The warmth of the feast curdled in an instant.

  One moment the hall still smelled of roasted quail and spiced wine; the next it was leather, steel, and the hot tang of fear. Soldiers surged past in a river of torchlight and shadow, boots striking the stone like hammers. The sound rebounded off the vaulted ceilings until it felt as though the keep itself was ringing the alarm.

  Fran flattened against the wall as a knot of men barreled past with armfuls of arrows, the bright fletching flashing like startled birds. Servants darted the other way with linens and water casks, glancing over their shoulders as though expecting the shadows to sprout blades.

  “The outer scouts report multiple groups moving toward the walls,” Verren continued, his voice tight with new urgency. Behind him came two of her ducal guards, their faces grim beneath their helms. “Coordinated. Professional.”

  “How many?” she asked, proud that her voice came out steady.

  “Unknown. They’re moving in small groups under cover of smoke. Could be thirty, could be sixty.” Verren’s jaw was tight. “Captain Serwin requests your presence in the command room, but...”

  “But?”

  “Your Grace, with respect, this isn’t a matter for council chambers. This is steel and fire. You should be somewhere safe.”

  The words stung because they were true. She wasn’t a military commander. She was a woman who’d learned statecraft from books and healing from necessity, thrust into a role she’d never expected to inherit. But she was also the Duchess of Foher, and these were her people bleeding in her name.

  “Safe,” she cut in, “is not the same as useful.” Her tone was flat, but the decision was already taking shape in her mind. “If there are wounded, they’ll go to the chapel. Mother Elna will need help.”

  Verren hesitated. “Then at least take—”

  “Four guards with me,” she finished for him. “Send the rest where Captain Serwin needs them most.”

  The deep groan of the portcullis lowering rumbled through the walls, followed by the rattle of chains and the bark of orders from the courtyard. Through an open arch she caught a glimpse of Alven Daskar on the wall, spear in hand, rallying men at the gate — a soldier to the bone, even with wine still on his breath.

  She turned toward the outer stair, the stone already cold beneath her boots. “We don’t have time to argue, Lieutenant.”

  They broke apart in the yard: Fran vanishing into the smoke toward the chapel, Verren angling north with the rest of his men.

  The north quarter of Durnhal reeked of smoke and terror.

  Verren led his remaining six ducal guards through streets transformed into a maze of orange flame and shifting shadows. The timber-fronted houses seemed to lean in on them like drunken giants, their windows reflecting the fires that bloomed in doorways and courtyards. The cobblestones were slick with something dark that could have been water or blood, and the air tasted of burning thatch and fear.

  “Movement ahead!” Sergeant Cale, the most experienced of his guards, pointed toward the grain storage. Dark figures swarmed around blazing hay carts like ants around spilled honey. “Eight of them, maybe more!”

  Verren’s hand found his sword hilt, the familiar leather grip worn smooth by years of practice. Around him, his men formed up with the fluid precision of soldiers who’d trained together, fought together, bled together. These weren’t raw recruits—they were handpicked veterans, loyal to the Duchess and skilled with their weapons.

  But as they closed the distance, Verren could see they were facing professionals too. The raiders moved with purpose, one group keeping watch while others loaded grain sacks onto a hastily assembled cart. When they spotted the approaching guards, they didn’t scatter like common bandits. They formed a line.

  The first clash rang out like a bell tolling doom. Verren’s sword met a raider’s axe in a shower of sparks, the impact traveling up his arm like lightning. The man was strong, bearded, with the kind of scars that spoke of many battles survived. But Verren had been training with a blade since he was old enough to hold one.

  He twisted, used the axe-man’s momentum against him, and opened his throat with a quick draw cut. Hot blood sprayed across the cobblestones.

  Around him, the fight exploded into chaos. Steel rang against steel with a sound like broken music. Someone screamed — high, piercing, the kind of sound that came from a man who knew he was dying. One of his guards, young Tomec, took a spear point in the shoulder and stumbled, but kept fighting with grim determination.

  “Push them back!” Verren shouted over the din, parrying a thrust that would have opened his belly. “Don’t let them reach the main stores!”

