commovente (adj.) something which moves you to the point of tears.

There was a new thread – almost imperceptible, almost invisible, overwhelming in its delicate frailty. Less a thread, Ina thought, than a single golden hair, wound very tightly around her thumb, tightly enough that, if it was real, it would surely have cut off her circulation and slowed her heart. It shimmered as she moved her hand, still gold but deeper or lighter depending on how the sun played across its surface and refracted into a thousand tiny stars. She watched it move, almost hypnotised by the strange way it trailed from her finger and into the ether; it was not tied to anyone here, and it rather felt – insomuch as she could feel it – like it wasn't tied to anything. It had appeared this morning, or perhaps it had appeared during the night and she had only noticed it in the morning; if she stayed very still, it seemed to pulse very slightly, like a heartbeat.

There was a low dull thud as Ilja landed a punch on the makeshift punch-bag that Khalore had jury-rigged out of an old flour sack and rags cushioned by sawdust from Zoran's carpentry shop. With the slow melt of dawn into morning, the sleepiness of their initial conversation had diffused out into the air; some of the Warriors were taking opportunity of this rare time together to, as Myghal might have described it, frankly beat the shit out of each other. Zoran's shoulders were stained with soil from where Ghjuvan had flipped him moments earlier, while Khalore was muttering under her breath darkly about how off-balance the amputation had made her while she lashed kicks at the cushion on which Kinga had, some weeks earlier, embroidered an amateurish angry face. Kinga wasn't making it easy on her – she seemed to have created her own game out of trying to smack Khalore with the cushion, throwing it from hand to hand to try and bring it under Khalore's defense, and was rather shameless about taking advantage of the younger Warrior's missing arm to do so.

If Ina looked at them with her eyes unfocused, then they were just the Warriors, her warriors; but if she focused more closely, it became a mess of things that were not there. She had expected, after all the cruel words exchanged the morning before, to see the threads shift and shake and shudder – but they were as they had always been. Kinga still dripped with bronze chains, even to Ghjuvan, whose dark blue connections to Zoran and Ilja remained unfrayed, unfettered.

And then, even as Ina watched it, the gold string – no, not snapped, certainly not snapped, but it twisted in the air and dissipated, vanishing into the light as though it had melded with the daylight and fallen to the ground as a sunbeam.

It unnerved her, more than she could say, so she did not say it. It scared her. Even the night before – Zoran – when he had looked at her – his hands bloodied – his face bloodied – his voice not his own – and the thread that bound them, that delicate silver chain rusting red near his heart, had twisted over and over again into a thousand variations on a thousand colours. Like he was deciding how to feel about her. Like he was searching for who she was, for who they were together.

And for the briefest moment, it had been a braid – a braided cord of colours, nineteen in all. Was that all they were, Ina thought, shadows and echoes and reflections of those who had gone before? Was she nothing more than the afterthought of Avrova, who had been the afterthought of Kreiner, who had been the afterthought of Allegra? Would she truly never again be, simply, purely, Inanna Nirari?

Would he ever again be, simply, purely, Zoran Czarnecki?

She knew that was what he feared; he didn't need to tell her, he never needed to tell her. And he was wrong, but he didn't need her to tell him that, he never needed her to tell him that. He was himself, wholly, now, brushing flower petals from his shoulders and saying something under his breath to Ghjuvan. He was smiling; it lightened Ina's heart to see it. All the night previous, she had spoken of nothing, a dozen hours of nothing, in a vain attempt to make him smile as he smiled now; he had not wanted to speak about whatever he had seen, and she had respected that, even as the very marrow in her bones burned with the urge to ask.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she didn't want to know. But she certainly wanted to make him smile again.

What had they spoken about? Nothing, and again, nothing. Flowers, and the best way to grow them; breads, and the best way to bake them; books they had read and books they would never get to read. Both of them had carpenters for fathers, but Ina's father – before – had built ships, rather than doorframes, and Ina had been raised on the docks rather than in the town. Zoran liked hearing about that; he liked it when she spoke about the tides, about the different fish each season brought into the bay, about the ways she and the other harbour children differentiated between boats by their sails and by the way their sailors held their umbrellas. She had liked that he had liked it. She had liked that he had smiled at a few details, here and there – at the diurnal tides and neap tides, at the gilt-head breem and common dentex, at the fore-and-aft rigged main masts and square-rigged snowmasts with a trysail.

Zoran always regarded her with abject fascination when she let this much pour from herself – "how," he would say, "how do you notice, how do you remember?" – and she would smile, and feign modesty, and try not to think of the thousands of evenings, certainly thousands, that she had spent playing on the decks of schooners and junks while Zuen Nirari and Kaapo Hämäläinen tutted about the state of the wooden planks covering the forecastle and hammered nail-into-wood, over and over again – as though they could hold the whole world together if only they could quite work fast enough.

Pekka had been there as well, more often than not – him, and Eero too. She'd had a crush on the latter, at first, if a child so young could have a crush. A fascination, then, with the boy a few years older, who had gained some small rareified access to the world of the adults: he was trusted to carry the nails, Ina remembered, trusted to count the notches in a piece of wood and report back on its length. She had been convinced of love, and had done her best to convince him of it as well – as well as a child could. The first thing Eero had said to her, when she had asked him for the full story, from the start: "we never did get that divorce, did we?"

