"If you kill him, I'd be grateful," Kazril Ysana says with a grin as Kirsham Shirarka draws his longsword. The sunlight glinting off of the smooth steel is blinding, like a spray of sparks spilling from a forge as red hot metal is struck. The duel is taking place in one of the palace's many courtyards, a narrow space where the shadows cast by high stone walls are interrupted by swaths of daylight and the grasping silvery branches of zazamas trees. The pattern of light and shade dappling Kirsham's sharp cheekbones shifts as he moves, undulating like ripples in water.

"Little traitor," Esaroth says, rolling his eyes to the heavens. "I've been a wonderful big brother to you all of your years, yet here you are, wishing me dead publicly. Whatever could I have done to deserve such vitriol?"

"You won't stop calling me Pirate Captain Kaz!" she throws back. "And you've always been a shithead, Es. Don't pretend you haven't. These people know you."

"Oh, biblically," Ahalia Kozu winks. Esaroth's face colors slightly and my eyebrows raise. I'm still trying to sort out the tangled mess of relationships within the vasayaste, but they're clearly quite... friendly with one another. Disconcertingly so, especially after my conservative upbringing. Maybe disturbing is a better word.

I arrived at the courtyard in time to see Kirsham Shirarka shove Rillian Aidha up against a wall and maul his mouth like some sort of wild tiger, Rillian pawing at him right back. When they finally noticed me, they just smiled, like it was the most normal thing in the world for two lords to be locking lips out of doors. Like it wasn't both crass and deviant. Now Ahalia and Esaroth. Soon I'll need a diagram to keep track of who is putting what down who's throat in Sholu's mockery of a court. I silently pray that the answer is, at least once, a sword, absolutely no inuendo intended.

"If you kill him, I'll be quite piqued," Rillian says with an easy smile, kissing Kirsham on the cheek. "For luck, my champion. Go forth and conquer, et cetera, et cetera."

"I'm about to risk my life here, Rill, and you can't do better than et cetera? Who even uses that in conversation?"

"Me," Rillian trills. "And you really shouldn't mock me. I'm on your side now, but I can always switch. The courtyard isn't very wide; going over to the enemy's camp requires a mere matter of steps."

"I have a proposal."

"Yes," Rillian gushes dramatically, twining his fingers through Kirsham's. "I've been waiting for you to ask all of this time, my love!"

Kirsham rolls his eyes. "I was going to say that we should raise the stakes a little. Four gold on the outcome."

"You're on," Esaroth replies.

"And here I thought you finally meant to make an honest woman out of me," Rillian pouts.

Kirsham laughs, pushing his head away, unlacing their hands. His eyes are still warm, though, and part of me wishes Shira could have seen this. I might not approve of their debauchery, but there's something in the fact that they're openly lovers and haven't received, it seems, the least amount of censure. What if I could've seen him with Arisha and merely kept walking? What if it didn't have to be a secret, one whose discovery would ruin him? I can't imagine it, but now I don't have to. It's standing right in front of me, all soft touches and stupid jokes and sidelong glances that tell the whole story without needing any words.

Sholu stands to the left, hands folded gamely across his chest, looking on. I mentally calculate the number of steps it would take for me to pull Kirsham's sword from its scabbard and drive it through my beloved husband's, say, kidneys. I know I won't actually do it, know I can't risk Shira's life after I've given so much of my own to protect it, but indulging the occasional murderous impulse helps lower my blood pressure. It's practically a hobby by now, thinking of all the ways I could take that man apart and break him so badly no one could put him back together again.

Ahalia holds a scarlet handkerchief in her hand. She raises it dramatically, a vivid flame above her flowing waves of dark hair, before dropping it with a flourish and yelling "begin!"

I watch, interested in spite of myself, as they circle each other like hungry wolves, deploying cautious parries to test each other's strength. I watch the lean lines of Lord Ysana's muscles as he lunges, fluid as any dancer, grunting in disappointment when Kirsham blocks his blade. It barely missed him, though; from the sidelines, Rillian pretends to swoon.

