“Fine,” she said, her own voice muted in her ears, like she was speaking from the fuzzy, algae-coated floor of a lagoon. “You want to know how many? I’ll tell you. From the most recent one, today. Before, at least four in the Western Wilds. One because she struck at James and was winding up for a second attack. She had a flail. Weapons like that cause so much chaos on a battlefield. It’s possible—likely, even—she killed some of her own. One came at me with a spear. I took him under the ribs. It was a clean kill. Another I knocked off her horse and I’m certain she was trampled. And I say at least four because I wounded three more. One was close to fatal, but the other two didn’t fare particularly well, either. I don’t know what became of them, but it’s highly unlikely that all three survived. Before the Wilds, I killed an assassin that sneaked into the King’s quarters. He had been hired by a mad earl. I stuck him in the back as he lifted his dagger to the King’s throat. Then, in Kyria, I was fighting with a battalion in our second wave. I was at the battle of Killjean, when—”

“Enough,” Brella rasped. “Enough.”

“I didn’t enjoy it, if that’s what you think.” Believe me, please believe me. “Being a soldier is not just killing people.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s . . .” What was it? An organizational purpose for a child born in chaos? A prism for the unfocused light of a mind that burned and burned?

“It’s figuring out how to leave a battle with the fewest losses possible.” That was true. That was true. “It’s strategizing so that we do only the necessary violence to achieve our goals. It’s teaching a group of individuals to fight as one. It’s—” She choked as a lump rose in her throat. “It’s mattering. It’s doing something that matters.”

Scratch knew that unless she performed a miracle, she would never get back to the Guard. But here, in this absurdly large bed, she understood what never going back meant. That her mind, so quick and deliberate, so specialized to her work, would go unused. That, most likely, whatever she did next would be something new, and that she probably wouldn’t be particularly good at it.

“You’ve killed a lot of people.” Brella’s voice was dull.

“I . . .” She took a deep breath, then let it out. “Yes. I don’t like to. And the first one was—”

“I don’t need to hear about it.”

Brella finally looked at her. There was something in her eyes, something off. With a sickening lurch, Scratch knew, with uncomplicated certainty, that what she saw threaded through that amber gaze was disappointment.

“You asked,” she said, more pain than logic.