She fixes herself on the flash of Voyne’s armor. Iron that will not help her now. Iron that comes too late.

And even though Voyne must understand at least a little, she cuts into the Lady’s belly once more.

It changes nothing.

The Lady walks forward along the length of the steel. It slides through Her easily. No blood drips from the wound as She at last reaches Voyne, cups her jaw in both Her hands. Phosyne sees it all in the reflection of Voyne’s breastplate.

“Welcome back to the world, Ser Voyne,” the Lady says. “Though it was supposed to be you on this blade, if I recall.”

Voyne snarls. “It was to be Etrebia’s sword,” she says, “but you took that from me, too, along with all the rest.”

The Lady smiles, delighted. “Vicious thing, I will take my time in savoring you.”

“Voyne!” It is Treila’s voice, cutting through the roar. She is close at hand, and she is streaked with blood. Hers? No, it does not smell like hers, and Phosyne is falling down a long, dark tunnel as she tries to place it. “You don’t need a sword!”

They must have some other weapon. But Voyne isn’t moving, and Treila isn’t either.

She is trying to, but Phosyne is holding her tight.

Phosyne doesn’t remember moving, but she has the woman in her arms now, and Treila is staring at her, confused, as Phosyne leans in, catches a flake of blood between her teeth.

It tastes like honey.

Blood of a saint, then. Which one?

From behind her, she hears the Lady murmuring to Voyne, trusting that Phosyne’s distraction will keep Her safe. “But what is this crown about your head? You are built to obey, Ser Voyne. It is written in your bones.”

That gets some response, some jerking movement that Phosyne cannot see the whole of, because she’s too busy staring into Treila’s eyes.

“They can die?” Phosyne whispers. But she knew this. She has not seen the Warding Saint since Voyne’s body was presented, wearing his armor.

No, the important thing is—there need be no iron to do it, because when Treila left her, she was unarmed.

Phosyne staggers back, far enough that she can see all three of them. Treila stepping forward as if to come after her, murderous and betrayed, and Voyne, her hands around the Lady’s throat. The Lady in the center of it all, unflappable, serene.

There is the flash of steel, but it’s not Voyne’s sword. It’s the knife, the Lady clutches it in one perfect hand, and before Phosyne can cry out, Treila has thrown herself into Voyne, knocked her away from the Lady, and taken the dagger in her place.