Holdfast

Mutually Assured Destruction

The Council Seat had been designed for the intimidation of the uninitiated, but for those who knew the veins and capillaries of its function, it was just another set of corridors, meeting rooms, and windowless cells. Today, Room 2B-12, “Minor Conference,” was the site of the city’s true crisis management, not the grand Council Hall with its echo-chamber acoustics and ceremonial paint.

It was barely past dawn when Iliyria Sylren slipped in, making an inventory of the other arrivals. Commander Albreicht Lowshade already occupied one end of the table, he sat rigid, hands folded, the coat of his office buttoned so high it looked like a noose for his neck. Next to him, Isemay Misendris, diplomat and Master of Divination, greeted Iliyria with a nod and nothing more, her eyes already flicking between them like she was scoring a debate. The room itself was engineered to be so inoffensive it bordered on hostile: wood paneling in the kind of taupe that rejected all color, a clock that ticked just loud enough to be a weapon.

Iliyria did not sit, not yet. She walked a circuit of the table, as if examining the territory for traps, then settled across from Lowshade, giving him the benefit of a direct line of fire. Only then did she notice that the clock had stopped, the hands arrested at exactly six. Isemay had already begun.

“I’ve secured the room,” said Isemay, voice clipped and formal. “There is a privacy partition in place, three layers: no sight, no sound, no echo. No one will overhear.” She glanced at Lowshade, then at Iliyria, her expression unchanged. “We are here because we have a mutual problem. I suggest we address it before any of us are summoned to justify ourselves to a full quorum.”

Lowshade’s expression did not flicker. “Then out with it. My time is not to be wasted.”

“Team Seven,” Isemay said. “They are in Volfast. Unofficially, of course, as no one would be foolish enough to formally authorize a city runner incursion into a foreign state.” She looked at Iliyria, who said nothing. “But we know they are there. And now we know they have been intercepted by the Order of Nemesis. By now, either they are in custody, or worse.”

Lowshade leaned back, the bones in his neck popping in quick succession. “Your runners, Sylren. Your responsibility.”

Iliyria pressed a hand to the table, palm flat, her voice clear as struck glass. “Don’t try it, Albreicht. If you’re thinking of pinning this on me, think again. Harrison Becker put in a formal leave request for his team’s travel. I have the documentation.” She slid a thin folder across the table, tapping the official Watch seal. “That means I’m not the only person who signed a permission slip.”

Lowshade’s jaw clenched. Iliyria watched the micro-tics: the narrowing of the left eye, the knuckles whitening as he gripped the chair arms. He was running the calculus, trying to see if he could still profit from the disaster. “And yet,” he managed, “it was your command that dispatched them, was it not?”

“We both know the reality,” Iliyria said. “After the Murphy’s Law incident, Lawmaster Runecoat assigned command responsibility for Becker jointly to both our agencies. So if this falls, it falls on both our heads.”

Lowshade shifted, but he had run out of moves. Iliyria allowed herself a sliver of satisfaction. There would be no scapegoating this time; if she drowned, she’d drag him under with her.

Isemay watched the exchange with the impassivity of a ledger. “Now that we have resolved that point,” she said, “we should consider the contingencies. I propose we plan for both outcomes: the return of Team Seven, and the possibility of their loss.”

Iliyria’s mouth tasted of old iron. “We wait,” she said. “Kerrowyn Lightfoot has been deployed to extract them. If anyone can retrieve our people quietly, it’s her.”

Lowshade’s eyes narrowed. “You sent the thief?”

Iliyria's knuckles whitened against the table edge. The word "thief" from Lowshade's mouth felt like a deliberate provocation. As if Kerrowyn's childhood in Nightvalley, those desperate years when survival meant nimble fingers, defined her entire existence. As if the woman who'd risen to Master rank, who'd saved countless lives during the Breach, could be reduced to a slur based on her surname. Their personal history might be complicated, frayed by words neither could take back, but Iliyria would be damned if she'd let Lowshade's contempt go unchallenged.

Iliyria didn’t blink. “Master Lightfoot is leagues more competent than you, Lowshade. And her particular set of skills makes her uniquely qualified for this job.”

For a moment, the room was silent but for the ghostly tick of the arrested clock. Even Isemay seemed startled by the vehemence in Iliyria’s voice. The hostility between Kerrowyn and Iliyria was not public knowledge, but it was obvious enough if you looked. Yet here she was, defending her. 

