The face reflected in the mirror was not Juda Rotharo Vikaris.

No matter which way he turned, he couldn't see him in the glass. There was no angle he recognised. No feature that seemed familiar to him.

Who was this man? Who was he, now that he stood there, wearing the uniform of the Elite Guard. The britches were heavier than those of the Highguards, thickened wool with leather patches on the thighs and shins. A simple black undershirt underneath a two-piece leather tunic—arms of soft supple leather, the torso made from thick hide, with three wide scarlet straps that buckled diagonally across the chest. The thick twill cloak was hoodless and attached to the shoulders of the leather tunic with red and black heavy-duty snaps, which were decorated with the serpent and blade symbol of The Order.

On his right hip, the khilis, the fine point tapered sabre known only to the King's Elite Guard, and on his left, the kystos, the short, barbed whip.

Gone were the Druvarian braids, the ones he recalled Aleina painstakingly creating, smoothing hythea oil over them with her fingertips. The sides of his head were now shaved close to the bone. At the top, his long hair was scraped back and bound tight with thin leather thong.

Do you see me, mother? I cannot see me.

If he didn't know better, Juda would have thought the borer-worm larvae still lived within him, because he saw barely anything of the man he had once been. Certainly nothing of the boy. The boy was but a memory, a ghost in the dark, a breeze over the Setalah.

The Setalah. The water.

Juda closed his eyes and saw Elara. Droplets pooling in the indents of her collarbone. The binds wrapped around his wrists. Sea salt on his tongue. Her sinful mouth whispering his name.

Juda...Juda...my love...

He'd always thought love was as foolish as hope. He'd loved his mother, still loved her. But it was a love that pained him and a love that felt hopeless without her. It was also a love that had twisted into something where hatred thrived. Hatred for Ban-Keren, sometimes for Roth, mostly for himself. Vi-Garran had oft told him there was a fine line between love and hate, that it was easier to switch between extremes of emotion than meander within the shades in between, but Juda had always known that love and hate always existed together. It was not possible to have one without the other.

He loved his mother, but it had turned him into something he despised.

He despised the Naiad for the curse they had bestowed upon Druvaria, but he...

My love...

Juda swallowed and opened his eyes. Tilting his head back a little, he studied his reflection once more. The Batak oil burn did not bother him as it once had. If anything, to see it centred him—reminded him of that one certainty in his life he could control.

I am vengeance, I am hate, and I am death, and nothing more. By my blood.

"I always knew rats could climb, but never did I imagine they could reach such heights," a voice said in the open doorway.

Rimo Tor-Narun stood leaning against the frame, his stance casual, but his face pinched and hard as his gaze swept Juda's form from his boots to his head. For a moment, Juda was twisted in time, seeing Argo standing in the same place, his look not all hardened envy, but admiration tinged with desire.

It was not with admiration and desire he had last looked upon Juda, but with acceptance, pain, and devotion. Right up until the end, it had still been there.

Don't falter now, Juda. Give me the blade and know that I love you.

Love. That word again. The fucking fool. How could you love the man who would freely spill your blood into the dust?

"Which one did you fuck, Vikaris?" Rimo said. "Kes-Rithal wagers The Grim, but I'm thinking the High Priest. That old buzzard's been showing an unhealthy amount of interest in you of late. He was gripping the balustrade beam like he was spilling out hot and hard into his britches when he was watching you end the whelp Demas with your blade. Tell me, how many times did you have to get on your knees and suck his putrid cock to earn that uniform?"

Juda brushed off the front of his tunic and adjusted his cloak, before turning to face Tor-Narun.

"How typical for a noble-born like yourself to believe ambition is only earned on your knees. Still, I'm sure you have learned much from your father. How is he, by the way? The last I heard he had installed extra cushions for his seat at the Coffer on account of getting his arse flogged so hard by his favourite courtesan, he could barely sit down for half a moon. They say he howls as loud as a Dreynian mountain wolf when they beat his bare backside with the strap."

Rimo stiffened, clenching his fists. The loathing in his eyes pleased Juda. He'd been waiting for such a moment as this since his first tides as a novice.

"You rat bastard Vikaris..." he said, through gritted teeth, his handsome face twisting into an ugly sneer.

