"I am both worse and better than you thought."

―Sylvia Plath

Razo had his heels propped up on the control panel of the ship as he chattered on in his strange accent. It had been a little over an hour since Lin and Cortez left. Long enough for Hadrian to worry.

"An' that's why everything's shit in the southern islands," Razo concluded. He laughed as he looked at Hadrian, who affected undivided attention.

Wide eyes, half-open posture, forward lean. His head was starting to hurt.

He knew what Razo was doing, keeping him in sight. It was smart. Wouldn't want Lin's charge to meet some untimely end out of negligence. It grated on Hadrian's nearly-gone nerves. The ship rocked slightly. Something thudded against the hull.

Razo launched into another tirade -- a story, this time, featuring a young hunter -- and Hadrian let his attention divide.

One half of him searched the air for magic. He could feel it at the very tips of his fingers, brushing his skin and breathing somewhere just beyond his hearing. It was still there. He was still connected. He just couldn't grasp it. Couldn't control it. He ached to sink his hands into the water and feel the power coursing through him.

He pressed the urge back beneath his skin and tuned in to Razo's words again.

"And bang!" Razo punched the air. "There was nothin' left of the boy but bone and smoke."

Hadrian lifted an eyebrow. He'd missed quite a bit of Razo's story, forced to nod along with an attentive eyebrow lift. Before Razo noticed his lapse of attention, the Sirenita thudded with the sound of boots on the deck. Razo shut his mouth and reached down for a rusted shotgun that Hadrian feared would explode if he pulled the trigger.

Cortez's face popped through the open hatch. His shoulders heaved, a slight sheen of sweat illuminating his face in the dark. "It's time."

Like he'd been expecting it, Razo rocked to his feet gracefully. "Do you know which doors?"

He nodded. "Only two."

Hadrian picked up a duffel bag that weighed more than he did and hauled it over his back, listening as Razo did the same with ease. Cortez's jaw was clenched, muscles bunched at his shoulders. Hadrian relaxed his core and approached Cortez with as much reassurance as he could. He tipped his head. "You don't have to come with us if you don't want to."

Cortez's eyes flicked from Hadrian's face to some indeterminate spot in the boat. 

"I'm fine. Come on, she's waiting for us." The words spilled out flat. This wasn't what Cortez was thinking about, the anxiety stemmed from something else.

Probably what he'd been hiding for this entire trip. 

The two older men thrummed with energy. Razo, stepping out of the boat with more purpose than Hadrian thought him capable of. Cortez, yoyo-ing between pressing ahead of them and trailing to the side. Hadrian just stretched his legs to keep up and tried to ignore the growing pit of doubt that tickled at his ribs. He focused instead on what was ahead. Follow Razo, help Lin murder a room full of innocents, follow his own plan.

Cortez led them through the angular alleys without witnesses. He stopped at a door, easing it open and peeking into the sliver of light that spilled forth. Hadrian instinctively reached for magic to tell him what was on the other side.

No dice. He still scraped uselessly against the flow.

Strangely untethered, Hadrian dug his fingers into the strap of his bag. It cut straight through his skin, pressing up against his bone. 

"Okay," Cortez whispered. "This is the first one."

Hadrian gripped the strap tighter, praying that the shadows obscured his white knuckles. "No guards?"

"One."

The three of them remained where they stood, each silently asking the other to make the first move. 

"Lad," Razo took Hadrian's bag, barely giving the boy enough time to let go, "you're up."

Though the apples of Razo's cheeks caught the firelight in a smile, Hadrian suspected there was an ulterior motive. He flattened his mouth and nodded. 

He gripped the small knife he'd chosen, pulling it from his belt. He watched the knife's blade like it might turn on him, handling it with the care of a competent beginner. He glanced back at Razo three times as he approached the door, taking Cortez's place and looking inside.

One man, a rifle over his shoulder and all his attention on a paperback. 

He faced them, his back to a door -- presumably the one that they were meant to seal. 

Hadrian looked back at Razo. The man grinned and gestured go on like Hadrian was a child or a dog that needed encouraging. He really wasn't in the mood for this.

Hadrian lifted an eyebrow and didn't break eye contact. He turned the knife in his palm, really feeling it for the first time since he'd picked it up. The balance was off. The leather grip had been worn down to steel in certain spots, a perfect match to the callouses that marred Lin's fingers. Hadrian fitted his fingertips into the divots. The cool metal grounded him enough that he didn't even try to reach for magic. 

Eyes on Razo, he flicked his wrist through the door.

A dull thud ached in the silence, followed by the slide and clatter of the guard and his book hitting the ground one after the other. 

Cortez sputtered and pushed the door open all the way, sword out. He didn't need it. The guard had crumpled where he stood, Hadrian's knife hilted in his eye. Razo gave a low whistle as he stepped into the hall. "Nice hit."

Hadrian retrieved his bag from Razo, plopping it beside the guard's corpse and kneeling over it. "You to go ahead to the second door, I've got this one."

"But -- " Cortez reached out as if to help him.

"We've wasted enough time," Hadrian said. He kept his tone conversational, trying not to let his irritation show. "Go."

Razo slapped Cortez's arm as he passed. "Meet us on Sirenita, yeah?"

Hadrian gave a curt nod and passed all his attention to the bag. A beat passed before he realized Cortez hadn't left yet. He rested his chin on his shoulder. "What is it?"

