The courtyard smells like iron and incense gone stale, like someone tried to perfume a massacre and ran out of flowers halfway through. The air holds that peculiar hush that follows a near-discharge of muskets.

  Palace women stand in clusters along the carved colonnade, sleeves torn, hair unpinned, mouths bruised by shouting. Some clutch each other. Some clutch nothing at all. Their faces are a map of what the palace taught them: how to plead without dignity, how to hate without permission, how to laugh when the alternative is to become part of the floor.

  Banners ring the space in disciplined arcs, muskets half-raised, not aimed at anyone yet, but ready.

  Horohan’s thrown sword catches a strip of morning light and throws it back colder.

  Naci looks at it a beat too long.

  Long enough that a few palace women stop shaking and start watching. Long enough that even the Banners’ posture tightens, because their Khan does not stare at weapons unless she is deciding whether they belong to her.

  The silence breaks in a strange place.

  A few palace women laugh.

  Horohan stands opposite Naci, feet planted, shoulders loose.

  The palace has seen Horohan before, but this is different. This is Horohan inside the beast’s ribs, with no battlefield noise to disguise her intention. Her gaze is level. Her mouth is set like a line drawn in ink.

  Naci is still, too.

  She wears the palace the way she wears a cloak: as a thing draped over her, not a thing she belongs to. But the edges are beginning to stick. Grime sits in the seams of her armor; grief sits behind her eyes.

  Horohan speaks first, loudly enough that stone can hear it and remember.

  “No court,” she says. Her voice carries clean, without needing to climb. “No excuses.”

  She points with her chin toward the Banners. “No Banners intervening.”

  Horohan’s eyes flick to the palace women—those who are still kneeling, those who are stubbornly standing, those who look like they might bite again if someone comes too close. “No executions while the duel stands,” she adds.

  Horohan lifts one hand, palm up, as if weighing air. “Winner decides all.”

  Naci’s gaze stays on Horohan.

  She nods once.

  “I agree,” she says.

  Dukar steps forward instinctively.

  His boots scrape stone. His body leans before his mind gives permission, the way a hand reaches for a child before the child falls. His face tightens with old reflex—the burden his parents welded onto him: protect her at all costs.

  Then he stops.

  One can see the moment his bones remember that “protect” has become complicated. That protecting Naci might mean protecting what she is becoming. That his love is now a leash. He hates it. It shows on his mouth like sour milk.

  Borak signals the Banners back with one hand.

  Naci picks up her thrown sword. Horohan doesn’t draw hers yet.

  They look at each other again—two women who have killed for each other, killed beside each other, killed despite each other, and today, might kill each other.

  Horohan moves first.

  She closes the distance in two fast steps, her footwork steppe-clean and brutal—tight angles, hips low, weight forward like she is sprinting into a storm. She does not lead with the sword. She leads with her body.

  Her fist snaps out and lands against Naci’s jaw with a sound like wet cloth striking wood.

  Naci’s head jerks. It is the kind of hit that changes the shape of the world for a heartbeat.

  Naci absorbs it. Her posture tightens. Her shoulders square. She takes another strike—Horohan’s elbow this time, driving into the ribs. Naci’s breath catches.

  She answers with a forearm block, a sidestep, a half-turn that deflects Horohan’s momentum without giving her an opening.

  Horohan throws another punch. Naci catches the wrist and twists, not to break—yet.

  Horohan yanks free and slams her shoulder into Naci’s chest, driving her backward two steps. The courtyard stones are slick with spilled water; boots skid.

  Horohan draws her sword finally—not a killing arc, but a threat-line across Naci’s front, forcing her to retreat. The blade whistles.

  Naci swings her own sword in response, and metal meets metal with a bright note.

  Horohan presses. Naci yields ground with control, her feet measuring distance.

  “You think you’re a wall,” Horohan snaps, and her blade flicks toward Naci’s shoulder, forcing a block. “But you’re a cage.”

  Naci’s sword catches it, sparks flashing. Her breath comes sharp. Her eyes stay cold.

  Horohan steps in again, tries to close the distance. “You’re wearing silk like it’s armor,” she says, and her fist follows the sentence, driving into Naci’s sternum.

  Naci grunts.

  “If I let go,” Naci says, and she angles her sword to keep Horohan’s blade away from her throat, “it will collapse.”

  Horohan’s eyes flash. “Good.”

  Naci’s jaw tightens. “If I soften,” she says, and she shoves Horohan back half a step, “it will die.”

