Amyra peered between robust trunks of trees, heavy eyes catching a drifting tangle of shuffling earthen tones. To force herself to wake up, she stood and tightened the wraps of crumpled dark fabric around her shoulders. Never in her life, she had needed to focus on a task more. And she was failing miserably.

It was the third morning she had returned near the rubbles of the old palace of river trades. On a mound that allowed her a safe sight of the entry of the palace, she kept an eye on the uniformless guards watching the area. She risked her life.

The Mistress had summoned her there four days prior and Amyra hadn't shown despite promising so. Yet, her choice was irrevocable. Mistress Anya was capable of unimaginable atrocities: using Una, and Amyra was certain, countless others with supernatural talents as meaningless and disposable tools for the revolution. Amyra would get Una by her own means.

There were others like her, being bribed into helping the revolution with false promises of getting family members back. Her best chance was to join forces with an active revolutionary with a common goal. Amyra waited patiently. She knew sooner or later one would show up.

The start of the solar-arc was leaving place to the dawn's dimness and distant howling of wild dogs. A blow beat against the edge of the mound where Amyra hid, sending rattling dry leaves rolling across undefined paths. Amyra kept one hand on the trunk of the tree beside her, to mount if wild dogs approached.

Where the rubbles of the old palace of river trades thickened, there was still no trace of movement. Her stomach grumbled. She reached inside her pocket and retrieved the last piece of pear-bread she had left and ate it with both satisfaction and apprehension. The nearest villages where she could trade small work for food were three thousand gallops away. She was tired, almost drifting to sleep. And the prospect of coming face to face with a wild dog... She couldn't afford injuries or infections.

She rubbed the bread crumbs away on her garment and leaned against the trunk, tempted to doze off. The fatigue of spending three nights in a row in cold, hard places was muscle-stiffening. Still, Amyra had not once managed to sleep interrupted from deepnight to dawn. She would rather believe it was Una's absence making her restless. But in her short dreams, she saw Heron instead, welcoming her into his chambers, feeding her with swine roasted with lemon vinegar, marinated with flower liquors. Then, walking behind her and slitting her throat with Baalkan.

The Sacred Blade of Justice was no coincidence. She had sinned against the Ancients, tainted her soul terribly. How could have she been so blind not to recognize The Mistress' cruelty sooner?

Amyra asked for forgiveness from the Ancients one more time. Had she not failed her mission, she would have condemned two innocents, one to death and the other to being used as a weapon perpetually. "If I get out of this, I promise to amend things," she vowed.

A periodic rattling of leaves sounded from nearby. She straightened, taking care to keep her feet planted on the ground, and stared towards the path, bracing for what remained to come, tension rendering her stiff all over. She was cautious even of her breathing.

The sounds increased in frequency and intensity. Paces. Boots crunching fallen branches. Amyra crouched for cover behind the shrubs between her and the path twenty strides to the right. The newcomer was closing in. She ached with curiosity for the sight of the face. But suddenly, the paces on the ground ceased. The newcomer was outside of earshot surprisingly fast. Maybe they had already presented themselves to The Mistress.

She turned to the old edifice and stood cautiously, staring beyond the tangle of trees. No one was there. Instinctively she turned towards the path that descended to the building. And there he stood. They stared at each other; his face unreadable beneath all the facial hair. As if he'd seen but trees, rocks, and empty forest grounds, he turned away, ignoring her, resuming his walk to the decaying building.

In an awfully delayed response, Amyra fell into a crouch, trembling. Ancients, she recognized him: a royal guard. All this time she hadn't been the only one working for the revolution inside the royal domain. Why had The Mistress isolated all of them? Her ignorance of the role she had been playing for the revolution, on what else she didn't fathom frightened her terribly. She was unprepared to be there. Her thoughts were spiraling out of control. But she couldn't afford to fall prey to desperation now. "Ancients, don't forsake me, I'm pleading. Grant me this at least." The man probably knew as little as she did. "He's my best chance," she muttered to reassure herself, but her feet ached to flee. "I won't leave now." It had been three days of waiting, after two years of wasted work.