She had almost cried. They had been children – Ina not much older than five, Eero closer to eight or nine but delighted to humour her. She'd cajoled Pekka into presiding over the supposed ceremony, and he had been grumpy for the whole day afterwards, hurt that she had picked his brother over him, hiding under the boardwalk to collect shells under the watchful eye of Kaapo's beloved gundog, Haukkuu. Tiny Inanna – in her pink tartan dress, her hair in the long twin braids her mother preferred for neatness and efficiency – had climbed down after him, dirtying her shiny black shoes, and she had promised him that she would ask his brother for an annulment and…well, they had been children. They'd spent the afternoon finding crabs, and splashing Haukkuu with saltwater, and climbing across long lines of moored boats in the bay to say exuberant hellos to all the shiny red-scaled fish and the leather-faced men who had caught them. Pekka had carried her on his back from the harbour to her father's workshop when it was dinnertime; she and Ishkur had spent the night making flower chains for Sherida's crib and displaying them to Pekka through the window, where their living rooms looked into one another across the alley below. She'd kept one for him, of course, and picked his favourite flowers for it, ones that would match his eyes…

Really, how could he have ever doubted?

Old words were as good as wounds: you seem inclined to trust a stranger in enemy territory just because…

Just because? Finish the sentence, Ghjuvan – just because what?

She nearly asked the question again, when she found herself alone with him again. Khalore had bled through the bandage on her hand, and he had been in search of more; Ina had been tending to the oven Khalore had lit earlier in the morning, in a ritual that was close to instinct by now. At first, neither spoke, though the words bubbled up in her throat like bile – finish the sentence, Ghjuvan – but instead she was silent, and he was silent, and they were silent together in the kitchen for a long moment, until finally he seemed unable to take it any longer.

"Suero agreed to take me on as an apprentice in the Schools."

"That's good news."

"It'll mean more time away. The Scholars work around the clock."

"If it helps the mission," Ina said, "don't you think it would be worth it?"

"Absolutely."

"But?"

Ghjuvan said, a little sadly, "it will be strange to miss people when you're in the same city, don't you think?"

"Which Schools?"

"Nav."

"You'll have Kinga."

"I don't think anyone has Kinga," Ghjuvan said, and – before Ina could ask him what that meant, before she could probe him on the morning they had fought, before she could even let loose the curious part of her mind that wanted to ask about the night just melting away – Khalore put her head into the room and was promptly interrupted by her old friend waving away the words she had not yet spoken and saying, "I'm looking, Lore. How little faith do you have in me?"

"Under the counter?"

"I don't see them." Ghjuvan rolled his eyes and held up a knife, its blade red with something brighter than rust. "You didn't even clean it."

Khalore didn't seem bothered to even offer an excuse, only a shrug and a smile; she slipped past Ghjuvan to vet his assertion that the bandages were not to be found, and made a little sound of irritation when she found him trustworthy in this matter. "Is this how a great Warrior falls? Lost bandages?"

Ina laughed. "It's a nick, Khal."

"I'm feeling faint," Khalore protested, "I could bleed out – "

She was interrupted by the sweet sound of the bell over the bakery door ringing out the arrival of a customer, as Ina realised with irritation that she had forgotten to lock the door. For all they knew, there was a queue forming – today, of all days. The day Azula left, the day Belle left, the day Zoran lost himself in a vision and then left…

Khalore must have read this much on her face, because she immediately crossed from the threshold to the bakery door. "I've got it," the Hanged Man said, apparently forgetting that a moment ago she'd been on the verge of extreme hemorrhage. "I'll chase them off and close up for the day."

"No," Ina said, "really, it's fine..."

But Khalore was already gone, the door to the bakery swinging shut behind her with a satisfyingly soft thud.

Ghjuvan said, "I'll look in the storeroom."

"Why would there be bandages there?"

"Ki was wrapping her arm."

"What's wrong with her arm?" Ina frowned. She had wounded it, yes – well, Hyacinth had wounded it for her – but she had seemed fine for the past two days, absolutely fine. "I thought… her curse… Ilja said changing form would heal her. I thought she was better."

"It did," Ghjuvan said, "she is. She just doesn't like people looking at it."

So Ina went one way and Ghjuvan went the other, and nothing more was said.

The bakery was not as busy as she had feared it might be; there were only two customers, both men, neither of which Ina had ever seen before – not regulars, in other terms. The first, a tall and lanky man in a dark grey peacoat, had a dark moustache, and dishevelled dark hair to match, and a deceptively soft, kind voice with which he was debating Khalore regarding the relative merits of the pastries currently on offer. The second, a slightly shorter man with a slightly leaner build, had a cloud of black hair, a perfectly white poet blouse with ruffles along the sleeves and a brown jacket slung over one arm; he had his back turned, inspecting the bread in their baskets along the wall nearest the door.

"Are you gentlemen finding what you're looking for?" Ina asked politely.

"Mrs Hämäläinen?" The man in the grey coat glanced over at her with a smile. "Your assistant has been very helpful."

"She tends to be."

"You know," the man said, "I've passed this bakery a few dozen times in the last few months, and always meant to step in. How are you settling in to Aizsaule?"

"The people here have been so welcoming," Ina replied, "that makes it easy to settle anywhere."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"Very rarely." The man in the grey coat extended a gloved hand; Ina shook it with only a normal amount of trepidation. As she took his grip, she noted that the grey string between them had slowly sank into a pale orange – a civil colour, she thought. "Lorencio."

"Inanna Hämäläinen." Was that a lie? It was starting to sound like the truth.

"A pleasure."

"What convinced you to step in this time?"

Lorencio indicated his companion. "He insisted."

Without turning around, the man in the white shirt extended the arm upon which he had slung the brown jacket, as though this would suffice as explanation. Lorencio smiled, rather indulgently, at this gesture, and Ina added, "well, I suppose you might as well get something to eat while you're here."

They – the two men – were bound together by a white thread, stained a little with green and navy as it moved through the light, like stained glass taking on new shades on a sunny day. More intriguingly, Lorencio had two strings stretching taut between himself and someone over Ina's shoulder; his companion had, similarly, a grey chain binding him, throat-to-throat, with one of the Warriors in the courtyard.

Ah.

