Peter strode over the top of the Knight's tomb, boots flattening wilty grass. Sicco walked parallel to him, white-gloved hands clasped behind his back.

  They stopped at the edge of the long mound overlooking Fort Zero. The timber palisades circled the tombs, and the refugee camp out front grew every day, stretching into the ancient graveyard like crawling vines.

  A separate conscription camp had started just outside the gate. Nine Fingers had to push the refugees away from the walls. Like the civilians' tents, the conscription shelters were a mismatched, patchwork mess of canvas. Unlike the civilian camp, they were aligned in orderly rows, drill sergeants patrolling the lines.

  Still, they had only managed to assimilate about twenty percent of the incoming asylum seekers. Beyond the conscription camp, chaos ruled.

  “What are we doing up here?” Peter asked, scanning the fort's interior. The mobile tent Estate sprawled to the north, and reinforced shell dugouts occupied most of the rest of the space.

  “I figured you could use the fresh air,” Sicco said, folding his arms and looking over humanity’s biggest tactical footprint in Nosmeria.

  Peter glanced over, tugging at his collar. In his black footman’s uniform, he had to button the top button, and the blasted thing was tight. The tight white sash of a footman hung around his waist. He hadn’t earned his gloves yet.

  The only personal article of clothing he wore was Van Gutter’s slouch hat. Peter recalled clearly the day he first donned it in the sewers almost a year ago. Van Gutter—a Nine Finger’s Captain—had cut off Peter’s leech ring before bleeding out at his feet. In more than one sense, Van Gutter had saved Peter’s life. The least he could do was to wear the man’s hat in respect.

  “The classroom would have been fine,” Peter said, watching Sicco’s brow knit in contemplation.

  The butler didn’t respond, his shining green eyes sweeping the camps.

  “Where’s Julian?” Peter asked.

  Sicco smiled, glancing over. The butler had a confident, trusting face that only made Peter feel guilty when he showed up late to his lessons, when his obligation to Nine Fingers ran long.

  “Julian’s at a meeting,” Sicco said. “It’s running long, but we’re taking that as good news.”

  Peter nodded, glancing mournfully down. He should be in the knight's tomb, training, not standing on top, admiring the view.

  “Peter,” Sicco said. “I know you want to be out there drilling, but I want you to know you’ve been a great student, focused, and very quick to understand.”

  Peter blinked at the compliment. “Before … I loved school. I’m not a warrior; I’ve always been an academic. That’s why training is important to me. I worry my place in the world is no longer behind a disk, but in the trenches.” He smiled sadly. “Maybe in another life I would have been able to become a scientist, like Doctor Aarts.”

  “Don’t underestimate the role of education in war, Peter. Your time in our classes isn’t wasted. I know you don’t believe me now, but soon, you will see.”

  Peter folded his arms, rebuking himself for his poor attitude. Truth was, he loved his lessons. But the inevitable end continued to descend on them, and he had to be ready for it.

  “It’s time for a test,” Sicco said.

  Peter turned, suddenly anxious. Sicco had always told him he would be tested, but never to what end. “I’m ready.”

  Sicco nodded. “Peter Kroon, what is the House of Nyamar?”

  A verbal exam? Peter clasped his hands, focusing on giving the closest definition to his books as he could.

  “The House of Nyamar is an organized network of servants who follow Nyamar by keeping delegated stewardships.”

  “Nyamar?” Sicco said as if it were his first time hearing the word. “Who is Nyamar?”

  Peter tugged at his collar and cleared his throat. “Nyamar has many names and titles—the Genisarch, the Anima Progenitor. He is the originator of our anima sequences. We carry a fragment of his essence in much the same way a child shares DNA with their parents. Without that inheritance, we wouldn’t have independent will, but would be slaves to nature.”

  Sicco stroked his chin. “What is an anima sequence?”

  Peter was ready for this; he had actually lost himself in the books for hours on the topic. “Many call the anima sequence a soul, but that’s not correct. It’s a metaphysical genetic code that determines what something is and how it behaves. All things that exist physically have one, but not all are created equally.”

  “All things? What about this rock?” Sicco nudged a stone with his toe.

