Archon Menekrates stood before the bronze mirror, running his fingers through his beard. The oil gleamed in the afternoon light, each hair perfectly in place, trimmed in the style he'd cultivated over the years. Distinguished. Authoritative. The beard of a man who commanded respect.

  He gave himself a small nod in the mirror. Excellent.

  A knock came at the door.

  "What is it?" he called, not turning from his reflection.

  "The escort has returned, Archon," a servant's voice answered from the hall. "The men who took the exile to Silesia."

  Menekrates turned from the mirror. "Send them in."

  The door opened and Ailomisos entered first, Pammon followed behind. Both men stopped at the appropriate distance and pressed their fists to their chest.

  Menekrates's eyes swept over them. Two men, not the three he was expecting.

  "The girl has been delivered to Silesia, Archon," Ailomisos said.

  So Chrestos had failed. Dead, most likely.

  "I trust the journey was uneventful?" Menekrates asked.

  "No, Archon," Pammon said. "Chrestos is dead."

  Menekrates kept his face perfectly neutral. "What happened?"

  Pammon shifted uncomfortably. "We're… not sure. First night at the inn, Chrestos was on guard duty. We heard a noise and went to her room. When we got there, she was still in bed, under the covers. Chrestos was on the floor. His head was... missing. We don't know what happened. She didn't explain. All she said was that he tried to kill her, and if we didn't leave in three seconds, she'd assume we were there to kill her too."

  Menekrates absorbed this silently. Three seconds. The apple had not fallen far from the tree.

  Chrestos had been experienced. Expensive. Not the kind of man who made simple mistakes. If he was dead, that meant the girl was far more capable than she should be at her level.

  She'd taken [Katarologa] after all, then. Like her mother. A freshly-classed witch shouldn't have been able to kill a man like Chrestos, and yet she had. To make matters worse, she knew exactly what she could do, and didn’t hesitate to do it.

  He should have executed her when he had the chance.

  Too late for that now. But he could still ensure she would die in Silesia, before his decision to exile rather than execute her came back to haunt him. If she hadn't wanted revenge before—for her friend, for the exile—she would want it now. And if she was allowed to grow stronger, if she leveled unchecked, she might actually become capable of it.

  At her current level, she was no threat to him. But given time? Given opportunity?

  That could not be allowed.

  "I see," Menekrates said. "The High Priestess will be pleased to hear her daughter arrived safely. Was there anything else?"

  "Yes, Archon," Pammon said. "She's fast. Incredibly fast. She has these pistols—she'd draw and shoot and holster them so quickly you could barely see it happen. On the road, she'd shoot flies and mosquitos out of the air. She wouldn't kill them, just shoot the wings off and laugh as they fell. I never saw her reload, but she never seemed to run out of ammunition."

  Menekrates considered this new information. Some kind of enhancement, then. A spell or skill that granted unnatural speed. That would explain how she got the drop on Chrestos.

  So she had a spell that could make heads explode and speed that made her nearly impossible to track. A dangerous combination. Kalliope must have told her what skills to take.

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  "Was that it?" Menekrates asked.

  Ailomisos grunted. "She talked to the cat. Constantly. Full conversations, like it was talking back. Something's wrong with her. She might be unstable, or insane."

  Menekrates considered that. Women often talked to their cats, treating them as confidants—or worse, as children. Still, if she truly was unstable, that made her unpredictable. And unpredictable meant dangerous.

  "Other than that, she gave you no trouble?" Menekrates asked.

  "No," Pammon said. "She seemed fine with staying in Silesia. Didn't argue or try to turn back."

  Perhaps she didn't realize how dangerous Silesia was for witches. Menekrates dismissed that thought almost immediately. If she hadn't known herself, Kalliope would have made it abundantly clear. No, the girl was probably fine with it because she thought she could handle it without trouble. Considering what she'd done to Menandros and Chrestos, she might even be right.

  He'd underestimated her. A mistake. One he was beginning to feel the weight of.

  Too late now. The past couldn't be changed.

  "Good," he said. "You may leave."

  Pammon shifted nervously.

  "What?" Menekrates asked.

