Roth stared at the woman's outer tunic discarded on the table, blood staining the back of it. Fresh blood, by the looks of it.

That fucking boy. What, by the dead gods, had he got himself caught up in now?

Roth could just about handle Juda's exploits in the brothels. It wasn't something he himself hadn't also done when he'd been a novice, nor was it not the first thing he'd done on the tide he'd finally been relinquished of duty as the King's Special Commander—burying himself inside Clova Dell herself as if it was his last moontide on this god forsaken rock. But Juda—well, Juda was something else entirely. Juda was, as always, a law unto himself. And Roth had warned him, by fuck, had he warned him.

But to bring one of Clova Dell's girls here, to Roth's own house? The boy must have been out of his damned, twisted mind.

Roth's connection to Juda wasn't a secret, of course. He was his guardian, after all, that much was well known and was information freely given to anyone that might ask, but Juda wasn't meant to be here—not now he was a Highguard-in-training. His place was at the barracks. His place was in the bloody square.

His place was to be by the King's side.

That was the plan. That was his focus, his goal. Their goal. And yet, he'd brought one of his Grimefell women back to this house where she could rightly question how a novice was still so attached to his guardian, when everyone knew that the whole purpose of the Order's training was to rip a whelp from his mother's tit and raise him on blood and violence. Family no longer existed for the novices, or at least, it wasn't meant to. Your father was the King. Your family was the blade. Your life was the blood.

Roth scratched at his beard, sighed, and poured himself a draught of wine. He'd sworn to himself he wouldn't drink this moontide, that he wouldn't drink until the Trial of Sin-Sabre was done. The permanent dull ache that had settled into his skull was becoming sharper, more insistent that he recognise its presence, and he knew the wine wasn't helping, but he needed a drink now—needed to feel the burn of it in his throat, the warmth of it in his chest. He'd even considered paying Clova Dell a visit, but it had been many moons since he'd sought her company and the last time had earned him a nick with the tip of her dagger across his cheekbone and he didn't fancy matching the scar with one on the other side. He had enough scars, after all, and not all were of shiny, puckered skin.

Whatever Juda had done, it was going to cost Roth, he just knew it and he was tired of reaching into his coffers to chuck some coin at a girl who was likely to go running with more lurid tales to Clova or even to someone like Riggs Cree. Cree, he could deal with, if necessary, but Clova Dell? He didn't want to have to deal with her, because despite the tiny scar she'd inflicted, he'd always harboured a fondness for the brothel mistress and the last thing he wanted to do was force her to silence her girls. Or be forced to silence her. He'd convinced himself he was done with all that, but even he knew that if he had to, he'd do whatever it took to protect the boy.

The boy. The fucking boy. He was a man and yet Roth could barely see past that furious, youthful face that had glared at him as he'd pinned his hand to the desk with his blade. Could barely look at him without seeing Aleina staring back, the same dark brow, the same anger-filled gaze. The same laugh—although he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he'd heard Juda laugh.

He took another drink, wiping his mouth with his palm, staring at the scar in the centre as he heard the soft tread of Juda on the stairs.

Juda appeared, tugging the braids on the sides of his head, and binding his hair—his notably wet hair—back tight. He'd clearly got dressed in a rush, his tunic sticking to his still-damp chest. His expression was guarded, tight, but then again, when was it not?

They said nothing for a moment, just stared at each other. Juda was good at that, holding an unwavering look that even Roth—after everything he'd done, everything he'd seen—sometimes found stirred an unease in his gut.

"Fair moontide, Roth."

"Fair moontide, boy."

There was already a challenge there, as there always was. A kick-back to whatever Roth was going to say before he even said it, before he'd even conjured the words into existence inside his own head. That was Juda Vikaris. Belligerent, obstinate little fucker. A flicker in his eyes, an imperious lift of his chin—the one Roth often thought these tides about cracking with his fist, just to bring him back, force him away from the shadows into which Roth himself had thrown him when he'd signed him up to the Order.

"There is something I must tell you."

Roth sniffed and half-turned away, draining his cup, and refilling it. A larger measure.

"Oh, is there, boy? Did you tire of fucking them in the slums, Juda? Damp walls or marbled tiles, you'll find the price the same." He raised a brow as he drank. "Or maybe more so here."

"She's not from Clova Dell."

Roth chuckled then, albeit humourless. "Kendra Tors then? Or Bellan Oya? Clova won't be happy to know you're giving her business to one of the other mistresses." Nor did Roth. He didn't know Bellan or Kendra well, but they knew him. But maybe that would work in his favour, after all. With them, he could be the man he had been. Special Commander Roth Vi-Garran. The King's hand. The King's blade.

Juda stiffened. "She's not from the brothel quarters."

Okay, this was worse than her being from Bellan or Kendra. Much worse. And surprising too. If Juda had brought a girl here who didn't work for one of the mistresses, then this was more than a casual fuck. This was something else. And Juda didn't do something else. He didn't have it in him. He was a cold thing—emotion only stretching enough to encompass anger and rage and that was all.

"She's..." He trailed off, his gaze flicking to the staircase where the girl was appearing, an even softer tread than Juda's, wearing one of his old tunics and carrying one of his cloaks, the hood bunched in her fist.

She looked up and Roth's cup fell from his hand as everything in his body weakened. Bones, muscle. Blood.

Blood. Blood, so much blood.

No, it was wine. The wine he'd spilled all over the floor, his legs, his boots.

"How...?" he croaked.

The girl's eyes widened, and she stumbled back a step, her face stunned, mouth dropping open.