  “All things. That stone has the anima sequence of an object. It cannot act; it can only be acted upon. Its sequence indicates it is a stone, one that reacts predictably to extreme heat or motion. If one were to change its sequence into something new, its physical form would change to fit the new program.”

  “Not bad,” Sicco said, a smile of approval creeping on his lips. “Many footmen at your stage haven’t touched on resequencing.” He shifted his boot to flatten some of the grass. “What about this? Do plants have an anima sequence?”

  “All biological organisms have a more sophisticated sequence than minerals. They are animate, but slaves to nature. Some animals with higher intelligence can be trained, but their susceptibility to conditioning is also part of their preprogrammed disposition. Genera can evolve over a long time, sequences altering for adaptability, but they don’t have anything that truly resembles free will.”

  “But we do?” Sicco asked.

  “Yes, because of Nyamar’s inheritance. That piece of him we all carry. We have natures, true, but only we can truly defy them. This spark of divinity we carry is also what lets us access his boons.”

  “What’s a boon?”

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  Peter exhaled sharply. What a loaded question. Entire books had been written on it. “A boon is the ability to manifest metaphysical gene expressions dormant in all of us. Every human has the abilities naturally, but they’re locked away until they can be awakened.”

  “Boon means gift. Why are they called boons?”

  “Because they’re gifts from Nyamar,” Peter said tersely. Then he hesitated. “But I think that’s a poor explanation and misleading.”

  “Oh?” Sicco said, smiling suddenly at the defiance of the curriculum.

  “It’s a bit oxymoronic that everyone’s born with dormant boons, but then Nyamar has to give them to us. They’re gifts in the sense that my eyes are a gift from my mother, but she didn’t hand them to me in a package with a bow. Boons aren’t power channeled from him directly into us. It’s our power by virtue of being alive. Proof of this can be found in the fact that those who abandon their stewardships and fall out of favor with Nyamar can still express boons.”

  Sicco’s smile wilted. He didn’t love that answer, and while Peter was sure of himself, it challenged the simplistic understanding most domestics zealously believed.

  “Someone who’s been awakened—”

  “They’re called Exprites, which means one who expresses,” Peter rushed, getting into a flow. “These Exprites can be subdivided into two groups. Domestics, who honor their stewardships and act as Nyamar’s hands and by his authority, and Attaginite, those who take the power for themselves, wielding it as they will.”

  Peter frowned. “There’s an irony here. Free will is only possible because of his spark, yet the House exists to eradicate Attaginite exprites. That might make sense if they were stealing his power, but as we established, these boons are just as much ours as his.”

  “Peter,” Sicco’s brow furrowed. “Careful, this line of logic has destroyed other men. Men like you.”

  “At the House’s hands. The House desires a monopoly on power that we inherit by virtue of being born. They just hoard the key.”

  “Not only at the House’s hands,” Siccos’ tone came sharply back. “The Ataggin Empire mastered these boons and resequencing, but they had no oaths, no stewardships. They erased their weaknesses, sculpting themselves to perfection, and in doing so, they lost all compassion, sparking ambition. In a society of near demigods demanding deference from each other, only bloodshed will follow. We still live in the ash of that war, Peter, and it’s our charge to stop that from happening again.”

  “By hunting any exprite who doesn’t fall into your chain of command?” Peter asked, suddenly feeling combative. “I’m sure not every single Atagginite is evil. The draconian monopoly on boons is exactly the reason so many hate the house.”

  Sicco steeples his hands, taking a noticeable effort to compose himself. “Peter. Wielding expressions responsibly takes years of dedicated study —and, more importantly, rules. While we are not slaves to our nature, we are oftentimes influenced by it. Expressions severed from stewardship inevitably lead to corruption and self-destruction.”

  “So sending hunter-maids and valets to execute rogue expites is, what, a mercy?”

  “Understand this, Peter, a single Atagginite exprite could awaken thousands of people in a single day. People who don’t have the training or maturity to express these powers responsibly. People who haven’t trained discipline to let these powers change them.”

  Peter glanced down, frowning.

  Sicco sighed. “Nyamar has shepherded thousands of worlds; he’s lived through this life cycle. Trust him, he understands the threat of unlocked boons without laws and stewardships. Yes, we have will, which is why choosing to honor our stewardships is so powerful. That’s why we have will. To defy our natures and make that choice.”