As Khalore assisted Lorencio, Ina watched the man she now knew to be Kane Hijikata slope nearer to the counter and lay the jacket across its surface. So this, she thought, was the man who had taken Kinga's eye – the man Kinga was afraid of, even if she wouldn't admit it, the man she had saved from druj despite all that Commandant had taught them. He was younger than Ina had imagined he would be, no older than the last generation of Warriors, more delicate looking, all lips and hair and cheekbones; his gloved hands, when he rested them on top of the leather jacket, were scarred and long-fingered, clean of the blood stains Ina had half-expected to glimpse. He had a nice voice as well, deeper than she had expected; he said, "has Kunegunda Kaasik stopped by today?"

Ina smiled, reflexively, as her mind searched for their cover story, for their relationship, for some inkling of whether to agree or to deny. It was fine, she thought, fine – she and Azula were family, and Khalore was supposedly their tenant, and Ghjuvan and Khalore were friends so…

Ina made her decision in the space of a second, so that there was no visible hesitation in her answer. "She came by with Ghjuseppu a little earlier."

Lorencio chuckled. "They're both alive, then?" He shook his head. "Kaasik seemed a little worse for wear when they left last night. The captain has been stressing."

"Well," Khalore said, "it wouldn't be unlike Kinga to fall off Wall Szymańscy on the walk back."

"So perhaps a healthy amount of stress is wise," Ina agreed, "but they were both alive when they came calling for some hangover cures this morning."

Kane said, "Will she be back again today?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well. She forgot her jacket."

"I'll make sure she gets it."

"You're very kind."

"Yes," Ina said, "aren't I?"

He stepped back. Lorencio had come to some agreement with Khalore regarding the precise number and types of doughnuts he should bring with him to the confirmation meeting to which he and Kane were on their way; he counted out coins with good humour and accepted the little wicker box of treats as Khal offered it to him. Zoran had made them, those little wicker boxes, a beautiful approximation of the paper bags and cardboard boxes they had used in Opona for similar purposes. It could make anything look like an elegant gift; Khalore had tied it closed with black ribbon that matched the buttons on Lorencio's coat.

"Don't be strangers, now," Ina said. "Friends of Ghjuseppu's are friends of ours."

Kane was regarding her with those dark, sunken eyes, but he said nothing as Lorencio inclined his head towards her and said, "I imagine we'll try to make up for all the times we've walked past. Thank you, Mrs Hämäläinen. Hijikata?"

They left.

It was a simple ending to a simple meeting. They left, the bell singing out again as they departed. They left, and Khalore turned to Ina with an incredulous look of amusement on her face.

It had been a strange interaction, Ina thought, strange in how utterly normal it had been – how polite the tagma, how mundane the conversation. Almost like she was really Inanna Hämäläinen, and this was really her bakery, and she was really innocent friends with Ghjuseppu Mannazzu and Kunegunda Kaasik, ordinary people all. It was the kind of life she might have ached for, and revelled in, if not for the silent grief hidden behind the name she had claimed as her own, if not for the fact that they were living in a dead man's house, if not for the fact that Ghjuseppu and Kunegunda were still soldiers and were therefore inclined to do what soldiers did.

Over her shoulder, Ilja said, "so that's Kane Hijikata."

Khalore sounded gleeful. "He's handsome."

"You're blind," Ghjuvan said dourly. Quite without Ina realising, a congregation of Warriors had gathered by the doorway between kitchen and bakery, making themselves known only after the door had slammed shut after Lorencio and Kane: Ghjuvan and Ilja and Belle, all peering after the tagma like they had never seen a soldier or a sword before.

"Ignore Ghju. He's just grumpy," Ilja said, "because Kaasik keeps mixing up their names in bed."

Ghjuvan rolled his eyes, and clearly thought better of retorting, and threw a roll of bandages at Khalore. "There you go."

Khalore sighed with relief. "About time."

Ilja and Ina switched places; Ilja went to help Khalore with wrapping up her hand again, looking amused at how frequently the poor girl found herself bleeding, while Ina went back into the kitchen, just in time to see Belle's hair disappearing around the doorframe as the girl retreated back into the garden. Ina wasn't sure if it was shyness or suspicion that motivated the girl to act so; she wasn't sure she would get the chance to find out.

Before she could follow Belle out, back to Zoran and Nerezza and Kinga, Ghjuvan said, "you know - I only ever accused you of humanity, Nirari."

She tensed. "You… implied I was weak."

"Not weak. Human." Ghjuvan had folded his arms; he was leaning against the sink, and watching her shoulder fixedly, rather than look her in the eye. "Anyone in your position would be swayed. It isn't a sin for me to point that out."

"I can distinguish between the dead and the living, Ghju."

"Then you're a more rational person than I."

"Yes," Ina said, "maybe so."

"I love you, Nanna." He looked at her then, looked at her and smiled. "You do know that, don't you?"

Did she? She didn't think she did. She didn't think she knew that anyone did. But she knew that the thread that bound them was still that lovely mossy green; she knew the string between them still linked them knuckle-to-knuckle as it always had; she knew that it was strong, enough so that she thought she could fall and trust it to catch her.

"We're family." Ghjuvan straightened, and began to walk out to the garden; she trailed after him, unsure what to say. "Families fight sometimes."

"Comrades," Ina said, "And friends. Not family."

"Then we'll have to agree to disagree." He shook his head, lingering on the threshold. "Promise me we'll get over this?"

"We'll get over this," Ina said. "I promise."

He nodded, and a little of that tension seemed to drain from his shoulders.

Then Ilja, who seemed to have a perfect internal clock, said, "it's time."

Ina nodded, and looked at Belle, who was sitting in Zoran's favoured canvas chair. "Are you ready to go?"

"I think so."

"Said goodbye to everyone?"

Belle said, "I didn't say hi to anyone in the first place."

