vagary (n.) an unexpected change in a situation or in someone's behaviour; a strange idea or action.

Evanne Chae didn't sleep much anymore. In dreams dwelled the desultory dead; they lurked, ready to blame her for that of which she was infinitely, inarguably, incontrovertibly guilty. When she woke from what little sleep she had managed to snatch from the jaws of the night, it was with a sick feeling in her stomach and a deep ache in the leg she no longer possessed. She wrestled herself upwards on the soft sheets and thick blankets of the palatial room to which she had been assigned, gasping for air fresher than any that could be found within the walls.

She affixed her prosthetic, and slipped from bed. She was still learning to walk softly with her new leg; she was trying to rediscover the softer parts of herself. It was especially harder in the mornings, when her limbs were leaden with sleep and reluctant to obey. She was, for this reason, grateful that she did not have far to walk; easing herself into a seat at the vanity, she lit a candle and blinked at the sudden flare of amber light that washed across the walls and floor. Another Evie stared back at her from the mirror, her curly bob dishevelled from sleep, her brown eyes dulled by the lack thereof. The single earring in her right earlobe glistened golden.

Evie said, "you're doing just fine."

She smiled. The other Evie smiled back at her, the expression transformative.

She dressed, after that. The maids must have slipped in and out of the room during what little sleep she had managed; there were new dresses hanging in the wardrobe, so that she had her choice of three gowns. She wondered if the other girls had been given the same Selection, or if these had been tailored to her somehow – whether there was a right choice of some kind. After some musing, she selected a long dress, that would hide her leg: a deep blue, almost navy, into which delicate silver stitching created the subtle impression of a sky about to blossom into full, star-studded night time. There was something comforting about it, she thought, though of course the stars never looked so in Illéa – not unless you ventured beyond the walls.

Her commander and mentor, Shae, had pointed that out to her, long ago, how different the world seemed when you were not hemmed in behind Alliette.

She would have to see if that held true even here, even at the palace. Perhaps a venture towards the towers, into one of the spires, onto the roof, was called for. Tereza could be persuaded, Evie was quite certain; Eunbyeol would be sure to acquiesce, in that quiet way of hers. Evie was usually a good judge of character, but even she had to concede that the good Lady Mønt was a difficult book to read.

By the time she had dressed herself, and arranged her hair into something approaching neatness, the sun had risen and there was a soft, sharp, rap on the door. Evie turned to call them inside, but her maid had not waited for permission – she swept in, her dark grey uniform the same colour as charcoal, her hair prematurely lightened to a similar shade. She didn't seem to have a name; certainly Evie had asked her for one, when she had first arrived, and had earned an utterly silent reply: just grey eyes turned upon her, like she should have known better than to ask. Evie had smiled blithely back, as though she had not even noticed what a strange reaction this was to an innocuous question.

"Lady Obušek," the maid said softly, "are you ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," Evie replied sweetly.

The maid gestured that they should step out of the room, where many of the Selected had already assembled. Like the mornings previous, they had gravitated into tight knots of quiet conversation and timid glances this-way-and-that, sculpted by the geographical proximity of their districts and their shared carriage journeys. That meant, of course, that Evie's instinct was to seek out Tereza and Eunbyeol, but thankfully she didn't have to search for long. As before, Mirabelle Yannis was ready to reprieve her, with an enthusiastic, "Evanne!" called over the heads of the other Selected. Her dress today was somewhat more relaxed and respectable than that worn the previous day, though it still accentuated certain features that would have scandalised Evie's commander in days past. It was a pleasant lilac purple, most at odds with the bright jewel tones in which the Selected were garbed, like trapped songbirds fluttering against the bars of a cage. Evie had been correct: they were all wearing variations on the same gown, like a uniform, in one of three colours: forest green, navy blue, or blood red, each studded with the delicate stitching in bronze, silver or gold, respectively. Were they meant to represent the colours of the tagma, perhaps? She abruptly felt rather guilty for not choosing the green – most disloyal, she mused, most thoughtless.

"Darling," Mirrabelle Yannis said, sweetly, "did you sleep well?"

"Very," Evie lied. "And you?"

"Not at all – a friend's play opened at the Gjöll Imperial last night." The chaperone smiled. "I'm afraid it was an absolute hit, and… well. Celebrations must."