  Horohan laughs once. “Everything will die,” she says.

  Horohan’s next strike clips Naci’s cheek. Blood beads at the corner of Naci’s mouth—bright, rude, undeniable. Naci wipes it with her thumb.

  Horohan feints left; Naci does not bite. Horohan commits anyway, and Naci steps aside like a door opening, letting Horohan’s momentum carry her into empty air. Horohan catches herself, but the correction costs a fraction of balance, a fraction of breath.

  Naci’s foot slides into the exact line where Horohan’s boot wants to land. When Horohan steps, her heel skids on slick stone. Not enough to fall. Just enough to be annoyed.

  Horohan tries to press in, and Naci keeps her out with small, precise motions.

  “You learned that here,” Horohan snarls, and her eyes dart briefly toward the palace walls. “In this rotten place.”

  Naci’s mouth twists. “I learned it,” she says, and she flicks her sword to force Horohan back another inch, “because it works.”

  Horohan’s breath comes louder. Not tired. Angry.

  She swings again, and Naci’s block is a redirect, turning Horohan’s blade away while Naci steps into the opening and clips Horohan’s forearm with the flat of the sword.

  Horohan realizes the change in full.

  You can see it in the set of her shoulders, the way her eyes narrow—not in fear, but in understanding.

  Naci is no longer fighting like a warrior.

  Horohan bares her teeth. “Fine,” she says, and there is something almost delighted in her rage. “We do it like this, then.”

  Horohan whistles.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

  Then the sky answers.

  Khatan dives low enough that banners snap and eyes water.

  Wings slice the air like judgment. Feathers flash dark against pale stone. The eagle’s shadow skims across Naci’s face and for an instant Naci’s eyes flick up, reflexive.

  Khatan does not need to claw anyone. He does not need to kill. He only needs to become a moving threat-line—forcing Naci to shift her weight, to account for the sudden rush of wind and talons near her eyes, to hesitate for the fraction of a second Horohan needs.

  Horohan takes that fraction like it is a gift.

  She steps in hard, closes the distance, drives her shoulder into Naci’s chest again, sword angled low, and Naci collapses into body-contact—the one place where she becomes useless.

  Dukar surges forward, furious.

  It looks like foul play to him—an animal entering a duel. His hand goes to his own sword.

  Borak stops him.

  A hard grip on his arm. A harder stare that pins him more effectively than rope. He does not argue. He does not explain. He anchors him in place like he is driving a stake into the earth.

  His message is silent:

  Let it happen.

  Naci bleeds from her lip and forearm. Horohan bleeds from her thigh. Neither of them looks away.

  And Dukar—standing just outside the ring of force and witnesses—feels his own body become a cage.

  He watches Naci take a hit that lands like a correction. He watches her recover. He watches Horohan’s fury sharpen.

  He knows, with a clarity that tastes like bile, that Naci needs to lose.

  To lose enough to remember she is not the palace, she is not the law, she is not a god with a musket. To lose enough to stop the machine before it eats the last soft thing in her.

  But he also knows something older than politics.

  He is her brother.

  And the job his parents left in his bones—take care of your sister—does not care about morals. It only cares about her.

  His hands clench. His teeth grind. His breathing comes harsh.

  “Stop,” Borak says.

  Dukar jerks, furious. “Let go.”

  Borak doesn’t. Dukar yanks harder. “She’s—” His voice fractures, betrays him. “She’s going to get herself—”

  “Shut up,” Borak says. “You think I don’t see it?”

  Dukar turns, eyes blazing. “Then why are you stopping me?”

  Borak finally looks at him. His stare is flat, practical, and tired in the way of a man who has dragged too many people back from the edge.

  “Because this isn’t your job,” Borak says. “And it never should’ve been.”

  That lands like a slap, and something in Dukar finally snaps—not into clarity, but into motion.

  He cannot hit Naci. He cannot hit Horohan. He cannot hit the palace.

  So he hits the nearest wall that can hit back.

  He rips his wrist free and throws the first punch at Borak’s jaw.

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  Borak takes it half on cheekbone, half on teeth. His head snaps, a thin spray of blood in the cold air, and his mouth curls in something that is not a smile but is close enough to be insulting.

  “Finally,” Borak says. “I was starting to think you were all talk.”

  They collide like two storms meeting over one patch of sky.

  Swords flash first. Their blades meet with a sound that makes everyone flinch.

