It had been more than two weeks since a sleek dog set a record for jumping the longest distance ever set by a dog and landed on The Black Ballad instead of getting killed along with Eldmere’s dogs.

  And things hadn’t gotten any better since then.

  Seren missed her partner in preventing crime.

  Seren crouched in the shadows of an alley near the palace's eastern wall, watching the servant's entrance they'd used before. The hidden door set into the stone, no one really used it. It was perfect for their use.

  They first attempted to tell Benjamin that Cocky alive back when they had the hayloft.

  The tavern keeper had been kind—fed them, let them sleep in the hayloft, Merren had arranged it for them. But when the guards came asking about a woman and a dog traveling together, he'd had no choice. Sympathetic as he'd been, slipping them food and a blanket as they left, he couldn't risk his business. Couldn't risk himself. Not with the slaughter of all Eldmere’s dogs. The guards had warned that anyone found with a dog would be executed with the dogs.

  Eldmere’s streets were dog free.

  Two weeks sleeping rough after that. Abandoned buildings, cold warehouses, moving every few days when guards got too close.

  Two weeks of little food.

  They'd tried reaching Benjamin three times since losing the hayloft. The first attempt had to be abandoned when Theron came around a corner. The second, Pip had nearly been caught trying to slip a message to her mother. The third time, two days ago, they'd barely made it past the palace gates before Garanwyn soldiers appeared out of nowhere.

  Someone was watching. Someone knew they were trying.

  But they had to try again.

  Because Benjamin was still in there. Because Cocky’s choices had started to turn into feelings of guilt and regret and it was starting to gnaw at him. Because if they didn't do something, they'd all just... give up.

  Seren touched Stormdrink's hilt. Without Ink, Seren felt that the sword was the next closest thing she had to a partner. Though, she hadn’t resorted talking to it yet. She was still confused about why despite her best efforts she hadn’t been able to kill any of the guards the last time she used it. That whole situation was strange.

  Footsteps. She tensed.

  Dain appeared from the cross-street, Prattle on his shoulder. The jackdaw's pale eyes caught the dim light as Dain gave the all-clear signal.

  Pip slipped out of a doorway across the alley, Cocky followed close behind her. The cockatrice's blue-green scales looked dull in the grey afternoon light. He'd barely spoken all morning.

  Kith materialized from somewhere Seren hadn't even seen her hide. The hyena moved like smoke when she wanted to.

  "Eels brought news," Kith said quietly, settling beside Seren. "Guards pulled west. Something about graffiti in the market square—someone painted a picture that looked remarkably close to Jorvan with a forked tail and horns on three buildings. Jorvan's having a fit, wants it scrubbed immediately. I saw it, was good work."

  Seren raised an eyebrow. "Who—?"

  "Wasn't us." Kith's teeth showed briefly. "But I appreciate their work."

  "Let's move now." Seren stood, checked her weapons. Stormdrink at her hip, knife in her boot. "Same plan as before." She looked at Pip. "Pip, you know how to get to Benjamin's study. I clear the way, you three stay behind me until we're sure it's safe."

  "And if we run into trouble?" Dain asked. His voice was hoarse from daily busking.

  "I hold them off. You run." Seren met his eyes. "That's not negotiable."

  "Seren—"

  "Not. Negotiable." She looked at each of them. Dain with his instrument clutched close. Pip, eight years old and too thin, Seren thought she was the bravest of all of them. Cocky, was overthinking everything again. These missions at least gave him something to do that wasn’t pacing. Kith, holding them all together through sheer force of will. "You get to Benjamin. You tell him Cocky's alive. That's the mission. Everything else is secondary."

  Prattle ruffled his feathers, muttered something in a guard's voice—then said: "kyaah."

  "Helpful," Dain muttered, stroking the bird's head. "Real helpful."

  "Ready?" Seren asked.

  Pip nodded, pulling out the piece of wire Dain had taught her to use for lockpicking. "Ready."

  They moved toward the servant's entrance.

  Pip was halfway to the door when guards erupted from everywhere.

  Doorways. Windows. The alley behind them. The street ahead.

  And at the center of it all, calm as death itself, stood Theron.

  "Good afternoon," he said pleasantly. "I've been waiting for you."

  "RUN!" Seren shouted, drawing Stormdrink in one fluid motion. The blade sang as it cleared the scabbard, that strange hum building. "I'll hold them! GO!"

  She positioned herself between the guards and her friends, blade already moving.

  The first guard rushed her with a spear aimed at her chest.

  Seren sidestepped—perfect form, Master Masaru would have nodded—and thrust Stormdrink at his throat. A killing blow. Clean. Accurate.

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  His boot sole stuck to the flagstones.

  He stumbled forward, arms windmilling, his head ducking under her blade at the last possible second.

  Not again.

  She didn't waste the opening. Flicked her wrist, disarmed him. The spear clattered to cobblestones. Quick slash across his forearm—not deep, just enough. He went down clutching the wound. He wouldn’t be holding his spear again today.

  Behind her, footsteps. Her friends running. Good. Keep running.

  Two more guards came at once, coordinated. Seren spun, aimed a killing thrust at the first one's heart—

  The guard's foot caught on absolutely nothing. Thin air. He crashed sideways into his partner. Both stumbled. Her blade missed them.

  Seren adapted. Block. Parry. Riposte. One guard's sword went flying. The other took a cut to his sword hand—deep enough to make him drop his weapon with a cry.

  "Impressive," Theron observed from his safe distance. Actually sounding interested. "Very impressive indeed."