Lowshade’s composure fractured, just slightly. “And if this ends badly?” he said, voice sharp. “If your wizard fails and Team Seven’s bodies are delivered to us in pieces, what then?”

“Then we treat it as an act of war,” Iliyria replied, cold and certain. “We go to the Council, we make the case, and we do not let them sweep it under the rug. But until then, we keep it contained. No rumors, no panic. The city is on edge as it is.”

Isemay nodded. “We will need a statement for when the Council convenes. One that places responsibility where it belongs, but does not inflame the factions. I will draft it.”

Lowshade huffed, the sound more wounded than he’d have liked. “I suppose that’s all there is to do.”

“There is one other thing,” Iliyria said, lifting her gaze to meet his full on. “If you try to sabotage this rescue, if you so much as leak a word of it to your friends in the Watch, I will know. And I will respond in kind.”

Lowshade bristled. “You threaten me in my own city?”

“Not a threat,” Iliyria said, “just a promise of mutually assured destruction.”

Lowshade’s nostrils flared. “Is that what you think of me, Sylren? That I’d sabotage the retrieval of my own corporal just to score a point?” His voice was suddenly raw, and for the first time that morning, he looked less like a marble bust and more like a man both exhausted and furious. “You aren’t the only person at this table who cares about the people under them.”

“I seem to recall,” Iliyria countered, voice even, “that you were all too happy to throw Becker to the dogs the last time it suited your agenda. Forgive me if I don’t take your sudden concern at face value.”

Lowshade’s hands balled into fists. For a moment, he looked ready to launch himself across the table, to seize Iliyria by the throat and throttle the insolence out of her. “That was different,” he said. “That was about the law. I don’t expect you to understand the difference.”

Isemay stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “We will reconvene once I’ve drafted some statements for the possible outcomes, either later today or early tomorrow. Until then, I recommend we all keep to our respective offices and avoid the temptation to gossip.”

Lowshade stalked out without further ceremony. The slam of the door rattled the pitcher of water on the sideboard.

***

After Lowshade had departed in his customary fug of self-righteous gloom, the conference room seemed to expand, the walls breathing out the tension they’d contained for the duration of the meeting. Isemay stayed seated, fingers steepled, while Iliyria stood, not quite ready to leave. For a time neither spoke, as if savoring the rare luxury of unpoliced silence.

Iliyria waited until she was sure he was gone, then turned to Isemay, her posture collapsing by a fraction.

Eventually, Iliyria exhaled, a thin, tired sound. “That could have gone worse.”

Isemay’s eyes lingered on her counterpart. She saw the exhaustion, the strain, knew it mirrored her own, though she would not admit it aloud. “Could have gone better, too.”

A dry smile flickered at the corner of Iliyria’s mouth. “It always can. Thank you,” Iliyria said. “For playing the neutral party.”

Isemay allowed herself a thin smile. “Neutrality is easy when I have no real investment in the outcome.”

Iliyria snorted, “That’s a lie, Isemay. You care. You just pretend you don’t.”

Isemay considered this, then said, “And you’re less careful with your masks these days, Sylren. That was a passionate defense of Lightfoot.”

“She’s the best we have,” Iliyria said. “And if she fails, we’re all out of luck.”

Isemay nodded. “For what it’s worth, I hope she succeeds.”

The absence of Lowshade made the room almost cozy, and for a moment Isemay considered saying something genuinely reassuring, but she didn’t get the chance.

Iliyria paused, her fingers hovering over the brass handle of her briefcase. “There’s one other person I have to tell,” she said, her tone suddenly distant. “Elmiyra.”

Isemay’s composure slipped a fraction, the corners of her lips twitching. “Is that wise?” she asked. “If the Reaper of the Raven Queen finds out her paladin is missing, she might decide to intervene. That’s a complication we don’t need right now.”

Iliyria shook her head. “The greater risk is if she finds out on her own. She’d be halfway to Volfast before we even realized she’d left the city. I’d rather tell her face-to-face.” Her voice softened, stripped of its usual armor. “She’s more than a High Priestess to Brynne. She’s a mother.”

Isemay considered arguing, but saw there was no point. Iliyria’s mind was made up, and, if Isemay was honest, she agreed with the sentiment. Some debts were owed, and some truths could not be withheld, even if they might blow a hole in the side of city politics.

“Do what you have to,” Isemay said. “But don’t take it personally if Elmiyra tries to kill you.”

