He watched as one of Amara’s men spoke with a Paelsian wine seller, who offered him a taste of their product, but the wooden goblet wasn’t presented with trembling hands or fear in the seller’s eyes, but with a smile upon his face.

It annoyed Magnus to see that so many Paelsians were accepting the fate of becoming a part of the Kraeshian Empire, seemingly without a care in the world. Had it really been so bad for them before that the thought of Amara as their new leader was a gift?

He continued to watch evidence of this dynamic between Paelsians and Kraeshians until the sun was high in the sky and wearing a hooded cloak became unbearably hot. Since he’d had his fill of the sights, sounds, and smells, both pleasant and foul, of the Basilia market, he decided to return to the inn.

Magnus turned in that direction only to find that someone stood in his path.

Taran Ranus.

Magnus fought not to show that unexpectedly facing the twin of Theon—someone who had nearly successfully taken his revenge on his brother’s murderer—had startled him so much. But before Magnus could figure out what to say, Taran took the liberty of speaking first.

“I’m curious,” Taran said, his voice low. “How many people have you killed?”

“That’s a rather personal question for such a public place.”

He continued, undeterred. “We know there’s my brother, that’s one. Who else?”

Magnus tried not to flinch, tried not to reach for the hilt of the sword he wore. Taran also wore his sword prominently at his side.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“An estimate will do.”

“Very well. Perhaps . . . a dozen.”

Taran nodded, his expression giving away nothing of what might be going on in his mind as he glanced at the busy market around them. “How many people do you think I’ve killed?”

“More than a dozen, I’m sure,” Magnus replied. He pursed his lips. “Why? Are you here to taunt me with your sword-fighting skills? To tell me stories of how you’ve made evil men cry for their mothers before spilling their blood? How you would kill a thousand more if it meant that sunshine and happiness would reign supreme in this world?”

Taran’s narrowed gaze slowly moved back to meet Magnus’s. For someone who’d nearly taken apart the inn the other night with his urgent need to slit Magnus’s throat, Taran seemed eerily calm today.

“Do you regret killing my brother?” he finally asked, ignoring Magnus’s questions.

Magnus considered lying, wondered if he should feign remorse. But he instinctively knew he wouldn’t be able to fool Theon’s twin. “No,” he said with as much confidence as he could. “My life was in jeopardy. I needed to protect myself from someone vastly more skilled with a sword than I was at the time, so I acted. I can’t stand here and tell you that I regret taking any means necessary to save my own life, despite my choices at the time not being the same choices I would make today.”

“What choice would you make today?”

“Face-to-face combat. My fighting skills have much improved over the last year.”

Taran nodded once, but his face betrayed nothing. “My brother would have bested you.”

“Perhaps,” Magnus allowed. “So what, then? I assume you’re here to attempt to take my life before all these people. Are you? Or are we merely having a conversation?”

“That’s exactly why I followed you here: because I want to decide what to do. The other night it was so simple, so clear in my mind that you had to die.”

“And now?”

Taran pulled the sword from the sheath on his belt, but only enough to show the blade that had a series of symbols and unfamiliar words etched into its surface. “This was my mother’s weapon once. She told me that the words carved into it are in the language of the immortals.”

“Fancy,” Magnus said, his entire body tense and ready for a fight. “Was your mother a witch?” he guessed.

“Yes. She was an Oldling, a witch who worshipped the elements with blood magic and sacrifice.”

“I’m sure you’re telling me this for a reason.”

“I am. I asked you to guess how many people I’ve killed.” Taran sheathed the sword. “The answer is one. Only one.”

A trickle of perspiration slid down the length of Magnus’s spine. “Your mother.”

Taran nodded grimly. “Oldlings believe twins are filled with powerful magic.” He shook his head, his brow furrowing. “There’s a mostly forgotten legend that says the first immortals who were created were twins—one dark, one light. My mother believed dark magic was far more powerful, so to increase hers, she chose to sacrifice the light twin.”

“Theon.”

“Actually, no. It was me, five years ago, when I was fifteen years old. Perhaps she thought I’d let her use this very sword to kill me, but she was wrong. I fought back, and I killed her. Theon arrived then, only to see me holding a blade, our mother dead at my feet. He didn’t know what she really was. I only recently found out the truth for myself. He swore I would pay with my life for taking hers, and I knew he’d never understand. So I ran as far away as I could, and I didn’t look back. Until now.” He laughed, and the sound was dry and hollow. “It seems we have this in common: We both were forced to take a life to protect ourselves, an act we can’t allow ourselves to regret, because if we hadn’t done it, we wouldn’t be here today.”