It's hard to breathe.

Fae rasps, wheezing, clutching at her side, pressing against the searing sting. She sways a little, but swings the knife out just in time, ignoring the jab of pain as she shifts away.

"This corset," she pants, readjusting her grip on the wooden practice weapon as her other hand pinches the pain, "is giving me cramps."

Keno shrugs.

"That's what happens when you compress your midsection, Your Majesty."

She registers that this is a mocking use of the honorific, but she ignores it, digging her knuckles into her side to abate the discomfort.

"You've got to change the breathing too," Keno says, rising up to a normal stance and shifting closer. He places a warm hand between her shoulders, sliding it down to her lower back. "Deep inhale, quickly. Stretch that side out."

"I'm going to ban corsets," she tells him, leaning to the side, stretching out the spasm.

"Don't half-ass it: ban the whole dress."

She wheezes, leaning forward, hands on her knees.

"Don't tempt me."

She straightens up, shifting back into a combative pose, and he follows suit. He too has a wooden knife in hand and he twirls it around his fingers as he contemplates her.

This is a ploy, a blustery show-off a trick to distract from the subtle shift of his left boot, which slides back, lifting almost imperceptibly up from the ground. She pretends to watch the knife, keeping track of the other movements in her periphery, monitoring how his free hand shifts to his side.

When Keno lunges Fae springs to the side, evading, despite the tangling rustle of her heavy skirts. He shifts, course-correcting, coming at her again, and she watches the knife, shoving the arm that holds it up with her forearm when he slashes again, moving around him once more so he will have to turn.

None of this really surprises him—it's what they have practiced, but she knows he has a ploy in the queue, a little trick at the end of this roleplay for her. She can see it glittering in his eyes as they go through the motions, as she moves them into the southwest corner of the stables. They chose here because, as Keno pointed out, hay is a far more comfortable landing than stone.

He's probably banking on this, but Fae is banking on another quality of hay—how light it is. So when she's led them to the spot she scouted earlier, when her foot digs in, beneath the loose dirt and hay, she gives him a wide smile and, instead of feinting again, she kicks a blast of hay, dust, and muck straight up into the thief's face.

In the blur of debris she rushes in, one skirt-burdened knee jamming into his side as her hand clamps down on the knife-wielding wrist, shoving it away.

There are bits of straw poking out of Keno's hair and a vaguely surprised expression on his face before it suddenly breaks into a smile.

"You learned that one from Allayria, didn't you?" he says, letting the knife clatter on the ground. "She's always had a devious flair for the under-handed."

Fae snorts. 

"You make that sound like such a positive thing."

Few people would dare to say such a thing about a Paragon, but then again, the thief and this Paragon have always seemed close. She moves back toward the inner doors, retrieving her morning coat, picking up her delicate things, and Keno follows. 

"It is a positive thing," he states. "It's what I like best about her. That and the fact that she's going to get me a castle."

Fae rolls her eyes at this, wondering, wryly, if it had been wise to appoint the thief to spymaster. 

"I know that girl," he says, leaning up against the post beside her, watching as she turns herself back into a queen. "Those people you're fighting now, they killed her. And she came back. So a little quibble about property rights and powers of appointment..." he wiggles his hand at her. 

"Those people, that lunatic," Fae answers, shoving one hand through a drooping sleeve and jabbing the finger of the other out at the city where, somewhere, the leader of the Cabal hides, "said he killed her."

Keno laughs, a hand reaching up and pulling hay from his hair. 

"Never asked her then?" he prods. "What actually happened?"

Fae eyes him through the swoop of her coat over her head. 

"Did you?" she throws back.

"She didn't exactly hang around to get into all the details," he says, pulling the edge of the coat down for her as she grapples with her gloves. "but she implied as much. Besides, Ben doesn't lie, sweetheart." 

Ire fires up in her.

"Of course he does," she snaps. "He lies about everything. He lies about our intentions, about what we are doing—"

But Keno is shaking his head. 

"If you really want to win this you've got to keep a level head," he says, gesturing with those spider-long fingers at her, smiling still, but not so earnestly now. "He is. Ben doesn't lie, Your Majesty. He believes everything he says."

Keno points out to where Fae had gestured before. "And he believes it enough to give up those most precious to him to see it through."

His arms fold together just above the narrow jaunt of his hips. 

"He loved that girl, and he shot her," he says bluntly, serious at last. "Ben is not the type to let things go. It's one of his failings—I always told him that. Once that man decides something, it is done. He shot her straight through the chest, and I'd bet good money he didn't even hesitate."