“She’d have to get in line,” Iliyria said, but it was an old joke, one with no teeth left.

They exited together, the partition melting as soon as the door closed behind them. The tick of the clock resumed, marking time again in the world where none of them were truly in control.

The Haunted House

The corridors of the Council Seat were busier at this hour, thick with the staccato heel-strike of aides and the drift of low-level clerks who navigated bureaucracy as if it were a form of dance. Iliyria took a sharp turn down a corridor and nearly collided with Sanibalis, Head Councilor and sometime peacemaker of the Capitol. He was reading a stack of reports, his gaze fixed on the page, but Iliyria knew he had heard her approach. He always did.

He offered her a smile that was both avuncular and weary. “Commander Sylren,” he said. “A pleasure to see you.”

“Councilor,” Iliyria returned, and they did a quick mutual appraisal, a kind of status check that never quite translated to words, but was understood between professionals who had spent too long in proximity to disaster.

She cleared her throat, a faint suggestion of amusement in her tone. “You’re clogging the arteries again, Sani.”

He glanced up, the lines around his eyes tightening into something not quite a smile. “And your headquarters is now the hottest spot in town for the dissatisfied. We all have our vices.” He shifted, making just enough room for her to pass. “Word from the eastern wards is that your friend the Lawmaster has instituted mandatory overtime. The Watch is not pleased.”

“I’ll light a candle for them,” Iliyria said. “Maybe two, if they promise not to set my offices on fire.”

Sanibalis snorted, the sound almost lost under his breath, and then they were moving past each other, his arm brushing her shoulder in a gesture that was part apology, part benediction. Iliyria felt the familiar weight of regret, hers, his, the whole city’s, press down for a moment before she let it dissipate. She did not look back as she strode toward the main vestibule, the clamor of bureaucracy fading behind her.

Outside, the day was undecided: a raw, gray half-light that threatened either rain or sleet, depending on the city’s mood. The steps leading down from the Council Seat were swept clean, but the air still held the sharp tang of last week’s protest, a memory of torches and spilled slogans that lingered in the cracks between stones.

At the bottom of the stairs, Orleabella Hillborn was waiting, or at least doing her best not to look like she was waiting. She lounged against a decorative balustrade, arms crossed, face tipped up to the thin morning sunlight. The dwarf’s chin was marked by a week’s worth of strategic neglect, and her eyes carried the faint spark of someone who had spent the morning either in a fight or hoping for one. Iliyria took in the sight with an inward sigh. Of all her Runners, Orlea was the one most likely to get bored and start a fight with the building itself.

“Looks like you could use a drink, boss,” Orlea said, skipping the formalities.

Iliyria shot her a look that could have peeled paint. “Not funny, Orleabella.”

Orlea winced, the use of her full name cutting deeper than any actual reprimand. No one liked hearing their full name, least of all from someone with command prerogative. She straightened, rolling her neck until it popped, then fell in beside Iliyria.

Orlea grimaced, but managed to keep it mostly good-natured. “Had to try.”

Iliyria adjusted her collar and asked, “Is this really necessary, or are you just bored?”

“Runner policy: all command-level officers to be accompanied at all times, especially after certain people” (and here she gave a meaningful look) “have demonstrated a talent for walking straight into trouble.”

Iliyria rolled her eyes, the only command-level officer in the APS was her, the policy tailored specifically for her by Jarren. It was grating, to be told by someone that she needed surveillance, like she was a helpless toddler and not a centuries old war veteran and master of magic. But she didn’t push it. In truth, she didn’t mind the runner shadow; it was a convenient way to get direct feedback from the ranks, and if you knew how to read them, the runners were better sources than any number of diviners or informants.

They set off down the front steps, Orlea matching Iliyria’s pace with surprising ease for someone whose legs barely broke the three-foot mark. “Where to? Headquarters, or do I get to see you break into a bakery again?”

Iliyria let the question hang, the silence filling with the sounds of the city: the creak of wheels on wet stone, the faint rattle of a vendor’s cart, the laughter of children that sounded suspiciously like a threat. She didn’t answer immediately, and Orlea, sensing the shift, fell quiet as well.

“Temple District,” Iliyria said.

Orlea’s stride didn’t falter, but her eyebrows climbed a fraction. “Early for prayers.”

“Not that kind of visit,” Iliyria replied.

