Yelena adjusted the straps of her pauldron as she exited the barracks. She winced when the bright sunlight cascaded over her. Stensen exited just behind her, chuckling softly at her discomfort.

  “Remind me never to stay up that late reading again,” she ordered half-heartedly.

  “I did, captain,” he reminded her. “I believe your words were, ‘if you try to mother me one more time, sergeant, I am going to stick this scroll so far up your–”

  “Ah, yes,” Yelena interrupted, remembering now. “Well, try harder next time. I can’t decide if I want to fake my death so that I can catch some more sleep or just keel over right now.”

  Stensen chuckled and nudged her shoulder with his own, causing one of her armor straps to slip out again. She let out a soft curse and tucked it back in.

  “So!” her sergeant said way too casually. “Find anything interesting in that scroll last night?”

  He’s getting more bold, Yelena thought with a pang of guilt. I don’t know how much more I can deflect him.

  “No,” she admitted, schooling her expression into one of calm neutrality. When she saw his hurt expression, she added, “But I’m getting closer. I can feel it. I’ve just got to keep looking.”

  “Well, I’ll let my sister know, and she’ll keep scouring that library of hers for more scrolls and books ya need. Don’t you worry, Captain! We’ll find whatever it is you’re looking for. Damned if I understand any of it.”

  He let out a good-natured laugh, and that knot of guilt tightened in her chest.

  I’ll tell him. Soon. Once I have my answers.

  “Gather the Warhounds. We’ve got gate-duty,” she told him.

  Stensen gave her a quick salute and went to gather their squad from the training yard. As she’d hoped, all of them had taken her speech from the other day to heart. They were training harder than ever, leveling up their various skills as much as they could.

  Next time, they would be ready.

  They were doing their part, and it was past time she accomplished hers.

  Within a few minutes, all twelve of her squad were present and lined up. She assessed them, looking for clues as to their demeanors, moods, and levels of exhaustion. A few showed signs of hangovers, but appeared to be managing them. Others were still winded from their training, but she knew their Constitution would make that a non-issue in just a few moments.

  “Today, we have gate-duty across Thistlebrush.” Yelena paused, waiting to see if anyone would bemoan the punishment. “We’re sharing the privilege with a few other squads. Everyone’s getting shuffled around since the orc raid on the slums.”

  “When are we going after them, ma’am?” Sticks spoke up. “When are we going to make those pig bastards pay for that? For all of it?”

  Normally, she would’ve been annoyed at the interruption, but when she saw the same questions repeated across all their expressions, she allowed it. Yelena crossed her arms and smiled brazenly.

  “Soon,” she said. At this proclamation, her knights all began to grin and straighten up even further in their line.

  She raised a finger. “But only if we show Commander Booth that we are up for the task. That means we are all on our best behavior for the next few days. If we show him that we can endure this punishment like warriors, he’ll give us another go at the orcs. You have my word. We’ll make them pay.”

  Yelena let the words linger in the air for a beat. “Now, Sergeant Stensen is going to take Brigs, Elijah, and Lydia to the Titanhold gate, make sure they stand strong and true. Corvin, you’re off to the Eastern gate with Jefferds and Grins. Buckwheat, Childers, Queensby, you’re at the Northern gate. Sticks, Polly, you’re with me at the West gate. You all have your orders! Let’s go show them what the Warhounds are made of!”

  “Yes, ma’am!” came the chorused reply.

  She saluted them, and they all mirrored the movement effortlessly. Her chest swelled with pride. Before she’d been reassigned to Thistlebrush, these ‘warhounds’ had been little different than any other squad in the compound. Now though…

  Now, they were becoming something altogether different.

  But it will all crumble apart if I’m not careful, she reminded herself.

  With a stern nod to her team, she strode toward the western gate, flanked by Sticks and Polly.

  She took in her two squadmates.

  Polly was a wisp of a woman, preferring the balance of a long polearm to a more aggressive class, like Yelena’s sword, or Stick’s bandolier of knives. She was nearly as tall as Yelena, with cropped brown hair that fell to just above her narrow shoulders. Her cheeks were filled with a dense constellation of freckles, and she always seemed to be on the verge of sneezing.

