"Come on, we have to get you out of here," he said, finally finding his voice, albeit not one he recognised. At least not since his mother had been alive. He'd sounded softer then. He'd been softer.

And he hated that Juda. When the dark moon was at its strongest, and Juda was alone in his cell, he despised the pathetic whelp he'd been more than anyone. More than the Order. More than the bastard nobles. More than the King even. Because if he'd been stronger, if he'd been harder, then he could have stopped it all. He'd have stopped them from dragging Aleina onto that ship and he wouldn't be here now, consumed with a hatred that burned endlessly inside his veins, a loathing he knew would never be satiated even when Ban-Keren lay dead at his feet.

Hatred is a poison, boy, Roth had told him once, drink of it too long, and your heart will rot everything it touches, just as the water does.

Whatever hatred still lurked in Roth's veins, Juda knew it was the reason his guardian reached for the wine these tides more than he ever had, but Juda wasn't Roth and he wasn't the boy he'd once been.

He had to be more than that, especially if he was going to get the witch out of here alive.

Her eyes had taken on a glassy edge, whatever recognition she'd had of him slowly slipping again, a steady drip of fading consciousness.

Juda tapped her on the cheek sharply. "Stay awake, for fuck's sake, or I'll leave you here, by Ban-Keren, I swear it."

The witch's gaze swam into focus, her brow thickening as she looked up into his face. "You...?"

"Yes. Me. Now fucking get up." Reaching behind, he grabbed her clothes and thrust them into her arms as she sat. "Get dressed, or do I have to do that for you too? Quick, now!"

He was the one that moved quickly then, wiping the smears of her blood from the edge of the tub with the hem of his cloak, emptying the contents of two flasks of wine and leaving a third on its side. A drunken man could easily fall unconscious in the bath. An unconscious man could easily drown in the bath. It wouldn't exonerate the witch, of course—and Juda was under no illusions that she'd escape blame here—but with no injuries and no sign of a struggle, it was the best chance he could give her.

Heading next towards the door of the bathing chamber, he listened intently, before opening it a crack. He could hear nothing from the ground floor of the house, but that didn't mean no one was there. Koh-Miralus might have dismissed his servants for the rest of moontide, but no decent house servant would stray too far if they knew what was good for them. A noble's whim could turn on a knife edge. Always best to be ready.

Glancing back, Juda saw the Naiad pulling on her britches, sluggishly sliding one leg up over her ankle. She blinked as if to clear the haze. Thin streams of blood were trickling over her collarbone, diluted by the water that dripped from her hair, pink rivulets running over the curve of her breast.

He swallowed and looked away, anger spiking hard, his stomach clenching.

If you don't help her, you'll die, Juda, Aleina whispered.

And if I help her, I'll die anyway.

Too slow. Everything was moving too slow. He was under the water, fighting a current that held him back, held him under the surface. Fuck it.

"Come on, come on," he hissed, rushing back to her and lifting her to her feet, yanking at the top of her britches and pulling them up over her hips. She swayed and leant against him, her head drooping, her hands weakly grasping his cloak. Her hair smelt of bath oil— hints of sweet musk and redberry. Her skin was still damp as he clutched her back, soft against his palm. Too soft.

It was all too soft and too sweet.

Move, you fucking fool, move.

"Here now," he said, reaching for her tunic and pulling it over her head. When she didn't raise her arms, her gripped her shoulders and shook her, not hard, but enough to rouse her.

"Look at me," he whispered. "Look at me."

Her eyes met his, still glassy, but there was just enough cold awareness for him to see her still in there. He cupped her face, holding her steady.

"You want to die because of him? Is that what you want? Because you will if you don't wake the fuck up, get yourself dressed and help me get you out of here. Now you went to all this trouble to come here and kill him, and I don't particularly give a shit why, but I do know you didn't come here to die too. Or did I get that wrong? Do you want to die, witch?"

Her grip tightened on his cloak, her spine stiffening under his touch.

"Elara," she said, through gritted teeth. "My name is Elara. Not fucking witch."

Juda had no idea why it thrilled him to hear her say it. Why it made his heart jolt for her to tell him.

"Well, I knew it wasn't Zera bloody Kalise. Now, Elara, I'm going to leave. Are you coming with me or did you like him that much that you want stay here with his corpse?"

Elara pressed her lips together, but slipped her arms into her vest tunic, her hard gaze not dropping from Juda's.

Good girl. Hate me enough and I might just get us both out of here alive.

Sinking to his knees, he grabbed her boots, trying to ignore the grip of her hands on his shoulders as he pulled them on one by one. She had delicate ankles. Tiny, intricate etchings of indigo ink over bone.

Draping her cloak over her shoulders, he fastened it at the neck, tucking her wet hair into her hood as he pulled it over her head and still she stared at him, and he gladly drowned in her poison.

"You can walk, yes?" he said, and she nodded. "Good, because I'm not fucking carrying you." But he would, and he knew that he would.

Grasping her hand, he led her into the adjoining chamber and through the servant's door into the next hallway. Everything was quiet but Juda—who usually preferred the cold embrace of silence more than anything—didn't much feel like the silence was their friend right at that moment. If it was just him, he might have felt different. He could mould into it as seamlessly as he did with death and pain, but the witch was unsteady on her feet, stumbling into him, her gait worrisome.

He stopped, hearing the sharp step of boots coming from somewhere below. Elara leant into him again, pressing a pained groan into his chest. The hush that crept up the staircase felt ominous, as if someone waited below, straining to hear them just as Juda's ears pricked to listen.

The stench of the wild violets was overpowering, nauseating.