Ina felt her smile faltering. Yes, she thought, there were very few comebacks to something so starkly pronounced. Ghjuvan saved her from saying anything else, as he leaned against the wall of the courtyard, across from where Zoran and Kinga were sitting on the edge of the flowerbed underneath Khal's window – "bring a coat," he said, and Belle said, "I don't have a coat," and Azula said, pulling it off, "you can take mine."

Ghjuvan nodded curtly, and caught his swords as Kinga threw them to him; he slung them over his shoulders, and had no hesitation in meeting Ina's gaze – the gall, she thought, the sheer unmitigated gall. He hugged Azula tightly, tight enough to break bones, and said, "ready when you are, Seo."

Belle rose slowly, wrapping herself in Azula's coat, and accepted Ghjuvan's hand when it was offered. "Until next time," she said, with a ghost of a smile. Then there was a hiss as they departed, as there so typically was, just so they could clear the walls around the bakery courtyard; Ina imagined they would resort to foot after that, lest they draw attention. It was a moment oddly without ceremony: one moment here, the next not. Maybe it was better that way. It wasn't like it was goodbye. They would see Belle again; Ghjuvan would be back later in the evening. This was just a farewell-for-now, the next necessary step, and a necessary step which would bring them another inch closer to the Radiance.

Hopefully.

Ilja watched them go with an intent expression – so intent that he did not notice Kinga hurling an apple at his head until it was almost too late. "Fuck's sake, Kaasik."

"Keeps away scurvy."

"You're thinking of lemons." He hurled it back at her, twice as hard; she had to dive to catch it, so far afield was his aim.

"Am I?"

"Hard to say. I never know what's going on in that head of yours."

"I was just thinking," Kinga said, "that I should have stayed in bed. All that whiskey wasn't good for my head."

"Or for your inhibitions, it seems." Ilja shook her head. "I'm almost impressed."

Kinga smirked. "At my restraint?"

He smiled. Was it Ina's imagination, or were his eyes slightly less grey? His voice was alive with sardonicism. "How you held yourself back for six months with such a specimen of masculinity..."

"Who said I held myself back?" She hurled the apple at him again; he caught it without looking, snatching it from the air like it wasn't moving at all.

"I'm hurt I wasn't your first choice."

"You talk too much."

Ina said, softly, "does this mean that you two are…?"

It was strange to think – and stranger to think she had never seen it coming, never seen it brewing. They had been friends for years, friends and comrades and classmates and nothing more. The thought of Kinga even kissing Ghjuvan was utterly alien. Wasn't that strange? Wasn't that uncomfortable? She really couldn't imagine it – she didn't want to – the idea that she could look at one of her warriors, now, and see them… see them as she had seen Pekka. Wasn't that bizarre? She had seen all of her fellow xrafstars in various states of undress and never, never, would it occur to her… She didn't think so, at least. She couldn't imagine it, not now, but how much of that was grief, the thought of Pekka and his smile and his golden hair clawing at her scalp not to be forgotten?

"You know," she finished, rather lamely.

"Oh, god, no." Kinga hacked out a laugh. "Why would we?" She shook her head. "We'll be dead in nine years, Nirari." She flicked her hair over one shoulder. It was long enough to flick now – only barely. "If we're lucky. Too long to tie yourself down, don't you think?"

Ina watched Kinga's bronze chains shudder, and Ina thought of a dead boy with golden hair and a golden smile, and Ina said nothing.

"She's saying," Ilja said, "that he isn't interested in being –"

"Oh, yes," Kinga said, "thank you so much for putting it into words, Schovajsa..."

Zoran cut in, sounding serious. "Should we be leaving now as well?"

Ilja sobered quickly. He nodded. "Most of the armed forces will be focusing on the Selected convoy. This might be our best chance to get Zoran and Nez out of the city."

Zoran, Ina thought, gone. Gone. Her nails were digging crescent-pale into the skin on the palms of her hands, hard enough to draw blood. So soon after the night before? He had destroyed a mirror rather than look in it, had looked into Ina's eyes and not known who she was, had known nothing except that he was not Zoran and he was not in Aizsaule…

Entrusting him to Nerezza's care was beyond the pale. Ina's stomach lurched.

Zoran nodded. He still looked a little pale, a little tired, but his voice was resolved as he spoke. "Particularly if Kinga's right. We could go through the tunnels. As long as we don't have absolutely dire luck…."

Nez said, her voice dark, "that's what I'm here for, darling."

"The only potential issue will be making it back in again," Zoran said, "but we can just call Ghju..."

"When you put it like that," Ilja said, "we almost seem to have a plan on our hands."

And, just then, as though summoned, the bell over the door rang out again, loud and clear and sweet.

Khalore said, with a frown, "I locked that door."

"You did." The man who stepped out of Kivi bakery was tall, and strong, and stringless. He had a sword for either shoulder, and a smile on his face that made his eyes seem all the bluer, that made the sky seem almost grey by comparison. "Sorry for this coward's entrance – am I interrupting something?"

This was an interrogation, if ever Ina had seen one, and Eero had allowed it – allowed it, though he warned that time was of the essence and they should get their questions out quickly. "I know," he said, "that you have no reason to trust me. So do whatever you have to." He had set down his swords, clearly noting the wary expression on Azula's face, the way Kinga had moved to put Ina and Zoran behind her, the way that Ilja and Khalore had tensed for a fight. "But please – do it as swiftly as you can. We'll be in danger before long."

"Danger." Ina knew that tone of voice – she threw Zoran a look blunted by concern as her best friend said, "if I was a more cynical man, I'd say that's… convenient."

"I wouldn't be here if you weren't."

"We'll be in danger," Ilja said. "You're including yourself in that?"

"I'm one of you," Eero said, "and if I'm not – then I would like to be."

"One of us," Khalore said, "Kur? A Warrior? A xrafstar?"