  To her right, Sticks was staying true to his nickname. He walked with such perfect posture that it made even Yelena stand up straighter just by watching him. It was the oddest thing. Here was this lowborn orphan, waltzing about like a princeling, while the nobles that saturated the knighthood slumped and groaned and milled about aimlessly. When she paired his posture with the shaved sides framing his nest of black curls, he cut quite the striking figure.

  She might’ve considered letting him court her if he’d been five years older and the least bit discerning when someone was using sarcasm or subtext in his vicinity. Bless her heart to Ardent, but that boy was the most earnest, oblivious, and hardworking squire she’d ever seen. It had been mostly out of pity that she selected him for her squad when the annual roster was sent around to the captains.

  Together, the three of them exited the red knight’s fortress in the town square and headed west. Yelena could immediately tell something was off. People were abuzz with conversation, and while it was too loud and overlapping to parse out what was said, her high perception could tell that the mood was somewhere between irritated and bloodthirsty.

  This can’t be good.

  It had the stink of a mob. She could deal with orcs all the good day long, but if she had to use Archimedes to break up a riot, she would not be happy. She was supposed to be fighting for these people, not against them—a fact too many seemed to conveniently forget when it suited them.

  Two noblewomen, complete with parasols and lacey gloves, were whispering animatedly to one another, blocking their path. One was a blonde, while the other had long brunette rivulets cascading down her exposed back.

  “Excuse me,” Yelena said, clearly signaling that they needed to get by.

  They promptly ignored her.

  “And then he told the Truthbinder that his whore of a daughter went missing in one of their monasteries. Can you believe that? Like some commoner bi–” One of the noblewomen was saying.

  “My ladies, we really must be getting through here,” Sticks said a bit louder.

  The other noblewoman turned her head at Sticks and scoffed. “Do not address me, filth! We are having a private conversation.”

  “What can you expect of rats with swords like him? It’s not like anyone has taught him proper manners,” the second noblewoman retorted.

  The Captain of the Warhounds took a single step forward.

  “Move,” Yelena commanded.

  “Or what, rusthead?” the first noblewoman demanded with a sickly sweet smile. “You’ll lay a hand on us? We pay your salary, you ungrateful little–”

  Yelena cast Frozen Moment.

  Instantly, the temperature dropped. Both women in front of Yelena froze as her AoE paralysis skill took hold. Leveled up as it was, Yelena could precisely control how much of her skill influenced them. In comparison to when she’d used this in combat, this was but a bare trickle of the skill’s true power, but it was enough.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  She knew its effects by heart and saw them play out on these two despicable creatures. Their skin went a dull shade of blue. The blood rushed from their lips, their fingers, their minds. Panic warred with the paralyzing fear that they’d never be able to get warm again.

  It took three steps for Yelena to be directly in front of the women. “Apologize to the good knight you insulted.”

  “We…we’re…” the blonde started, a fire of defiance flickering beneath the chill of Yelena’s magic.

  Yelena smiled and shook her head. “If you say anything other than ‘sorry’ right now, I don’t care who your fathers and mothers are. I will let go of my grip on that little spell holding you two to the floor, and watch as your hearts stop and terror steals what little warmth you two were born with. You’re not a threat. You’re paperwork.”

  “Oooh!” Polly whispered behind Yelena. “Captain’s pissed!”

  “We’re sorry!” the brunette noblewoman hissed through clacking teeth. “Just… Stop this!”

  Yelena held the spell for another second, a part of her yearning to unleash hell on these arrogant leeches. But she held back. She would not ruin their chances of getting a second hunt, not when her squad was depending on her.

  She let Frozen Moment go on cooldown and strode past the two women, shoulder-checking one out of the way.

  “Let’s go,” Yelena ordered.

  After nearly a full minute of weaving through the thickening crowd, Sticks closed the gap to her.

  “Thank you,” he muttered, cheeks flushed with something between embarrassment and anger. “I… I didn’t mean to…”

  Yelena broke her stride to put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Hey. You were not at fault there.”

  “I know,” Sticks replied, shrugging helplessly. “It’s just that maybe if I were a little more… you know… noble… they’d respect me.”

  Yelena bit back a dark laugh. “Trust me, Stick. You do not want to be more noble. Not like them, at least. Those frail dolls wield only one power, and it’s a power that was granted to them. They never earned it, so it can be taken away as easily as it was gained. What you have—what all of us Warhounds have—it’s earned strength. And no one, not even the nobles or even the High Council, can take that away. And it’s a strength that those wenches in waistcoats can never dream of matching.”

