I slip into the shadows of the Kadranian tents. In the silence of sleeping men, one of Agraund's lectures echoes in my ears.

You and your brother stand for all the people. You do not ask them to do what you would not.

It's a good thing that sneaking is a slow matter. If anything faster were required, I fear my body would betray me after our hard pace under and through the city. I used to think the only use for Agraund teaching me to move quietly was to disappear from tedious ballrooms. Now, I'm grateful it takes so little effort to seek out the flattest patches of dead grass and stand motionless in the shadows. Yet even as they glide across the camp, my feet long to run back to those glittering vipers.

Here, I have become the snake in the grass.

Doubt will be your biggest enemy. Not the people you're sneaking past; they're your obstacle. Doubt freezes your mind and fumbles your steps. You know what you're doing. Let fear heighten your awareness, but don't let it jitter your feet and hands. That's when you rush, that's when you jump, and that's when they see you.

I pull in a steadying breath. The cloak breaks up my form; the cowl hides my face and hair. Deep in the shadows, slipping as close against the black and brown tents as I can, the darkness should be thick enough to conceal me. I already made it past their scarce nightguard—they're keeping watch for an approaching company, not for a single person. And now, within their camp, they don't expect moving shadows against their tents, so they won't see this one. Nerves flutter in my throat, but my steps are sure.

If in the strategy room it was the best option, then don't second guess it in the dark. In that moment, you are not yourself, but Morineaux's silent weapon.

I kneel behind a large tent, and certainty ices me over. I am all that I am for Morineaux.

The dagger that I don't normally carry pierces the leather, and, slowly, I work the blade up the tent wall. As it goes, I strain to hear movement within, to detect feet on snow behind me. The popping campfire near the entrance already revealed no guard in the front. I wonder if it's because they've lost too many fighters or if the beast inside thinks danger will always challenge him on his feet, with his blade in hand. He hasn't learned that death comes nameless and clothed in shadows, or that it greets you as you look away.

It doesn't take much before I can slide inside. A man with long, part-braided, part-knotted hair lies before me, stinking fur blankets wrapped around him. A scar in the shape of a bear's claw marks his forehead. This dirty brute is what constitutes a leader among this people.

I kneel beside his defenseless form.

His is the face of the war. My lips curl. This creature orders its hordes to raid my country, strike my wall, sneak into my castle and attack my Queen. If he is so inhuman as to murder us while we sleep, then this is his just execution.

Once he's dead, I duck back outside and catfoot between the tents. There is only so much time before someone notices the torn back, and there are still two lords left. If I'm not fast enough, Riszev and Leavi will start the fires before I'm done. My hands are buzzing, and I can't tell if it's nerves or illness. I cut open the back of the next target's tent, internally chanting my uncle's words like the refrain to a death march.

The air is still and thick inside. Blankets cocoon him, and I creep in like a spider. Gently, my form sidles beside his. His hair hides his forehead, and I debate pushing it back to check. The nighttime rattle of the camp roars in my ears but refuses to cover my shaky breaths. Where is the mark?

Every second I waste is one where I can be caught, but my eyes search for certainty. Instead, something small and white captures my attention.

In his hand lies a child's stuffed rabbit, its well-worn ears flopping out from his grip. My eyes widen. Why would someone like him carry something so soft as that? Surely he stole it from some Morineause child. Surely he—

He stirs, and my churning stomach ices over. Don't second guess it in the dark. He shifts again, and my hand tightens on my knife. Deft fingers slide his greasy locks out of the way just enough to reveal the scar—

Outside, a shout shatters the air, and my hand jerks, knife slamming into the right side of his neck. His eyes snap open, and with that terror, I wrench the dagger around his throat. His limbs thrash as blood spurts from the wound until he gurgles and goes still. The spattered rabbit slips from his grip. I shove up and back, battling the urge to be sick. Sticky blood coats my hand, and I use my cloak to wipe more off my face. Horror mounts as the substance only smears.

My breath catches in my throat, and I stutter back out of the tent. It wasn't right in the strategy room; no matter what we said, it wasn't. I gag and choke down bile.

A handful of shouts come from across camp, and I whirl that direction. The tents conceal everything but the growing red haze in the distance. I'm moving too slow. The second act of tonight's scripted nightmare has begun.

Head throbbing, I dash to their kadreaux's tent, people around me starting to scurry from theirs. If he leaves before I reach him, or if someone bothers to look twice at me, or...

This won't end if we can't deal with all of them.

My pace increases despite the rush of vertigo. I don't have the time to cut into his tent, and I shove through the flap, desperate for a new plan.

Inside, the red-headed giant scrambles in his blankets like a fish caught in a net. A flick of my dagger, a murmured et væ—that's all it would take to put a dagger through his neck and an end to the war. But the night air cools the blood on my skin, and my hand refuses to move.

He frees himself and rises to tower two heads above me. In the dark of the tent, our eyes meet, and he sneers. My stomach ices over.

He lunges forward, and I stumble, fighting to dodge his grasping arm. It swings back around, and even that awkward cuff staggers me. His other fist slams in full force, and my head rattles. My knees hit the ground, but I push back up, terrified he'll kill me before I ever get a blow in.

He shoves me against the tent wall. Panic and instinct take over, and my dagger thrusts past his guard, in and out of his stomach. Blood seeps over my hand, and I recoil.