"I believe the correct address is now Elite Highguard Vikaris, but fear not, I will not inform The Grim of your oversight. I'd hate to jeopardise your own chances, after all." He took a step closer to Rimo. "Remind me, what was it you said? That you'd make the King's Guard within two more cycles?" He moved closer still, closing the gap between them as Rimo pressed his back against the doorway. "I wish you well with that, I'll surely be waiting for you. Now, did you want me for something, or did you simply come to bid me farewell?"

He stared into Rimo's face, unflinching, cold, despite wishing he could slit the cunt's throat now and be done with it. It should have been him in the bloody square. It should have been Rimo on the slab.

To his credit, Rimo held his gaze, although Juda could see how much he wished to look away. It was a rarity for someone to hold Juda's gaze for too long.

"Commander Grim demands your presence in the bloody square. He says to leave your knapsack. I am to deliver it to your new quarters at the palace."

So, Rimo Tor-Narun, the noble-born, was to carry the bag of the Grimefell rat. No wonder his face was so full of poison.

Juda nodded. "Then I thank you. Be sure to not misplace anything from my belongings, Rimo, or I will return to ensure you locate them. On your hands and knees, if necessary, just like your father."

He took a step out into the passageway and stopped, turning back to pull up close to Tor-Narun.

"Oh, and if I hear that you or any of these overprivileged noble fucks continue to disparage the good name of Argo Demas, I will slice the tongues from your bastard mouths and carve his name into your balls. Of course, in your case, I'll have to make the script incredibly small, but it'll still hurt like a fucker. Be sure to inform the others, won't you?"

With that, Elite Highguard Juda Vikaris left his novice quarters for the final time, and he did not look back once.

Certainty lay ahead, not behind.

***

The midtide sun was high and strong above the training yard of The Serpent Order. Underneath his Elite uniform, Juda could already feel the tunic and britches sticking to his damp skin. It was uncomfortable, but bearable. The Grim had forced them to stand here on hotter tides than this, bearing the full weight of the scorching sun, until the sweat dripped from their faces into the dust, and they could barely stand from heat exhaustion and debilitating thirst.

It was not the sun that bothered Juda, but the dark patch that stained the ground on the far side of the yard. No one would attempt to wash away the blood of Argo Demas. It would remain there to be trod into the dirt, the last vestiges of the man to be carried upon the soles of the boots of those who would do battle here.

It was in his direct line of sight, and if he didn't know The Grim not to be a spiteful man, he'd have wondered if this was deliberate. Of course, the man who now stood at his side was not one of petty malice, but a man of honour, pragmatic, logical and loyal to the last. Brutal, yes, so fucking brutal, but he was training the King's warriors, not schooling children.

Juda stared directly ahead, as did The Grim.

It seemed strange to be standing here without an audience, just he and his Commander. He clenched his fists tighter by his side, feeling the pull of bruised flesh over his knuckles. Upon The Grim's insistence that he tidy himself up before being presented at the palace, Juda had reluctantly smoothed healing salve over his torn hand, remembering the force of each punch and seeing Argo's face as he'd massaged the salve into his flesh. It looked better at least, but the bone would not let him forget so easily.

When The Grim finally spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically soft, the edges worn down.

"It appears I was wrong about you, Vikaris."

There was to be no novice now, but despite what Juda had told Rimo, The Grim reserved the right not to address his warriors by their new title until they left the confines of the novice barracks for the final time. Until then, they were still his.

Juda blinked once. An admission of error from the Commander?

The Grim continued to look directly ahead, as did Juda. "I did not believe you would pass the Trial of Sin-Sabre, but you did. It's designed to attack the weak of heart, the fragile of mind. Those who put pride above all else." He did glance at Juda then, only fleetingly so. "It strips it all away, lays a man bare. There is no hiding. No way to conceal what you hold inside."

Juda's heart flinched. He'd revealed nothing, he was sure of it, even as they'd laid his body on a slab usually reserved for the dead, binding him to the black rock as he'd twisted and writhed in agony. Tendrils of doubt crept under his flesh, crawling like miniature borer-worms.

Hold, Juda, hold, his mother whispered, they would not grant you the honour of the uniform if they intended to take it from you.

"It seems there is nothing inside you, Vikaris."

Juda wasn't sure what to make of that or how to feel about it. Roth had once called him a cold, empty thing not long after he'd made him his ward, and again, after he'd joined The Order. Cold, he understood, but empty? How could he be, when rage and vengeance oft filled his entire being, when hatred constantly simmered inside his bones?