  Polly leaned forward, using her polearm as leverage. “Yeah, and those two were ugly as all hell! Nearly mistook one for Flakerash, I did!”

  Stick let out a gasp, and the tension in their trio broke.

  “Okay, team. Let’s go find out what’s got this crowd so high-strung,” Yelena said.

  It didn’t take long. All they had to do was follow the raised voices. Shuffling through the dozens of onlookers, Yelena broke through the main thoroughfare’s congested traffic and into an impromptu circle. Stalls lined either end of the large street, but even the most thickheaded merchant seemed to grasp that now was not the time to promote their wares.

  Two people stood in the middle of the circle. One was undoubtedly some lowly smith or miller, given the ragged state of his rolled-up beige tunic and long leather apron. His forearms were meaty and strong, and his beard covered what little neck the man possessed. He was in the middle of raising a clenched fist at the other figure, who, unfortunately, stole the rest of Yelena’s attention.

  “Dammit,” Yelena breathed, and by Polly stiffening next to her, she hadn’t said it quietly enough to avoid notice.

  For the second figure in the circle was none other than a Truthbinder.

  In all her days, Yelena had never encountered a Truthbinder that wasn’t the shadow forewarning a storm. They were the High Council’s elite dogs. Their job was simple. Spread ‘Ardent’s will’ amongst the people. But in practice, it was anything but Ardent’s scriptures of peace and unity through the fires of life.

  No, their messages were far more widespread—and far better received—than any invitation to follow Ardent’s ways. For it was the Truthbinders that told mankind her Mayandon blood is tainted with monsters. It was the Truthbinders who decreed that no civilian should bear arms of any kind. And it was the Truthbinders who ensured no scrolls or books that predated the rise of the High Council were available to the public.

  Most documents had been burned by the infuriating zealots. And those that weren’t remained under a close guard by the noble houses.

  Like all Truthbinders, this one wore the standard black cowl and robes that never seemed capable of collecting the dust and grime from walking amongst fellow mortals. And like all Truthbinders, the one in front of Yelena bore the unsettling white blindfold marking his position in their government.

  She knew well that the eerie accessory was a permanent fixture in all of their order. Not once had she seen that bone-white blindfold slip or fall, which made the thin network of scars line both edges of the cotton wrap all the more unsettling.

  “How can ya say that?” the smith demanded in a thick rural accent. “My daughter went to your monastery up by Thurnfeld. I knows she did. We got a letter proving she made it there. But after a full fortnight of no word, I went to go check, despite the situation back home.” The man stifled a sob. “You’s said my daughter never made it there. Said foul beasts from the woods got her! But I have proof! Proof she went to you lot for a cure for my wife, and ya said you’d gather the right scrolls for it, ya did!”

  The smith waved a letter in his white-knuckled grip for all to see. Yelena watched the crowd, curious to see what the wave of opinion was for this debacle. What she found written on the faces of the onlookers was not encouraging. Skepticism. Amusement. Doubt. Anger. Bloodlust.

  They wanted a fight.

  Yelena stepped into the circle, approaching the older man. “Sir, we can all see you’re upset. If you’d like to come with me, my knights and I can you help you settle whatever misunderstanding you have with the–”

  “IT’S NOT A MISUNDERSTANDIN’!” the man shouted, panic rising in his deep voice. “You look at me like I’m some bumblin’ commoner. I knows you do. I knows I don’t have right proper speak, but I knows what I know! And those filthy liars at the monastery took my daughter!”

  “Grief taints the souls and blinds the eyes to truth.” The Truthbinder spoke, and the entire crowd went quiet. The very air seemed to hold its breath. “You say we hosted your beloved daughter, but what proof do you have other than a parchment that could’ve been written by anyone?”

  “I knows my daughter’s handwritin’! I was the one who taught her her letters!” the smith replied.

  “You yourself admitted to a lack of proper education, Mr. Kilnsie,” the Truthbinder responded smoothly, arresting what little control the smith had over the crowd. “So it might’ve escaped your attention or wherewithal that kidnappers could’ve easily forced your Elizabeth to scrawl that note out. We do not hand out tinctures or medicinal recipes to anyone who comes to our halls. Not without a writ from a noble house, that is, as they’ve proven to be trustworthy of Ardent’s gracious wisdom.”