All three, Ina thought, and stared at him, imploring him to defend himself to the others as he had to her – to convince them, as he had convinced her. He could be persuasive, when he wanted to be, but it wasn't persuasion that was needed now. Persuasion wouldn't work on Ilja Schovajsa, on Kinga Szymańska, on Khalore Angelo, on Zoran Czarnecki. They needed honesty, they needed to understand, they needed a reason to trust.

They needed him; he needed them.

Abruptly, the threads which made up the world – the strings which held all the different parts of reality together – the ribbons which tied each Warrior to Ina, and to each other – rippled, and twisted, and threatened to snap. The courtyard lurched dangerously, like the ground was about to fall out from beneath her, and for a split second, all the colour which had grown to define Ina's knowledge of the world drained away so that her field of vision was left flat and desaturated and diminished, all the people in it sharper than they should be, no one bound together, everyone standing alone.

Near to one another, but alone.

She shut her eyes tightly and sucked in a breath; she held it in her chest, and released it again in a rush. When she opened her eyes again, the threads were back, and Eero was saying, "you're the Hierophant?"

Ina knew that look in Zoran's eyes, almost better than she would recognise the feeling fluttering in her own chest; he cast his gaze in her direction, meeting hers for a split second that seemed to last far longer, and then he said, measuredly, "so they've told me."

"And I suppose," Eero said, amusedly, "he's told you I'm not to be trusted?"

He. Matthias. Well, at last he and Zoran would have something in common – a mutual dislike of Eero Hämäläinen, if the look on Zoran's face was any good indication.

"You know," Zoran said, in a slightly clipped voice, "it hasn't really come up."

"My feelings are very slightly hurt." Eero glanced at Kinga. "Jaga's sister."

"I also have a name."

"I don't remember it." Eero had always been a little too honest sometimes – it was a flaw he had shared with his brother, though he had a better grip on it than Pekka had. The bluntness could be endearing, sometimes; other times, it came across as curt. "But I remember what I told you. The day before initiation."

Kinga's gaze did not waver, did not move. But she did step back, and relax the tense lines of her body – minutely, minutely. But Ina felt herself relax as well, slightly, in tandem with her friend. When Eero had first made his debut, the whole place had bristled with the spectre of impending violence, with fear and suspicion. He had recognised that as well; he had come prepared. He had told Ina as much, when they had spoken: I spent so much time thinking of how I could prove who I was, how I could persuade you to trust me, how I could reach out to each one of you…

Ina had said, and you picked me?

I guess you were the only one that I trusted.

"You're dead," Khalore said. "I'm sorry –" She cast around the group, but none looked particularly like the apology was necessary. "I'm sorry, but you are. You were."

"Everyone was thinking it," Ilja said. His grey eyes were very still. He had an expression on his face that Ina had never seen before, like he was trying to figure out who to be, trying to figure out what this discussion needed, what tone needed to be struck.

"I was," Eero said, "and I wasn't."

"Helpful." Azula's voice was soft.

He had been – or close to it. That was true. Ina remembered Pekka telling her – how he had smiled, rigidly, and how the blue of his eyes had shuddered with unshed tears, and how he had seemed more concerned with how she would take the news than with the fact that his brother was gone and dead. It had taken her a few years – a little more maturity – to realise that this was how Pekka handled dire situations. He looked after everyone else, poured his feelings into protecting them, into looking after them and guiding them through. Ina rather thought some of that instinct had transferred to her over the years; certainly, she didn't think it likely she would have started running a bakery unless she had a dead boyfriend to distract herself from.

"I'm sorry," Eero said, "secrecy is a habit I've had a long time to indulge." When he gestured, the wan light caught his rings, and reflected back a dozen times over, like there was a star captive between his fingers. "I'm not sure if I was… dead. But I should be." He shook his head. "Your final test – "

"We didn't have one," Azula said. "We kept our rankings from training."

"Then you are lucky." Eero smiled wanly. "Matthias Kloet disembowelled me during ours."

Eero had told Ina, you know, it was the first time Kloet beat me at anything. I really didn't expect it from him, of all people.

Ina had laughed. That makes it sound like you would have expected it from someone else?

Put it this way: never turn your back on a Szymańska.

"Strange," Ilja said, "your bowels look fine to me."

"I was brought," Eero said, "to the World."

Ina could see it in her friends' eyes – that it had taken them a moment to distinguish world from World and that, once so distinguished, a curiosity had been wicked. Ilja had the open expression of a man who rather wanted to take notes; Zoran looked like he was searching his memories, or perhaps his visions, and not particularly liking what he found.

Khalore said, "the World?"

"Whatever he did to me… it bound me to him." Eero's voice was a low baritone, all the more persuasive for the urgency with which he spoke. Not pleading for them to believe – pleading for them to judge not. "The World's curse… I wasn't alive, not really. Alive, as long as he was – happy, as long as he was – believing in his causes, as long as he believed..." There was a haunted look in his brown eyes. "I wasn't myself. Merely an adjunct of the World. One of many limbs. Wholly him, but looking through my own eyes..."

"What changed? How did you break free?"

When he said it, it sounded simple, so simple. Elementary. What other choice had there been? It was like hearing that the sun had set in the west, like hearing that the tide had come in, like hearing that a rose had bloomed red. Ina knew what he would say before the words had even fallen from his lips.

"I killed him."

Ilja's lip curled.

"Killed him," Eero said, "and stole the curse."

Stole the curse.

Killed him. Stole the curse.

Inanna stared at him. She could not help it; he had not told her this. He had told her everything, or so he had said – not this. Not this. But there was no anger, no betrayal, in her heart as she stared at him. Really, what would it have changed, if she had known? She had suspected. If he had told her – if she had realised that she was sitting with a killer –

She was a killer too. She thought of Xynone Hanover. She was a killer too. They all were.

She said, "and came to Illéa."