Kirsham wields a hefty longsword, but his strong arms make it look light as he tests Ysana's left flank for weakness. Finding none, he backs off, and the dance continues. Advance, strike, block, retreat. Kirsham's precise, and his form is the kind of perfect my own swordmaster would've had wet dreams over. I'd call the fight in his favor if it weren't for Lord Ysana's blinding speed. He never stops moving, wielding the silver rapier like an extension of his own arm. Esaroth comes close to surprising Kirsham with a blow to the side and ending the duel, but the heaving longsword blocks him at the last possible minute.

Sholu meets my eyes across the courtyard and smiles. Quirks an eyebrow and nods his head nearly imperceptibly, as if asking what do you think? I incline my head in Kirsham's direction and he shakes his head, tipping it towards Ysana instead. Holds up four fingers, another question flashing in his eyes. I nod. Fuck it. Four gold pieces on the outcome of the fight.

As time wears on, they begin to tire, revealing latent flaws in their form as precision wanes with energy. Kirsham's clearly feeling the weight of his heavy sword, and he's a bit predictable. He repeats the same formations, uses formal style where Esaroth is pure individualistic flair. He's less intentional in his movements, though, and his constant motion has wearied him almost as much as hefting the longsword has wearied Lord Shirarka. It becomes a battle of stamina, then, with Kirsham steady while Esaroth begins to get reckless, increasingly willing to take risks as his energy runs low. He's not desperate, not yet, but he's getting there.

When it happens, I almost miss it. That's all it takes, I suppose; one wrong move, one misstep, one flawed calculation. Kirsham's sword is raised, the tip pressed to his adversary's throat. He took a risk, and it paid off. A few scratches on both men leak red, just enough to dirty their clothes and give them the semblance of battle scars.

"I said kill him, damn it!" Kazril shouts from the sidelines as Lord Shirarka lowers his sword, offering Lord Ysana his hand instead. Esaroth raises his middle finger to his sister, then swings it towards his opponent, refusing to take the proffered hand.. There's mirth in his eyes, though, not anger.

"I know where you sleep at night, you treasonous harpy," Esaroth mutters, plucking the red handkerchief from Ahalia's hand, balling it up, and throwing it at his sister. It floats up, opens, and descends over her light hair like a veil. He starts humming a wedding march and she rolls her eyes, plucking it from her head and then trying unsuccessfully to shove it in his still-humming mouth.
Suddenly, their play fighting hurts to look at. There's an ache deep in my chest like I've been run through with the longsword now resting against Kirsham's hip. I miss Shira so much for a moment that it takes my breath away. Not that we ever fought like that. It's the casual intimacy, knowing exactly what buttons to push to irritate the hell out of one another. Sholu inclines his head towards me in recognition of my victory and my lips curl.

You didn't play fair, I want to say. You didn't give me the chance to meet you in open battle, like we just saw in front of us. Your challenge came amidst the jubilant chaos of a feast night, your weapons subtle and sharp, hidden inside false promises and dressed up in fake uniforms. You didn't just kill my family, I want to tell him. You executed them. We never had a fucking chance.

I turn away, angling myself towards a honey-colored wall. From the corner of my eye, I see Esaroth chasing his sister through the courtyard as Kirsham makes a gracious victory lap. And then I see two eyes, one a brilliant green, the other a rich copper, shining in my periphery. Roze Marithan must have arrived late. I was too focused on the fight to notice his approach, but I turn towards him now, this man I haven't seen since he pressed a knife against my throat in a dark hallway.

As Sholu strips off his shirt and pulls his favorite knife from its sheath, Roze comes to stand beside me. He moves slowly, purposelessly, like he merely wound up next to my right shoulder, but I know it was perfectly intentional.

No one expected the first fight to last so long. Kirsham's given time to rest, but he still looks a bit tired when he faces the deme, offering a respectful bow before raising arms against him. Sholu is only using a dagger to even the odds.