And you call that love? Fae thinks, brow crinkling against it. 

"He's probably still crazy about her too," Keno adds into the silence, head tilting, mouth twisting into a wry smile at the heightened fury of Fae's. "He decided a long time ago that he fancied her. He glared at me so..."

That smile quavers for a minute, then returns, brighter, with a bite in it. 

"Of course," he considers, all artifice now, "that also means that he'll probably shoot her again if he can. Twice, for good measure."

"And what kind of man is that?" Fae demands, unable to keep the anger in, but Keno only shrugs, unbowed, unfazed. 

"There was a time that I wouldn't bet against him," he confesses, "But then an old shadow showed up at my door, talking about finding old friends and cracking skulls." 

He takes the practice knife from her gently, sliding it behind a hidden cove at the corner of the stall. Once a thief, always a thief. 

"For all that determination, Ben couldn't kill her," Keno muses. "He failed, and anyone who makes Ben fail is dangerous."

He glances out, down the narrow hall to the rest of the Tower, to the guarded door and, beyond it, the pluming, dark city. 

"I don't know what's going to happen when they meet again," he admits, sounding more curious than alarmed. "They might just tear us all apart." 

And then his teeth flash, white and sharp in his lion-grin. 

"But even if they do, I'm still going to get that castle."

She is a white pillar in the blinding sun. Straight and taut, more marble than flesh, a breathing statue that stares, dark-eyed and thunderous, as the general brings a row of men up onto the scaffolding.

The crowd out beyond is scraggly and afraid. It's almost a smell, palatable on the tongue, thick and heavy. They are afraid of what happens next.

Hin reads out the crimes. They hang the first three. Traitors, murderers, though those are both strange words now, fitting more men than not, and even Fae can admit there's an air of falseness to them.

There is no such thing with the other two.

Saul Fernuch goes first, the pirate a hollow shell of a man, stumbling on weak knees as Hin drags him forward, as she reads his crimes. Fear turns to anger. Fae sees it in their faces, sees it breaking in with old memories of Brezkin, old fury at broken homes and unused toys. She speaks when Hin finishes the sentence, she speaks before Hin can call for him to be hanged.

"There will be no hanging," she announces not just to the general but to this restless crowd and they murmur, but she is not done.

"A man reaps what he sows," she says, and Caj moves forward, hand on hilt, armor clinking, and the crowd shrinks back, but then wavers, transfixed. "A man who strikes down children does not deserve a bloodless death."

She turns to the masked man at her side, her eyes meeting his.

"Protector," she says, "protect your people."

And he moves.

It is a shriek, high like a wounded animal, as the bound man lurches, stumbling, falling back on bent knees and sprawled feet. He's scuffling piteously, but it is not enough, and the black sword arches high, glinting in the sunlight, sharp and smoking, and then it cleaves down. Once. Twice.

Caj doesn't make it quick, and the crowd watches, transfixed, ghosts claiming their blood sacrifice, but even when the shuddering limbs fall slack they still hunger for more.

A pale-faced Hin turns to the last prisoner, but Samuel Grimes is ready for her. He rises to his feet, arms still bound in front of him, and the guards shuffle, hands on hilts, but Keno, hovering just at Fae's side, smiles.

"I will state my crimes," he says, loud, and Fae is impressed that his voice does not waver, not even as pirate blood runs like rivers around his boots before falling off the ledge of the scaffold. "I'll admit what I've done, and throw myself at your mercy, Your Grace."

He had turned toward her, not quite looking her way, but with this he turns out to the crowd.

"I too worked for the Jarles," he tells the crowd, which mutters darkly, gazes sharpening. "I took children and gave them to the Smith-callers. I took their money, and I used it."

He half turns, a twitch like the tug of a leash.

"I took it and I used it to buy things," he halts, shuffling on his feet. "To buy arms for the Cabal."

It goes through them like a ripple, a collective shudder in the crowd as brows furrow, mouths twist, and nostrils flare.

"I bought them all the things to fight against you with, Your Grace," he says, head bowed. "The fire and the swords, and the bolts and bows."

He turns and falls to his knees in front of her, and she sees Keno's hands in this new performance, though few others will.

"I renounce them," he says, holding his tied hands out to her, bowing his head low. "I renounce the Jarles. I renounce the Cabal. I renounce the life I have led. I do not ask to be absolved, Your Grace. I just ask for your mercy."

And she looks up. The crowd hovers. The crowd watches.

"Mercy," she repeats, and her eyes find Caj, and he waits, a dark thundercloud amongst the sunshine. "Yes, I will give you mercy."