Evie said, and meant it, "it sounds like you had a delightful time."

"I've had few better." Mirabelle inclined her head. She was a girl of two moods: exuberance, of the kind that suggested a level of ditziness Evie had not encountered since she was a child in Obušek, and charm, of the kind she displayed now, like a lady of the court who had always been thus and always would be. But there was a certain glint to her eye that told Evie she would be foolish indeed to take all of this – any of this – at face value. "Of course, I'm sure their Highnesses will have plenty more exciting arranged for all of you."

"Do you know what they have planned for today?"

Evie hadn't even noticed Eunbyeol, silent at Mirabelle's side, until the other girl had spoken. She looked radiant in the blood red dress, but radiantly dour; the girl so rarely seemed to smile. She was, strangely for a pretty girl, easy to look past; she could have been one of the maids, or a part of the wall, for all the attention she commanded. It would have seemed slightly sad, if Evanne hadn't noticed the faintest note of orchestration to the whole affair.

"A goodwill tour," Mirabelle Yannis said, sweetly. "To be queen in this country is not merely to be wife and beauty, but a leader in your own right. His Highness is keen to choose a bride who will be loved by Illéa as dearly as he loves her."

She didn't need to say anything more; Evie understood. It was a test. They had been here for four days, and they had met only Asenath Schreave, who had spoken to each of them individually in that sweet voice of hers, admitting nothing and learning nothing, only exchanging pleasantries of a kind in which Evie was particularly ill-practiced. Their interaction had been sparse indeed; Evie had learned little, and had revealed even less. But Asenath had been kind. She had expected as much, but even so, it was a pleasant revelation: Asenath was kind.

But no sign of Silas Schreave. That, was, in itself, a sign – was it not?

Eunbyeol was looking up, cold-faced, at the enormous oil painting which dominated the western wall of the corridor, a frozen tableau of the first Schreave king discovering the walls on Illéa for the first time during their strategic retreat after the Fall. The world behind him was blighted and empty of humanity, somehow more beautiful than apocalyptic when committed to artistic form like this. As a child, Evie had dreamed that the histories were, perhaps, incomplete – that she would venture far beyond Alliette and find people, and land free of druj, and the promise of a life unconfined by the walls. She had found nothing of the kind, of course, only empty land and druj and bloodshed. And so she had committed to create it in what little ways she could.

It hadn't gone entirely to plan, she thought ruefully, adjusting the joint of her prosthetic, but that wasn't the end of the world. The world had already ended, and things were going pretty well when that was taken into account. There would always be other, smaller, ways to make a difference. The Selection was just one.

Which was why, when she understood from Mirabelle Yannis that their goodwill visit was to be tantamount to an examination in their philanthropic skills, Evie determined that she would treat it as anything but. She was Evanne Chae; she could pretend to be no one else. If that wasn't good enough – even for Asenath Schreave – then that was simply none of Evie's business.

What other people thought of her was none of her business.

Gjöll was a beautiful town, more beautiful than anything Evie had even glimpsed in the outer districts. Her first instinct, as they drew up to the infirmary, was that the buildings were carved out of pure marble, so brightly did they glisten beneath a wan sun, hanging low in the sky as though suspended by a gallows. The cobbles were smooth and polished; many of the buildings here had beautiful onyx statues on their steps, posed as though living. Here, a young man reclined against the lamp-post, utterly real in the detailed carving on his face and hands – detailed enough to show a lifetime of labour, in his callouses and worn nails, to show a rash nature in the tiny marks on his throat that might have been a slipped chisel or might have been a nick while shaving. Mirabelle ran her hand along his arm as the girls ascended the steps, like he was a living thing that she had some hope of seducing, and explained to Eunbyeol and Evanne that many of the statues had some superstition attached to them, some good luck gesture performed before meeting with a lover, or attending an examination, or going to the market.

Gjöll was a town of many smaller neighbourhoods known as bezirke, which differed subtly in prestige and history, and which each had a different royal patron who ran it as their own tiny fiefdom, a kingdom-within-a-kingdom. This bezirk, which fell under the patronage of Princess Asenath, had been all-but-handed-over to the refugee resettlement programme after the fall of Mønt and Aizsaule – and yes, after the siege of Mag Mell. While many of the survivors had been scattered amongst the noble houses, the injured and infirm and invalid had been brought here, to the house of mercy.