"I've realized I made a mistake, before," he begins softly, casually. I think he's referring to almost trying to kill me until his lips twitch into the ghost of a smile and he says "you asked me for my full name, and I misled you. The truth is, I'm Lord Ambroz Akora Dananei-Marithan."

My laugh is sudden and unexpected. "Truly?"

"Truly. You can see why I shorten it."

"You'd think I'd be the one with an eleven syllable name," I muse, watching as Sholu almost touches Kirsham's chest with the tip of his dagger. I already know how it will end. He may only wield a small blade, but Sholu Verlaina is the sort of lethal very few men can compete with. Kirsham's form is perfect, sure, but Sholu has an affinity for strategy and a talent for violence. "When you inherit a millenia-old dynasty, you're likely to inherit a whole string of old names with it. It could've been so much worse than O'otani Koritzu Amarin."

Roze pauses for a beat, then says "I think O'otani Koritzu Verlaina is bad enough."

Now it's my turn to pause and consider the near-stranger standing beside me. He's thirty feet from the deme, revealing his appalling lack of loyalty to the dizsa, and he doesn't look concerned in the least. I'm not sure if he's ballsy or just stupid.

"That name is a lie," I tell him after making sure no one is close enough to hear the words fall softly from my lips. They're words I definitely shouldn't be uttering, but can't make myself contain. "And I wish you weren't the only vasayastisi who knew it."

"No, you don't," he corrects, leaning his long body against the trunk of a zazamas tree. "If they knew, things would get very bad for you very fast."

"Is this the part where you say you'll tell them unless I meet some absurd demand?"

"Extortion? Really?" he asks, sounding mildly offended. "Don't be absurd."

"If I remember correctly, Sir," I tell him, looking ahead as I speak, "you had a blade pressed to my throat just last night." I smile and clap as Ahalia officially calls the second duel in Sholu's favor.

"Must've been a particularly vivid dream, my lady," he murmurs. "I'd never think of accosting the dizsa in her own home."

"Well, you must have, because I remember it happening, and I know I'd never dream of you."

"Really? I know more than one woman who's found my eyes haunting."

"I'm so haunted already," I confess. "I'd never know the difference."

I dare a glance at his face. He's grimacing. "Looks like you're up. The second duel's over."

I frown. "That wasn't my brightest idea, was it? I was just so caught up in having a legitimate reason to fight him that I forgot how out of condition I am. I haven't been training at my usual standard for over six months, and I'm about to look like a huge fool in front of this parody of a court gathered in the courtyard."

"Let me go instead," he suggests casually.

"What?"

Roze shrugs. "As an apology for the whole nearly trying to kill you thing. I promise you, I won't lose."

"Sholu's practically a norayasti prince," I say. "What chance could you possibly have at beating him?"

"You really don't know a thing about me, do you?" he asks, amused.

"No, and I don't care to."

"Really? Even after I ambushed you in the hallway? You didn't go back to your room last night and think I wonder who that misguided devil Roze Marithan really is."

"I only have room for one misguided devil in my life, I suppose," I deadpan.

Roze smirks. "Let me fight him. I can take him, I swear it."

"Fine," I shrug, "but it's your funeral."

"Not a funeral," he replies lightly as he steps towards the center of the courtyard. "Okay," he yells, "change of plans! The dizsa is indisposed. I'll be facing the deme in her stead." He grins at Sholu and pulls his knife from its sheath. It glitters defiantly beneath the blazing sun, casting jagged shadows on the ground beneath. And I hear him say "just like old times, Verlaina."

"And I'll beat you, just like old times, Rosey Boy."

Roze laughs, but it doesn't touch his eyes. "Let's go, Showboat. And put your fucking shirt on, you look like an ass."

"Fuck off, Ambroz."

"Fine, then. I guess I'll have to do this," he sighs, pulling his own shirt over his head and tossing it to the ground. His chest is firm and well-toned, but what catches my eye are the scars. He has almost as many as Sholu does, a whole topography of violence crisscrossing his exposed chest. "There, now you're not the only center of attention."

"Bitter, Marithan?"