Wrapping Elara's hand around his waist, he braced his own under her arm and held her up as they continued along the hallway, until he found the room through which he'd entered the silk merchant's home. It was a woman's bedroom, all Dreynian lace and soft, pale silk. Small vials of lotions and perfumes lined a carved white table, where glass dolls with glossy hair and satin marital robes sat unbothered by dust. Upon entering, Juda had thought of this chamber, how unlived, how unloved, as the dolls watched him pass through, waiting not for him, but for someone who would never return.

Juda opened the shutter, welcoming the sting of sea air that blew in off the Setalah.

"We're going this way," he said, showing her the stacked rooves, he'd used to climb up to the window. "Can you do it?"

When he turned back to look at her, her attention was not focused on the way down, but on the spiralling, twisting waves surrounding the black rock, her eyes suddenly alive as the distant roar of the water rolled over the citadel. The yearning in her face conjured a stab of jealousy in his veins that he didn't understand.

"Elara, I need to know you can do it?" he repeated, touching her arm to coax her back to this. To him.

Her face soured. "Of course, I can do it." But Juda saw the way her arm trembled as she curled her palm over the window's ledge, and how hard she swallowed as she began to climb through.

Ensuring to close the shutter behind him, Juda led her to the roof's edge. For him, this was easy. He'd navigated climbs far riskier than this, but as Elara looked down, her body swaying slightly, he knew she'd never manage it without his help. She was weakened, still stunned from her head injury and all it would take would be one wrong foot for her to plummet to the ground or stumble and alert the house servants of their presence. At any moment, they could find Koh-Miralus' body floating in the tub, and Juda was determined to be far from here when that time came.

"Hold onto me," he instructed, pulling her close. She wrapped herself around him, her body sagging against his—gladly he thought, she knows she can't do it—and carefully, but not without some effort, Juda traversed the same route he'd taken earlier that moontide.

No sooner had their feet touched the ground, than a shriek and a crash from inside the house splintered the air. Voices rose within. Elara exhaled a panicked gasp close to his ear, and he grabbed hold of her and pulled her onto Guild's Row, knowing that it would be folly to run, even though his juddering heart was urging him to flee. They had to go steady now—swift, but not to attract attention—for to run in the mid echelon when the dark moon was high and everyone slept, was to confess your crimes to the entire citadel. You might as well knock on the black gates of the King's palace itself and tell Ban-Keren to his face.

They stuck to the shadows, as Juda scanned the street for any light, any face at a window. Keep moving, keep going, don't stop.Elara sagged, emitting a tiny pained whimper that stirred something inside that forced him to linger and pull her against him. Her breath was heavy against his throat.

"Not far," he whispered into her hair. That fucking sweet musk and redberry was killing him. "It's not far now, I swear it. Just stay with me a little longer."

She made a noise—a muffled yes, yes, maybe—and Juda gripped her tighter, practically holding her up as they continued, taking a south-westerly route that would lead them past the King's Library. As always, Juda's gaze drifted upwards, but he was on the wrong side to get a view of Roth's tower. He had no idea if Vi-Garran would still be there, but Juda hoped to fuck that he was, because if his guardian had chosen this particular moontide to not drink himself into oblivion at his desk, then his good fortune—which had always been more precarious than a gang-guarded footbridge in Grimefell—truly was naught but a wild fantasy and nothing more.

Catching sight of Harbour Lane, a place he had banked in his head with as much hatred as he did fondness, Juda cut into the footway that ran adjacent to the row of houses there. He'd rarely ever used the front entrance, even after he'd invaded Roth's life and found one of his own, much preferring to stick to the routes he knew—the ones where shadows prevailed and prying eyes did not.

The houses here were different to those in Guild Row. Not as pristine-clean, but built from black rock instead of white, Harbour Lane was closer to the Setalah and the brick was weather-worn and salt-dappled in a way that Juda had always preferred to the other homes in the mid echelon. On choppy days, the fierce wind battered the face of the building and sunk its teeth into the stone, prompting Juda to stoke the fire in the hearth even when the sun was high and bright. Or at least, he had, before he'd joined the Order and let Ban-Keren sink his teeth into him instead.

No light shone from within, a sure sign it waited empty and wanting as it often did these tides, and Juda half-carried the witch to the rear entrance, finding the key always concealed under the loose tile of the portico step.

"W-wait..." Elara mumbled, as he led her into the scullery, setting her down at the table so he could lock the door behind them. "What is this place? I need to get baaaack..." She began to get up, her words slurring. "Grimefell..."

He caught her before she tumbled, surprised at the last kick of fire she had in struggle as he tried to hold her still. "Stop... are you mad? You're going nowhere like this. Look at you. You can barely stand and you think to go back to the slums. You won't survive the next tide, girl."

Her head drooped again, her damp hair falling over her face and she glared at him through the sodden curls. By the dead gods, he wasn't sure what he wanted more—for her to look at him with such poison, or to look at him like she looked at the water.

"Girl?" She winced. "An improvement on witch, I suppose, boy." And then, "I can't stay here."

"By morntide, the Order will be scouring Grimefell for the pretty trade runner who was the last to see Mica Koh-Miralus alive. You'd have a hard job in normal circumstances, let alone with a nasty cut to your head that you can't explain."

She closed her eyes and exhaled a frustrated and pained sigh that whistled shakily over her lips. "I've been hiding from the Order my entire life."

"Yeah? How is that going for you right now? Because the last time I looked in the mirror, I am the Order."

"Then all the more reason to leave."

She pulled herself from his grasp and stumbled for the door, fumbling for the latch, before her legs collapsed underneath her. With a groan, she fell, her body finally crumbling, and Juda did the one thing he had known he would do without thought or question.

The one thing he had told her he would not do.

Cradling her listless body in his arms, he carried her, and whatever remained of Juda's hard, blackened heart thrummed softly, softly, into life.