Torches burned in sconces along the walls, footsteps sounded in the distance, and Lila allowed herself the briefest moment of satisfaction, maybe even relief, before realizing Kell wasn’t here. Her head was pounding, a curse halfway to her lips when, beyond a door to her left, she heard a muffled scream.

Lila’s blood went cold.

Kell. She reached for the door’s handle, but as her fingers closed around it, she caught the low whistle of metal singing through air. She cut to the side as a knife buried itself in the wood where Lila had been a moment before. A black cord drew a path from the hilt back through the air, and she turned, following the line to a woman in a pale cloak. A scar traced the other woman’s cheekbone, but that was the only ordinary thing about her. Darkness filled one eye and spilled over like wax, running down her cheek and up her temple, tracing the line of her jaw and vanishing into hair so red—redder than Kell’s coat, redder even than the river in Arnes—it seemed to singe the air. A color too bright for this world. Or, at least, too bright for the world it had been. But Lila felt the wrongness here, and it was more than vivid colors and ruined eyes.

This woman reminded her not of Kell, or even of Holland, but of the stolen black stone from months ago. That strange pull, a heavy beat.

With a flick of the wrist, a second knife appeared in the stranger’s left hand, hilt tethered to the cord’s other end. A swift tug, and the first knife freed itself from the wood and went flying back into the fingers of her right. Graceful as a bird gliding into formation.

Lila was almost impressed. “Who are you supposed to be?” she asked.

“I am the messenger,” said the woman, even though Lila knew a trained killer when she saw one. “And you?”

Lila drew two of her own knives. “I am the thief.”

“You cannot go in.”

Lila put her back to the door, Kell’s power like a dying pulse against her spine. Hold on, she thought desperately and then aloud, “Try and stop me.”

“What is your name?” asked the woman.

“What’s it to you?”

She smiled, then, a murderous grin. “My king will want to know who I’ve—”

But Lila didn’t wait for her to finish.

Her first knife flew through the air, and as the woman’s hand moved to deflect it, Lila struck with the second. She was halfway to meeting flesh when the corded blade came at her and she had to dodge, diving out of the way. She spun, ready to slash again, only to find herself parrying another scorpion strike. The cord between the knives was elastic, and the woman wielded the blades the way Jinnar did wind, Alucard water, or Kisimyr earth, the weapons wrapped in will so that when they flew, they had both the force of momentum and the elegance of magic.

And on top of it all, the woman moved with a disturbing grace, the fluid gestures of a dancer.

A dancer with two very sharp blades.

Lila ducked, the first blade biting through the air beside her face. Several strands of dark hair floated to the floor. The weapons blurred with speed, drawing her attention in different directions. It was all Lila could do to dodge the glinting bits of silver.

She’d been in her fair share of knife fights. Had started most of them herself. She knew the trick was to find the guard and get behind it, to force a moment of defense, an opening for attack, but this wasn’t hand-to-hand combat.

How was she supposed to fight a woman whose knives didn’t even stay in her hands?

The answer, of course, was simple: the same way she fought anyone else.

Quick and dirty.

After all, the point wasn’t to look good. It was to stay alive.

The woman’s blades lashed out like vipers, striking forward with sudden, terrifying speed. But there was a weakness: they couldn’t change course. Once a blade flew, it flew straight. And that was why a knife in the hand was better than one thrown.

Lila feinted right, and when the first blade came, she darted the other way. The second followed, charting another path, and Lila dodged again, carving a third line while the blades were both trapped in their routes.

“Got you,” she snarled, lunging for the woman.

And then, to her horror, the blades changed course. They veered midair, and plunged, Lila taking frantic flight as both weapons buried themselves in the floor where she’d been crouched a second earlier.

Of course. A metal worker.

Blood ran down Lila’s arm and dripped from her fingers. She’d been fast, but not quite fast enough.

Another flick of a wrist, and the knives flew back into the other woman’s hands. “Names are important,” she said, twirling the cord. “Mine is Ojka, and I have orders to keep you out.”

Beyond the doors, Kell let out a scream of frustration, a sob of pain.

“My name is Lila Bard,” she answered, drawing her favorite knife, “and I don’t give a damn.”

Ojka smiled, and attacked.

When the next strike came, Lila aimed not at flesh, or blade, but the cord between. Her knife’s edge came down on the stretched fabric and bit in—

But Ojka was too fast. The metal barely grazed the cord before it snapped back toward the fighter’s fingers.

“No,” growled Lila, catching the material with her bare hand. Surprise flashed across Ojka’s face, and Lila let out a small, triumphant sound, right before pain lanced up her leg as a third blade—short and viciously sharp—buried itself in her calf.

Lila gasped, staggered.

Blood speckled the pale floor as Lila pulled the knife free and straightened.