"As old tea, My Lord."

This, I think, is a duel I'm actually interested in. Sholu looks at me as he stands toe to toe with Roze. Ahalia is between them, her scarlet handkerchief raised high. I incline my head to the side, asking Sholu a question with my eyes. One eyebrow quirked, hand out, holding up five fingers. He nods, sealing our silent bet a moment before Ahalia lets the bright fabric fall fluttering to her feet.

Roze looks over at me and winks. Poor fool, I think to myself. He's going to get his flippant bravado handed back to him in the form of a very public defeat.

Well, at least it won't be me.

I thought the fight between Esaroth and Ysana was fluid, but these two make them look like stiff wind-up soldiers moving mechanically, fitfully, joints fused together by rust. Each movement is as sharp and clean as their knifes slicing through the air as they sporadically engage. Sholu feints right before lunging at Roze's left side. Roze dodges, the knife arcing gracefully through the empty space where he was just standing. I don't see him move, and I don't think I blink, but suddenly he's out of the weapon's path.

"You've gotten better at this, Rosey Boy," Sholu pants, their swords forming a cross.

"Or you've gotten worse," Roze replies, wrenching their swords apart so aggressively that I almost see sparks.

Both practice an absolute economy of motion. There's calculation and intention behind even the smallest of movements, and because nothing is wasted, neither seems to be tiring. It's the best fight I've seen in ages, and I begin to entertain the notion that Roze might actually have a chance at winning.

And in that moment, I do think to myself I wonder who that misguided devil Roze Marithan really is. Because he's not just another vasayaste lord, not with a body made for war and covered in scars. Not when he was able to sneak up behind me in the hallway like a ghost. Not when he had the balls to threaten my life in my own fucking palace. I've made a miscalculation, I realize, and potentially a very large one.

"Stop flirting and fight!" Ahalia yells, clearly caught up in the action. Then, having bet heavily on Sholu, she adds as an afterthought "and goddess save the king!"

"Oh, yes, save him," Roze grunts. "This man who's saved us all needs divine intervention. Zsavina, let your hand reach down from the heavens and stay my blade!" He laughs, shaking his hair out of his eyes and taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. "Have any of you ever stopped to ask yourselves what it means if even our savior needs saving? If that's how it is, we're damned already."

A lifetime ago, Halima Royen asked if I was protecting her, who was protecting me?

I told her if even the protectors need protecting, we're fucked. She pressed her lips together and looked away with shadows in her eyes, and I regretted my words immediately. It's strange, hearing the same sentiment on the lips of a vasayastisi lord. Or whoever- whatever- Roze Marithan actually is. With his alien eyes and remarkable stealth, I could almost believe him a creature from another planet, one where there are no kings and Sholu's word isn't incontrovertible truth. I wonder for a moment if he would take me there. Anywhere is better than here.

"Ever the alarmist," Sholu chuckles, the tip of his blade drawing a thin red line across Roze's bare shoulder. He grimaces and I watch as a trickle of blood begins to drip lazily down his arm. When he strikes next it's reached his knuckles, flicking pinpricks of red onto Sholu's bare chest. "Every cut bleeds with you, doesn't it, Marithan?"

"After everything, you have the nerve to call me an alarmist?" Roze looks fucking pissed. "I was right, Verlaina. I was goddess-damned right, and you've never once admitted that." He wipes his hand across his brow, leaving behind a vicious-looking red streak. "And I'm glad that I still bleed when I'm cut. I've lost so much blood already; at least I know I haven't lost myself."

"And I have?" Sholu asks, gray eyes dark and heavy as rain clouds just before a downpour. "Is that what you're saying?"

"You tell me," Roze grinds out. "Is the boy who cried over Liro's body the same man who followed in Kanza Arishai's footsteps and killed an entire family in their own home?"

Sholu's face changes in an instant. It's like a mask has been stripped away, all of his pageantry and patronizing smiles wiped clean, revealing something raw and slightly feral. He lunges forward, looking very much like he intends to bury the knife in the tender skin beneath Roze's ribs. I'd assume the whole conversation was a ploy to rattle Sholu, make him sloppy, but the expression on Roze's face is far too real for it to be just strategy.

