The guard looked us over, settling on my red cloak before returning his attention to Sir Baramon. He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t you say you were with the Red Spears?” He scribbled something on his paper. “Your people are in the usual place: the Green next to the Temple of Khored. Tell Captain Desrok I said hello.”

“Desrok?” Baramon raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean Captain Mithros?”

I fought to keep my expression bored and still. Mithros was the name Thaena had given me, the man who would help me find a way inside Duke Kaen’s palace.

The guard smiled. “Oh, right. My mistake. Enjoy the games.” He motioned for us to bring our horses inside.

I realized just how odd we must have seemed. Tournament performers would come in through the Gatestone. We’d walked up on foot, with inferior horses too poor to ever be used in the ring.

So he’d tested us.

Fortunately, Sir Baramon passed.

I heard a yelp and looked back to see Sir Baramon hopping on one leg. “Damnable woman! What was that for?”

Dorna put her hands to her hips. “As if you don’t know. Bitsy?”

“Well, it’s not like you’re growing larger in your old age, is it?”

Mare Dorna poked a finger at Sir Baramon’s stomach. “Unlike some!”

“Count.” Brother Qown said a single word, low and warning. He stared up.

I followed his stare with my own and saw he was looking at one of the city’s many bridges, stretching from rooftop to rooftop. A crow’s cage hung on the bridge closest to the entrance, meant to be viewed by all who passed by. A fire had twisted and blackened the metal. The same fire had surely killed the person inside, now nothing more than a charred skeleton.

A wooden sign hung from the cage, proclaiming the criminal’s deeds.

Witch.

Behind me, the whole group fell silent. Dorna and Baramon ceased their bickering.

No runes marked the cage, unlike what I’d seen in Barsine. It seemed this was more of a routine burning. Given the Marakori slums close by and the Marakori reputation for demon worship and black magic, I felt I could reliably predict this witch’s ethnicity.

The last Hellmarch had started in Marakor, after all. Started in Marakor but ended in Jorat.

We have never forgotten.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. Sir Baramon said, “We shouldn’t linger here.”

I nodded and led us to the duke’s palace.

Atrine is the most beautiful of cities, and after our entrance, I saw none of it.

Every corner held dangers. Every shadow hid a knife’s edge. It took all my will to stay calm and steady, to smile and act like I had no enemies and no reason to hide.

I raised my borrowed cloak’s hood, anyway.