  But even as his men drove the raiders back step by bloody step, he could see smoke rising from other quarters. This wasn’t a single attack — it was coordinated, multiple strikes designed to spread the defenders thin.

  That was when he heard the running footsteps.

  A boy burst from the smoke-filled alley, couldn’t have been more than fifteen, his face streaked with soot and wide with terror. One of the local runners, probably pressed into service when the bells started ringing.

  “Lieutenant! Armed men spotted near the chapel! Five or six of them, moving through the back streets!”

  The chapel. Where the Duchess was.

  His mind split in two directions — the grain stores here, or the woman he was sworn to protect. It wasn’t a choice at all.

  “Cale!” he barked to his sergeant. “Take command here. Drive them off and secure the stores.”

  “Sir, where are you —”

  But Verren was already running, his boots pounding against the cobblestones as he sprinted toward the chapel district. Behind him, the sounds of battle continued, but they seemed muffled now, distant. All that mattered was reaching the chapel before the raiders did.

  The chapel’s bell tower loomed through the smoke ahead, its black spire cutting into a sky smeared with firelight. Outside, Durnhal burned and bled under a sky stained orange with firelight. Inside, the stone walls muffled the sounds of battle to a distant rumble, and the air was warm with candlelight and human breath. But it was the smells that struck Fran most forcefully: the metallic tang of blood, sharp and copper-bright, mixing with the herbal scent of healing salves and the lingering ghost of incense.

  Mother Elna looked up from where she knelt beside a cot, her grey habit already stained dark across the front. Her sleeves were rolled high, revealing forearms marked with old scars — a healer’s hands, marked by years of dealing with sharp instruments and desperate patients.

  “Your Grace,” she said, her voice calm despite the chaos. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  The chapel was fuller than it had been that morning. Cots crowded every span of floor, pressed so close that the nurses had to turn sideways to pass. The scent of incense was gone, swallowed by blood and burned cloth. At the altar, the neatly stacked supplies she had seen hours ago were already dwindling — jars uncorked, linen strips stained red and heaped in basins for washing.

  And everywhere, the wounded.

  A soldier lay on a makeshift stretcher, his left arm bent at an angle that made Fran’s stomach clench. His face was grey with pain, but his eyes tracked her movement with the alertness of a man fighting to stay conscious. Beside him, a young woman from the town worked over a farmer whose hands were raw and blistered from fighting fires, the skin peeling back in sheets that showed angry red flesh beneath.

  Fran moved between the cots, her healer’s training taking over. Here, at least, she knew what to do — clean, bind, keep them breathing. She knelt beside the soldier with the broken arm, her fingers gentle as she checked his pulse—rapid, but strong.

  “What’s your name?” she asked quietly.

  “Willem, Your Grace. Willem of Storks’ Bridge.” His voice was tight with pain, but he managed a weak smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “How did this happen, Willem?”

  “Spear thrust. I got my shield up, but the bastard twisted at the last second. Felt the bone snap like a dry branch.” He tried to shift position and immediately went pale. “Begging your pardon for the language, Your Grace.”

  “I’ve heard worse.” Fran examined the break, her touch careful but thorough. “The bone’s displaced, but it’s a clean break. We can set it, but you’ll need to stay still.”

  As she worked, Willem kept talking—partly from nerves, partly to stay conscious. “They knew exactly where to hit us, Your Grace. The grain stores, the well house, even the stable where we keep the messenger horses. Like they’d been watching us for weeks.”

  The words sent a chill down Fran’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold air seeping through the chapel’s broken windows. Professional reconnaissance. Coordinated strikes. This wasn’t the desperate raiding of hungry mercenaries — this was warfare.

  A new patient arrived as she finished splinting Willem’s arm. Two men carried a woman between them, her dress torn and bloody, her face slack with unconsciousness. Burns covered her left side — not the clean burns of a forge fire, but the raw, weeping wounds that came from burning oil or pitch.

  Fran and Elna worked together without words, their hands moving in the rhythm of shared experience. Clean the wound. Apply salve. Bandage carefully but not too tight. Keep the patient warm. Watch for signs of shock or infection.

