Peter leaned closer to the mirror until his face hovered inches away.

  His thumb and forefinger spread his eyelids wide.

  His dark brown eyes stared back, newly flecked with green.

  That was new—a biological mark indicating followers of Nyamar. Supposedly, as his boon expressions manifested, they could become more emerald and even luminescent.

  As long as he wasn’t broken.

  Peter sniffed as he pulled away from the mirror, his torso shirtless and toned. He grabbed a civilian’s grey shirt, ignoring the corporal and valet uniforms, which were folded on his bedside. A bed? How quaint; it hadn’t seen consistent use since he was assigned the quarters. He didn’t have time.

  As he pulled his shirt over his head, one particular line of logic repeated in his mind. He was exprite now, he had hoped to use that as a foil against his defects as a court, but what if his boon expressions didn’t work? What if the same thing that broke his court abilities somehow soiled his boons?

  He stared at a water pitcher on the table beside his bed and raised a hand. He focused, willing something to happen—a pulse—to roll from his hand and knock it over. Nothing. Muscles tensed, straining, but still no expression. He forced himself to focus harder, imagining it moving, shifting, flying across the room. After going cross-eyed and giving himself a headache, he sighed, giving up.

  It was probably baseless anxiety. Expressions were nothing like a Bedorvan that manifested the user's will, magnifying their power. Each boon was a discipline; it took training and practice.

  Yet, what if…?

  Peter threw one of his long black coats over his shoulder. He was half certain that his immortality kept the tailors on base in business. He went through clothes faster than a sick child went through tissues.

  He jammed his Hevigs into their holsters; he’d scuffed the polished wood on the left one’s handle, but Owan had recovered them and returned them. A new bayonet rode the sheath in his thigh, and he had another three in his rucksack.

  Finally, Van Gutter’s had gone on his head last, the dirty felt scuffed, but with a fresh turkey feather plume. Peter has added a tarnished silver rat skull charm to the front. A gift from Iris, won in a card game.

  Iris.

  Something panged in his chest. He needed to find her, to talk. After everything, he finally felt like he had a clear head. Why was it that whenever they were together, she irritated him like a fly buzzing about his ear, but when they separated, it triggered a fierce protectiveness?

  She was immature, sure, but was that any worse than being a jerk? He threw his pack over his shoulder and grabbed the latch to the door on the partition that coordinated off his ‘room’.

  He’d need to find her. With Cinder company still being out, foraging and looting, she could be anywhere, and this would be his last chance to say goodbye.

  He stepped out—and immediately ended his search.

  Iris and Isabella sat, leaning over a table in the knight's main chamber, chatting as casually as schoolgirl friends gossiping over tea, only instead of handling porcelain, they sharpened knives.

  Peter swallowed and approached, a pack heavy over his shoulder.

  The woman looked up as he stopped as close as he could. They both looked to be in their mid-thirties, but only Isabella carried herself like it.

  Iris rose, setting down her gleaming blade. “Peter?”

  Isabella leaned back, watching them quietly, like a coach who had drilled her prodigy with the next play.

  “Hey, Iris,” Peter mumbled, rubbing his neck.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where? Isabella won’t tell me.”

  “That would be because it’s classified,” Peter said.

  “But you can tell me,” she assured him.

  There she went again; she just could not take things seriously—Peter pinched himself. Patience. He had to be the adult here. “Look, Iris, that’s horrible OPSEC. A private separated from her unit without any assignments whatsoever does not have a need to know.”

  “You’re going to Stalpia, aren’t you?”

  Peter’s eyes snapped up, inadvertently answering the question.

  “Some of the men heard the Rahashelian emissary speaking about it. Why are you going with him, Peter?”

  “Classified,” Peter murmured. “And I can neither confirm nor deny any plans to go to Stalpia.”

  Iris rolled her eyes, then her gaze lifted back to his, too young through those older eyes. “You’re going to try and kill him, aren’t you?”

  First chance I get. Peter didn’t say it. He inhaled. “Whatever I’m doing, I’ll be safe. I’ll be with some of our best soldiers.”

  “Julian?” Iris asked.