This could be her last opportunity to get to Una. She walked several strides away deeper into the forest, climbing a slope where she could still keep her sight on the palace of river trade while hiding from the soldier in case he returned.

Amyra's pulse raced when Mistress Anya appeared in front of the building, her elegant gait lazy and controlled. She halted in front of the palace and watched around, eyes never turning to Amyra's direction. She waited, heart thrumming in her chest all along. The encounter took a long time and when the man left the old palace solar-arc had already chased away any sign of dawn.

She steeled herself. There were no signs of injury or pain in him. Maybe he had accomplished the mission The Mistress had entrusted him, unlike Amyra. A new plan to get to Heron? The revolution aimed to dethrone The Monarchy most of all. The Mistress's need to have the heir alive still wasn't clear to Amyra. Heron too was to be used as a tool for The Mistress to get the ruling council to submit to her will. A bad calculation on The Mistress' part. Unfortunately for Heron, Amyra suspected that if a choice had to be made between his life and the security of the Monarchy, the latter would supersede. If they ran out of legitimate heirs, a bastard would cut it. After all, Mainor had had as much royal blood from the original lineage of monarchs as Heron.

Amyra tried her best to catch on the sound of the man's footfalls but they never echoed. It had been the second time that happened, the man certainly already had his eyes set on her. She crouched for coverage and kept her breathing as inaudible as she could muster. Unbearable silence promised all imaginable outcomes. Knees pressed onto the humid dirt of dead leaves and decomposed bark, she peered around.

A shuffle of feet sounded behind her like a swift snake glide, she hadn't the time to turn around. Her neck had already been seized by a strong grip, propelling her forward into a crush of her temple against rough bark. The world seemed to explode around her. Her head had taken the hit alone but she was unable to use even her limbs, her hands feeble only managing to grab a tree for balance. The large hand gripped her neck again, pulling her back on her track into a graceless slump on the ground. She had made the choice not to scream, but she wasn't sure she could withstand the pain just granting for longer.

In his hands, chains rattled.

"Please," Amyra said. "I want to help. She has my sister," Amyra said. "The Mistress. She'd promised me she would give me my sister if I brought the next Monarch to her. She lied. She's using us as pawns for personal gain."

The man – the soldier that had been sent to the blackcircle with Davir for his trial, Amyra now recognized – didn't seem a nail fazed, resuming his work, he used the chains to imprison her.

"I was working for her. She almost killed me because I wasn't able to bring her the heir to the Monarchy." The soldier was already dragging her to the path leading to the building, taking her to The Mistress. "My sister has special talents," Amyra said in despair. "Supernatural ones. She can heal any wounds or illness."

The man halted. No sign of surprise. No insinuation of blasphemy. And the sudden attentive stare he cast towards Amyra. He knew. He knew what Amyra referring to. Allowing herself to feel the relief, she pressed with all the confidence she could manage, "The Mistress is using you as a tool," Amyra pressed. "She too wields the supernatural. I have been trying to get my sister back for two years. Complying with her orders. You know how secure the royal domain is, it was no easy work. But the last time I encountered The Mistress she almost killed me because she judges I wasn't useful enough anymore. I know she is using bribery against you too. And I know you're aware she's not to be trusted. She's powerful but not invincible. Let's work together on our own terms now. We will have a better chance."

The man halted and pushed Amyra back in their tracks. Amyra flinched, braced for a hit that never landed. His gaze wandered around for a while, scrutinizing the surroundings. "You'll get out here and never get back," he said the words slowly, ruddy lips twisting beneath a thick beard where mingled brown and blond hairs. "In a week, be at the C-D.3rd-B.7/87, at the end of the solar-arc." He repeated the address in the long, lazy northerner way to speak. "Ask to see me, Bjon. I will be there," he said. "Go now."