"It is Grimefell that will do that to a man. These noble-born suckling pigs spend their entire lives before they join The Order being filled with every indulgence their world has to offer them. It is crammed into them with such an abundance, I am surprised their bodies do not split at the seams. They come here with full bellies and full hearts, and yet the likes of you and I, we come with nothing, Vikaris, for life has given us nothing."

The edges of The Grim's voice had hardened again, all iron and black rock. It was no secret that The Grim did not favour the nobles, but he favoured the slum rats even less, despite being one himself. A man would bend and break to The Grim's will, it mattered not from whence he came.

"I confess, I thought the final trial would break you. I believed that would be the one thing that would finally bring the great Juda Vikaris to his knees. Argo Demas would have gone far if it was not for you. You were his downfall, and, I was certain, he would be yours. It is why I chose him, after all."

The Grim moved then to stand directly in front of Juda, his stare boring into him. Funny that the Trial of Sin-Sabre was meant to strip a man bare, and yet, Juda realised, all they really needed was The Grim. He saw everything and missed nothing.

He should have known the nomination for Juda's opponent had come direct from his Commander. Who else knew them better than The Grim did?

The Grim smiled, or at least attempted one, for it was hard to carve such a thing from obsidian.

"Even now," he said. "Nothing." His expression faltered for a moment as he cast his gaze over Juda's face, as if a sudden thought had crept into his head, only to be dismissed instantly, as he regained his steely composure. "Like I said, Grimefell does this. Beats all semblance of life from a man, squeezes all emotion from his pores, until he remains an empty vessel. I have said all along that we rats are better suited for this noble pursuit than the nobles themselves." He sniffed and glanced around the bloody square. "Of course, these tides are not as they once were and dissent runs like a raging river in the slums, so much so, that I think The Order has seen the last of the likes of us, Vikaris."

He sighed and patted down his tunic, as if searching for his tobacco pouch, and frowning when he was left wanting.

"These are challenging times for Druvaria and the King will draw to him only those he knows for certain he can trust. And who would trust a rat, huh? Particularly now when the talk coming from Grimefell is treasonous at best. They have always been good at that. Scurrying from gutter to gutter, spreading stories and untruths, but this time..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "It is no matter. Whatever foul rumours the dissenters hope to spread, The Order will prevail, as always. By Ban-Keren, it will."

"By Ban-Keren, Commander." Juda snapped to attention, even though his mind raced with the knowledge that Elara and her friends had clearly begun their campaign of rumour against the King.

It was to be a layered attack, igniting the flames with talk of how the King planned to wipe out the slums because there was not enough coin in the Coffers to pay for the Dreynian water, and then planting the seeds of the Naiad's return, and how she would lift the curse and save the people. Whatever he had thought of their plan, Juda's blood pumped a little harder knowing that the ripples of it were already being felt throughout the citadel.

The Grim silently observed him, and then nodded. "It is a weak man who cannot admit his mistakes, Vikaris. I am not a weak man. Grimefell made sure of that, just as it has with you. Remember: the likes of you and I needed not cling too long to our mother's tit. We are who we are because we have hearts that do not need to be coddled or nurtured, or to be bound by the ridiculous notion of love. We are forged in the flames, shaped into sabres with a thirst for blood and victory. That is all, and that is enough. I am glad it was you, for you will be the last Grimefell blade."

He clapped his hand on Juda's shoulder, that hand which he'd felt pummel his flesh, the hand which had brandished the whip that had beat at his thighs and the backs of his legs. It was the first time The Grim had ever laid a hand upon him that was not intent to break him down.

"Let us go. I have the honour of escorting you directly to the King himself."

Juda's eyes widened, but he said nothing. He could not address The Grim without permission, even now, but his Commander saw the surprise in his face. From what he had understood, he would report directly to his Special Commander at his new quarters. An opportunity to draw close to the King would have to wait.

"Yes, Vikaris," The Grim said. "It appears Lord Dageor has become somewhat of a supporter of yours, particularly since your final trial here in the bloody square. He has petitioned the King to grant you an audience upon your arrival at the palace. Not unheard of, to be fair, but certainly a great honour for one such as yourself."

Commander Grim glanced up at the sun, squinting into its bright glare.

"Let us not be tardy then," he said. "It is a foolish creature that keeps His Most Exalted, King Aldolus Ban-Keren waiting. By His Will, so be it."

Juda's throat was dry, but he managed the words, nevertheless.

"By His Will, I do His bidding. Longlife to Ban-Keren. May His reign be eternal."