My scorched fingers writhe in the sponge of a man’s lung. His blood is so arcane that it burns my flesh. Something mighty throbs beneath my palm: the man’s heart, I realise. It hasn’t stopped. Strange—hands through lungs should do that to hearts.

  Father’s did Mother’s, I think.

  But not this man’s heart; it beats harder still, with a fever so cruel. I try to pull my hand away, but something ethereal gushes out of me so violently that my knees buckle. It makes mush of the man’s sculpted flesh, and my hand sinks deeper toward that fire.

  But I catch myself as he groans. No—the man holds me up. There is a terrifying strength in his corded arms. Boiling, sticky red streaks down my face, off the man’s lips and torso, as he wheezes; yet, that smile hasn’t left his lips all this while.

  “The monsters are dead,” says the man, trying his best not to choke on his own blood. “We’re no monsters.”

  I stare, wide-eyed. What is he saying? I do not know that language. Not yet.

  Suddenly, he furrows his brow and raises a gauntleted hand. I hold my breath and shut both eyes, dreading my fate. But nowhere is the sharp sting I expect across my face, nor are there flashes of white in my vision; most telling of all, I do not taste iron when I swallow down a parched throat.

  The man has not hit me.

  Stranger still—when Father raises a hand, it is to leave a welt. I do not know what to feel about this. Something in my chest tightens. I swallow it the moment footsteps approach: lithe, armoured, unafraid.

  Father’s Guard?

  No.

  I smell scented oils, sweat, and blood in the castle’s stale air. Then, a rot so vile compels a bony, calloused hand to my mouth and nose. My eyes dart open to the sight of a woman with skin so dark it shimmers, devouring what little light there is. She looms over us—the man bracing on one knee; me standing in his morbid embrace. She has her gnarled staff to my head, clenching it with such might that I hear the wood splinter and groan as her eyes flare green. Static in the air, at that; every breath under her gaze nicks my ribs.

  I gasp; it only worsens my ordeal.

  Tears blur the visage of someone standing beside her; another woman, I think. This one is so pale that night’s gloom cowers before her; she is the rot. The woman holds out a hand—a waterlogged hand so far gone that soupy flesh falls off the bone in maggot-festered droplets of skin. Something unholy gathers in her dead flesh.

  “I assured the boy we’re no monsters,” says the man. “Will you prove me wrong?”

  I blink my tears away; he is calm as he glances over his shoulder at the women. Both scowl, mad for murder.

  “In memory of Malik,” replies the dark woman, her voice cracking and nasal. “My Malik, he… my love is gone, Bo—” the sob smothers her; she lets it. “—that monster wearing human skin did it. We put it down for that. Slowly. Painfully. Its vile spawn is next.”

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  The man whimpers, then takes a pained, gurgled breath. So horrifying is that wheeze. But his heart drums harder, burning hotter than ever. I gnash my teeth and try to pull away again; he holds my thin arm in place. Pain shoots up the limb, but not as it would if Father held me; the man eases his grip when I cry out.

  So does he, suddenly.

  I smell it burning before I hear his flesh sizzle—the arcane metal of his gauntlet is scalding red where it touches me, and though its heat does not so much as singe my skin, his armoured hand smokes beneath the plate. Still, the man does not let go.

  Is he like Mother was? I think. Does he not feel pain?

  “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Zosia. Malik was a loyal friend to me,” replies the man. “But this is a boy. Look at him: helpless, unschooled in the arcane. He doesn’t know what he is—how he must loathe his arcana. Imagine the life he’s lived here for all these years with that man, that monster he called a father. ‘We don’t choose our burdens, but we choose what they make of us.’ Malik lived by those words, didn’t he? What will the burden of his death make of you?”

  The dark woman gasps softly. I catch her lips trembling as her grip on her staff falters, as though the man’s words—whatever they mean—have twisted a knife in her bowels.

  “Don’t. Don’t you dare do that to her, Bo,” says the pale woman. “You resort to morbid sentimentality when you know reason won’t convince us of your lofty ideals? Is that it? Look at his Core, how misshapen it is—he’s leaking volatile arcana. It’s a mercy to put the boy out of his misery.”

  “I’ve seen you heal worse, Letitia.”

  The pale woman looks away. “I’m no healer. Any doubts about that breathed their last with Malik and were never truly mine.” The rot rages as maggots on her hand unbelievably metamorphose into carrion beetles, devouring the decaying flesh and baring the bones of her hand. “He shouldn’t have trusted me with his life. The least I can do is honour it with the blood of his killers; have their corpses tend his grave—for as long as they rot—as penance.”

  The air is suffocating with the stench of death and the irreverence of something unholy.

  “Will taking this child’s life bring his back?” says the man. “Say so, I beg you, and the sin will be mine to bear. If not, stand down; I do not wish to mourn another friend today.”

  A smile so twisted crosses her lips. “You can kill me, but can you stop me? Not here—not with our Summoner gone and Zosia Vis by my side.”

  Silence lingers in the air for a breath.

  Then, the dark woman raises her staff from my head, and the pale one glances at her with a furrowed brow. That green flare slowly fades, revealing puffy eyes, red and brimming with tears.

  “Let us not fight amongst ourselves,” she says. “Malik would not want the Party disbanded, or worse, in his name.”

  The pale woman scowls at the man, sighs, then lowers her hand. And the maggots and beetles on her flesh and bone burn in onyx flames that mend her rotten sinew—leaving an unblemished, albeit deathly pale hand that soon flushes pink as blood rages through her arteries again.

  The man nods at both women, breathes deeply, then glances down at me. He is stubbled with dark-silver hair and has eyes so blue. Suddenly, he holds my thin, bony arm a little tighter and tears it out of his torso. The man shudders through clenched teeth, but his smile never leaves those lips stained red.

  That ethereal substance gushing out of me halts as a riptide crashes into my bones, where the man has me in his grip—firmly, but gently. It rages through my arm, over my shoulder, and up my neck. Gooseflesh prickles as shivers run down my spine. I scream, bite, and scratch, but am suddenly lightheaded.

  As my vision fades to black, I hear the man’s reassuring voice one last time: “You’re safe, Joaquin. The monsters are dead.”

  I understand only a word of that—how does he know my name?