They walked in companionable silence, the distance between them shrinking with each block. Iliyria’s mind ticked through the day’s unfinished business; half a dozen urgent memos, three requests for magical consult, and the ever-present shadow of the missing runners. The longer she thought about it, the less she wanted to return to the APS headquarters, with its walls of paperwork and its constantly shifting roster of barely-contained chaos, and the more she wanted to just teleport to Volfast right then and there and pull the city apart brick by brick until she found Alavara and the rest of Team 7.

Instead, she found herself steering toward the black spires of the Temple District, where the Raven Queen’s followers kept watch over the city’s necessary losses.

As they reached the end of a narrow arcade, Orlea caught up, matching Iliyria’s longer stride with two of her own. “If you’re not going for prayers, are you going to see the Reaper?” She said it the way only someone who had faced down a half-dozen necromancers could: with curiosity edged in respect, and only a little fear.

“Yes,” Iliyria answered, not bothering to be coy. She saw no point; Orlea would get there eventually, and at least this way the rumors would be mostly accurate.

“This about Brynne?” Orlea pressed, her voice lower, more careful.

Iliyria pursed her lips, then nodded. “It’s about Brynne.”

Orlea, never one to let a silence go unmolested, spoke again. “They’re in trouble, aren’t they?”

There was a flicker of something, reluctance, maybe even grief, in Iliyria’s eyes, but it was gone before it could take root. “Yes. They are.”

Orlea nodded, then smirked. “Does this mean we all get to go on a field trip? Or is this a solo performance?”

Iliyria almost smiled. “No field trip. We are handling this… outside official channels.”

Orlea huffed, “Damn, would’ve been fun. You going in the haunted house alone, or you want backup in case the Reaper reacts poorly and tries to decapitate you with her scythe?”

Iliyria rolled her eyes, the gesture more fond than annoyed. “I’ll be just fine, Orlea. You can stay right here.”

“Suit yourself,” Orlea said, then, as Iliyria started up the steps, called after her, “If you’re not out in twenty, I’m coming in after you. And if you die, I’ll burn your diary.”

Iliyria paused, half-turned, and for a moment the weight of the world seemed lighter. “I don’t keep a diary.”

“That’s what you think,” Orlea called back.

Iliyria let herself laugh, just once, then squared her shoulders and entered the Temple, leaving Orlea to guard the threshold against whatever fresh hell the city was brewing next.

Iliyria took a breath and stepped into the dim, violet-lit nave. She saw Elmiyra, giving a sermon in front of a handful of supplicants, each huddled in their own private grief or gratitude. The High Priestess looked to be reaching the end of her speech, and Iliyria leaned against one of the temple’s ornate columns, content to put off the inevitable by even a few more minutes.

Elmiyra finished her sermon, then saw Iliyria, her expression unreadable in the shadowed light.

The two women faced each other in the sanctuary, centuries of war, loss, and shared experience between them. Iliyria braced herself for what was next.

A Shadow in the Shape of Regret

The Temple of the Raven Queen was never quiet, not even at dawn. There was always the mutter of old grievances in the stone, the soft sweep of vestments on flagstone, the breathy chorus of penitents rehearsing their afterlives in anxious whispers. It was not a place of comfort, and it did not pretend to be; Elmiyra had made certain of that from the day she’d assumed the role of High Priestess. She preferred her worshippers unsettled. They remembered more that way.

Still, even she was not immune to the gentle hypnosis of routine. The early service was always sparsely attended, mostly those who had somewhere else to be, or nowhere at all, and the sermon was a recitation so familiar she could perform it with half her mind elsewhere. Which, this morning, it was.

She stood behind the black marble lectern, hands braced, eyes flicking over the thin crowd assembled in the nave. Her voice, never especially warm, had acquired a crisp edge with the changing of the season. She began:

“To those who come to us in fear, I say: fear is a teacher. To those who come in sorrow: grief is a door, and we are the ones who open it. Death is not a punishment, nor a mercy. It is a balancing of scales, a tribute to what was borrowed. Life is precious only because it ends.”

The words had once thrilled her, the dark poetry of them, but now she heard only the echo. Even as she spoke, her mind kept drifting back to the last real conversation she’d had with Brynne. The girl, no, not a girl, she had to stop thinking of her that way, had come to dinner less than a few weeks ago, looking for all the world like she wanted to be anywhere but there. Elmiyra had seen it a hundred times: the restless shuffle, the too-careful posture, the way Brynne twisted the ring on her finger as if it contained the answers to questions she was not yet ready to ask.