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  Outside, the sounds of battle seemed to be growing closer. The ring of steel on steel, the shouts of men fighting for their lives, the terrible scream of horses in pain. A deep boom shook the chapel’s narrow windows, rattling the colored glass in its lead settings. Several patients whimpered. One of the children began to cry, a thin, frightened sound that cut through the other noise like a blade.

  That was when Fran heard the footsteps outside. Heavy boots moving fast, but not in the organized rhythm of soldiers on patrol. Something more purposeful. More predatory.

  She looked toward the door just as it exploded inward.

  The thick oak planks, reinforced with iron bands and meant to withstand siege, splintered like kindling under the impact of whatever hit it. Splinters flew across the chapel floor, some large enough to draw blood from the patients cowering in their cots. The sound was like thunder trapped in stone, echoing off the vaulted ceiling until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

  Six men stepped through the wreckage, and everything about them screamed professional killers. They moved with the fluid coordination of a pack, immediately spreading to control the chapel’s exits. No wasted motion, no hesitation. Their faces were hidden behind dark scarves, but their eyes were cold and calculating above the cloth.

  “Clear the room,” their leader snapped. His voice was rough, like gravel dragged over steel. “Men first, the rest after. Move.”

  One of the raiders kicked over a cot, sending a wounded man sprawling with a hoarse cry. Another yanked a blanket away from a cluster of women and children, sneering down at them. “Out of the way, pigs. This ain’t a bloody nursery.”

  Fran rose from beside her patient, her healer’s apron streaked with blood and tinctures. Her four remaining guards closed in, forming a loose wall between her and the newcomers. Six against four — and her — was ugly arithmetic, and she had never so much as held a sword.

  “This is a house of healing,” she said, forcing steel into her voice. “No one here is armed. They’re not your enemy.”

  The leader turned toward her, giving her a long, measuring look. She could feel him sizing her up, as if deciding whether she was worth the trouble. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be? Another saint in skirts?”

  “She’s in charge here,” one of the others said with a grin, eyeing her fine dress under the apron. “Look at the fabric. Bet she’s never done a day’s work in her life.”

  “I’m telling you to leave these people be,” Fran said, taking a single step forward. “You’ve already broken sanctuary law by setting foot here.”

  “Sanctuary law?” The leader’s laugh was sharp and ugly. “Sweetheart, the only law here is ours.”

  Behind Fran, she could hear the soft sounds of people trying to become invisible—whispered prayers, muffled sobs, the rustle of patients pulling thin blankets over their heads as if cloth could turn aside steel. Mother Elna had moved to shield the children with her own body, her grey habit spreading like protective wings.

  One of her guards, young Marcus, took a half-step forward. “Stand down. By order of—”

  The raider to the leader’s left moved in a blur. His dagger punched through the gap in Marcus’s mail, sliding between the rings to find the soft flesh beneath. The boy — and he was barely more than a boy, Fran realized with sick horror — made a soft sound of surprise and crumpled to the stone floor.

  “Anyone else feel like giving orders?” the killer said conversationally, flicking the blood from his blade.

  Fran knelt beside Marcus, her hands moving automatically to check the wound. The blade had found his liver. Blood, dark and thick, welled between her fingers. His eyes met hers, wide with shock and the terrible understanding that he was dying.

  “Your Grace,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I failed…”

  “You didn’t fail.” She smoothed his hair back from his forehead, the gesture tender despite the killers watching. “You served with honor. Rest now.”

  She stayed with him until the light faded from his eyes, then rose slowly to face the raiders. When she spoke, her voice was steady as stone.

  “You have what you came for. You’ve spilled blood in a sacred place and murdered a boy who never did you harm. Are you satisfied?”

  The leader tilted his head, something like recognition dawning in his eyes at last. Then his mouth curled into a grin that didn’t touch them. “Well, fuck me. The Duchess of Foher in the flesh.”

  Fran’s remaining guards shifted, hands moving to sword hilts. She could feel their tension, their desire to act. “Easy,” she said quietly, her voice firm even in whisper. Around them, patients whimpered and cowered. Too many innocent people, too little space. “Hold position.”

