade to skewer my gut. I barely knock his blade aside with my own as the momentum carries me past him, exposing my back.

I fall on purpose, rolling away and flipping to my feet. I lift my sword just in time to block his downward, arcing blow. The impact rings in my ears, shudders all the way down through my hips.

“You don’t have enough training in how to attack,” Aldo says. His breath comes in gasps now.

He’ll get no retort from me, because Elisa’s voice in my head is the only one that matters. There is nothing more dangerous than an opponent who thinks.

Aldo advances, lifts a shoulder. . . .

I am the opponent who thinks. I dodge the opposite direction of his feint. His dagger finds air.

He spins, trying to dance away, but I’m wise to this now too, and I swipe low with my sword—Slit the Rope—right across his hamstrings.

He shrieks, crumples to the ground, rolls around in agony.

“Alejandro!” his mother screams.

I kick his sword out of the way and raise my arm for the killing blow, but something stays my hand.

What would Hector do? Kill Aldo? Or hold him for questioning? There’s still so much we don’t know.

When I don’t allow my blow to fall, his mother rushes to his side, crouches down. Tears stream from her cheeks.

“Mamá,” Aldo gasps out. “They hate me. Why do they hate me?”

Still not sure what to do, I take a moment to take stock. Tristán is still on his feet, though his left arm hangs limp from its socket. Juan-Carlos seems uninjured, but his chest heaves, and bodies litter the ground, attesting to his effort. Carilla whirls, a hairpin in one hand, a dagger in the other. She is like a dust devil, small and fast and wondrous as she forces back anyone who dares to approach her prince.

Rosario himself has drawn his ceremonial sword, and a cut on one cheek indicates that someone got past Carilla and the condes before being dispatched. Behind them all are Iladro and Ambassador Songbird, huddled together, trying to stay low.

Valentino hovers over his father. He has taken up someone’s fallen sword and holds it to Conde Astón’s throat. Valentino is not yet in fighting form, but at least he has eliminated his father as a threat to the rest of us.

Clusters of combat are all around me. The air smells of blood and rings with battle cries. A quick head count indicates we’ve probably lost at least one recruit, though I can’t tell who. The scuffles are getting closer, though. We’re being gradually forced to retreat, herded toward the prince.

Aldo was right. We’re going to lose. Soon we’ll be corralled, with nowhere to go.

I turn to Aldo. Maybe if I kill him, his men will stop fighting. Or maybe the men are Astón’s. Or are they the condesa’s? Which one should I kill?