The house of mercy. Evie had woken up in a place like this, five months ago, missing her leg and her friends. She shouldn't have shuddered at the sight of the sign over the door – 𐒔𐒙𐒚𐒈𐒗𐒙𐒍𐒑𐒗𐒇𐒋𐒕 – but she did, a chill creeping over her shoulders that she could not quite dismiss again until she had, as Mirabelle had, drifted her hand over the onyx shoulder of the wearied young men at the base of the steps. It shouldn't have worked, but it did; she felt some brittle structure within her chest collapse, like there had been a cage around her heart of which she was not fully cognisant until this moment.

The Selected girls lined the steps, chivvied into place by their chaperones so that they were a resplendent array of colours, none repeated or unduly mirrored. No sign of Tereza; Evie's stomach turned over and knotted.

Once Mirabelle and her colleagues were satisfied with the arrangements, they retreated and the carriage at the base of the step swept open its doors to reveal Princess Asenath, utterly divine in a pastel lace dress that made her look more like an angel than a person of flesh and bone. She thanked her driver, and spoke softly to her guards, whose grey suits were so dark as to be closer to black. Some of them were becoming familiar by sight now to Evanne – the lean lieutenant with shaggy black hair and pale eyes, the green-eyed woman with a silver headscarf that matched the buttons on her coat and the gleam of her sword, the grey man with a mouth that suggested a habit of smiling when he shouldn't. They, all of them, had hard faces, and shifting gazes that suggested – Evie resisted the urge to frown, lest they detect that they were being watched – that suggested they were worried.

Worried? They were in Gjöll – the very heartland of the kingdom. Only the most favoured were permitted to reside her. Maybe these guards were simply naturally protective; certainly, Shae had always looked similar prior to an excursion, though Jovan had always pointed out that worrying had never prevented tragedy from coming to pass.

Shae had been right to worry, of course. Evie banished thoughts of Gregory and Kate, of her missing leg, of the druj's jaws closing over flesh and bone, of the sound that had gone on, long and awful, for many moments before she had realised that it was her own scream –

She smiled as the guards cast their gaze across her. Below the steps, on the square, a few civilians were milling. The looks they directed at the Selected were more curious than hostile, but there was something apprehensive, something unfriendly, about it that made Evie focus on them a little closer than she should have – close enough that she almost missed Asenath sweeping past her on the stairs, greeting the sister of mercy who awaited her at the top of the stairs.

"Thank you for having us."

"Thank you for coming." The sister of mercy was a plain woman, a few years older than Evie's mother might have been if she had lived – if she had not been an excubitor. Maybe the same as Shae would be now, maybe a little bit older. "It will mean the world to the men."

"Seeing them will mean the world to me," Asenath said softly. "To all of us."

The sister of mercy ushered them inside; the grey man remained on the pavement below, watching them closely as Asenath, shadowed on either side by her guards, followed the sister of mercy, and the Selected girls followed Asenath. The grey man watched Asenath, and Evie watched the grey man, and Eunbyeol watched Evie, and the sun burned off the last hints of the previous night's storm hanging low over the edge of Wall Schreave.

And then they went inside.

It was a more hallowed space than the house of mercy in which Evie had been treated, all white marble and polished mahogany, all airy corridors and sweeping staircases and wide windows looking out onto manicured green lawns and tangled gardens full of flowers. Evie had expected something grittier – more like the scenes she had glimpsed during the relief attempts over Mønt, with men piled atop men, blood everywhere, the stench of flesh and excrement sinking into every fibre of your being, the sound of suffering and death pressing close.

Not like this. Not clean.

The room into which they moved was just that: clean and crisp, with vaulted ceilings and high windows that let golden light stream through interrupted and paint the wooden floorboards aureate. The doors at the far end had been flung open to let the fresh air and the scent of damp air to drift in, perfuming the whole space with the subtle smell of newly-blossomed flowers in the garden beyond.