He nodded. "And came to Illéa. I thought..."

His shoulders sagged. Ina had to look away; the memory of Pekka was too strong, too fresh, too painful.

Ilja said, his voice in awe, "you defected."

"I had killed the World," Eero said. "I was a dead man walking in two senses. There was nowhere in the world that I would not have been hunted down – nowhere, except..."

The island of monsters. The fortress home of the wretched Schreaves. Illéa.

"Maybe I thought things would be better here," Eero said, "maybe I thought the Schreaves would be… I was wrong."

He looked at them, and smiled – and what a smile it was.

"You have no idea… when I realised that there were Irij here…"

"Kur," Khalore said, in the tone that one usually reserved for a word like demon. "We're Kur."

"Then we should go home," Eero said, "to Kur."

When Zoran spoke it was slow, and deliberate, and Ina had the distinct sense that he had somehow not been alone in formulating this thought – that his words came as the amalgamation of many, speaking the words of many voices. "You think returning the Radiance to Irij will redeem you?"

"I think I have to try." When he spoke with this kind of determination – yes, Ina could see the resemblance. And she knew, by the way that Kinga was looking at her, that she was not alone in seeing it. Maybe Ghjuvan was right; maybe it was fair to expect this to throw someone off. After all, Kinga looked as unsure of herself as Ina had ever seen her. "And I know that it cannot be left in the hands of the Schreaves. To do so would be… apocalyptic."

"So we've been told," Nez said, her voice silk-soft. "You said we were in danger?"

Eero nodded, and rose from his seat. "Terrible danger," he said, "if you'll allow me to be so melodramatic."

"I'll allow," Nez said.

"They're about to awaken the Radiance."

"Forgive me," Ilja said, sardonicism straining his voice, "had it been asleep?"

"It would take longer than we currently have to explain," Eero said dryly. "But the ritual produces a tremendous amount of dark magic. Dark magic that will bring druj hunting for any hint of a curse that they can ferret out – and there is certainly more of a hint hovering around this bakery. Dark magic has soaked into the soil here..."

"Like Siarka," Zoran said. Ina wasn't sure why Kinga looked at him with such surprise at this pronounement, but Eero was nodding, and looking a little relieved that Zoran was supplementing his explanations rather than trying to poke holes in them.

"I don't understand." Azula shook her head. "Waking the Radiance… does that mean that they know we're here? Or….?"

"How often," Eero said, "does a large-scale druj attack occur? How frequently does a district threaten to fall? How often does the kingdom lose thousands of people in a single night?"

He was looking at Kinga and Ilja, like he expected the answer to tear from their throats, but it was Khal who answered, slowly, looking unsure of herself, looking like she didn't want this to be the answer.

"Once in a generation," she said, "once in a generation."

"And how often," he said, "do they hold a Selection?"

Silence hung over them, an enormous vulture.

Ilja said, "Hämäläinen, would you give us a moment?"

Eero smiled. "As many moments as we have left."

Ina couldn't remember the last time she'd heard Ilja utter the words: "Inanna is right."

Nerezza's eyebrows couldn't rise any higher.

"We should trust him," Ilja said. "We… I think I trust him."

That was most unlike Ilja, and Inanna could see that everyone was thinking as much. But she had never met anyone with such good instincts; it made her feel better, to have trusted so quickly, to see Ilja being felled also.

Zoran said, wryly, "Matthias doesn't like it."

"Matthias is dead," Khalore said.

"So is Eero Hämäläinen."

Ina said, "he could have turned us in at any point. We're still here, we're still alive, and we're still together."

And that, really, was all she had to say. It probably helped that Kinga leaned over Ilja and murmured, quietly, "if he really is the World, he could have killed us a thousand times over."

"And if he isn't," Ilja said, brown eyes bright. "Then Kinga can definitely take him."

Kinga patted the Chariot's shoulder appreciatively. "Precisely."

Ina tugged Zoran sleeve gently. She barely breathed the words: "is Matthias being particularly loud?"

The strings were shuddering again. "More talkative than usual." The strings were shuddering again. He said, "but quieter. Like he's shouting over static." The strings were shuddering again.

Ina said, "the strings are shuddering again."

And Ilja's eyes were brown.

"Strength in numbers," Nez said, and that, it seemed, was that. Ina didn't particularly trust the Wheel having the last say in this matter – seemed strange to give Nerezza Astaroth the last word in trustworthiness – but no one could find much reason to disagree with her.

Eero looked relieved to see that was the case; Ina remembered being told that the Hämäläinen brothers were hard to read, but she found that, even stringless, certain emotions were obvious. It was nice, that certainty. It made her feel better when Eero said, "we're running out of time."

Ina could only imagine so. She thought of the druj hunting them in the forest; she thought of the druj clambering over her courtyard walls; she thought of Kinga and Ghjuvan, and how quickly they had racked up their kill counts in comparison to the other cadets, because druj seemed to make themselves available…. She abruptly felt very small. To hear Eero describe it, the attacks they had glimpsed before now had been mere blips, mere skirmishes, compared to that which would be triggered now, by whatever ritual was being prepared in Ganzir. A once-in-a-generation massacre… her mind reeled to even try and conceptualise it.

The threads twisted, almost into nothingness, and then appeared again, brighter, and twisted, and disappeared again. Ina almost swayed with the vertigo of it all. "Our curses..."

"It might be better," Eero said gently, in a voice that could have been his brother's, "if we bring weapons as well."

Kinga didn't need to be told twice; she had already handed Ilja one of her swords, and Zoran the other. Khalore had a knife in her hand, already bloodied; Nez had produced a dagger from somewhere, and Ilja was eyeing her with the expression of a man who had searched her for weaponry already. By comparison, Ina's hands felt empty, very empty. Eero had clearly deemed it safe to pick up his own swords again; he slung one over his shoulder and then, balancing the second in his hands, unsheathed it and held it out to Ina.