  Peter shook his head. “I’m not supposed to talk about who's involved either.”

  She stared pointedly.

  “Kulafu, and Van Den Hoek,” Peter surrendered.

  She folded her arms. “Good. I’m coming too.”

  Peter flinched. “What? No! No, no, no, no; a thousand times no!”

  “Peter, you saved me, and now it’s my turn to keep you alive.”

  “Iris! I’m a court! You know I can’t die.”

  Iris’ voice softened. “We both know that’s not true. I know about druks. You look at the one Julian carries every time he walks in. I’ve never seen such an expression on anyone before, Peter. I care about you, and I know how much just seeing that thing hurts you.”

  “You really care about me?” Peter asked,

  Iris’ eyes gleamed. “You know I do.”

  “Then stay far away from Stalpia.”

  Iris grunted in frustration, and Peter could have sworn the exclamation sounded a lot like the word “Boys”.

  Isabella reached out from behind Iris and put her hand on Iris’ shoulder. “I’m staying,” Isabella said. “I could use your help.”

  “Thanks, Ella,” her face clouded. “But I can see when I’m just baggage.”

  “No,” Isabella countered, “I need all the hands I can get. Who else is going to help me keep the boys alive?”

  As she said it, the door to the Knight's tomb slammed open, and Owen and Van Dijk came running in. Van Dijk howled as he clutched his wrist and blew on his hand.

  “I told you it was hot, idiot!” Owen growled.

  Isabella gestured towards the two intruding knights, as if to say, See what I’m saying?

  Iris smiled as Van Dijk rushed to plunge his hand in a pitcher of water. “You’re too good to me, Isabella.”

  “Of course, Iris; we’ve got to stick together.”

  Iris let out a quick, grateful laugh before bumping shoulders with Isabella and stepping back. Peter caught a subtle nod from Isabella, and he mouthed the word thanks.

  “Things are going to change around here,” Peter warned Iris. “Stick close to Isabella and the commandant, okay?”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “You make it sound like you’ll be gone for a while,” Iris said.

  “I doubt that,” Peter lied, trying not to think about the fact that this could be the last time he saw her.

  Someone knocked on the door and turned to Julian, standing in the doorway.

  Owen and Van Dijk stopped arguing only long enough to greet the steward.

  “Peter, a word?”

  They entered the storage tomb, which the House had co-opted as their headquarters until they could repair their estate tent.

  Julian ducked under rifle straps dangling from a caged enclosure and slid past shelves of boots in every size. The musk of old leather and dirty oil clung to the air like smoke from a dying fire.

  Peter followed until they came to a desk in a vaguely empty cavity amidst the gear hanging on hooks, lined on shelves, or piled in heaps. Further in, scent shifted to dust and faint mildew.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to speak with you yet,” Julian said, turning and leaning back against the desk. “We’ve had a lot of work to do.”

  “I understand,” Peter said. “Good thing you caught me before I left. This is our last chance to touch base.”

  Julian’s head cocked. “What do you mean? I’m going with you.”

  “What?” Peter cried. A weight lifted from his shoulders. “But the House?”

  “—Is in order,” Julian said. “You and I are going to kill Rahashel while they begin training and recruiting.

  “I—I thought you’d be too busy.”

  “To destroy that monster?” Julian snorted. “Never. Anton will fill in for me.”

  Peter grinned. Julian was the coalition's greatest weapon, trained in all of the combative boon disciplines; he had been the one who had exterminated most of Rahashel’s elderwights.

  “I’m also going to see to your training personally,” he added. “We’ll determine your aptitude and exploit it.”

  Peter bit down, nudging an empty bullet box with his foot. “Julian, what if I can’t—” he didn’t know how to finish.

  Julian shrugged. “People who can’t express after awakening are very rare, but in that unlikely event, then we’ll just do this the old-fashioned way. Worked for us before.”

  Peter’s smile was all gratitude. “So what’d you need to talk to me about?” he asked.

  A green flame snaked around Julian’s arm, revealing a metal band of green runes, entirely different from the Voor figures on Peters. He slipped it off. “Peter, let me see your Bedorvan.”

