Rhy wanted to yell, to curse, but he couldn’t, because he knew the things he had done in the name of strength, knew what he was doing even now, walking the cursed streets, combing the poisoned fog, knew that even if Kell’s magic hadn’t shielded him, he would have gone again, and again, for his city, his people.

And so Rhy did what he had done for Alucard on the Spire floor.

He did the only thing he could.

He stayed.

* * *

Maxim Maresh knew the value of a single Antari.

He had stood before the windows and watched three ride away from the palace, the city, the monster poisoning its heart. He had weighed the odds, known it was the right decision, the strategy with the highest odds, and yet he could not help but feel that his best weapons were suddenly out of reach. Worse, that he had loosened his grip, let them fall, and now stood facing a foe without a blade.

His own wasn’t ready—it was still being forged.

Maxim’s reflection hung suspended in the glass. He did not look well. He felt worse. One hand rested against the window, shadows contouring to his fingers in a ghostly mimic, a morbid echo.

“You let him leave,” said a gentle voice, and the Aven Essen materialized in the glass behind him, a specter in white.

“I did,” said Maxim. He had seen his son’s body on the bed, chest still, cheeks hollow, skin grey. The image was burned like light against his eyes, an image he would never forget. And he understood, now more than ever, that Kell’s life was Rhy’s, and if he could not guard it himself, he would see it sent away. “I tried to stop Kell once. It was a mistake.”

“He might have stayed this time,” said Tieren carefully, “if you’d asked instead of ordered.”

“Perhaps.” Maxim’s hand fell away from the glass. “But this city is no longer safe.”

The priest’s blue eyes were piercing. “The world might prove no safer.”

“I cannot do anything about the dangers in the world, Tieren, but I can do something about the monster here in London.”

He began to cross the room, and made it three steps before it tipped violently beneath him. For a terrible instant his vision dimmed, and he thought he would fall.

“Your Majesty,” said Tieren, catching his arm. Beneath his tunic, the fresh line of cuts ached, the wounds deep, flesh and blood carved away. A necessary sacrifice.

“I’m well,” he lied, pulling free.

Tieren gave him a scornful look, and he regretted showing the priest his progress.

“I cannot stop you, Maxim,” said Tieren, “but this kind of magic has consequences.”

“When will the sleeping spell be ready?”

“If you are not careful—”

“When?”

“It is difficult to make such a spell, harder still to stretch it over a city. The very nature of it toes the line of the obscene, to put a body and mind to rest is still a manipulation, an exertion of one’s will over—”

“When?”

The priest sighed. “Another day. Maybe two.”

Maxim straightened, nodded. They would last that long. They had to. When he began to walk again, the ground held firm beneath his feet.

“Your Majesty—”

“Go and finish your own spell, Tieren. And let me finish mine.”

VI

By the time Rhy returned to the palace, the light was gone and his armor was painted grey with ash. More than half of the men in the hall had died; the surviving few now marched in his wake, helms beneath their arms, faces gaunt from fever and lit by lines of silver that trailed like tears down this cheeks.

Rhy climbed the front steps in exhausted silence.

The silvered guards stationed at the palace doors said nothing, and he wondered if they’d known—they had to have known, letting so many of their own pass through into the fog. They wouldn’t meet their prince’s gaze, but they met one another’s, exchanging a single nod that might have been pride or solidarity, or something else Rhy couldn’t read.

His second guard, Vis, was standing in the front hall, clearly waiting for word of Tolners. Rhy shook his head and pushed past him, past everyone, heading for the royal baths, needing to be clean, but as he walked his armor seemed to tighten around him, cutting into his throat, binding his ribs.

He couldn’t breathe, and for an instant he thought of the river, of Kell trapped beneath the surface while he’d gasped for air above, but this wasn’t an echo of his brother’s suffering. His own chest was heaving itself against the armor plate, his own heart pounding, his own lungs coated with the ash of dead men. He had to be rid of it.

“Your Highness?” said Vis as he fought to strip off the armor. The pieces tumbled to the floor, clanging and sending up plumes of dust.

But his chest was still lurching, and his stomach, too, and he barely reached the nearest basin before he was sick.

He clutched the edges of the bowl, dragging in ragged breaths as his heart finally slowed. Vis stood nearby, holding the discarded helmet in his hands.

“It’s been a long day,” said Rhy shakily, and Vis didn’t ask what was wrong, didn’t say anything, and for that, Rhy was grateful. He wiped his mouth with a shaking hand, straightened, and continued toward the royal baths.

He was already unbuttoning his tunic when he reached the doors and saw that the room beyond wasn’t empty.

Two servants draped in silver and green stood along the far wall, and Cora perched on the stone rim of the large bath set into the floor, dipping a comb into the water and running it through her long, loose hair. The Veskan princess was wearing only a robe, open at the waist, and Rhy knew her people weren’t prudish when it came to bodies, but still he blushed at the sight of so much fair skin.