  Peter nodded, his heart pounding in his ears. “That—might be true,” he said at length. “But why is his fist iron? I have a friend, Staff Sergeant Vandersteen? Her brother was an exprite. He wanted to join the House. To help people, but you turned him down. So he found an Attaginite exprite who happily woke his expressions. The house killed him. Barely more than a kid. He hadn’t hurt anybody, he just wanted to be like you, and now—I don’t know if I can blame Isabella for hating you.”

  “Peter, something happens when you sever your connection from Nyamar—”

  “Yeah, your eyes go from green to gold.”

  “It’s more than that, a decay at your core. I’ve watched friends fall away and change.”

  “So, what, they lost their will?”

  Sicco nodded, clasping his hands behind his back and turning back to the camp. “I wish it were easier. That this didn’t have to be. But I trust Nyamar. I have to. There has to be a better reason for all this.”

  Peter folded his arms, shifting back to the fort next to Sicco.

  “Why do you trust him? Why does he care?”

  Down below, a cook shouted angrily at a pair of young boys after trying a ladle from a cast-iron pot steaming over a fire.

  “Once, I also couldn’t comprehend it. Until my girls were born.”

  “You have kids?” Peter asked in surprise.

  Sicco smirked. “Thirteen. My wife tends to have twins, and I don’t think she ever wants to stop.”

  Peter’s jaw dropped.

  “But my point is that the first time I held my first two girls, I instinctively knew they were something new; a part of me, sure, but something so much more. That’s when I think I understood. Nyamar won’t lead us astray. Just as I do everything in my power to take care of those girls.”

  He sighed. “Peter, you have the seeds of rebellion in your heart.”

  Peter’s jaw tightened. Why did he need to share his true opinion? He should have given textbook answers; he knew them well enough.

  “—but that same heart is genuine and earnest. Your questions aren’t wrong. Even I still have questions. If you find good answers, please share them with me.”

  Peter nodded, wrestling with his thoughts. Based on this exam, they probably wouldn’t awaken him. Why did he even want to be an exprite? So serve Nyamar, to serve the people of his planet? To offset his court defects? Maybe it would be best if he didn’t grapple with the responsibility of being a domestic.

  “You know,” Peter muttered. “I know Atagginite exprites are the enemy, but I believe we have an even greater foe now.” He pointed out over the camps, east toward Stalpia, Rahashel’s seat of power. “The Courts are here to slaughter, to leech, and to take, and so long as I live, I’ll give myself a stewardship, a sacred mission—to stop them, as a soldier, as a court, as a piece of meat to fall on their swords.”

  “You know,” Sicco squinted over the camps. “I think I’ll join you in that stewardship. It feels… Right. Like Nyamar wills it. I suspect Julian will bring good news when he returns.”

  “If you’re against the courts, then you’re with me,” Peter said. “And I’ll gladly fight with you.”

  A gust of cold wind buffeted them, and Peter widened his stance. Nine Fingers banners snapped in the wind, and he shivered at the sudden cold.

  Sicco squinted, then shielded his eyes. “Do you see that?”

  Peter swept the camp till his gaze landed on the disturbance. At this distance, it was too hard to make out. Peter longed for a spyglass; he had carried one in his pocket the day he put on the crop ring, but when Captain Van Gutter had hacked the class from his finger, it had been missing. There was no telling what might have happened to it in his six months as a mindless slave. He’d have to requisition a new one.

  Hold on—

  His hand dropped to a Hevig on his belt.

  “Those are ghouls!” he exclaimed.

  “Six ghouls,” Sicco affirmed. “Small, for a raiding party.”

  Peter almost turned, running down the mound to destroy them, but they’d be dealt with long before he got to them. Only—

  The small party walked down the center of the refugee camp, drawing a crowd but not defenders. A squad of Nine Fingers officers walked with them, keeping a wary eye on them.

  “Why aren’t they attacking?” Peter asked, growling the words through his teeth.

  “White Flag,” Sicco said, nodding. “See the man in the middle. An emissary.”

  Peter saw him, a man walking flanked by the mummified corpses, in white and gold robes. The Messenger looked up, eyes drawn directly at Peter, standing on the horizon of the tomb mound.

  After almost a year of conquest, and for the first time, Rahashel had sent an emissary to parley.