The meal was brief, and the talk even briefer.

“I’m leaving for Volfast,” Brynne had announced, sometime between the soup and the black bread. There had been no ceremony, no preamble.

Elmiyra, whose entire childhood had been spent preparing for the worst possible news at any given moment, simply nodded. She asked Brynne if there was a plan.

“Sort of,” Brynne said. “We’re trying to rescue some prisoners. Maybe take down the Order, if we get the chance.”

Elmiyra sipped her wine, searching the young woman’s face for a trace of the child she’d once soothed back to sleep after nightmares. “Are you going alone?” she asked.

Brynne had shaken her head. “Team Seven is going. Iliyria’s Runners. They’re new but they’re…” She trailed off, trying to find the right descriptor, “strong. And… we have some local help.”

Elmiyra allowed herself a thin smile. “That’s better than nothing, at least.”

There had been a silence then, one of those rare moments where neither wanted to admit just how much they needed the other to say something reassuring and absolute. Elmiyra finally broke it. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Elmiyra’s question had been a genuine one, though she’d disguised it with a veneer of casual concern. She had hoped, foolishly, as ever, that Brynne would say yes. That Brynne would let her slice through this latest threat with the easy violence that had, long ago, made her infamous. But Brynne’s reply had been as unyielding as the stone bones of the city itself.

Elmiyra remembered, with a clarity that struck like iron, how Brynne had responded. “No. I need to do this myself,” Brynne had said, the words as measured as the steps of an executioner. She had not looked at Elmiyra during the refusal, instead picking at the edge of her napkin, the white of her knuckles blurred against linen. Only when she spoke again did she let her eyes rise. “Sorscha wants a blighted elf, that last batch of Shades was targeting you that day too. She’d make a prize of you, and I couldn’t bear it if I lost you too.” The weight of the “too” stung, and Elmiyra had almost reached across the table, but habit stilled her hand.

She’d said, by way of comfort, “Back in my day, I dismantled entire death cults with just a coterie of half-trained neophytes. I doubt the Order of Nemesis has anything I haven’t seen before. But I appreciate your concern.” It was a lie, but a gentle one, meant to soften the brutality of Brynne’s resolve.

Brynne had smiled, tremulous and almost grateful. “You’re the reason I made it out at all, you’ve done more than enough,” she’d said, and then, as though the air itself had thickened with finality, she rose, thanked Elmiyra for the meal, and let herself out. That had been the last Elmiyra had seen of her.

Now, standing before the scattered flock, Elmiyra let the sermon carry itself to the end, reciting the last few lines by muscle memory.

“Death is the promise that life is worth living. May we be worthy of the hour when the scales tip.”

She made the sign of the feather and dismissed the congregation with a gesture. They filed out, one by one, heads bowed, the older ones clutching prayer beads, the younger ones clutching their doubts.

Elmiyra stepped down from the dais, resisting the urge to rub her eyes. She’d barely rested since Brynne left, her nights interrupted by visions of the city’s old enemies and the new ones it was busy making. The fear was not for herself. She had survived worse than the Order of Nemesis. It was the knowledge that the world had a thousand creative ways to undo the things she loved, and it rarely repeated itself.

She was halfway down the nave when she saw Iliyria Sylren waiting at the back, half-concealed in a shadow. The Commander looked exhausted, her hair sticking out in a silver halo that betrayed how many times she’d run her hands through it that morning. Elmiyra had always admired the woman’s capacity for functional despair, but today she wore it like an actual weight.

Elmiyra crossed the nave, boots silent, black robe trailing behind her like a shadow in the shape of regret. She debated, in the brief seconds it took to close the distance, whether to open with formality (“Welcome, Commander, may the Queen weigh you justly”), with sarcasm (“Here to pray for a city that still hates you?”), or with the naked truth.

When she stopped in front of Iliyria, she chose the last.

“Is this about Brynne?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

Iliyria’s composure slipped, just a little. It was enough. Elmiyra felt her own heart stutter, the certainty of loss blooming behind her ribs.

They stood there in the silence, two veterans of a hundred doomed causes, each holding the other’s gaze as if the answer might appear in the reflection.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Two Woman Army

They stood at the back of the temple, framed by the gloom of the Raven Queen’s holy place, with only the dim light of guttering tapers and the soft creak of wood as the congregation dispersed to prove the world was still in motion.