Kate had died with her head on Evie's shoulder, gasping for breaths that her lungs could not take, while the medics in the Kelch house of mercy stepped over them. There wasn't enough pain relief to go around. Only enough to use on those who would survive. They had taken Evie's leg without anaesthetic. There wasn't enough to go around. Only enough to use on those with a good chance of living past the end of the day.

Not like this. Not clean.

Asenath had paused at the canvas bed nearest to the entry door, kneeling down as though heedless of how her gown trailed against the ground and came away dusty as she spoke kindly to the soldier slumped before her, her pale hand taking his bandaged one as she coaxed a shy grin out of him with her own, blinding, smile.

The other girls seemed to take that as an indication that they should find invalids of their own to comfort. A few of them had been handed boxes of sweets, or bouquets of flowers, or little pins in the shape of crowns, to distribute to the men and women who had given blood and limb and sanity in defence of the kingdom; Evie was rather relieved that her hands were empty as she approached the man nearest to her, a fair-haired fellow with the heroic build expected of a soldier. A watcher, if she had to guess – excubitors were usually much leaner in build, and scholars were usually much slighter.

"Good morning." She did not kneel, as Asenath had; her prosthetic would not allow that much and, anyway, she knew she would have found such a gesture utterly unbearable if she was in his place. "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

He said nothing. This was typical of so many after a sustained battle, Evie knew: they became lost in their own minds, in their own thoughts, in their own memories. Sometimes they were still in the thick of the battle, with druj at their heels and cannon fire exploding overhead. Sometimes they were ensconced in a halcyon childhood, in a time before they had known what true, visceral fear felt like. Sometimes they were just… gone.

And sometimes they never found their way back out.

So it had been with Harriet, for a time, after her twin had died, after Kate had died, after Evie had lost her leg. Harriet had taken one look at Gregory's broken body, and something inside her had broken as well, broken and never truly healed. Evie spoke to this soldier as she might have spoken to Harriet in that time, her voice soft but light, her tone purposeful and kind.

"Are they treating you well in here?" He didn't seem physically injured or invalid; that was somehow sadder, Evie had always thought, somehow more permanent. She could still run, and skip, and dance, with her prosthetic. She hoped this man would be able to do the same, when he had healed, if he could heal. "You can tell me if they aren't. I know how the sisters can be."

He was silent.

She said, "were you an excubitor?"

Still nothing.

"I was," Evie said. "I used to be."

He drew in a breath. It sounded like it hurt; it sounded like he wasn't used to doing it, like it was an afterthought, like it was a physical exertion to do so. She thought he would speak, but he didn't; he just kept looking at the floor, like he was afraid to look up, like he was scared of what he might see. Her heart ached for him.

"I used to be an excubitor," Evie said, "and now I'm not. And it's okay. It's okay. There are other paths. Gentler paths." She drew in a breath that seemed to match his; it seemed to rattle in her chest. "You are in Gjöll now. The world is kinder here."

"…are you..." His voice scraped out, like gravel against gravel. "….sure… about that?"

No.

"No." Evie smiled. "Not at all. But... I just have to hope so."

She took his hands; they were cool to the touch, like he was made of the same marble that composed the floor beneath her feet.

"Does your family know you're here? Your unit? Is there anyone you want me to contact, to look for?"

Who is worrying about you?

His eyes flickered up to meet hers – her stomach lurched, slightly, to have earned that much, and then again at how unexpectedly wonderful it felt, to earn that much – and then, over her shoulder, there was a scream, harsh and dissonant and awful.

It was animalistic; it was wrong.

Evie spun, just in time to see one of the injured excubitors throw herself bodily at the princess. She was tall, and strong; the princess' guards leapt in front of her, but they were clearly straining to restrain the wounded soldier as her limbs flailed, as her face contorted with hate, as that awful sound kept going and going.

Just as awfully, a flicker of recognition ignited in Evie's throat, raw and spiked and horrible.

Shae Txori was strong enough to fling off one of the princess' guards; she was strong enough to do much worse. That thought turned and turned and turned in Evie's head as she watched Shae advance on Asenath, tall and lean and menacing. "You did this to us."

Her voice was not as Evie remembered it, full of determination and protectiveness and warmth. It was an awful, twisted facade of what it had been, hollow and snapped. Reiko Morozova had to move in, Asenath's perpetual shadow, her cold eyes frozen with the flinty look of vindication; she and the guard with the headscarf locked Shae's arms behind her and hauled her backwards with surprising strength, their faces set in a look of cruel focus.

