“Uh...” Damian froze as he wracked his brain for any answer that didn’t end in a beheading. “Oops, wrong door” didn’t feel like it would cut it.

  The wolf knight in charge took a half step closer, the tip of his sword leaping dangerously close to Damian’s chest. Around him, the rest of the guards tensed for action at his cue. His scowl twisted into a full snarl as he repeated himself. “Find your tongue, boy. What business have you with the princess?”

  “I don’t—”

  Damian nearly leapt a foot into the air when the door suddenly opened behind him. Without thinking, he turned to see a young woman standing there. She was slightly taller than him and wore a form-fitting white dress lined with blue fur. Her face was round, but with a hard brow and eyes so blue they verged on purple. When she turned her head from Damian to the wolf knight, her long black hair rippled around her shoulders.

  She was also, without a doubt, the target of his skill. The princess was [The Chosen One].

  “This is no way to treat my guest, Sir Kurakin,” she said in a firm voice.

  Sir Kurakin sheathed his sword in a smooth movement, offering a small bow. “You didn’t mention you were expecting a guest, my lady. He was acting... strangely.”

  The princess laughed in a melodic ripple that he was almost certain was a skill, given how beautiful it sounded. “Well, he’s a strange person, sir. That’s not a crime, is it? But you’re right; I should have informed you. It slipped my mind—my apologies.”

  In response, Sir Kurakin simply deepened his bow by a few degrees. Damian licked his lips, his mouth extremely dry after having a sword and a scary knight threatening him. Reasonably threatening him, but still.

  “Can I invite you inside?” the princess said, and Damian’s eyes snapped to her from the back of the knight’s helmet.

  He wanted to say yes, but he was so caught off guard by the whole situation that the words got jumbled and stuck in his mouth.

  “I’ll offer tea and scones as a way of apology for the mix-up,” she continued, “if that would please?”

  “Yes,” Damian managed through a choked throat. “I didn’t mean to make an issue.”

  “Nonsense,” the princess insisted, waving a gloved hand. “The fault is mine. Come in!”

  Numbly, Damian shuffled past her through the doorway and watched her flash the guards a stunning smile before shutting the door behind them. The moment it clicked shut, her face sagged into an expression of relief—before she shot Damian a scowl. She stepped toward him, leveling an accusatory finger at his nose. “Okay, who in the sun and stars are you?”

  Damian was going to respond, but she kept coming at him, sharp fingernail aiming to spear his nose. He backstepped, holding up his hands in surrender, stumbling over his words and nearly over his own feet. “Whoa, I—I’m a f-friend! I mean, I’m trying to—I want to—”

  Damian backed himself right into a chair and fell into it with a yelp. Before he could move, the princess planted a hand on his chest and, with surprising strength, held him down. Despite the fact that she was objectively one of the prettiest people he’d ever seen, she made a very convincing angry face as her other hand balled into a fist. It was Damian’s natural response to freeze again.

  “Take a moment, then spit it out,” she demanded. “Just because I rescued you doesn’t mean I can’t have Kurakin back here to cut you to ribbons in a moment. Just one scream is all it would take.”

  She was terrifying—in her own way. But Damian hadn’t traveled so far to be tripped up by his own tongue. He huffed a deep breath and brushed her hand off his chest, straightening his tunic.

  “I know your class is [The Chosen One], my class is [The Chosen One’s Squire], and I’m here to try and save your life.” Straight and to the point. He didn’t want to beat around the bush; he already felt as though he was running out of time.

  The princess’s eyes widened in surprise before she quickly mastered her expression and backstepped away from him. Her mouth opened, but the words died on her lips at first. Then she clicked her tongue, cocking her head to the side. “But I’m not a [Knight]? And I have no idea who you are. How did you get a [Squire] class for a non-[Knight] you don’t even know?”

  “Er... did you hear the trying-to-save-your-life part?” he asked, brow furrowing.

  She waved her hand noncommittally. “I know about that part. My questions first.”

  “You know about—”

  “My questions first,” she cut him off.

  Damian gawped for a moment—why was everyone so casual about impending doom?

  “I don’t know how [Knights] and [Squires] work,” Damian admitted. “My friend got [The Chosen One], and I decided to support him on his quest, so I got... well, my class. Then he...”

  Damian trailed off, shivering at the memory of Nephret’s terrible smile.

  The princess’s face turned pale. Or paler. “Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  Her apology stirred a touch of discomfort in Damian, though he wasn’t sure why, and he brushed it aside as not being helpful at the moment. “How do you—so you know what happens?”