Iliyria waited until the last shuffling footsteps faded before she spoke. “You can’t go,” she said.

Elmiyra gave a brittle little laugh, not turning her head. “You know, you sound just like her.”

“I’m serious.” Iliyria’s voice was low and even, but it vibrated with something Elmiyra recognized, a fear so old it had fossilized into a reflex. “If you go to Volfast now, you’ll get yourself killed. And you’ll put Brynne in even more danger.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Elmiyra’s gaze was fixed on the rows of empty pews. “I was breaking cults before you were even born.”

“You’re missing the point. The city needs you here. If you go, there’s nobody to keep the peace in the Temple District, nobody to remind the Queen’s flock that death isn’t supposed to be a sport. The Council won’t back you. If anything, they’ll use it as an excuse to crack down even harder.”

Elmiyra snorted, turning at last to face Iliyria. “Since when do you care about the Council’s opinion?”

“I don’t. But you should.” Iliyria’s eyes were red-rimmed, the lines in her face deeper than Elmiyra remembered. “I don’t want you dead. I don’t want Brynne dead. I want all of us to get out of this with enough left to make it mean something.”

Elmiyra crossed her arms. “So your plan is to… do nothing?”

Iliyria’s jaw clenched. “No. The plan is to wait for Kerrowyn to do what she does best.”

Elmiyra’s eyebrows arched, skepticism etched deep. “Kerrowyn Lightfoot? That’s your ace in the hole?”

“She’s already in Volfast,” Iliyria said. “If anyone can get Brynne and the rest out, it’s her. She’s got skills you and I don’t have anymore. Patience, for one.”

Elmiyra barked a sharp laugh, dry as a death rattle. “That woman has never been patient a day in her life.

Iliyria almost smiled at the accuracy of Elmiyra’s jab, but she let it pass. “Patience, maybe not,” she acquiesced. “But she’s better at slipping past trouble than either of us. And if we go stomping through Volfast in full regalia, we’ll spark a war. Kerrowyn barely needs a shadow to disappear into; we’re marching banners and bells by comparison.”

Elmiyra absorbed that, face impassive. For all the years they’d circled each other, sometimes as allies, sometimes as polite adversaries, there was never any winning an argument with Iliyria. At best, you could tie and call it a day.

"You have a point, our styles are not exactly…” she searched for the appropriate word and settled on “subtle. The Order would love nothing more than to display our corpses on their altar by dawn, with Brynne and the rest of your runners’ heads mounted nearby as proof of their reach."

“Kerrowyn won’t let that happen,” Iliyria said. “If she can’t get them out, no one can. And besides, the Council is already primed for a panic. If you die in Volfast, the city’s going to eat itself alive.”

“But you really think she cares enough to risk herself for a bunch of runners?”

Iliyria stepped closer. “She does, Alavara is her apprentice. Kerrowyn treats that elf like the Tower’s own heir. She’ll get them out, or she’ll die trying. You and I both know what she is capable of, when properly motivated.”

Elmiyra searched Iliyria’s face for a trace of sarcasm, but there was none. “You really believe that?”

“I do.” Iliyria’s voice softened. “And you should, too. Give her three days. If we haven’t heard from anyone in that time, we’ll go together. A two-woman army. Council or no Council.”

A long silence. Elmiyra let her arms drop, all the fight suddenly leaking out of her. “You promise?”

Iliyria managed a smile, the real thing this time. “I do.”

They lingered there, two women propped up by duty and affection and the endless inertia of responsibility. 

“I’ll tell the Queen to keep her eyes open,” Elmiyra said.

“I’ll tell Kerrowyn to hurry up,” Iliyria replied.

They parted at the nave, Elmiyra to her duties, Iliyria to hers. The day outside had not improved. If anything, the clouds had thickened, the air gone to sleet. At the threshold, she paused, letting the cold slap her awake.

She looked back once, half-expecting to see Elmiyra already at the lectern again, dispensing wisdom and dread in equal measure. Instead, the temple was empty, save for the ravens perched on the rafters. They watched her with unblinking, black eyes, and Iliyria felt the weight of the Raven Queen’s regard—heavy as ever, but maybe not as hopeless as she feared.

Iliyria drew her coat tight, set her jaw, and started toward the avenue that led back to the APS headquarters.

She kept walking. There was a city to protect, and a promise to keep.