“Collusion,” says Misery. “All this time we thought Monkglass was in danger. But they weren’t. Maybe they got supplies in—or someone was keeping them fed.” At some level, Pyrex Imogen must have known what was happening, the Church must have known. Even if they stayed drunken in their denial. The Throne was complicit in this betrayal, using Monkglass as a point of contention with the Heretics as they edged toward a truce: the siege an insult to them, a point of leverage in the endless back and forth. Negotiating with Heretics. Misery grinds her teeth. “In my visions of the Lady Storm … I saw her speak to Esse Temple. But I didn’t recognize the Heretic at all. I didn’t think it was important. I missed the signs. My dreams weren’t meant to be guidance. They were a warning from the Larex Forge.”

“You couldn’t have known.” Icy fingers close around Misery’s arm, pinched bloodless by adrenaline. “Even I didn’t anticipate this. My brother must have known, but it was kept so hushed, I—” She shakes her head hard enough Misery sees her braid flicking in the dark. “No, this was on me. I see it now. I was supposed to teach you the ways of the Throne. I did not.”

“None of that now.” Reflection and recrimination can wait their turn. Pressing matters are at hand. “We need to go.”

Lightning tenses. “What’s the plan?”

Misery unsheathes her teeth. She knows what she wants done. She knows what she must do. Esse Temple, the woman they’ve parleyed with, is a murderer. Her palms crusted with the blood of innocents. Forget the war, forget the truce, forget the petty shape of political ambition. Fuck what the Throne wants. Fuck what anyone wants. There is evil here and she cannot suffer it to live. Misery has not forgotten her promise to Diamond and Spider. They will get their vengeance. “We get back in the mechs,” she says. “We destroy the Heretics by our own hand.”

The princess frowns. “We didn’t get the information we sought.”

The config of the Heretic siege. Does it even matter? “Fuck that, we don’t need it. The moment power comes back, that traitor will rat us out to Esse Temple.” She cracks her knuckles. In the main corridor, an unseen soldier barrels by, a dopplering shout of “T-minus two” that fades into muffled syllables. Time is running out. “We’ll never take the Heretics by surprise; we have to subdue them by force. Fuck the siege net. It’s for show. We have a bigger target.”

“Esse Temple,” Lightning says.

“She deserves no less than death,” Misery says. “And the Demiurge granted us the tools for victory.” Conviction fills the cage of her sternum. Today is the last day of Esse Temple’s life. She will see to it. “Let’s get to the units. Where we’re going we don’t need a map.”