“It is important you strike at the edge of the market,” Valian said to the Brothers Urgo. “I will set heel to horse and take Lady Ginelle away to safety. You can take what pleasure you will with Sebastine, as long as he is dead when you’re done.”

The Brothers Urgo were the most muscles one could by for ten silver fellarins. They had been banned from every tavern in the city, having killed at least one person in drunken brawls at each of them. They sat now with Valian in the attic room of an inn. The single candle that sat between them made shadow dance across the kindling he’d used to make a crude map of the market.

“Lady Ginelle’s affection for the rogue will bring us back to the market. I will lead them away as far as I can before we’re forced to turn back. Take what you will for him. It will only make it more believable that he was set on by someone come to collect his debts.”

Valian saw the brothers’ eyes go wide before he felt the steel against his throat. He heard neither steps nor breathing. The increased volume from the street below was the only evidence that the window was open.

“Do you share common cause with this man or are you hear for the money?” Sebastine asked.

Frar—or Fjor, Valian could never keep them straight—laughed and elbowed his brother in the side.

“The money,” he said with a half-grin.

Sebastine ripped Valian’s purse from his belt and threw it to Frar.

“You are paid. Be gone with you.”

The Brothers Urgo wasted no more words for Valian. They snatched up the purse, scrambled to their feet, and raced out the door. Valian leaned forward, expecting Sebastine to lower his knife, but the blade cut into his neck, and blood leaked down into his shirt, tickling his chest hairs.

“How did you know,” Valian asked.

“I didn’t,” Sebastine answered. “We are both damned to be the men we are. Ginelle begged mercy for you, and for her I granted it. But she is not here, and that mercy remained with her.”

“She will never forgive you. She will never love you with that smile that puts the sunshine to shame. She will know you are no better than me.”

“She will never love me,” Sebastine said. “To her benefit. She is too smart to settle for someone like me. As for you,” Sebastine drew the knife across Valian’s kneck, carving from Adam’s apple to shoulder. “She will never know.”

Valian gasped. They had played their games for so long. He had expected more time. He had more to say. He had more to prove. He was the better. He was worthy of Lady Ginelle’s smiles, of her longing stairs, of her soft lips. He was the hero of this story. He was supposed to win this time. Not Sebastine, him.

Valian fell to the floor. He watched Sebastine lean over him, only to wipe the dagger on Valian’s favorite shirt. He walked out of view, back to the window. There was a metallic thud. He’d kicked over the candle into the little kindling market. The flames crawling onto him were the last thing he felt, the oily black smoke the last thing he saw.