  The black-robed figure stood taller, and his tone turned sympathetic. Yelena might’ve believed it if not for the shiver of dread she felt lance down her spine.

  “What did you just say?” Mr. Kilnsie said in the barest of whispers.

  “We never hosted your daughter,” the Truthbinder replied. “If she wasn’t consumed by beasts, she was likely taken by some roving gang of highwaymen. What they might’ve done with her, Ardent only knows.”

  “Please, sir. Just come with me, and we’ll sort this out,” Yelena tried again, covering the distance between her and Kilnsie.

  She put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. The man started toward the Truthbinder like he was ready to strangle him. She regained her grip and held Kilnsie tight.

  “Don’t,” she ordered, but he once again attempted to leave her grip.

  Finding the task impossible, he resorted to saying what he was thinking. “I never said her name.”

  The words dug a pit into Yelena’s gut. “What?”

  “I never said my daughter’s name was Elizabeth,” Kilnsie muttered, almost as if he were in a daze.

  “What’s the meaning of this?!” a commanding voice declared, accompanied by the clop of hooves against cobblestone.

  Yelena looked up to see four riders approaching from the direction of the town square. She recognized them immediately. In front were Mayor Vaskir and his son, Jeremy. Behind them, Derrick rode with one of the new knights put in his squad after the others had died.

  “Knight, explain,” the mayor said imperiously, waving a gloved hand at Yelena.

  “There’s been a disagreement between this citizen and the honorable Truthbinder,” she began diplomatically.

  “He has accused me of being a liar and a kidnapper, your grace,” the Truthbinder amended, turning his blindfolded gaze toward the saddled nobleman.

  “He knew my daughter’s name!” Kilnsie shouted, as if the words had been simmering up to a boil this whole time. “That bastard knew her name was Elizabeth! It isn’t in this here letter! And it sure as hell didn’t come from my lips!”

  The crowd could apparently confirm this, as several of them began to whisper nervously to one another.

  Yelena’s heart sank. She knew all the endings for this sort of confrontation, and none of them would bring about the outcome Mr. Kilnsie wanted.

  “Are you going to deny it, you black-robed bastard?! Are you going to lie? What else have you and your lot said to us honest folk that’s also been a lie, huh?!” Kilnsie demanded, even as Yelena held him back.

  “Enough of this. Arrest that man for heresy and disturbing the peace. Six lashes should teach him some manners,” Mayor Vaskir ordered from his horse.

  “Oh, ho! The mayor comes down from his gated keep to declare his will, does he?!” Kilnsie roared, a furious mania consuming his expression. “Do you know what kind of company ya keep, your grace? I guess we shouldn’t be surprised, given how ya can’t tell your wife from a horse’s ass! But go ahead. Give me lashes! It doesn’t matter anymore!”

  The mayor sat unnaturally still on his horse. No wild flurry of words or crimson flush at the man’s insults. Just cold, unwavering, stone.

  “Bring that man to the gallows,” he said, as if ordering tea.

  Yelena hesitated. Lashes were one thing, but executing a clearly grieving citizen was utter insanity. Derrick seemed to spot her brief lapse of judgment and leapt on the opportunity. He dismounted from his horse and yanked Mr. Kilnsie from her grip.

  “Don’t worry, captain. I’ll take it from here. You’re needed at the gate, aren’t you?” Derrick inquired, his grin darker than the Truthbinder’s robes.

  The smith’s eyes went wide as the reality of his situation finally dawned on him. Still, instead of struggling against her new captor, he instead focused all of his desperation on the Truthbinder.

  “Just tell me why!” he shouted even as Derrick dragged him through the crowd and toward the town square. “WHY?! She was thirteen! What did you do to her?!”

  The Truthbinder said nothing.

  Yelena watched with her two knights as the crowd followed the screaming man toward his death. There was nothing she could do except obey. Yet, despite following orders and being blameless in this conflict by all the standards she knew, she couldn’t escape the gnawing uncertainty that she had wronged this man.

  “Let’s go,” Yelena said softly, her voice hoarse.

  She turned her back on the crowd, on the smith and his unanswered questions, and began to walk to the western gate.

  And in her heart, she knew without words that she’d failed, yet couldn’t figure out why.