  Dukar drives forward with a flurry meant to overwhelm—strike, strike, low cut, high cut—trying to force Borak into retreat, trying to force something in himself to feel simple again.

  Borak absorbs it, pivots, deflects. His footwork is economical, brutal, designed for real fights in cramped spaces. He lets Dukar burn heat, lets him swing anger into air.

  “You’re protecting her again,” Borak says, voice almost conversational, as he parries a thrust. “Even though she doesn’t need it.”

  Dukar’s teeth bare. “I’m protecting everyone from her.”

  “Same addiction,” Borak replies, and their blades lock for a heartbeat, steel grinding. “Different excuse.”

  Dukar snarls and shoulders into him, breaks the lock with body weight instead of finesse. Borak stumbles a step, then uses the stumble like bait—he swings the pommel of his sword toward Dukar’s ribs.

  Dukar twists, catches it on forearm. Pain blooms. He doesn’t care.

  Borak jerks back a fraction. “Poles,” he snaps, as if calling an audible in a game. And he kicks his sword aside, out of immediate hands-reach, an act so confident it’s nearly comedic.

  Dukar’s eyes widen. “Are you insane?”

  Borak’s answer is a short laugh. “Yes.”

  They snatch poles—practice staves from a nearby guard rack, long wood meant for drills, not duels. Borak’s hands slide into position as if the pole is an old friend. Dukar grips his like it’s a spear meant to pin down fate.

  The poles crack together. The sound is blunt, ugly, satisfying.

  Their fight becomes a brutal blend of wrestling, joint locks, and close-quarters strikes—no flourishes, no virtue. They slam into stone and roll, separate and collide again, two men who care in the only language they trust: impact.

  Borak sweeps Dukar’s legs. Dukar hops, barely clears it, then drives the pole’s end into Borak’s shoulder. Borak grunts, spins with it, catches the shaft and yanks Dukar forward.

  Dukar crashes into him chest-first. Borak’s arm snakes around Dukar’s neck, attempts a choke. Dukar drives a knee up, hard, into Borak’s thigh. Borak’s grip loosens enough for Dukar to twist free and wrench Borak’s wrist into a joint lock.

  Borak hisses, not in pain so much as in appreciation. “Good,” he says through his teeth. “Now do it like you mean it.”

  Dukar’s breath saws. “I do mean it.”

  They crash into a column. Dust shakes loose from carved stone.

  Lanau watches, tense, fingers curling. Her eyes flick between the two fights—Naci and Horohan, Dukar and Borak—as if trying to decide whether to intervene, whether the spirit world permits this much rage in one courtyard.

  Kuan stands near her, hands tucked casually into sleeves like a man enjoying a festival.

  Lanau’s voice is tight. “Should we stop them?”

  Kuan’s answer comes quiet, almost kind. “Don’t. They need it.”

  Lanau glances at him, disbelieving.

  Kuan adds, deadpan, “Also I want to see who cries first.”

  Lanau makes a sound that might be a laugh or a curse. “You’re disgusting.”

  Kuan’s grin flashes. “Thank you.”

  Naci’s gaze flicks once to Dukar and Borak—just a flick, quick as a lie—and Horohan sees it.

  Horohan uses it.

  She steps in, aims a punch at Naci’s already split mouth. Naci jerks, takes it half on cheek, half on teeth. The pain is bright enough to make her eyes water; she refuses to blink.

  Something in her posture changes.

  Naci abruptly throws her sword.

  The blade spins end over end toward Horohan’s face. Horohan’s body reacts on instinct—she snaps her sword up to deflect, the clang ringing sharp, and in that half-second her guard shifts.

  Naci uses that half-second.

  She steps back, reaches to a Banner who is already moving without being told, and takes a lance.

  Naci sets it in her hands with an ease that tells everyone she has practiced this more than she has practiced mercy.

  Horohan’s smile turns small, mean, delighted.

  The lance changes the fight immediately.

  Horohan can’t step inside without paying. Every advance is a risk of impalement. Naci controls the courtyard like she’s fencing a border—tip always threatening, shaft always denying. The palace women draw back as if the air itself has sharpened.

  Naci’s voice is calm as she jabs—not wild thrusts, but measured, testing lines. “You wanted rules,” she says, and the lance tip kisses the stone near Horohan’s foot with a spark. “Here’s a rule.”

  Horohan pivots, barely avoids the tip, and spits, “You’re so proud of your new toys.”

