The Loving Saint is first. He’s not bothering with any mask of civility; he’s still the hungry thing from the stairwell. His head moves from side to side as if he’s scenting the air. Scenting her, scenting shame. But if he is, the whole clearing is dripping with it; there’s no way he’ll be able to pinpoint her.

She thinks.

At any rate, Voyne’s corpse catches his attention in the next instant. His lips part. His brows draw down.

“Well,” he says, “that answers a few questions.”

“It raises a few more,” his companion says, his voice shivering through several notes at once. Treila’s head throbs, the ringing that had faded as she grappled for her life kicking up once more.

The Absolving Saint comes to stand over Ser Voyne’s body, disgust twisting his silvered lips. His attention fixes upon the handle of the knife where it protrudes, unmoving, from her throat. There’s so much blood, spilling out beneath her, painting the dirt.

The Loving Saint recognizes the dagger. It’s the only explanation for the way his lips twist, for just a moment, into a feral grin. But he doesn’t say anything. Only looks up and scans the closest shadows—for her, no doubt.

Treila does not breathe.

He’s proud of her, she thinks. Or proud of himself. What a tangle he’s made of her (or has she made it of herself?).

“I’ll tell the Lady Her pet is dead,” he says.

And then the Loving Saint flits out of existence. A blink, and he is gone.

Assumptively alone, the Absolving Saint crouches beside Voyne. He does not touch. Not her skin, not her armor, not the blade itself. That disgust is louder, now. He looks almost ill. “What a waste,” he murmurs. Treila doesn’t think he’s referring to the death.

After that, he is silent, and she is hollow. The quiet wraps around them both. It is strangling. It leaves no room for her panic or her sorrow, only dull attention. It’s too risky to leave, but she doesn’t want to leave. She doesn’t want to be parted from Voyne, not any more than she’s already managed. She knows she should go to Phosyne, tell her what has happened. Tell her they still have a way out. Tell her about how afraid the Loving Saint is of iron, of how much its mere appearance disgusts the Absolving Saint. There are so many threads to tug on that might lead the way to victory or, at least, safety.

They all feel so limp in her hands. She’s not quite sure who she is now.

She feels unmoored.