He’s not completely the same, however. His hair is shorn on both sides, long at the top. Burn marks show on the left side of his skull, where Skar’s silver blade must have struck him when they fought in the courtyard of Manor Marquin. There’s also a burn slash along his neck, close to the spot where I’m currently pressing the silver shackles against his thrall’s throat.
“You’re alive,” I eke out.
Skartovius pulls his sword back, arms crossing.
More bootsteps are thumping on the stairs now—manymore than just a pair of feet. This sounds like a fleet of them.
We don’t have long.
“You’ve found me,” Lukain says.
“I had to make sure with my own eyes.”
He nods, rubbing his chin, deep in thought. To his credit, and to Kleora’s misery, he doesn’t seem to pay her a single iota of attention. “I should have known you’d have a scheme to get out of this,” he mutters. “My question is . . . how did you know?”
A wicked smile peels my lips back in a snarl. “Good ol’ Antones gave me a note. You remember your second-in-command, don’t you?”
Lukain, Overseer Verant, rolls his eyes.
He doesn’t move to draw his weapon or save his protégé stiff in my arms, even when Kleora yells, “Please, master, strike her dead! Kill this craven witch! I wrote your saga—look!”
Her eyes dart around the room at the fluttering pages of my chronicle. Some are billowing out the window. Others are crisping in the air, curling as they fall like ashen rain from catching on Bregsitch’s fiery corpse.
“Doesn’t look like much of a chronicle to me, dear Kleora,” Lukain says with a sigh. His gaze flicks back to me, clearly eager to return to our talk.
“The letter I received from Antones told me you hadn’t died at Manor Marquin. The white-robes received your smoking corpse. You were gone the next day.”
He gives me a devilish smile of his own. “Perks of being a half-blood, I suppose. Silver doesn’t havequitethe same dramatic effect on me as it does fullbloods.”
“The note said you’d beenrebornas this overseer character. Verant. That you had risen in the ranks of Olhav like you always wanted . . . and currently ran the highest-tier jail in the Judgment Ward, Sutlis Spire.”
He frowns. “Whoever fed Ant information is quite well-informed.”
The throng of boots and shouting are blaring now. They must be on the fifth floor at least, constantly rising.
“Temptress,” Skar warns, eyes moving to the blown-open window.
Lukain straightens, realizing something. “You never intended to strike the Tanmount.”
“I intended to get caught,” I correct. My next words are for Kleora, a ghostly caress over her thin ear. “Did you not find it odd we decided to publicize my existence when we did? How could Mistress Mortisnotlearn of our daring scheme?”
“. . . And plan an ambush,” Kleora ekes out.
“You’ve learned much, little grimmer,” Lukain says.
“More than you know, you fucking bastard.”
His fair face tightens, darkness flashing through his eyes. As the boots keep falling, he turns, slams the door shut, and bends down to grab something from Bregsitch’s ashy corpse.
Skar and I flinch at his movement.
Lukain stands and locks the door with the key he’s found. “And the explosion I just heard nearby?”
“Turns out the Relic is right where we want it to be.”
Silence, fire, and howling wind.
The bastard, much to my chagrin, looks as handsome and daring as ever. He’s adorned in new clothes, a new cloak, and looks more regal now. His time as leader of the Grimsons did not revealthisversion of Lukain Pierken.