  A guard with a club rushed her right side. Seren's blade swept toward his neck—

  His own boot caught on the fallen spear from the first guard. He pitched forward, under her swing, rolled past her.

  She pivoted, slashed across his back—shallow, painful, disabling but not fatal.

  What is wrong with this sword?

  Another guard lunged. Seren thrust for his heart—

  A piece of brick came loose from the wall beside him. Just... fell off. Struck his shoulder. He jerked sideways. Her blade missed by inches.

  "Damn it," she breathed.

  She spun, blocked with Stormdrink, kicked the guard's knee. He buckled. Another slash—across his side, enough to drop him but not kill.

  "More," Theron said calmly, like he was conducting an experiment, and waved more guards over.

  Eight guards now. Flooding the alley from every direction.

  Seren kept fighting. Tried killing. Accidents kept happening.

  A sword grazed her ribs. She twisted away, thrust Stormdrink at another guard's chest—

  Two guards collided trying to reach her from opposite sides. Tangled together. Blocked her killing blow perfectly.

  She cut across both their sword hands instead. Blood. Dropped weapons. They fell back.

  But they were learning. Staying back. Using reach. Wearing her down.

  A guard with a halberd thrust from her blind side. She spun, barely parried. The impact jarred her arms.

  Another from the front. She blocked. Went for a killing riposte—aimed at his face—

  His helmet strap broke. Just... snapped. The helmet slid down over his eyes. He stumbled backward, completely blinded.

  Seren cut across his exposed arm instead. Deep. He screamed, dropped his weapon, clutching the wound.

  Years of training. Perfect form. Precision.

  And this stupid sword keeps sabotaging me. Why had Masaru not told me?

  A guard got past her defense. Caught her shoulder with a blade. Not deep, but it burned.

  Too many. Too close. Not enough room to maneuver.

  A club meant for her head hit the falling guard instead. He went limp.

  Everything was chaos. Bodies everywhere. Weapons scattered. Blood on the stones making footing treacherous.

  And in the confusion—a club smashed into her sword wrist. Even through the leather gauntlet, the impact was bone-jarring.

  Her fingers went numb. Couldn't hold—

  Stormdrink flew from her grip. Spun through the air. Clattered across the cobblestones.

  "NO!"

  A guard picked up Stormdrink. The moment his hand closed around the hilt, the blade went completely limp—rigid steel turning to something like wet leather, flopping uselessly in his grip.

  "What the—?" He stared at the blade bending like a wilted flower stem, steel that had been rigid seconds before now drooping pathetically.

  Seren lunged for it. Had to reach Stormdrink. Had to—

  A fist caught her across the jaw. Professional. Brutal. Precisely placed.

  Pain exploded. Her vision went white. The world tilted sideways. She stumbled, kept moving toward her sword through pure instinct—

  Blood in her mouth. Couldn't focus. Where was—

  "NOW!" Theron's voice cut through the ringing in her ears.

  Nets dropped from above. Heavy. Weighted.

  Seren, still dazed from the blow, tried to dodge—

  Too slow. The nets tangled her. Pulled her down.

  She fought against them. Thrashed. Reached for where Stormdrink lay—

  Guards piled on. Holding the nets. Pinning her.

  "Seren!" Dain's voice, distant. Horrified.

  She could see them through the gaps in the net. At the alley's edge. Frozen.

  What the hell are they still doing here?

  "Don't—come back—" she managed through the blood in her mouth. "Keep—running—"

  "GO!" She put everything she had left into the shout.

  Theron made a small gesture. Guards moved toward her friends.

  That broke the spell. Dain grabbed Cocky. Kith’s teeth grabbed Pip’s clothes. Prattle circled once overhead, his cry sharp with distress—

  Then they ran.

  Seren stopped fighting. Let the nets hold her. Her jaw throbbed. Blood dripped from her split lip. Her shoulder burned where she'd been cut. Bruises already forming.

  But they got away.

  At least they got away.

  Theron approached slowly. Studied her like she was a particularly interesting puzzle.

  "Extraordinary," he said quietly. "You're quite skilled. Yet you failed to kill a single one of these guards." He gestured at the chaos of fallen, tangled, wounded-but-alive guards littering the alley. "Instead, accidents. So many accidents. How very curious."

  He crouched down, meeting her eyes through the net. "The sword that goes limp when another holds it. The warrior who wounds but cannot kill. So many fascinating questions."

  He stood. Gestured to his men. "Take her to the palace. The tower. Carefully—she's proven quite capable. And bring that remarkable sword."

  Stormdrink, dangling limp and pathetic in a guard's hands, offered no comment.

  Theron studied it with evident interest. "Yes. So many questions. And we have all the time we need for answers."

  They hauled Seren up, still tangled in nets. She didn't resist. Couldn't resist. Just let them drag her away.

  Her jaw throbbed. Her shoulder burned. Everything hurt.

  And Stormdrink—that traitorous, magical, overly dramatic piece of sentient metal—had just performed its greatest hits collection of "accidents."

  Boot soles sticking to flagstones. Helmet straps breaking. Cobblestones crumbling at precisely the wrong moment. And her personal favorite: going completely limp like a dead fish when someone else grabbed it.

  You know, she thought at the sword as guards dragged her toward the palace, most cursed warriors get cursed swords that are too bloodthirsty. But no. I get the pacifist blade with a flair for slapstick.

  Stormdrink hung limp in the guard's hands swaying with every step. Very much un-bladelike, playing dead with the same enthusiasm it brought to sabotaging her strikes.

  Typical.

  Her last glimpse of freedom was the alley where her friends had fled.

  Empty now.

  Safe, she hoped.

  At least she'd done that much.