  “If you mean the gods, yeah,” the princess said. “I know. Which one was it? Marduk or Cirael?”

  Damian shifted uncomfortably, rising out of the chair. He didn’t like sitting while she was standing, and it gave him an excuse to look away from her. “Nephret. Then it was Marduk.”

  “Then it was Marduk?”

  Damian turned to face her again, his expression screwing up in consternation. “Sorry, you sound very not worried about a god coming to kill you. You do realize what that means, right?”

  The young woman bristled, and Damian winced internally.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—should I be sobbing hysterically? Would you prefer I have a breakdown and trash my room and binge-eat scones until I vomit?”

  “Er...” Damian wasn’t sure how to best defuse that very reasonable response.

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  “Because I did all that—” the princess said, her lower lip wobbling just slightly. But it firmed up as she sat on the edge of her monstrously large bed. “But that doesn’t seem especially constructive now. It is what it is. No use crying about it anymore.”

  “Right...” Damian said cautiously. “Okay, how do you know about all this? Actually, hold on. I’m Damian. What’s your name?”

  She snorted, rolling her eyes at Damian. “You’ve got to be a Yeoman. A polite one, but your manners are... My name is Katarina Morozov, but as long as it’s just the two of us, please call me Kat. Don’t do that around other people, though—I can only cover your mistakes so much in the eyes of others.”

  “Kat,” Damian said, testing it out on his tongue. “I’ll do my best, your highness.”

  That earned another snort.

  “Let’s take a step back,” Damian said. “Why did you let me into your room? How do you know all this? Actually—just tell me everything you know, and I’ll tell you what I know, and then... then I don’t know.”

  “Well,” Kat started, pointing a finger at Damian. He only then realized she had elbow-length white gloves on; he wasn’t sure how he’d missed that before. “I let you in because my skill [Sense Allies] was screaming at me. For the record, it thinks you’re a more important ally to me than my own father—who is, in case you’ve forgotten, the King of Solgorod and also the strongest person I know.”

  Damian hadn’t forgotten. Kat was looking at him like she expected an explanation, but he didn’t have one. Maybe his class? But it wasn’t like he was... well, much of anything yet.

  “If you’re asking if I know why your skill is saying that, I have no idea. Maybe my class?”

  “Are you high level?” Kat asked, narrowing her eyes.

  Unable to help himself, Damian barked out a single laugh. “No. Level 15.”

  “Yeah... my father’s high thirties. And it’s a [King] class, so...”

  That was an extremely respectable level for a king. In his travels, Damian had come across maybe a few dozen people who he thought had levels over thirty. It seemed like most people hovered in the twenties most of their lives. Over forty made you a big deal, and over fifty was the level that made your name known in your country and all the surrounding ones too.

  “Maybe it’s my class, then?” Damian postulated. “[Locate Chosen One] led me to you; maybe it interacted with your skill?”

  “Maybe...” Kat sounded unconvinced. “My dad is also why I know about the gods coming to kill [The Chosen Ones]. Apparently, there’s some knowledge of it in the church of the sun. I thought he was going to get me killed, talking to the [Priests], but I’m not dead yet, so...”

  “You have a quest, right?” Damian asked, taking a step closer as the conversation drifted back to the topic of the god coming to murder them. Or her, at least.

  Kat nodded. “Supposed to go kill a daemon. You hiding some daemon-killing artifact in your cloak?”

  Damian blinked in surprise. That was... different. Finn had said his quest was to find a crown. Konrad had been sent to look for a stave. But Kat was supposed to kill a daemon? How did that work?

  “Er... no.”

  “Didn’t think so,” Kat said, standing suddenly and walking over to a squat table that held scones and a gorgeous tea set. It was white porcelain with blue and pink flowers painted on it in exquisite detail. “I didn’t even know daemons were still around. But everything we’ve found on them says I am hugely, monumentally... in trouble.”

  The way Kat said “in trouble” led Damian to believe she’d had a different word in mind. Damian didn’t know much about daemons, only stories he’d heard from his parents that were more myth than historically accurate. Or at least, so they’d said. The commonality was that they were supposed to be big, scary monsters that only the strongest and bravest of heroes could defeat. Damian had never felt like the strongest or bravest anything, so he doubted he’d be much help in any daemon-slaying quests.

  But he was getting ahead of himself.

  “Do you trust me?” Damian asked suddenly. “I know you have no reason to, but I really am trying to help.”