  Naci’s eyes flash. “Toys don’t kill,” she says. “Tools do.”

  Horohan’s laugh is low. “Your mother would be proud,” she says, ironic.

  “And you,” Naci replies, not ironic at all, “your mother wouldn’t care.”

  Horohan’s eyes go flat.

  She feints a step in. The lance snaps out, a fast thrust toward her shoulder. Horohan twists away, but the tip grazes her sleeve and tears cloth.

  Horohan backs, then smiles—small, delighted, dangerous.

  She draws a second sword.

  Altan Kherem.

  The Golden Scourge.

  Even the Banners stiffen at the sight of it, because legends travel fast. The blade catches daylight and looks wrong—too bright, too clean, too old. It carries the weight of inheritance and murder and the way men name weapons when they want the universe to approve their violence.

  Naci’s eyes narrow, something like recognition and irritation crossing her face. “So you kept it,” she says.

  Horohan’s voice is almost playful. “Of course,” she replies. “It looks good on me.”

  She draws a small flask from her belt, sloshes it along the blade, and strikes a spark. A blue flame catches along the oil with a hungry hiss. Fire crawls up the metal like a living thing looking for a throat.

  The smell hits the courtyard—burning resin.

  Dual-wielding now, Horohan turns the lance into a liability.

  She advances, blades crossing like scissors. One sword catches the lance shaft, pins it; the flaming Altan Kherem bites into wood and metal. The heat is immediate, aggressive. The lance’s shaft smokes where flame kisses it. Naci wrenches back, trying to regain distance, but Horohan presses, forcing it to collapse.

  The lance is long, but now it is also an anchor.

  Horohan’s first sword snaps the lance aside. The flaming blade comes down on the shaft itself with a brutal, precise chop.

  Wood splinters. Metal screams.

  Naci’s lance is cut in two with a sound like a snapped oath.

  For a heartbeat, the courtyard is silent except for the crackle of flame.

  Then the crowd exhales in one ragged wave as if they have all been holding breath for years.

  Naci stares at the broken lance in her hands.

  Horohan’s grin widens. “Your Banner has collapsed,” she says.

  Naci’s hand goes to her hip.

  To her white musket.

  She draws it with the calm of a woman picking up a pen.

  The barrel lifts.

  The shot cracks so loud it feels like it punches the air itself. Smoke blooms from the muzzle. The recoil jolts her shoulder.

  The bullet is meant to end debate.

  Horohan moves.

  She throws her left sword—not at Naci’s body, but at the musket’s line. The blade spins, catches light, becomes a flashing distraction. Naci’s aim twitches a fraction—tiny, but enough.

  And then Horohan does the thing that looks impossible when you remember she is not a myth.

  Altan Kherem snaps up.

  Steel meets lead at a precise angle, timing tighter than prayer.

  There is a sharp, ringing ting—a sound too delicate for what it represents—and the bullet splits in two mid-flight, each half whining away into stone and air.

  One half buries itself in a palace column. The other sparks off the ground and skitters like an angry insect.

  People scream anyway.

  They always scream when they see certainty get cut in half.

  A palace lady falls to her knees, laughing and sobbing at once. “She cut it,” she gasps.

  A Banner’s hand shakes on his musket. Someone mutters, “That’s… that’s not—”

  Lanau’s eyes are wide, face pale. “That sword—”

  Kuan nods solemnly. “Hot,” he says. “Very hot.”

  Naci’s face hardens. She does not look impressed. She looks… irritated.

  Horohan advances, flames licking along Altan Kherem. “Now,” she says, voice low, “are you listening?”

  Naci’s mouth opens, breath sharp, not to answer but to move—she shifts her stance, preparing another tactic, another border, another rule.

  On the edge of the courtyard, Jinhuang’s composure shatters.

  She has watched Naci become a blade. She has watched Horohan become fire. She has watched the palace ladies’ faces and seen herself in them in ways she hates.

  She knocks three arrows at once.

  It is an archer’s flex, a desperate declaration of skill and terror. Her fingers shake on the string. Her eyes are wild.

  “Stop,” Jinhuang snarls—not sure who she’s talking to, not sure if language matters anymore.

  Horohan’s head turns—just a fraction—enough to see the threat in Jinhuang’s posture.

  The arrows fly.

  Horohan catches them one-handed.

  The shafts slap into her palm, her fingers clamp, and she snaps them like twigs without looking away from Naci.