  The second raider stepped up beside his leader, and Fran saw him clearly for the first time. Younger than the others, with the kind of lean build that came from hard living and harder fighting. When he smiled, she could see that several of his teeth were missing.

  “You made a lot of enemies, Duchess.” he said quietly.

  The dagger seemed to appear in his hand like magic, the blade catching the candlelight as it moved. Fran had time to see the steel coming, time to understand what was happening, but not time to move.

  Pain exploded through her side like liquid fire. Not her stomach — lower, sharper. She gasped, more from shock than agony, her hand moving instinctively to the wound. Warm wetness spread beneath her fingers, soaking through the fine fabric of her dress.

  The raider leaned close, his breath hot against her ear. “From our brothers in the Golden Banner,” he whispered. “With their compliments, Your Grace. They want you to know this: they remember.”

  Fran’s legs buckled, but she forced herself to remain upright, one hand pressed to the wound while the other gripped the back of a nearby chair. The chapel swam around her, candlelight blurring into streaks of gold.

  The leader gave a mocking bow, then jerked his head toward the side exit. “We’re done here. Let the bitch bleed.”

  Her guards surged forward as she fell, but the raiders were already moving, fading back through the side exit with the fluid efficiency of professionals who’d planned their escape routes in advance.

  Outside, the plaza was no longer the empty square Fran had crossed earlier that day. The air churned with the shouts of soldiers and the hammer of boots on cobblestone. Somewhere close, a horse screamed.

  Verren rounded the corner at a run, breath hard in his chest, just in time to see two cloaked figures emerge from the splintered doorway, one of them wiping his blade clean on a piece of dark cloth. The sight sent rage exploding through his chest like wildfire, but his training held. He dropped into a crouch behind the fountain at the plaza’s center, assessing the situation.

  Six raiders, probably more inside. Unknown number of hostages. The mathematics of combat were brutal and simple. He had three guards with him — good men, but not enough to assault a fortified position held by professional killers. If he called for reinforcements, it would take precious minutes they might not have. But if he went in alone...

  The decision was made for him when he heard the scream from inside the chapel. High, piercing, unmistakably female. Not the Duchess — her voice was deeper — but one of the patients or volunteers.

  He was moving before conscious thought caught up with his feet.

  “Cover the exits!” he shouted to his guards. “Don’t let any of them escape!”

  The chapel door had been reduced to splinters and twisted iron. Verren vaulted through the wreckage, his sword already in his hand, and took in the scene in a single, horrific glance.

  Bodies on the floor — Marcus, one of his best young guards, lay in a spreading pool of blood. Patients cowered in their cots or pressed themselves against the walls. Mother Elna knelt beside the children, her arms spread protectively.

  And there, near the altar, the Duchess swayed on her feet with one hand pressed to her side, dark wetness seeping between her fingers. Her face was the color of old parchment, but her eyes were still fierce, still alert. Still alive.

  The raiders were already moving toward the side exit, their leader pausing only to deliver a mocking bow in Fran’s direction. Verren could pursue them, but...

  “The bastards are getting away!” one of his guards shouted from outside.

  Verren’s training warred with his oath. His duty as a soldier said to pursue the enemy, to prevent their escape. But his oath as lieutenant of the ducal guard was clear: protect the Duchess above all else.

  There was no choice at all.

  He sheathed his sword and crossed the chapel in three quick strides, catching Fran just as her legs gave out. She was heavier than he’d expected, solid and real in his arms, her blood warm and sticky where it soaked through his sleeve.

  “Your Grace,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”

  Her eyes focused on him with visible effort. “Marcus…”

  “Is beyond help. I’m sorry.” He helped her to a bench near the altar, his movements careful despite the urgency pounding in his veins. “How bad is it?”

  Mother Elna answered for her, already moving with the brisk efficiency of someone who’d seen too many wounds. “Bad enough. The blade went deep, but I think it missed the vital organs. There’s bleeding, but not as much as there could be.”

  She began cutting away the bloodied fabric of Fran’s dress, her movements precise despite the tremor in her hands. When the wound was exposed, Verren had to force himself not to curse. The puncture was small, hardly wider than his thumb, but it went deep, and the edges wept blood with each of Fran’s heartbeats.

