“I have not forgotten that Helene’s a girl.”

“I’m not talking about physically. I’m talking about in her head. Girls think about things like this differently than we do. She’s in love with you. And whatever happened between you two is because of it. I promise you.”

It’s not true, my head tells me with the zeal of denial. Just lust. Not love.

Shut it, head, my heart says. I know Helene like I know fighting, like I know killing. I know the smell of her fear and the rawness of blood against her skin. I know that she flares her nostrils very slightly when she lies and that she puts her hands between her knees when she sleeps. I know the beautiful parts. The ugly parts.

Her anger at me is from a deep place. A dark place. A place she doesn’t admit she has. The day I looked at her so thoughtlessly, I made her think that maybe I had that place too. That maybe she wasn’t alone in that place.

“She’s my best friend,” I say to Tristas. “I can’t go down that road with her.”

“No, you can’t.” There’s sympathy in Tristas’s eyes. He knows what she means to me. “And that’s the problem.”

XXXI: Laia

My sleep is fitful and scanty, haunted by the Commandant’s threat.

Time enough for that yet. When I wake before dawn, scraps of nightmare stay with me: my face carved and branded; my brother hanging from the gallows, fair hair fluttering in the wind.

Think of something else. I close my eyes and see Keenan, remembering how he asked me to dance, so shy and unlike himself. That fire in his eyes as he spun me around—I thought it must mean something. But he left so abruptly. Is he all right? Did he escape the raid? Did he hear Veturius shout out the warning?

Veturius. I hear his laugh and smell the spice of his body, and I have to force those sensations away and replace them with the truth. He’s a Mask.

He’s the enemy.

Why did he help me? He risked imprisonment by doing so—worse than that, if rumors about the Black Guard and their purges are true. I can’t believe he did it solely for my benefit. A lark, then? Some sick Martial game I don’t yet understand?

Don’t stick around to find out, Laia, Darin whispers in my head. Get me out of here.

Footsteps shuffle in the kitchen—Cook making breakfast. If the old woman is up, Izzi won’t be far behind. I dress quickly, hoping to get to her before Cook sets us to our daily drudgery. Izzi will know of a secret entrance to the school.

But Izzi, it turns out, left early on an errand for Cook.

“She won’t be back until noon,” Cook informs me. “Not that it’s your concern.” The old woman points to a black folio on the table. “Commandant says you’re to take that folio to Spiro Teluman first thing, before attending to your other duties.”

I stifle a groan. I’ll just have to wait to talk to Izzi.

When I get to Teluman’s shop, I’m surprised to see the door open, the forge fire burning. Sweat streams down the smith’s face and into his burn-scarred jerkin as he hammers at a glowing chunk of steel. Beside him stands a Tribal girl clad in sheer, rose-colored robes, their hems embroidered with tiny round mirrors. The girl is murmuring something I can’t hear over the ringing of the hammer. Teluman nods a greeting at me but continues his conversation with the girl.

As I watch them speak, I realize she’s older than I first thought, perhaps in her midtwenties. Her silky black hair, shot through with fiery red, is done up in hundreds of tiny, intricate braids, and her dainty face is vaguely familiar. Then I recognize her: She danced with Veturius at the Moon Festival.

She shakes Teluman’s hand, offers him a sack of coins, and then makes her way out the forge’s back door with an appraising glance in my direction. Her eyes linger on my slaves’ cuffs, and I look away.

“Her name’s Afya Ara-Nur,” Spiro Teluman says when the woman is gone. “She’s the only female chieftain among the Tribes. One of the most dangerous women you’ll ever meet. Also one of the cleverest. Her tribe carries weapons to the Marinn branch of the Scholar’s Resistance.”

“Why are you telling me this?” What’s wrong with him? That’s the type of knowledge that will get me killed.

Spiro shrugs. “Your brother made most of the weapons she’s taking. I thought you’d want to know where they’re going.”

“No, I don’t want to know.” Why doesn’t he understand? “I want nothing to do with...whatever it is you’re doing. All I want is for things to go back to the way they were. Before you made my brother your apprentice. Before the Empire took him because of it.”

“You might as well wish away that scar.” Teluman nods to where my cloak has fallen open, revealing the Commandant’s K. Hastily, I pull the garment closed.

“Things will never go back to the way they were.” He flips the metal he’s shaping with a pair of tongs and continues hammering. “If the Empire freed Darin tomorrow, he’d come here and start making weapons again. His destiny is to rise, to help his people overthrow their oppressors. And mine is to help him do it.”

I’m so angry at Teluman’s presumption that I don’t think before I speak.

“So now you’re the savior of the Scholars, after spending years creating the weapons that have destroyed us?”

“I live with my sins every day.” He throws down the tongs and turns to me. “I live with the guilt. But there are two kinds of guilt, girl: the kind that drowns you until you’re useless, and the kind that fires your soul to purpose. The day I made my last weapon for the Empire, I drew a line in my mind. I’d never make a Martial blade again. I’d never have Scholar blood on my hands again. I won’t cross that line. I’ll die before I cross it.”