The crowd rumbles.

It's only when the nails in the floorboards shoot up, melting and twisting around his binds to lock his tied hands to the ground that Grimes looks up again. It's only when the dark shadow falls over him that he understands what kind of mercy she means to grant.

Rage purples his face, contorting it, and he only gets out two words, a narrow hiss between clenched teeth—You bitch—before the sword swings.

Keno shifts, but it is a subtle reaction, too subtle for the faraway eyes to see. There are crimson flecks on Fae's gown, a high-trailing splatter that leaves its pattern even on her hands, which remain clasped at her front, steady and serene.

"Blood for blood," she tells the silent, waiting crowd. "No one else will profit off of dead children."

The aftermath is a rush of moving parts, a plan spinning into action, and Keno breaks his own protocol: he climbs into the carriage immediately after her.

The spymaster has an uncommonly grave expression on his face as he snaps the door shut, latching it with long, nimble fingers.

"That was not what we planned." His voice is a low murmur between the ricketing clacking of the carriage wheels, and his eyes are narrowed as he peers at her.

"I told Grimes we'd talk about sparing him," she returns. "I never promised I'd actually do it."

"I did," he answers, but it's not his words that carry weight, it's the way he's looking at her, the careful way his fingers curl along the seat ledge.

"He asked for mercy; I gave it," she replies, an edge to her tone now, a warning. "A quick, clean death. Better than he deserved, better than he warranted—"

"We negotiated—"

"And what?" she hisses. "Let a man who sold children for slaughter—"

"We made a deal," the spymaster throws back. "And he did his part. If I can't keep my word in the deals we make, we won't be making them, no matter how unsavory the partners we renege on are."

He leans forward, elbows on knees.

"If all you do is swing that sword you're going to end up with a knife in your back. No one's going to help a queen who will hack off your head the moment you're no longer useful."

The rest of the ride is cold and silent, and when the iron gates of the Tower close behind them and the carriage doors open she steps out quickly, back stiff and shoulders set.

Caj is waiting for her at the doors, helmet still on, and she makes a beeline for him, ignoring whoever might or might not follow behind. The armored Smith-caller falls in line directly behind her as she pushes through the entrance door, marching past the line of servants, courtiers, and the like who wait for her return.

Helen has a box in hand and she takes Fae's cloak as it slips off her shoulders. The cool air of the hall prickles this newly exposed skin but Fae is too peeved to attend to it. She moves even brisker, past the murmur of bowing heads, her dark shadow clinking behind her.

"You were perfect," she tells him in a low voice, peeling off her gloves, wishing she could pluck this heavy crown off her brow. "It went exactly as we could hope. Our next move needs to be to put out the word—"

There's a rustle, a shuffle not of grave reverence, and Fae's attention slips as she catches sight of some of the children, peeking out between columns, eyes wide but unafraid. There are some she's seen in the kitchens, as well as a few shy, younger tots, and an older, sallow-faced one she thinks she's seen before, but can't remember when.

She hesitates, still clothed in this red-stained gown, but some of them are munching on biscuits, and she can't help but go over to them and kneel down.

"Are those from the kitchen?" she asks in a very serious tone and one of the smaller ones nods, cheeks stuffed, chin tucked.

"Good. Cook makes the best cookies," she tells the girl. "My favorite are the gingersnap ones. Do you think you can save one for me?"

The girl nods, and her eyes dart to the pale, older boy. Fae turns her attention too, catching the way his hand clutches something at his side.

"Did you get gingersnaps?" she asks him gently because, even though he's tall and lanky, just on the cusp of adolescence, he's staring blankly. "Good choice. I hope you got them when they were just warm—"

It's a blur of movement, a blur that doesn't make sense, and a flash of something silver, swiping, hard-edged and sharp, plunging toward her. The other children are screaming and she's twisting back, falling over skirts, grabbing a thin wrist, but it's the wrong wrist and a distance away there's the sound of metal fingers grasping, clutching out at Skill, but the knife is unyielding, still traveling, still driving down and she crosses her arms in front of herself as someone yells.

And then the dark sword swings down for the fourth time that day.

A/N: Uh.... Merry Christmas ? 😬

Hellooooooo everyone. This chapter is hurriedly coming to you from an airport as I wait to board my plane. I'd like to say more, but I've got to go scrounge for something to eat before I'm locked into a scrap of metal hurtling through time and space. So I'll just leave this at: happy holidays and safe travels, everyone! 

I am so very hungry.