  Pammon looked deeply uncomfortable, eyes fixed on the floor.

  "Spit it out, boy."

  Pammon swallowed. "She... she asked us to give you a message. Said it was very important. That we had to tell you word for word."

  "Go on."

  "She said to tell you that your beard looks stupid and your sandals are ugly."

  Silence filled the room as fury rose in Menekrates's chest, but his expression didn’t move. His hand twitched toward his beard before he stopped himself. He had to fight the urge to look in the mirror.

  Then came something worse than anger: a flicker of fear. She’d insulted him after he’d sent an assassin to kill her. After everything, she didn’t fear him at all.

  Was she truly insane, or had he created a monster?

  "I see," Menekrates said. "You're dismissed."

  Both men pressed a fist to their chest, then left quickly.

  After the door closed Menekrates turned back to the mirror and studied his reflection. He always thought his beard looked distinguished and authoritative. He frowned. Was it stupid?

  "Briseis," he called to the servant he knew was standing outside the door.

  She entered immediately. "Yes, Archon?"

  He gestured toward his face. "My beard. What do you think of it?"

  She hesitated. "It's… very dignified and respectable, Archon. It suits you well."

  He studied her expression. Was that hesitation… pity?

  "You may leave," he said.

  She bowed and left.

  Menekrates turned back to the mirror. The beard stared back at him. Dignified. Respectable. Stupid.

  The word echoed in his head.

  He tried to push it away, focus on something else, but the word had taken hold. She'd gotten into his head. That insufferable girl had planted seeds of doubt with nothing but a petty insult, and now he couldn't stop seeing his reflection through her eyes.

  He walked to the entrance hall, picked up his sandals, and tossed them into the corner.

  Tomorrow he'd get new ones.

  ***

  Three days later, Menekrates summoned Pammon to his study.

  The young guard entered, eyes widening for just a moment before he caught himself and pressed a fist to his chest. "You wanted to see me, Archon?"

  Menekrates gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."

  Pammon sat, still looking slightly off-balance.

  "I have a task for you," Menekrates said. "You're going to deliver a letter to King Boleswav of Silesia."

  "Archon, I'm not a messenger, I'm a guard—"

  "You traveled with her for weeks," Menekrates interrupted. "You know what she’s like, what she's capable of. That makes you the ideal person to brief the King on what he's dealing with."

  Pammon opened his mouth as if to argue, but closed it again.

  "A dangerous criminal has entered Silesian territory," Menekrates continued. "The King deserves to be warned, as a courtesy between rulers."

  "But she was exiled legally," Pammon protested. "We delivered her ourselves."

  "The method of her arrival is irrelevant to the Silesians. What matters is that a witch who has murdered multiple people is now loose in their kingdom." Menekrates picked up a sealed letter from his desk. "Everything is detailed here. Her name, description, abilities. You will deliver this personally and answer any questions the King has about what you witnessed."

  Pammon took the letter slowly, staring at the seal.

  "You leave at dawn," Menekrates said. "And Pammon?"

  "Yes, Archon?"

  "Make certain the King understands how dangerous she is. Don’t let them underestimate her."

  Pammon nodded stiffly. "Understood, Archon."

  "Good. Dismissed."

  Pammon stood, pressed a fist to his chest again, and left holding the letter.

  Menekrates leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a thin smile. Let her think she'd escaped. Let her think exile was the end of it. She would learn soon enough.

  He rose and moved to the bronze mirror. His jaw was clean-shaven now, sharp and defined. The beard had been holding him back, it made him look older, softer than he actually was. Getting rid of it had nothing to do with what she'd said. It was simply overdue. He should have done it years ago. He looked younger now. Stronger. More dangerous.

  His eyes dropped to his feet. The new sandals were far superior to the old ones. Simple, elegant, well-crafted. The previous pair had been worn out anyway. Practically falling apart. He’d been meaning to replace them for months.

  The girl had thought herself so clever with her petty insult. Thought she could wound him with childish mockery. She was wrong. All she'd done was help him see what needed changing.

  His reflection smiled back at him.

  Who's stupid now?

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