Ina said, "are you sure?" but she could see, in those bright blue eyes, that he was very, very sure.

So she took the sword. It was not an unfamiliar weight – they had been trained in a wide range of weapons at the academy – but it was, by now, an unfamiliar responsibility. Its tip wavered in the air, tracing a jagged shape without symbolism. Her fingers curled tightly around intricate engravings, finding a comfortable groove in which her hand could settle, as she stepped back, and slashed it through the air, just once, slicing apart the sunlight that streamed silently through the tiny window above the oven, splitting it into light and shadow like something tenable.

He said, "it suits you," and Ina knew in that moment that she was glowing, lit from within by her curse, by the rare sensation that everything would be alright. She would make everything alright.

It wouldn't last long. The ritual was not one that took much time; the Schreaves would know that their safety was only assured as long as they had warm bodies to throw in front of the druj and to slow their progress as they tried to reach Ganzir and the source of the dark energy which drew them. Xrafstars trespassing on other parts of the city might make for an interesting distraction, but the Schreaves wouldn't know that; they would be operating under the assumption that they only had a few hours, a few hours.

After that, Ilja said, they would continue as planned. Azula still needed to go into the palace if they were to have any hope of keeping Belle safe; Zoran and Nerezza still needed to retrieve the Death curse if they were to have any hope of keeping Azula alive. A few hours of hell was all they had to weather.

They would have to leave the bakery. Ina had known as much, as soon as Eero had mentioned dark magic and soil and druj, but her heart still ached as she turned the lock in the door. It felt like leaving home all over again; she half-expected to see Sherida sitting on the counter, the shape of Hani's silhouette through the window. It was like leaving a piece of her behind. She hadn't realised until now just how important having a space of her own had been.

Ilja's hair was dark again, uncomfortably dark, no longer the grey it had been. It was almost like he had never been cursed at all; he was smiling, and acting as though nothing was wrong, asking Kinga if he could see a blush in her cheeks as she pulled on the brown jacket that had been left on the counter of the bakery. Azula was pale, leaning against the wall of the nearest building, her eyes unfocused, while Khalore knelt beside her and spoke softly, as though trying to keep her calm. Nez had, most uncharacteristically, insisted on helping Hyacinth to walk – the Sun was walking, but as a puppet walked, each movement jerky and uncoordinated, her feet placing themselves in a manner that made it impossible to support her own weight, her eyes empty.

Zoran said, "Ina?"

She turned; he was looking at her with an expression of such abrupt vulnerability that she almost feared for what had happened in the last moment. His eyes were blue; his hair was starting to fall from its simple slicked-back style, so that a few strands hung over his forehead and shadowed his face. "Zor? Are you okay?"

Zoran began, "I needed to ask you..."

He was interrupted by Ilja, who had spoken without conferring with Eero but who was clearly echoing a thought shared by the supposed World. "We need to split up."

Khalore glanced up from Azula, looking aghast. "No. No way."

"If Hämäläinen is right," Ilja said, "if the druj will be attracted to the curses – we're asking for trouble, staying in a tight pack like this." He nodded at Nez and Zoran. "If they're going to be heading for Ganzir – now might be the best time to try and make it out to Mainyu forest. Retrieve Zorrico's curse."

Ina's heart lurched again. She could see her own emotions reflected in Zoran's face – now, she thought, agonised, now of all times, now – but she could also see that he, in some strange, awful, way, agreed with Ilja.

"The sooner I go," he murmured. "The sooner I'll be back."

"That's not how this works."

His voice was soft and wry. "Who's the fortuneteller here, Nirari?"

She sensed a sob was about to rip free of her chest; she smothered it by throwing her arms around him. "Come back." She whispered it into his hair, into the collar of his coat, into the skin of his throat – not quite touching, still not quite touching. "Just… come back."

He didn't answer her – only hugged her more tightly, like he thought she was going to fall apart if he didn't physically hold her together.

"Come back," she said again, her voice hollow.

He said, "I would never go where you couldn't follow."

Tightly, tighter, so tight she couldn't breathe, like she was content to squeeze all life from herself if only she could hold him closer – and then, release, and stepping back, and watching the string between them twist and redden and fade.

Ina reached down, and touched Zoran's sleeve very gently. "Whatever it is – ask me afterwards, okay?"

He set his mouth firmly, and nodded.

Ilja was whispering something to Kinga; she nodded, when they separated, and turned to hug Zoran – not as tightly as Ina had hugged him, not as tightly as Ghjuvan had hugged Azula, but warmly, warmly. "Too many goodbyes," Kinga said, "it can't be good for us."

"Don't fade on me, Szymańska." Ina could hear the sadness in Zoran's voice, barely stemmed. "Don't lose your grip."

Kinga laughed. "Can't lose hold of something you haven't caught yet."

Ina looked at Nez. "I want you both back alive, Astaroth."

Nez smirked. "I can't guarantee both, Nirari."

"I know you'll do your best," Ina said, and watched as Nez glanced away, seeming uncomfortable with the genuine tone of trust in the Lover's voice.

She watched them go until she couldn't watch them anymore – Ilja's grey coat melted away into the distance, as Zoran glanced over his shoulder at her as though saying goodbye over and over and over again, as Nez strode away with looking back. Ina watched them go until her eyes watered. Ina watched them go until Eero put a hand, very gently, on her shoulder and said, "let's move."

Yes, Ina thought. Let's move.

The bells had begun to clang, screaming out a panic. The walls were swarming with red coats, tiny scarlet figures sprinting back and forth. The ritual must have begun, Ina thought, the druj must have started to swarm. Would Ghjuvan be okay? Would Belle? She had to trust that they would. The Schreaves would protect the Selection, surely – and Ghjuvan knew how to handle himself around druj. They just needed to move.

