For half a heartbeat Valyn just stared at the body. Two things were clear: Pyrre had killed Finn, and no one had killed Valyn himself. Before he could think it through further, a series of detonations rocked the hallway. The empty doorframe, murky black a moment earlier, erupted in a fog of blue flame. Sigrid’s work, Valyn realized, a leach’s kenning rather than munitions. If Pyrre was out there, she was dead now, but Newt darted through the fire anyway, blades drawn, while Sigrid flicked a dismissive hand at Annick and Talal. They reeled as though struck, the sniper’s arrow careening off through an open window as she struggled to keep hold of her bow.

The Flea’s Wing was fully in motion, and Valyn hadn’t moved. None of his Wing had. He shifted his weight, stepping backward to create space just as the Flea attacked. Valyn knocked aside the first blow, parried the second, slid under the third, the man’s double blades raining down in a series of forms too fast for Valyn’s mind to follow. He abandoned thought, letting his body do the work it had been trained for, that the Flea had trained him for, parrying and slicing, stabbing and riposting, lunging and countering . . . and then it was over, fast as it had begun, his own sword forced wide by one of the Flea’s blades, the soldier’s other steel pressed against his neck.

“I didn’t know . . .” Valyn said.

The Flea shook his head, eyes hard. “You killed Finn.”

Valyn glanced over his shoulder toward the sniper’s crumpled form. “Pyrre—” he began.

“Save it,” the Flea cut in. “We’re done talking.”

Valyn stared. It was a hopeless position. Beyond hopeless. The Flea could slice his throat with the barest twitch of his wrist. The fight was over; it had been over from the beginning, really. Only . . . Valyn’s mind scrambled for purchase on the situation. The Flea hadn’t killed him. No one had killed him. Despite the madness unfolding all around, his entire Wing was still shouting, fighting. Which meant the Flea wanted to take them alive. It was a slender thread to hang his own life from, but Valyn had nothing else. He took a deep breath, raised his hands as though in surrender, then, with a roar, half fear, half fury, he lunged forward, directly into the sword’s bright point, tipping his head back to bare his neck more fully.

For half a blink he thought he’d fucked up and badly, killed himself on the other man’s blade, but the Flea was as fast as Valyn had hoped. The Wing leader cursed, yanking his weapon awkwardly aside, and Valyn seized the advantage, bulling directly ahead, knocking the man hard into the wall, gaining just enough space to pull free and bring his own weapon to bear once more.

“That was stupid,” the Flea said, shaking his head.