"After what happened, I kept waiting for you to change," Roze spits. "Get sick of the blood. Instead you just got sick."

I watch the fight evolve, or devolve, before my eyes. All of their poise and prowess is sloughed off in favor of something grittier, dirtier, something at home in the slums that reared them. Sholu seems to forget he's a king at the exact moment he remembers every bit of violence the noraya ever taught him.

I don't know who drops the blade first, but soon they're both relying on their fists, all conversation dropping away as they suck in messy lungfuls of air. I chance a glance at the vasayaste crowded around me and none of them seem to understand the reason behind the shift. At first the increased intensity draws cheers, but when Sholu stomps on Roze's instep, using the second Roze is reeling from the pain to grab his arm and twist it behind his back at an unnatural angle, they're less sure. I see glances back and forth, questioning whether they should let the conflict continue or intervene.

"Don't you dare- don't you fucking dare-"

"What? Tell the truth?"

"Lecture me like you're some fucking saint clothed in white! You've got the same scars that I do, Roze Marithan, and your inability to accept that isn't my fucking problem!"

"I was never the saint. You think I don't know that? I've always fucking known that!"

"But you've never known when to stop," Sholu mutters darkly.

"Me?" Roze laughs incredulously. "This, from the man who climbed the noraya like a mountain? Who lifted the vasayaste up through gore and tradition to control all of Shikkah at the summit? You've never stopped, brother. Not once. Why should I?"

"Because I am your king!" Sholu practically shouts, his rough fingers wrapping around Roze's forearm. "Because I have been lenient with you, moreso than with anyone else, and you're quickly making me regret that."

"I know all about regret," his adversary counters. "I know how it gnashes your teeth and chokes your voice and wrings all the water out of you. I know the weight of it in your blood, the song it sings late at night when everything else is still. I know that it never stops, but you could have," he bites out. "You could have stopped, Sholu, before it came to this." The sound of Sholu's name on his lips when he's only used Verlaina is strangely intimate. "But you didn't."

"But I didn't," Sholu agrees. "Is that what you want to hear? I didn't stop. I made a choice, and so did you. Why can't that be enough?"

"You swallow the world and ask me why can't it be enough-"

"Fine, then," Sholu interjects. "No asking, just telling. Stop this childishness or goddess help me, I'll run you through with a longsword." His eyes are burning and immeasurably deep. "So go on, then. Give me a reason. Is that enough for you?"

"Fine. You want a reason?" Roze surges forward, his fist closing around the locket Sholu never takes off. His hand is balled so tight it blanches white. "You know the reason. They are the reason." He pauses, releases the bronze necklace. "They were enough for me. Still are. But you? Why weren't they enough for you?"

Sholu stands still as a statue for one breath, two, then he's on his knees in the dust, grabbing for the knife he dropped. And I know, to my core, that he means to use it. I feel a slight pang at the thought of Roze's untimely death. He's vasayastisi, but he's interesting, and I've never seen someone drive Sholu Verlaina that far over the edge. Not slipping into the abyss but diving into it, the knife in his hand less violent by half than the fire in his eyes. Not even I could've done that, and I consider myself an expert in pissing him off.

But Roze is ready. Sholu rushes him, the knife arcing overhead, and at the last possible moment he spins away. Wraps his hand around Sholu's wrist, holding it still just long enough for his other hand to land a heavy blow on Sholu's already bruised eye. I know the second his fist connects that it's over. The deme's head snaps back and he reels, falls, then there's a crowd rushing to tend to him. Ahalia cradles his head in her lap.

I'm the only one close enough to Roze to hear the last thing he mutters.

"That was for both of your wives, brother."

____

I am mildly ashamed of the sheer amount of angst present in this chapter. The boys are so melodramatic. I'm also acutely aware that the two times Roze has been present, he's come at someone with a knife, and that's basically all you need to know about his character.