The taller man shifted, looking back out the doorway after Razo. "I just," he sucked in a breath through his teeth, "this doesn't feel right."

Hadrian searched his face for a moment. "Then go back to the ship. We can handle it."

"You can't possibly be okay with this."

This was the least of his problems. In fact, Mara's death would make it easier for the other witches to survive. Maybe thrive one day. He shrugged.

If Hadrian were in a caring mood, he might have given a damn about the look Cortez shot him. The one that straddled the line between disgust and pity. As it was, he didn't. Hadrian listened to Cortez leave, the all-too human impact of his boots against the stone ground betraying his emotions. 

He took a deep breath and grimaced as he heard another person seep into the room. Seep was the proper term for it, because Hadrian didn't hear the sound of feet on the floor or the shuffle of clothes, but the echo of magic thrumming across his numbed senses. A witch. Soft breaths finally allowed him to identify the intruder.

"I can't believe you passed Ilse's training," Hadrian said evenly. "It's almost like you don't care if I hear you coming or not."

"It usually doesn't make a difference." Malachai kicked the guard's corpse out of the way and settled in its wake. He picked up the fallen book.

Malachai was several years older than Hadrian, with wispy stubble and cropped blond hair. His face -- his only true asset, in Hadrian's learned opinion -- was so utterly unremarkable that Hadrian struggled to describe it. Mal was tall for a witch, with broad shoulders that Hadrian couldn't help but envy and a sinewy build. 

Mal's hazel eyes followed Hadrian's hands as he set up the paste cord that would fuse the door to its frame. 

"Thought you were assigned to Wilson," Mal finally said.

Hadrian snorted. "You're so behind, I can't believe they let you be a spy."

Mal waved his hand and a rush of magic yanked the tools from Hadrian's hands and the door groaned. Metal twisted and melted as it joined together, creaked like an old ship. When it was done -- far too soon -- Hadrian let out a slow breath.

Mal was watching him. Measuring him in the same way Hadrian did everyone else.

"Yes, fine -- the Witchking blocked me."

"So," Mal screwed his face up, "you're not king?"

"Obviously not," Hadrian hissed.

Mal put up his hands in false surrender and sighed. Then, his eyebrows furrowed and he looked around. "Why are you here, anyway?"

"Helping the huntress kill everyone in that room."

To his credit, Mal only nodded like this was normal. It wasn't. 

"How many are stationed here?" Hadrian asked.

"Enough," Mal said. Good. He was following protocol. Hadrian sighed and stood up, pursing his lips at the door. 

"Get them all out. Don't care how -- this place is about to become a slaughterhouse."

"Only if you come with." Mal smiled and tucked the stolen book into his jacket. He wore a guard's uniform, all crisp lines and dark wool. "Seriously -- Ilse would kill me if anything happened to you."

Hadrian gritted his teeth. "Just go, jackass."

Mal's expression turned solemn. "I'm not leaving you behind. It's getting nasty out here and you're right in the middle of it."

"I know."

"Do you, really?"

"Yes."

Mal scoffed. "You don't have magic right now. If you keep on following that huntress, you're going to get yourself killed."

"That's the idea."

That stopped Mal right in his tracks. He blinked at Hadrian, eyes going wide when he realized he wasn't joking. "Did -- is that -- are you under orders?"

"What do you think?"

Mal didn't say anything for several seconds, enough for Hadrian to get antsy. 

"Look," Hadrian said, "I have a plan."

"One that involves you dying?"

"Yes," Hadrian worked his jaw, "and it will work."

"What if you're wrong?"

He smiled in a way that was closer to baring his teeth. "Then I'll be dead. But at least the huntress will suffer."

Mal swallowed, his throat moving to reveal his nervousness. He nodded. "Okay. I'll tell Ilse."

"Don't."

"Hadri -- "

He didn't have time to stumble over the last syllable of Hadrian's name, stopped by the dripping blade at his throat. Hadrian couldn't really tell if it was the guard's blood or Mal's that drew a skinny line down the man's windpipe.

Mal swallowed, eyes wide and confused.

"You don't tell Ilse anything. Not yet."

Mal's eyes flashed. "You're not king. You don't give me orders."

Hadrian scowled and grabbed a fistful of the older witch's jacket, hooking his leg out from under him and carefully keeping the blade from slicing his neck open. Mal gasped, strangling the sound before it alerted anyone to their presence, and hit the ground back-first. 

He wheezed in the dust, eyes screwing shut as he grasped at what air he could take. Hadrian renewed the pressure on the blade. Magic swelled around them, churning indecisively. Who should it protect? Who must die? 

"I may not be king, but I've been doing this a lot longer than you have. Listen to me. Get everyone out." Hadrian released his jacket and took the knife with him. A spark of shame lit up inside him when he smelled Mal's blood mixing in with the human's. 

Mal's jaw clenched so hard Hadrian could practically hear his teeth grinding. He propped himself up on his elbows and lowered his gaze.

"Good," Hadrian said. "Hurry, we've wasted too much time."

He stepped over Mal and out the door.

--

"Vae victis" (from Latin, lit. "woe to the vanquished", or "woe to the conquered")

It means that those defeated in battle are entirely at the mercy of their conquerors and should not expect -- or request -- leniency.