The bells had struck a chord with the people on the street; Ina found that she and her fellow Warriors were moving against the crowd as pedestrians rushed for home and for shelter. Ahead of her, little Bartolo Sartore was sprinting down the hill towards home as though the world was ending at his heels. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was too early to tell. Golden coated paqūdus were herding people into houses, any houses, not necessarily their own, to get them off the streets, to get them under shelter.

Eero abruptly stopped in his tracks, and turned. "Azula…?"

All the colour had drained from Azula's face. She said, very softly, "the strings..."

She shook her head, and fell to her knees. In the same moment – before her knees had even hit the cobblestones – Ina sensed the paqūdus turning their heads, one after another, to stare at them. It was not a stare with any curiosity in it; it was not a stare of concern, or even of contempt. It was a cold, empty stare, and it was accompanied with the flashing silver of swords being drawn. The flashing silver of swords being drawn, she thought, and the abrupt snapping of threads, snap snap snap, like they had torn themselves, abruptly, awfully, free.

As Khalore rushed to Azula, the nearest paqūdu rushed to Khalore. Ina reached her first, pivoting in front of the Hanged Man, throwing out one arm to shield Khalore even as she spun the blade in her hand.

Sunlight danced along the edge of the sword like holy fire; its weight was as comfortable and familiar as an old friend's hand in hers.

She knew better than to swing it; this was a schiavona sword, with an intricate gold-leaf basket surrounding the hilt. It was a weapon designed for piercing, with a tip so finely honed and sharp that it was practically invisible, and it cleaved apart fabric and skin in a single motion like it was nothing, nothing at all.

She knew she had struck true; she knew she had struck him in the heart. Perhaps that was the instinct of the Lover, or perhaps it was just the look in his eyes, and how quickly the life drained from them. He didn't even have time to gasp a last, awful, death-rattle; he just keeled. A father, a son, a brother, a man dead. Like Xye. Another devil dead.

She pulled her sword free, and turned back to her warriors.

A second paqūdu had fallen to Eero's sword, throat slit; Kinga stepped over the body of a third as she said, darkly, "you know, I think we have enough to worry about without Azula throwing that at us."

Azula shook her head. "I didn't… I don't..."

"It's okay." Eero held out his hand, and helped to lift Azula back to her feet. He spoke to her as Pekka once had – straightforwardly, without patronising, but not unkindly, without warmth. "It's okay. It's not you, Azula – it's the Radiance." He smiled at her. "Just imagine it's a death march. You just have to hold on, and keep going. And we'll figure everything else out later."

Hold on, Ina thought, and keep going.

With Eero holding up Azula, and Khalore taking Hyacinth, that just left Ina to clean her sword off on her skirt and look up at the wall to see how much time they had. The answer was not a positive one – she could see, looming over the rooftops of northern Aizsaule, a tall and vaguely humanoid figure, thin and twisted, with enormous antlers stretching out six-pointed from the sharp crown of what might have been a head, and glowing eyes and glowing mouth that looked as though they had been carved there. It was searching, Ina saw, it was searching – those glowing eyes were sweeping across the city, capable of perceiving nothing real, capable only of perceiving that which was utterly unreal.

"Druj," Kinga said darkly. She was looking east; Ina followed her gaze, and saw the dark, skeletal shapes of creatures shrouded in ragged red cloaks swarm over the edge of the wall, climbing along the surface of the battlements like some kind of strange, demented spiders. Watchers were falling, Ina saw, and falling fast; the cannons had fallen silent to the east, even as they began to roar into life to the west.

And to the west – the enormous misshappen silhouette of the by-now-familiar stone druj looming over Wall Szymańska, golden eyes ablaze.

Kinga swore. "I'm getting sick of that fucking golem."

"Golem?" Eero glanced at her, and then at the druj. Ina's blood felt cold and heavy in her veins. Zoran and Nez were going west. Zoran and Nez were going beyond the walls. Zoran and Nez were…

They were going to be okay. She had to believe that. She had to.

She hadn't even realised they were moving again, but they were – faster than she had thought they could. Azula had taken Eero's words to heart. She had that determined look on her face, the one she had always worn during the morning death marches, when she set her objective to merely finishing, just putting one foot in front of the other, just to moving.

Hiss. Kinga vanished into the air, meeting one druj just as it crested the roof of old Pepijn's narrow townhouse, ripping her silver blade through it as she moved. Its companion had already leapt; it was an ugly, dirty thing, skull-faced like some of Kinga's curse-forms, with long insectoid limbs tipped with talons sharp enough to rip the cobbles from the pavement as it raced across the street. Eero took one leg out from under it – Ina took another – and Khalore's knife buried itself deep into its face, straight through the small gap that might have belonged to an eye. Ina hadn't even seen the Hanged Man throw the blade, but her aim had been true.

A third druj crashed to the ground, limbless and whimpering, and then a fourth, that Ina had to plunge her sword into to keep it from reaching for Hyacinth. The way its flesh parted around her blade was peculiar, somehow unnatural, moving and shifting, like putting a sword through water.

From the rooftop, Kinga said, "they're mostly targeting the bakery – a few stragglers coming in this direction. Just keep moving. I'll hold them off."

"No heroics, Szymańska."

"Spoken like someone who doesn't know me very well, Hämäläinen."

Khalore stooped and ripped her knife free of the dead druj, turning it in her hand and staring at it with something like wonderment.

Eero looked at Ina, like he was looking for her to confirm that this was the right course of action, like he was deferring to her, like he thought she would have the answers to the silent questions caught in those blue eyes.

He trusted her. She trusted him. That was all there was, and all there could be.

She could only nod, and say, "we keep moving."

Keep moving. Stay alive. She had promised Zoran that much, and if she didn't keep her end of the bargain, how could she ever trust him to keep his?