  Peter tensed, freezing in place. That was the one thing he was supposed to never do.

  “It’s okay,” Julian assured him. “I only want to borrow it briefly.”

  Peter’s hand tightened around the circlet on his arm. “We just discovered Rahashel can make ghouls that can pass for human, make them look like anyone. This would be a really smart way to get me to hand it over to an agent.”

  Julian dropped his hand, turning his band over in his fingers. “That’s good to know,” he stroked his chin, considering. “Okay. How about some evidence? I pulled a druk from you outside of Stalpia. You were the one who recommended using the sewers to rob Rahashel’s tiles. Your mother's name is Tess Kroon.”

  Peter nodded, satisfied. He’d told few people his mother’s name, and few were present when he’d proposed a second heist on Rahashe’s time vault, and only he and Julian were present when the steward dug the druk from his gut.

  He slid the bedorven off.

  There was no internal change, no feeling to indicate his return to mortality, but his skin crawled with the cold logic of vulnerability.

  He extended it, and Julian accepted it, tapping the two rings together. The Bedorven clicked in its raspy whisper.

  “What’s yours?” Peter asked as Julian watched the rings, brow bent in focus.

  “That’s one of Nyamar’s greatest secrets.”

  “Oh,” Peter said, slumping in disappointment.

  “Reserved only for Nyamar’s servants.”

  “Wait,” Peter leaned against a metal shelf, folding his arms. “Do I qualify?”

  Julian pulled the bands apart and slipped his back in. “Yes, you do.” He frowned, looking down. “What do you think?”

  “What do I think it is?” Peter asked. “No idea. An athanium artifact.”

  Julian grimaced apologetically. “Sorry, Peter—wasn’t talking to you.” He he tilted his head, listening to his band. “Mhmm … hmmm. I thought so.”

  “Are you—” Peter’s brow shot up. “—talking to your band?”

  Julian glanced at Peter. “Yeah. And mine’s called a Verdart. And I just found out that your band, like mine, is the heart of a planet.”

  Peter started. “A what now?”

  “The physical manifestation of a planet's consciousness, formed in the world’s core during creation.”

  Peter waved his arms in front of him.“Wait. You’re telling me, planets are alive?”

  “‘Course they are,” Julian said. “You know that everything has a soul, right?”

  “Yeah, but I would’ve thought a planet’s soul would be scattered—minerals, rocks, dirt.”

  “You’re made of simpler organisms, too,” Julian said. “Every cell in your body carries an independent rudimentary anima sequence.”

  “But—” Peter gawked. “You were talking to it.”

  “Talking to her,” Julian corrected. “Boslic is female. She says hi.”

  “Planets are intelligent? They’re gendered now?” Just when Peter thought he finally understood metabiology, Julian went and made him feel like a kid who’d only learned half the alphabet.

  Julian grinned at last, showing the satisfaction he took in upending Peter’s understanding of everything.

  Peter looked down at the stone at his feet. Boslic, the planet on which he stood. “You mean to tell me that the planet, this planet, has a soul… and you wear it on your arm?”

  “Not its soul, its heart,” Julian corrected. “My holy calling is Steward of this world and its inhabitants. People always assume that means plants and animals, but they’re missing an important piece. I am Boslic’s current companion.”

  Peter stared at the green runes on the Verldart. “Those figures, they’re Aklo, aren’t they?”

  Julian nodded. “Language of light. Intelligence. Nyamar’s right hand.”

  “And the court script on the Bedorvan is Voor.”

  This time, it was Julian’s turn to look surprised. “How did you know about that? I only learned that myself two days ago.”

  “Rahashel told me,” Peter said.

  Julian rolled the Bedorven in his hands. “Voor’s the programming language of time, Nyamar’s left hand. It’s not evil, Peter. Not inherently. But there’s a third script, Chian. That one is true corruption. I don’t think it has ever appeared in our system.”

  Julian extended the Bedorvan back to Peter.

  He took it, hurriedly slipping it back on. “So how does Voor work with an anima sequence? How can they reprogram a corpse to walk and obey?”

  Julian shook his head. “I can’t comprehend how they interplay with each other. “Nyamar never gifted us with the knowledge of Voor, only Aklo. That’s your new stewardship, Peter. Find out.”