"You did this to us!"

Shae was forced to her knees. Evie was close enough to see tears streaming down her face.

She hadn't realised that her soldier had risen, and pulled her behind him, as though to protect her, until she realised that she was straining, desperately, to catch a glimpse of Shae from behind his strong arms.

"They will never stop!"

"Girls." Asenath's voice was utterly calm; she seemed utterly calm, watching Reiko wrestle the excubitor into submission. "We seem to be causing this lady some distress." She sighed, and cast her eyes downwards. "Let us give her some space. I am sincerely sorry for this, sister - please, be kind to her. She has given everything to our cause."

She swept from the room with the sister of mercy at her heels; Evie felt like she had been freed from a kind of paralysis as soon as Asenath had turned the corner, able to move and breath again.

Evie moved towards Shae – Lieutenant Morozova snapped at her to stay back – Evie wasn't sure that she could have – even if she had wanted to – and she didn't.

Her voice sounded like that of a little girl when she spoke. "Shae?"

Shae turned unseeing eyes on her, empty of recognition, empty of the strength and determination and bravery which had so distinguished her when Evie had first made her acquaintance. She was a hollow thing. Just anger. Just grief. Just fear. Evie could understand that. Evie could understand that better than she would ever want to admit. Shae didn't see her, didn't recognise her, only hated her, intrinsically, instinctively, intuitively.

Evie had spent her adolescence trying, desperately, to be this woman.

Shae said, "they will never stop."

No. That wasn't true. The world was broken, but they could fix it – stem the tide of druj, stop it all.

They will never stop.

Eunbyeol's hand closed over Evie's arm like a vice, unexpectedly strong, unexpectedly kind. Evie hadn't even realised that there were other Selected left in the room. The girl's voice was soft and dark. "Evanne. Don't."

Evie could only stare at her old commander. It was up to Eunbyeol to guide her from the room, walking at a pace that suggested she was going as fast as she could without putting Evie's prosthetic under strain. Shae's voice rose behind them, awful and keening.

"You sent us to our deaths!"

There, on the roof of the chapel opposite the infirmary, was an onyx soldier of a tagma soldier, perched upon the very edge of the parapet. Their sword lay across their lap; their shoulders were curled forward as though bracing against a wind that did not exist, their chin resting gently in their hand as they gazed out over the kingdom to which they had sworn their service, their strength and their life. The black stone face, scarred deeply by some poor stroke of the sculptor's chisel, had a wistful expression that made some part of Evie ache, some part of herself that she thought she had lost alongside her leg and Gregory and Kate and Shae, some part of herself that did not belong to the Selection.

A shadow moved beside it, almost indistinguishable from the statue itself, and then was gone.

"Evie?" Eunbyeol had turned back to check on her, that blank face marked with the faintest hint of curiosity. As soon as it was there, it was gone again – but it had been there. Evie warmed to see it. "Are you okay?"

"Lost in my own thoughts." She hastened, acutely and uncomfortably aware of her limp, accentuated by the uneven surface of the cobbled streets and by the long period of walking. She would not think about Shae, not now; that would be to do a disservice to the woman who had been her second mother, her first commander, her last and most determined protector. Not here. Not in the sunlight.

She had never asked her soldier for his name.

She linked arms with Eunbyeol, partially to balance herself, partially to balance Eunbyeol, and smiled when Mirabelle Yannis leapt up from some secret hiding place nearby to seize her other arm, looking pleased with herself – and utterly heedless of all that had transpired within the house of mercy.

"A fabulous display, girls. I can taste a won bet on the wind already."

Evanne chuckled. Her enthusiasm would have been better placed if, perhaps, she had leapt in front of Asenath to protect her with her own body – instead, well, they had all simply stared. "Will we get any cut of the winnings, Mira?"

"You'll get a husband and a crown, Chae." Mirabelle Yannis wrinkled her nose. "Let's not be greedy, shall we? And let's not be complacent. There's to be a ball tomorrow, and you can never be over-prepared for such an event. Tell me, Eunbyeol." Mirabelle's smile was wicked, and brittle, and beautiful. "Can you dance?"