He calls out, clutching the wound, but his other hand snatches my neck. Despite my scrabbling feet, he drags me closer. As his fingers dig into my throat, pain pops bright against my vision. I struggle to raise my dagger, suffocating as pressure builds in my head.

My hand thrusts up, and the blade falls heavy on his wrist. He screams again, dropping me, and I collapse. My burning throat chokes on the in-rushing air. As I gasp, the kadreaux slams his foot into my side, then stumbles, cursing.

My leg swipes at him, and he tumbles to the ground. He rolls toward me, and I shove my left hand against his stab wound. He falls again, and head swimming, I scramble on top of him.

His good arm pushes at me, and even one-handed, he's stronger than I am. He squeezes my wrist, and the dagger tumbles out of my grasp. Terrified, my other hand shoots forward to grab it before he can. If I die, the blood on my hands tonight is for nothing.

His fist slams into my face, and I fall to the side as he rolls atop me. His weight is crushing, and I stare through the few clear spots in my eyes. My hand scrabbles at my side as the air leaves my lungs. He presses harder, and I stretch.

I snag the dagger, and the blade arcs through the air. Horror fills his eyes, like a child's at night.

My wrist twists at the last second, and the hilt slams hard into his temple. A pressure cut opens over his deer-rack scar.

Groaning, he collapses on top of me, and I shove out from under his weight. When I push to my feet, dizzy, I swipe the blood from my face, and the dark tang assaults my nose. Vision tunneling, I stagger and vomit.

I didn't kill him. I didn't. It's cold reassurance against the other blood covering my skin.

Shaky and dazed, I turn to the unconscious kadreaux. If I can get him to the wall, he's ours. Five hundred feet, and he's ours.

Black edges my vision, but I grab his ankles and fight to drag him into the chaos. I barely make it ten yards before my shaking arms give way. I drop him to catch my breath. Fire licks the edge of the half-awake camp, and I blink at it. The hungry flames sharpen with new meaning. The fire is coming closer, and if we get caught in it, at least one of us is done for.

We need to move faster.

My eyes flick through the darkness, searching for a safe path and finding none. Fire lies behind and scrambling Kadranians stampede ahead. Alone, I could make it out. My eyes drop to the kadraeaux. My lips tighten. He deserves no better than to die in the fight that he started.

But neither do I.

White blonde hair flashes in the dark, and my head snaps up. "Idyne!"

Angling toward the secret door our troops should come through, she weaves single-mindedly between tents and Kadranians.

"Idyne!" Desperation cracks my voice. There is no reason the witch should turn for me, but if she doesn't, this man will die and me with him as we carve our way across this field. "Idyne!"

She whirls, silverglass cutting a deadly arc in the air. Her head cocks, and she dances back through the chaos between us with a grace I envy. "You called, princeling?" she pants.

My heart beats with a lurching, heady rhythm. "I need your help."

She flashes a scarily bright smile. "And what do I get for it?"

"If we get out of this bloodbath, we can discuss it," I growl.

She steps disconcertingly close. "You don't look too well, do you?"

"I could make it back just fine." I gesture to the kadreaux unconscious at my feet. "It's him I need help with." The night air warms and men grow louder as the fire creeps closer. I grab his feet. "Help me carry—"

"He's still alive?"

"Yes! We need to get him back to the—"

Silverglass flashes across his throat. "There. Now they're all five dead."

His neck gapes at me, accusing. His feet slip from my hands. "You..."

She frowns, wiping her blade on her leggings.

"You..."

"You can thank me when we get out of here. Let's go?" She starts to turn.

I was going to save him.

With a cry, I dart forward, dagger sweeping through the air. She blocks, stumbling back. "Shades, Aster."

He was going to live. I was going to make him live. My dagger swipes toward the witch again. "How dare you!" My left hand rises to cast.

Her eyes go wide, and she turns and flees. I stumble forward, but the fight goes out of me, and vertigo rises to replace it. By the time I'm steady again, she's gone. My heart hammers in my chest. Rogue fires dance ever closer over dead grass, and men run through their haze.

The world is grief and regret, and then we die. I back away from the body of the kadreaux, and collide with someone. Dizzy and startled, I dart away, ducking through the disoriented crowd and away from the flames. My mind whirs, trying to keep up with where to put my feet. How is Reyan not here yet? He was supposed to come right after the fire broke out.

As I stumble toward the edge of the chaos, I spin, searching for Leavi. For Riszev and the guards. All I find are too many men swarming toward the fires, far too many for the handful to fight off. My erratic heart freezes.

They aren't coming. Everything—all the blood spilt, all the lives lost, all the wrongs done in the name of right—will be for nothing. We're too few to fight this horde, and Reyan's not coming. Tonight, we'll fall on this death-ridden field, and tomorrow, the Kadranians will fall on the castle.

Morineaux lost.

The men darting toward the fires don't seem to notice me standing here, but I'm on the wrong side of camp to try to hide in the city. They'll notice me soon enough, once they've put out the fires and snuffed those who started them. And it will all have been pointless.

On the far side of the camp, grating stone fills the air beneath the shouts. My gaze snaps over my shoulder, and hope bursts bright in the darkness.

Soldiers burst through the gap in the wall. "For Jacqueline!"