  Julian hesitated, thinking. “When we awaken new exprites, we give them all the stewardship to stop the resurgence of Ataggin, but I didn’t give it to you, Peter. Not because you’re an exception, but because I need you focused.”

  Peter nodded, understanding. If that was Nyamar’s role for him, he’d take it seriously.

  Julian tapped the Verldart. “When I connected the bands, Boslic tried communicating with the court band. She says she couldn’t understand her.”

  “My Bedorvan’s also female?” Peter thought back to when he attacked the Library in Stalpia. The band seemed to be urging him on, speaking in clicks and breaths, none of which Peter understood.

  “She tries speaking to me,” he said. “Pretty regularly. I just didn’t understand her.”

  Julian nodded. “Our bands can’t communicate clearly. I’m not sure if it’s a language issue … or because your Bedorvan’s world is dead.”

  “Dead?” Peter echoed, glancing down, uneasy about wearing a dead planet's heart like an ornament.

  “It might be a fair assumption that all of the Bedorvans were harvested from dead planets,” Julian continued, “but death isn’t the driving power here. Time is.”

  Peter frowned, shaking all the unanswerable questions from his head. “Julian, do you have my Necronomicon? Rahashel hinted that it contained everything we needed to know about Voor.”

  “Of course. I’ll get it back to you.”

  Peter considered something. “Were you able to translate the scoreboard?” he asked.

  Julian folded his arms. “I was going to tell you about that, but it looks like Rahashel beat me to it?”

  “Yeah,” Peter said. “I just wanted to verify his story. Am I second from the last?” Julian nodded. “The final slot’s inactive.”

  “It’s for a court called Atlas,” Peter explained, nodding as the corroboration of Rahashel’s story. “Apparently, he’s hiding among the mortals. Where was Libshee on the list?”

  Julian’s face twisted in recall. “Somewhere around twenty?”

  “And Rahashel?” Peter asked.

  “Nine.”

  Peter froze, a grin spreading across his face.

  “What?”

  “Rahashel said he’d fallen below forty.”

  “He could have,” Julian said. “Those names move around.”

  “I don’t think he did,” Peter said. “It seems Rahashel wants us to believe he’s weaker than he really is.”

  Julian stroked his chin. “Did Van Graif give you a mission for Stalpia?”

  Peter yanked his trench bayonet out of its scabbard, turning it over in his fist. “Yes. Find Rahashel’s lies. Unravel his plans. Kill him when the chance comes. Take his Bedorven and use it to face Lady Libshee.”

  He had been drilling those objectives into himself in every silent moment.

  “Good. Ready for your House directives?”

  Peter looked up, a sarcastic smile creeping over his face. “That wasn’t enough for you?”

  “First, master and develop your boon expressions. Next: learn how to program Voor.”

  “Become a lich,” Peter said flatly.

  Julian blinked.

  “Liches are just people who can program Voor,” Peter explained.

  “Very well then. And for your final mission—” Julian dug in his pocket and produced a small, radiant green stone on a cord. He let it swing. “Do you know what this is?”

  Peter nodded. “Veralumite, Seer stone, Truthstone. Has a dozen names.” His eyes widened. “The Estate basement we flooded!”

  Julian winced. “We usually build our Estates on top of Veralumite deposits. When none are available, they start to grow naturally in the under chamber.”

  “Wow,” Peter said. “The house needs those Veralumite deposits. It’s like fuel for some expressions.”

  “That’s a lot of firepower that we’ll need.”

  “You want me to get it?” Peter asked.

  “We need to get it,” Julian corrected, holding the veralumite pendant out. “We’re in this together.”

  Peter slid his knife back into its sheath, accepted the cord, and grinned. “Now I have eight objectives, between the House and Nine Fingers. I wanted more action, but this is way beyond the front line.”

  “We’ve got this,” Julian said. “One new Bedorvan plus all of the estate’s Veralumite deposits. I think it’s time for a major power-up.”

  Peter clenched the pendant until its glassy edges bit into his palm. Eight objectives. Two courts. No way back.