Zella and Taure emerge from the house, watching with growing excitement when, even after I press the attack, the blades remain whole.

Darin assails me, and I let my ferocity loose, pouring my frustration into every blow. Finally, my brother calls a halt, unable to suppress a grin. He takes the blade from me.

“It has no heart.” He hefts it, and his eyes sparkle as they haven’t in months. “No soul. But it will do. On to the next.”

Zella and Taure join us as we spar across the courtyard, as one after the other, the blades finally hold true. I do not notice Musa until he steps from the house to applaud jauntily.

“Beautiful,” he says. “I had full faith that you—”

I grab Musa by the arm and drag him toward the front door, ignoring his curses of protest. “I need to see a Kehanni, and I’ve been waiting hours for you to return.”

“The Tribes left Adisa to fight the Martials in the desert,” Musa says. “They’re not holding back, either.” With a chill, I remember Afya speaking of the attacks on Martial villagers.

“Well, they can’t be far outside the city,” I say. “I just saw a Kehanni telling stories near Adisa’s main market. Silver hair, purple-and-white wagons.”

“Tribe Sulud,” Musa says. “I know the Kehanni you speak of. She won’t just tell you what you want to know, Laia. She’ll want payment.”

“Fine, we’ll pay her. Whatever she wants—”

“It’s not that simple.” Musa pulls his arm from my grip. “She’s not a street hawker selling cheap trinkets. She tells stories on her terms. Traditional gifts for such exchanges are items we don’t have access to: bolts of silk, chests of gold, stores of food.”

I examine him up and down, from the silver-buckled boots to the soft leather breeches to the shirt made of finely spun cotton. “Don’t tell me you’re not wealthy. Taure said your father used to harvest half the honey in Marinn.”

“I have some clothes. A bit of gold,” he says. “But the Mariners seized my wealth and my property and my hives and inheritance when—” He shakes his head. “Anyway, they took it, and now my means are limited.”

Zella and Taure exchange a glance at that, and I remind myself to find them later. I need answers about Musa’s past, and it’s clear he won’t give them to me. My brother still clutches one of the new scims. Sunlight glances off the blade, hitting me in the face.

“I know what to offer her,” I say. “Something she’ll want. Something she can’t refuse.”

Musa follows my gaze to the Serric steel blade. I expect him to tell me the Scholars need the blades more or that we don’t have enough. Instead, he raises his eyebrows.

“You know what the Tribes are doing in the south,” he says. “They’re showing no mercy to any Martial—whether soldier or civilian.”

I flush. “Do you have information for me on the Nightbringer?” Musa, of course, shakes his head. “Then this is the best chance we have to learn something—if Darin agrees to part with the blades, of course.”

Darin offers a resigned sigh. “You need to stop the Nightbringer,” he says. “You need information to do it. I’m certain she’ll take the blades. But, Laia—”

I cross my arms, waiting for his criticism.

“Mother made exchanges like this,” he says. “Exchanges that she perhaps didn’t want to make. She did it for the good of her people. It’s why she was the Lioness. Why she was able to lead the Resistance. But in the end, it added up. It cost her. And it cost us.”

“Mother did what she had to,” I say. “It was for us, Darin, even if it didn’t feel like it. Skies, I wish I had half her courage, half her strength. I’m not—this isn’t easy. I don’t want innocents hurt. But I need something on the Nightbringer. I think Mother would agree.”

“You don’t—” Something flickers in Darin’s face—pain, perhaps, or anger, emotions he tries to keep as deeply buried as a Mask would. “You have your own strength,” he finally says. “It doesn’t have to be the same as the Lioness’s.”

“Well, this time it does.” I harden myself, because if I don’t, then I’m back to figuring out what the hells I can take the Kehanni when what I should be doing is getting to her as fast as possible. Beside me, Musa shakes his head, and I turn on him, temper rising.

“You wanted me to be a Resistance leader,” I say. “Here’s a lesson I learned from the last Resistance fighter I knew. To lead, you have to do ugly things. We leave in an hour. Come along or stay. It doesn’t matter to me.”

I do not wait for Musa’s answer as I walk away. But I feel his surprise, and Darin’s. I feel their disappointment. And I wish it did not bother me so much.

XXI: Elias

The screams echoing from the Tribal encampment are distinctly human, and they grow louder by the moment. I sprint toward them, Aubarit and Afya following, the latter demanding that I explain what’s happening.

“Get to shelter.” I cut off the Zaldara’s tirade. “I’ll answer your questions later—just hide.”

Dozens of people flee the Nur caravan, and as I approach it, I draw my scims. The closest screams come from a bright green wagon covered in mirrors. I know it well. It belongs to Afya’s little brother, Gibran.