I just feel a bit bad about it when Tizoli finally sinks to his knees and his eyes finally flutter closed. I hold on to him until S?ren unlocks his cell and comes toward us with his sword drawn and ready. Finally, I let go of Tizoli and climb off him, watching as S?ren prods him as gently as he can in the shoulder with the point of his sword. Tizoli doesn’t move, but his chest rises and falls.

“You didn’t kill him,” S?ren tells me, and even though I can see that myself, I’m glad to hear the words out loud.

I nod and pull out my dagger from its place at my hip.

“It’s nearly sunrise and we need to be on our way to the camp before the palace wakes up,” I tell him.

“I’m feeling a sense of déjà vu, Theo,” S?ren tells me. “It seems like only yesterday I was rescuing you from a dungeon.”

“The difference is that this time I don’t know of any secret tunnels,” I admit.

He looks at me warily. “What’s the plan, then? We walk out the front door? It’s the middle of the night but there will be people awake.”

“I know,” I say, my heartbeat thundering louder in my chest. “The Sta’Criverans love a spectacle, though; I say we give them one.” I nod toward Tizoli’s body, clothed in plain trousers and a shirt with a guard’s jacket over. “You two should be close to the same size.”

S?ren stares at me incredulously, but I can see the gears in his mind turning. He nods. “Turn around.”

I roll my eyes, but do as he says. “Modest all of a sudden?” I ask him.

“Not particularly,” he says. I hear him shuffling out of his clothes, the thud of shoes being removed. “But you need to keep your wits about you, and I wouldn’t want to rob you of any of them.”

I can’t help but snort. “Certainly there’s a better time for bad jokes than right now,” I say.

“I’m not sure about that,” he says. “Running for my life isn’t quite as terrifying as it should be when I’m doing it with you. You can turn around now.”

I do and the first thing I realize is that Tizoli and S?ren are not the same size. The shirt and trousers fit in the sense that they button closed without tearing, but on S?ren’s broad chest, the shirt gapes between the strained buttons and the sleeves and pants are both an inch too short. S?ren seems to have realized this issue as well, though he’s far more amused than troubled by it.

“What can be done?” he asks, tugging at the shirt in a vain attempt to make it fit better. “It’ll just have to work. What are we going to do about you, though? You are fairly recognizable.”

I pick my cloak up off the floor and slip it back on, drawing the hood forward so that my face is in shadows. He starts to pick up Tizoli’s uniform jacket, but I stop him. “We still might bring some attention,” I admit. “We just have to make sure that when we do, we give them a good show.”

* * *

—

We take the stairs instead of the riser, scrambling up the decrepit steps that seem to crumble beneath our feet. They’re so out of use now, with the invention of the risers, that they’re falling apart. But in the dead of night, we don’t run into another guard until we’re back on the main level, and by that point we are stumbling and laughing a little too loudly together. I lean most of my weight on S?ren as if I can’t stand up on my own, and he leans back on me.

Any chance of our proximity bringing up old feelings is quickly quashed because S?ren still smells like the dungeon—all mold and darkness and old sweat. I never thought I’d be grateful for such a smell.

The guard yells something at us in Sta’Criveran that I assume must be a question. He’s red-faced and blustery, gesturing to the open stairway door behind us, so I assume that question must be something like “What were you two idiots doing down there?”

S?ren understands, though, and he swaggers up to his full height, nearly losing his balance in the process. He puts an arm around my shoulders to keep upright. He gestures to me and says something in Sta’Criveran, slurring the words together like he’s had a few drinks too many. He lifts his eyebrows at the guard suggestively—giving the guard a very lewd excuse for our presence in the dungeon and for the fact that he’s covered in dirt and grime, I’m sure.

The guard frowns at me and I pull back further into the safety of my hood. He says something to me that I don’t understand, but S?ren’s quick to interrupt with a raucous laugh.

He says something to the guard that I imagine to be along the lines of “She’s very shy and is very embarrassed to be caught after our dungeon rendezvous, so if you don’t mind, we should be on our way.”

The guard frowns at him and says something else. The only word I catch is Etralian. But the way he says it makes me realize that he thinks S?ren is Etralian. I suppose that isn’t surprising, since Kalovaxians and Etralians are similarly pale and fair. It may prove to be a problem, though, since the Etralian delegation left with the Czar yesterday.

S?ren remains calm, though, and babbles on in slurred Sta’Criveran with a few words I’m pretty sure are Etralian in order to really sell it. He draws me closer to him and gestures wildly at me. I wish I could tell him to tone it down a touch.

The guard gives a loud harrumph and glowers at S?ren, which sends him into another slurred but jovial spiel.

After what seems like an eternity, the guard rolls his eyes and ushers us on with one last shouted warning, which I’m sure is something like “And don’t go having rendezvous in the dungeon again.” A warning I am only too happy to heed. If I never see another dungeon, it will be too soon.

S?ren and I keep up our drunken swagger and giggles all the way through the main hall, drawing the attention of the only people up this early—maids and cooks and deliverymen, all of whom stare at us and laugh at our foolishness, likely enjoying the sight of two of the wealthy elite who employ them making asses out of themselves.

When we finally emerge from the palace, I laugh for real. S?ren laughs, too, and even though we don’t have to pretend anymore, we both still lean on each other.

“He asked why I was still here when the Etralians left yesterday, so I told him that I’d decided to stay and marry you,” he explains through laughter. “And he got mad and said foreigners were stealing Sta’Criveran women. I told him he was welcome to go to Etralia and I would introduce him to my cousins. I think he might actually try to find me again and take me up on it.”

Despite everything, I let out a snort of laughter. “Come on,” I tell him. Without thinking about it, I take his hand and pull him down the empty street.

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” he asks, following me.

“Running for our lives?” I ask him over my shoulder. “Of course not.”

“The danger,” he clarifies. “The wolf at your heels. The purpose.”

I consider it for a moment before shrugging. “I think I enjoy acting and not waiting for something to happen,” I say. “I enjoy having a plan and I enjoy following it through instead of being at the mercy of someone else’s decisions.”

“This was not the original plan, though, was it?” he asks, a question I’ve been dreading since I handed him that sword in the dungeon.

“No,” I admit. As we weave through the streets, I tell him about the plan I hatched with Erik, then about Hoa’s death, about Coltania and the poison and her body left in the garden.

“I’m sorry,” he says when I finish.

I glance back at him over my shoulder. “For what?” I ask.

“I was wrong—you aren’t enjoying this,” he tells me. “You’re in shock. I’ve seen it on the battlefield—soldiers who’ve watched their friends die next to them or who made their first kill and watched the life leave another man’s eyes. They continue to fight anyway, because they have to. The blood pumps hotter in their veins. They’re always fiercer and stronger and sharper than they were before. Their minds seem to focus in on just surviving the battle…but the battle always ends and the shock ends with it. That’s what I’m sorry for.”

I swallow and tear my gaze away from him. “We should hurry up,” I say softly. “Let’s put some distance between us and the city before King Etristo sends his guards after us.”

S?REN USES THE MONEY ARTEMISIA gave me to lease a horse from the stable, and while the stablehand is saddling it up, S?ren takes the opportunity to clean up a bit with a wet rag. It can only remove so much of the dungeon grime from his skin, but it does help measurably. He changes into a fresh set of clothes he bought off the stablehand, which are too big but at least more comfortable than Tizoli’s.

We have a long ride ahead of us and I’m honestly not sure which I’d prefer—him smelling like the dungeon or him smelling like his usual self. Like sea salt and driftwood in a way that brings me back to times it’s better not to think about.