The guard bows immediately. Teren can tell he’s too afraid to stare into his pale blue irises for long. “Right away, sir.”

Temples to the gods are built against the wall at every mile, their entrances marked by looming stone pillars with wings carved against the ceiling. Teren heads for the nearest one on foot, ignoring the horse tied outside his tent. Mud splashes his white boots. When he reaches the temple, he makes his way up the steps and into the building’s cool recesses. The space is empty this early in the morning.

Inside, the twelve statues of the gods and angels line both sides of a straight marble path. Plates of jasmine-scented water sit at the path’s start. Teren removes his boots, dips his feet in the water, and walks along the path. He kneels in the center, surrounded by the gods’ eyes. The only sounds in the temple are the occasional clinking of chimes hung outside the temple’s doors.

“I’m sorry,” Teren finally says. His eyes stay turned to the floor, their pale, pulsing color subdued. His words echo between the statues and pillars until they fade away, incomprehensible.

He hesitates, unsure how to continue.

“I shouldn’t have questioned my queen,” he adds after a moment. “It is an insult to the gods.”

No one answers.

Teren frowns as he talks. “But you have to help me,” he continues. “I know I am no better than the malfetto wretches out there in the camps, and I know I should obey Her Majesty. But my mission is to rid this country of malfettos. The queen … she has so much love in her heart. Her brother was a malfetto, after all. She doesn’t know how urgently she needs to destroy them. Us.” He sighs.

The statues stay silent. Behind him come the tiny footsteps of the priests’ apprentices as they replace the plates of water and jasmine. Teren doesn’t move. His thoughts wander from Giulietta and the malfettos to the morning in Estenzia’s arena, when he’d run his sword through Prince Enzo’s chest. He rarely dwelled on those he killed, but Enzo … he can still remember the feeling of the blade pushing through flesh, of the prince’s terrible gasp. He remembers how Enzo had collapsed at his feet, how flecks of bright red blood dotted his boots.

Teren shakes his head, unsure of why he keeps thinking about Enzo’s death.

A childhood memory comes to him, of golden days before the fever … Teren and Enzo, still little boys, racing out of the kitchens to climb to the top of a tree outside the palace walls. Enzo was first, being older and taller. He reached down to offer Teren a helping hand, pulled him up, and pointed toward the ocean, laughing. You can see the baliras from here, the little prince said. They unwrapped leftover cuts of meat from the kitchens and skewered them onto the branches. Then they sat back and watched in awe as a pair of falcons swooped down to grab the food.

That evening, when Teren’s father struck him for being late to his Inquisition training, Prince Enzo stood between Teren and the towering Lead Inquisitor.

Let me discipline my son, Your Highness, his father said. A soldier cannot be taught laziness.

He followed my orders, sir, Enzo replied, lifting his chin. It was my fault, not his.

Teren’s father spared him that night.

The memory fades away. Teren continues to kneel for a long time, until the metal of his armor cuts his knees, making him bleed even as the wounds heal immediately. He looks up at the statues of the gods, trying to understand the mess of emotions crowding his mind.

Was it right for me, he asks silently, to kill your crown prince?

A boy and girl—the priests’ apprentices—come into view in their temple robes, placing fresh flowers at the statues’ feet. Teren watches them with a smile. When the little girl notices his Lead Inquisitor uniform, she blushes and curtsies. “I’m sorry for interrupting your prayer, sir,” she says.

Teren waves off her apology. “Come here,” he beckons, and she does. He takes one of the flowers from her basket, admires it, and tucks it behind her ear. She’s a perfect child—flawless, free of markings, with a head of red-gold hair and wide, innocent eyes. “You serve the gods well,” he says.

The girl beams at him. “Thank you, sir.” Teren places a gentle hand on her head and dismisses her. He watches her scamper away to join the boy.

This is the world he is fighting to protect, from monsters like himself. He looks up at the statues again, certain that the little girl and boy are the gods’ way of telling him what he needs to do. It was right of me. I have to be right. He just has to convince Giulietta that he’s doing this for the sake of her throne. Because he loves her.

Finally, Teren rises. He straightens his cloak and his armor, and heads toward the temple entrance. He throws open the doors. Sunlight washes over him, bathing his white robes and armor in gold. Before him is a sea of tents and dilapidated shelters. He looks on with disinterest as two Inquisitors drag a dead, whipped malfetto through the dirt, then toss the body onto a burning pile of wood.

Several of his captains are already waiting for him at the bottom of the steps. They straighten at the sight of him.

“Halve the rations for the malfettos,” Teren says, adjusting his gloves. His irises shine clear in the light. “I want this cleansing sped up. Do not inform the queen.”

This Documente of Assurance, executed 11 Toberie of 1315, witnesses that Sir Marzio of Dalia may enter into monitored trade with His Eminence the Night King of Merroutas, with knowledge that failure to provide His Eminence with eighty percent of acquired monies will result in arrest and execution.