  Kat stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What? What kind of question is that? Of course I don’t trust you, I just met you.”

  “Right,” Damian said, feeling stupid. “Okay, well, here’s what I know. It took only a few minutes for Nephret to find Finn, and it was only, like, a week and a half for Marduk to find Konrad—”

  “Wait,” Kat cut in. “You’ve seen two chosen ones? I thought you meant Nephret and Marduk both came for your friend.”

  “Yeah,” Damian said, rubbing the back of his head and glancing away from Kat. He didn’t need the reminder he’d failed twice. He wouldn’t fail a third time. This time, he knew more. “Listen, that doesn’t matter. I think the gods aren’t able to track you guys perfectly. I got this skill, [Sense Divinity], and it only goes off near churches, except for this one time when it went off like crazy, randomly.”

  “Oh—” Kat said, pausing to nibble a scone. “You’re saying the gods are actually limited in their influence. You think one was passing by when your skill activated?”

  “Exactly!” Damian said. “I don’t know why Nephret found us so fast, maybe just bad luck? But anyway, I was talking to Marduk—or at least I was talking to Konrad and Marduk was there but I didn’t realize at the time, and—”

  “You talked to a god?” Kat interrupted.

  Damian hesitated. He’d done a lot more than talked to a god, but he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to talk about that. When he’d sat down with Konrad, he’d spilled the whole story, but Kat was... a lot more prone to interrupting him. And he really didn’t know if he had it in him to dredge all that up again now.

  “Yeah, I guess.” Was what Damian came up with. “The point is I mentioned that if we moved around more it would be harder for the gods to find us and Marduk seemed to agree. Or at least—”

  “Wait, why would you trust a god to tell you how to avoid a god?” Kat butted in again, to Damian’s steadily increasing frustration.

  At least she made a good point.

  Why should he trust Marduk's input? Then again, Marduk had only made a passing comment about it, and that was before Damian had even realized Marduk was commenting at all. Maybe Marduk hadn’t been thinking ahead. Maybe he’d been planning on killing Damian anyway at that point.

  More importantly, if it wasn’t true... then what?

  “Because... it’s the best I’ve got,” Damian admitted. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  Kat raised a judgmental eyebrow. “You’ve been with two chosen ones, and the best you’ve got is that it’s probably harder to find you if you move around?”

  For a moment, Damian just stared at her, chewing on the words in his mind like a particularly tough piece of jerky—hoping to make them more easily digestible. They didn’t get any better the longer he worked them over. Anger ignited in his stomach, rushed up his chest, and spat out of his mouth like fire.

  “Hey, my friends fucking died for that information,” he said in a sharp tone, hands balling into fists. “My family died. My home was destroyed. I thought I was going to die at least half a dozen times between getting my class and traveling, like, a thousand miles here to warn you—to help you. So, if you’re not interested, honestly, I’ll fuck right off.”

  The moment the words left his mouth, Damian knew he didn’t mean it. Just like with Konrad, even if Kat tried to send him away he wouldn’t go. He couldn’t just leave her to die. Not like Finn and Konrad. Not when he could make a difference. Not when it was his entire class.

  “I’m sorry,” Kat said quietly, looking down at her lap and setting down her half-eaten scone to fold her hands together. She fidgeted for a moment before adding, “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t... I wasn’t thinking. I would appreciate your help, and I’d like you to stay. Please?”

  Damian hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Of course. I wasn’t really going to leave. It’s... it’s my class, after all.”

  “Does that make me a [Knight]? Sort of?” Kat asked, glancing up at Damian with a shy smile.

  “Er... I guess?”

  Kat opened her mouth to say something back when, suddenly, the door to her room slammed open. Damian jumped and then froze as a man stepped into the room, heavy boots thunking even on the carpeted floor. He wasn’t especially tall or broad, but he wore exquisite furs and a one-shouldered cape of purple silk. His other shoulder was covered by a shining pauldron fashioned like a snarling wolf’s head. His beard was cut shapely and dark black streaked with silver, his face hard, his brow overbearing deep sockets with shocking blue-purple eyes. On his head sat a crown of silver with a blue gem the size of Damian’s eyeball.

  When the man turned his eyes on Damian, he felt the weight of an aura envelop him like a gale of freezing wind. The [King] of Solgorod froze him with just a look—not dissimilarly to how the gods had done the same. When he addressed his daughter, he didn’t look away from Damian, and Damian couldn’t find the strength to break the sudden staring contest either.

  “Daughter... why is there a young man in your room?”