  Jinhuang freezes, breath caught in her throat. She looks like a woman who has just realized how little she understands about the people she calls family.

  Fol moves behind her and clamps a hand around her bow arm, forcing it down with quiet, absolute strength.

  “Don’t,” Fol says, voice low.

  Jinhuang tries to jerk free. “She’s going to—”

  Fol’s grip tightens. “She won’t,” he says, still low, still controlled, “don’t worry.”

  Jinhuang’s breath shudders. Her eyes stay on Horohan, on Naci, on the crackling flame and the smoke and the palace women who look like they’re watching gods bleed.

  Horohan steps forward, Altan Kherem burning, her other hand empty now but still dangerous. Her voice drops into the space between her and Naci like a knife sliding into a sheath.

  “Yield,” Horohan says.

  Naci’s eyes lock on her, and the air between them feels like it might ignite too.

  Her boot snaps up low and hard, a precise kick to Horohan’s sword-hand. Pain shocks through Horohan’s fingers. The burning blade jitters, flame trailing in a brief, ugly smear.

  Horohan’s eyes widen—not with fear, with offense.

  “Dirty—” she starts.

  Naci shoves.

  Horohan’s heel skids on wet slush. Her shoulder catches Naci’s chest. They collide and go down together.

  Altan Kherem scrapes across the courtyard stones, hissing as oil and snowmelt argue over who owns the flame. Sparks spit. The heat licks at blood pooled in shallow grooves between flagstones, turning it darker, thicker, almost syrupy. Someone yelps and jerks back as the flaming sword slides too close to a hem of silk.

  The palace ladies scatter like startled birds.

  Naci and Horohan hit hard enough that the impact travels through bone. Their elbows slam stone. Breath punches out. Their braids and sleeves tangle. The world reduces to friction and weight.

  They roll once, twice—Naci on top for half a second, Horohan on top for half a second.

  Their fists replace their blades.

  Horohan’s punch lands on Naci’s cheekbone with a clean, ugly crack. Naci’s head whips sideways. She tastes blood and iron and the stale perfume of the palace air, all mixed into one bitter mouthful.

  Naci answers with a short, brutal hook to Horohan’s ribs. Horohan grunts, an animal sound, and drives her forehead into Naci’s face.

  They punch each other’s faces until politics disappears and only history remains.

  A Banner at the edge mutters, stunned, “They’re not even fencing anymore.”

  Kuan replies without looking away, “They’re negotiating.”

  Horohan swings again and clips Naci’s mouth. The split lip opens wider. Blood pours bright as a fresh seal stamp. Naci’s eyes flash.

  Horohan sees that flicker and laughs.

  It is not a happy sound. It is not even mocking.

  It is sharp relief.

  “Ah,” Horohan breathes, smiling through blood on her teeth. “There you are.”

  Naci’s hand clamps around Horohan’s throat. Her thumb presses the soft place under Horohan’s jaw where she can feel her pulse.

  Horohan spits blood sideways and snarls, “Hit me, strangle me, curse at me!”

  Naci’s eyes are bright. “I will kill you!” she spits back, and punches Horohan in the nose.

  Cartilage yields with a dull, sick sound. Horohan’s eyes water involuntarily. She blinks hard, angry at her own body.

  Naci shifts her weight for leverage. She tries to roll Horohan fully, tries to pin her shoulders down, tries to end this in the simplest language she knows: I win, therefore I am right.

  Horohan doesn’t let her.

  Horohan’s hand snakes up into Naci’s braids.

  She closes her fist around the thick plait and wrenches.

  Naci’s head jerks back sharply, neck exposed in an instinctive flinch her pride hates.

  Horohan uses the braid like a handle and flips them.

  Naci’s back slams stone. Breath jumps out of her in a rough gasp. For a heartbeat, she lies there stunned, not because she’s been hurt—she’s been hurt plenty—but because someone has forced her down.

  Horohan straddles her hips, pins her shoulders with knees and weight, full-body certainty. Her hands are shaking from adrenaline and fury and the effort of not killing the woman she loves.

  “I did not marry a monster,” Horohan says, voice hoarse. Blood runs from her nose in a steady line and drips onto Naci’s collar like a sacrament gone wrong. “I married you. Naci of Jabliu, daughter of Chieftain Tseren and his wife Gani, who loves to laugh, and sing, and fights for her loved ones, fight for a better tomorrow where we don’t need to cause harm, a future where children feel safe and don’t get slaughtered like animals!”