  “Can you stop the bleeding?” he asked quietly.

  Elna’s jaw tightened. “I’m trying. But the blade may have damaged something internal. We need to get her somewhere warm and clean.”

  “We need to get her to safety first.” Verren looked toward the shattered door, where his remaining guards kept watch. “Can she be moved?”

  Fran answered for herself, though her voice came out rougher than usual. “I can manage. We need... need casualty reports. How bad is the damage?”

  Even bleeding and pale with shock, she was trying to do her job. Verren felt a fierce surge of pride and protectiveness.

  “Your Grace, you need to rest…”

  “I need to know.” Each word seemed to cost her effort, but her voice was steady. “These are my people. My responsibility.”

  Time blurred after that. Orders were given, feet pounded stone, and the clash of steel faded into the distance. The frantic tolling of the bells stuttered once, then fell silent, leaving behind a hush broken only by the crackle of flames and the low murmur of the wounded.

  The sounds of battle had faded to distant shouts and the steady crackle of fires being brought under control. Smoke still drifted through the chapel’s broken door, carrying the scent of burned timber and things Fran refused to picture. The bells had finally stopped their frantic tolling, leaving behind a silence that felt almost unnatural.

  She sat on the bench where Verren had placed her, Mother Elna’s hands working to stanch the bleeding that refused to stop entirely. Each breath sent spikes of fire through her side, and the world kept trying to tilt sideways. The edges of her vision had begun to darken, colors bleeding together like watercolors in rain.

  But she was still the Duchess, and there were still questions that needed answers.

  “Casualty reports,” she managed, though speaking felt like swallowing broken glass.

  Alven appeared in the doorway, dust and smoke streaking his once-pristine coat, Serwin close behind him. The Captain’s cuirass was scored and blackened, and his voice, when it came, was as precise as a blade.

  “Fifteen dead that we’ve confirmed, Your Grace. Perhaps twice that wounded. The granary’s been struck — three wagons of grain gone before we could cut them off. The main well house is damaged but serviceable.”

  Alven’s gaze swept the chapel once before settling on her. Even in the chaos, he managed to sound almost conversational — if one ignored the iron edge beneath. “Six homes burned in the outer district. All on the same street. They chose their targets well.”

  “Professionals,” Serwin muttered. His gaze flicked, almost involuntarily, to the deep red stain spreading under Elna’s fingers. For the space of a breath his voice faltered, then he forced it steady. “No wasted movement, no hesitation. They knew the city’s blind spots.”

  “And it seems they knew how to hurt you as well.” Alven added, his tone grim.

  “Prisoners?” Fran asked.

  “None,” Serwin said flatly. “They scattered when reinforcements closed in, like smoke on the wind.”

  Fran tried to nod and immediately regretted it as fresh pain lanced through her torso. The chapel was spinning slowly around her now, the concerned faces of her people blending together into a watercolor wash of worry and exhaustion.

  “Double the watches on all gates,” she whispered. “And send riders to the outlying farms. If this was coordinated...”

  “Your Grace,” Serwin interrupted, more firmly than was proper. “You need a cerusician. Now.”

  The warmth spreading through her abdomen wasn’t just blood—it was something deeper, more fundamental, like her very life was bleeding away with it. Each heartbeat sent weakness pulsing through her limbs.

  She opened her mouth to speak again, to finish her order, but the words slid away from her. The chapel wavered, candlelight smearing across her vision.

  “Fran!” Alven’s voice was sharp now, stripped of titles.

  Verren was moving before she fell, catching her as her knees gave way. “Clear space!” he barked. “Now!”

  Serwin swore under his breath, turning sharply toward the door and shoving past a pair of onlookers as he shouted for more healers, while Alven’s hand shot out as if to steady her, then stilled when Verren took her weight. He stepped back only far enough to give them room, his jaw tight.

  The darkness rose fast and unstoppable, and Fran’s last awareness was of Elna’s hands still pressing hard to her side, and Verren’s voice—steady, low, and entirely unshaken—promising her she would not die here.

  Then the world went black.