When she turned on Juda, Roth saw the same fury in her face, the same poison, the same power and then—only then—did he understand.

Oh, how you tricked me, Eva. How clever you were. How fucking courageous.

"What the fuck is this?" she said. It was a hiss. Full of venom and...pain.

Juda, who had never been a stupid boy, and was as astute and quick-witted as anyone Roth had ever known, knew in an instant that something was terribly wrong.

The girl—Eva Victori's girl—backed away from him, her stance tightly defensive, drawing the dagger from her belt in a flash. "You tricked me, you fucking tricked me!"

Juda, unarmed, stood his ground, his body reacting just as he'd been trained, adjusting to counteract any attack, his eyes picking up every possible move—a change in her breathing, any slight tilt of her head, any shift in her balance.

Roth, however, felt like the novice then, a lifetime of training and experience fading into a deep well of shock at seeing her face in front of him—the face of the Naiad who had haunted him behind his eyes ever since her death.

"I don't know what this is," Juda said, his voice calm and suddenly graveyard cold. "But this is no trick."

"Liar," she seethed. "You brought me here...to him." She spat out the word, like it was poison on her tongue, her dagger still pointing at Juda, but her other hand gesturing to Roth.

Juda didn't take his eyes off her, but his question was to Roth. "Roth, what is this? What is she talking about?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," she said, her anger like a storm now, and Roth had seen that look enough times to know caging something this wild was never going to end well. "I'm such a fucking fool. I should have known not to trust you..." Her voice broke, tears misting her eyes.

So, this was something else. Not a casual fuck at all. Oh, Juda, my boy, what have you done?

But Juda didn't know what he'd done. How could he when Roth had never told him?

"He doesn't know," Roth said. "I swear it."

The girl backed up again, turning the force of her glare upon him.

By the dead gods, it was uncanny.

"Your oath means nothing," she said. "I know you. I know what you are."

The tears ran freely down her face, but the fury, the hatred—she did know. He could see it.

"I saw you. I saw you as I hid in the Setalah, as you dragged her away. I didn't know it then, I didn't see your face, but my foremothers showed me. My mother showed me. The waters showed me." She screamed out the words. "I saw what you did. What you did to them all! You're a fucking butcher."

She threw Juda a look of such pain. Such disgust. "And don't you tell me you didn't know. At least have the decency to be honest. At least be truthful about your intent now, tell me that this was all a trick, just so you could get me here and give me to him."

"I brought you here so you would be safe..."

"Safe?" she cried. "I would be safer in the slums with everyone knowing what I am, than here with him. With you."

Juda recoiled at that, and Juda didn't recoil. "Elara, whatever this is..."

"Whatever this is?" she spat. "What did the King offer you, Juda? Riches? Power? A place in his bed?"

"Girl, he knows nothing!" Roth said.

"Do not fucking speak to me, butcher! You are in this together. I saw you, with my mother in the temple. I saw you carrying her body. All these moons later, and your ward is there instead of you, and I am meant to believe that is mere coincidence? How long have you known about me? Since she died? Before? How long have you been searching for me, waiting for me to come back to the place of my foremothers? The place where you killed her!"

"We were not searching for you," Juda said, his eyes immeasurably troubled. He was unravelling. For the first time, Roth was seeing the boy come apart, confusion ripping at the seams.

"Juda..." he warned, and then to the girl–this Elara–he said, "I never knew of you. I swear that upon the dead gods, I did not."

"Upon the gods you helped destroy?" She laughed, an inflection in her tone the same as her mother, but colder—far colder. "Excuse me if I doubt your honesty, noble Highguard, but you have been complicit in the King's grand plan to wipe out my kind, to use us for his own gain, his own power. You were his blade. And you took our blood, and you gave it to him!"

Rage overwhelming her, she jumped at him with a snarl, but Juda moved quickly to bar her way, grabbing one hand, but the other already held her dagger flat under his chin, the edge biting into his skin.

Roth's heart juddered to see it and he stepped forward, hand outstretched to plead with her, but Juda just lifted his chin to bare more of this throat.

"Think you can best me, witch?" he said, his voice low, that strange, unsettling calmness coming back into his tone. "I dare you to try and let's see, yes? One thing I will promise you though, and that is I will not allow you to cut a single strand of hair from his head, nor bleed not one single drop of his blood. I swear that, on the memory of my mother." He spoke louder then. "He is all that I have."

Roth gasped and Juda flinched at the sound.

The girl tilted her head to one side, her brow knitting together, as she glanced poison over Juda's shoulder to Roth's face, and back to Juda again, softening. Anguished.

"You had me, Juda," she whispered, leaning against him, into him. 'You had me."

She nodded then, almost to herself, and relaxed, pulling herself from him and dropping the blade from his neck. Juda released her hand, frowning, his gaze searching for hers, but she would not look him in the eye. Instead, she swallowed, gathering herself together in a way that tore the last shred of Roth's resolve because he'd seen her mother do the same, even when she was dying. So much strength. So much pride.

"No matter," she said, straightening, her mouth curling into a sneer, her expression drenched in utter disdain. "You have exceeded all expectations, novice. Your guardian here must be very proud. What a fine King's guard you will make." Then—then—she looked at him. "But you'll not do it through me."

The last words came with a vicious bite and a sudden flash of her blade, slicing the tip across Juda's palm which he had already raised, sensing what was to come.

And then she was gone, fleeing out through the door, crashing chairs to the floor in her wake as if she sought to slow their chase, but she needn't have bothered.

Juda had made no attempt to follow.

He stood, stone-still, staring at the open doorway, his cut hand hanging limp by his side.

Blood dripping.