  Naci’s eyes flick. Horohan’s fist drops onto Naci’s cheeks and her head snaps.

  “Come back,” Horohan says.

  Another punch. Naci’s eyebrow splits. Blood leaks into her lashes.

  “Come back.”

  Another. Naci’s jaw tightens. Her hands flex, not sure whether to fight or hold.

  “Come back,” Horohan repeats.

  Naci’s lips part like she wants to answer. Instead she swallows blood and breath and says, raw, “I’m here.”

  Horohan’s fist pauses midair, trembling.

  Her voice drops, dangerous. “Then act like it.”

  Horohan swings again.

  Naci catches her wrist.

  Mid-swing, full force.

  The impact jolts both of them. Muscles lock. Horohan’s arm strains like a pulled bow. Naci’s grip is iron—stronger than it should be, fueled by years of refusing to fall.

  For a second they freeze, faces inches apart, both panting, both bleeding, both looking like myth dragged through mud.

  Naci’s eyes widen as if she has surprised herself by stopping the blow.

  Her voice cracks in a way the palace has never heard from her.

  “I—” she starts, and the word shudders. “I’m sorry.”

  Horohan’s breath catches hard. Her jaw clenches, fighting the reflex to believe too quickly.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeats, uglier this time, less controlled. “I didn’t— I didn’t see—”

  Her throat works. Her grip loosens.

  “I didn’t see where I—” she tries again.

  At the exact wrong moment, the second fight reaches its own breaking point. Dukar and Borak have rolled through slush and shattered dignity. Dukar’s sleeve is torn. Borak’s lip is split. Their poles are abandoned somewhere behind them.

  They have devolved into pure grappling—hands in collars, forearms under throats, knees driving into hips, weight and leverage and stubborn love disguised as violence.

  Dukar finally gets position.

  Perfect form.

  Terrible timing.

  He plants his feet, hooks an arm under Borak’s shoulder, turns his hips, and throws him.

  It is a beautiful wrestling throw—clean, efficient, the kind that makes elders nod and rivals curse.

  It sends Borak flying.

  He slams onto Naci and Horohan like an angry meteor.

  The impact knocks the air out of all three at once.

  The courtyard goes silent for one beat.

  Borak snarls and shoves himself off with a hissed curse. He rolls to one side, spits blood, and glares at Dukar like he wants to kill him and hug him, in that order.

  Dukar freezes, hands lifted as if surrendering to the universe. “I—” he starts, horrified. “I didn’t—”

  Borak cuts him off. “You did,” he growls. “Congratulations.”

  Naci lies half under Horohan, half under the impression that the world has finally stopped pretending.

  Her chest heaves. Her eyes are glossy. Blood trails from brow to cheek to chin. Her hands shake once, then again.

  Then she starts crying.

  Quiet at first—one harsh exhale that turns into a sob she tries to swallow.

  It doesn’t stay swallowed.

  Her shoulders begin to tremble. The grief and pressure finally releasing.

  Horohan’s expression cracks. She shifts off Naci enough to let her breathe, but not enough to let her run.

  Naci crawls forward on hands and knees like a wounded soldier crossing a battlefield she set herself on fire.

  She reaches Horohan and collapses into her, arms wrapping around her waist with desperate strength.

  She hugs her like she’s clinging to the last piece of steppe sky inside a palace made of cages.

  Horohan stiffens—then, slowly, she folds around Naci, holding her back with fierce steadiness, as if bracing a wall that has started to crumble.

  Naci speaks into Horohan’s shoulder. The words are muffled, shaking, real.

  “I’m sorry,” she says again, but this time it isn’t the start of a sentence. It is the whole thing. “I’m sorry. I—” Her breath catches. “I became the thing we hate.”

  “I know,” Horohan murmurs, rough. “I felt it.”

  Naci’s fingers clutch at Horohan’s coat.

  “I don’t want to be this,” Naci whispers, voice breaking. “I don’t— I don’t want to be—”

  Horohan’s hand slides to the back of Naci’s head, into the braids, firm enough to anchor her. “Then stop,” she says.

  Naci nods against her, helpless, breath hitching.

  Dukar stands there breathing hard, hands shaking, ashamed and relieved in equal measure, watching his sister be human again.

  Borak wipes blood off his mouth with his sleeve, eyes narrowed, and mutters, “Next time, schedule your emotional breakthroughs. I have work.”