Life felt radically different beside Silta. Where his and Lyra's entrance to the building just a few hours prior had been a performance of blending in, nothing of the sort was possible in Silta's presence. She drew looks for being a royal, for being a champion, for being simply different. She wasn't designed to fit in anymore than Archer had been passable as a king's man.

"You know," he said as she took the stairs, already drawing looks from the ticket man and some leaving guests, "we probably would've benefited from bringing weapons."

"Guns are inaccurate, knives can be thrown back," came her reasoning. "Hands will work just fine."

"Do your hands have a fifty-foot range? Because mine don't."

"That's what the reputation is for, love. Keep up."

Silta neared the first guard at the door, and Archer took the second. He couldn't see her behind him as he knocked his out, but he did watch the body fall after, and he doubted she'd left him breathing.

She entered under the archway, the skirt of her dress billowing out behind her. A soft wind tunnelled down the hallway, ruffling his hair. He caught up, moving beside her.

"What's your plan?" he asked breathlessly, wondering if her effortlessness was just a performance. "Killing everyone? Because they'll be plenty more."

"It'll come to me," she said, eyes searching the same hallway Archer had walked semi-calmly before. If only he'd known how terrified he'd be the second time around.

"It'll come to you?" he repeated. Just as the words left his mouth, he heard voices from up ahead. Just before the crisps' uniforms came into view, he took her arm and pulled her back.

"I don't want to kill anyone," he snapped.

She laughed, shaking her head. "You've mastered the art of bringing your allure to a crashing halt with nothing but a mere sentence, love."

"I wouldn't call it unreasonable to ask that we pause for a moment in favour of coming up with a plan that doesn't kill everyone in this damn building." It wasn't that Archer wasn't a killer. If someone were trying to kill him, he'd kill them first. He knew he would, but he didn't want to hurt someone he didn't need to. If he didn't agonize over his first real kill, he might end up tallying them up like lines on a tattoo.

Silta looked impatient. The footsteps were nearing, echoing in the upcoming hallway. "You come up with the plan, then," she said.

He'd been hoping she would say that. He pulled her forward a few steps until he began to see the arm of the crisp around the corner, then he moved into the cubby to their right. It was nothing more than a coatroom, but if they stayed quiet, they wouldn't be seen.

"We're hiding?" she complained. She ducked under his arm, but he tugged her back.

"It's strategy, love," he said. "Keep up."

She made the elegant equivalent of a snort. As the crisps neared, Archer held his breath, waiting.

The crisps passed by; they were in full gear now and their helmets didn't give them the peripheral vision to see into the open room where the two of them had sought refuge.

"That was dull," Silta said.

"That's what I prefer."

"You need to learn to expect less, Kingsley," she said to him, heading back out into the hallway. "Plan less. Experience more."

Archer's heart was racing. This was more than enough experiencing for him. He was confident in his abilities on a day where his leg wasn't aching, but he could still be beaten—especially by a bullet. He had to be careful. He didn't need to end up as a splattered mess on the ground for no reason.

"You can't predict everything," he replied, following her to the ballroom. "One day, someone will shoot you dead and it could've been avoided if you'd maybe planned a little more."

"Oh, now that's ironic," she said, peering around the corner. She looked both ways. "You sound like my mother."

"Your mother, the Siren?"

"That's the one, yes."

Archer looked out into the ballroom. There were still guests in there, but they had the vantage point of being behind a half-wall. He took the moment to glance over at her.

"How do I sound like your mother?" He found the suggestion to be rather peculiar, not to mention the first true indication of her parents.

"Rule number seven," she said. "Avoid the uncertainty."

"I couldn't have less of an idea of what you're talking about."

She rolled her shoulders and ran her tongue over her teeth, thinking. "Where do you think they'll have Tailsley?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, were we not just having a conversation?"

"Forgiven," she said. "The holding cells, probably."

He let it go, shaking his head. "Grand room. If their goal is for us to come and get her, they wouldn't put her in the cells."

She glanced at him. He wasn't sure, but she looked surprised she hadn't put that together first.

"How do we get there?" he prompted her.

She shifted, keeping low. "The grand room has the throne for when the King visits and an interior balcony like the one over the ballroom. If we can get up on the balcony, we can take them out from above."

"We have no weapons," Archer said. "Or do you plan to use your hands for that, too?"

"Hands won't work for this, Kingsley. We need weapons."

He rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"We need something quiet, though," she continued. "Can you throw a knife?"

He shrugged. "I usually hit what I intend to."

"Only problem is knives can be thrown back at us," she reasoned again.

"What about a bow?" he suggested.

She had that irritated look again when he contributed in a way she hadn't thought of. "Bows will work. You're good for aim?" She laughed abruptly. "Jeanne would probably say so."

Archer only blinked, but her words felt sharp and blunt. He'd forgotten about Jeanne completely—he hadn't thought of her once this entire week. He'd forgotten about the woman he'd loved for three years and then murdered. He'd forgotten.

"Are you so threatened by me that you feel the need to cut me down?" he asked. He knew why she'd brought up Jeanne so casually: She despised that he kept thinking of things she hadn't, so she tried to throw his balance. As upsetting as it was, he knew he was better off recognizing her tactics than simply falling for them.

She glanced over at him, eyes sparkling. "Bet you're pretty proud of yourself for figuring that one out," she noted.

Well, he was, but he didn't say so.

"I didn't bring up Jeanne to hurt you, love; I brought her up to gauge your reaction. To find out if you're over it."

Archer rolled his eyes. Every time he thought he had it right, he didn't. Every time.

She cocked her head to the side, watching for his reaction. "And you are, aren't you?" she asked. "You forgot all about it."

"I did not forget what happened," he snapped out quickly. Too quickly.

"Come to the surface here, for I fear there's a liar near," she sang.

"Where do we get the bows?" he asked.

"Oh, Kingsley, don't give up that easily. Why don't you tell me what's taking up all that space in your mind that used to be for her?"

"Bows," Archer said. "Where do we get them?"

She sighed and pointed to the far side, to her right. "That's the west staircase. It goes to the basement. Should be some weapons down there."

"Lead the way," he said.

She stepped out from behind their hiding spot and made her way quickly and efficiently down the side of the ballroom. She looked down at the ground as he did the same. No one paid them any attention, although Archer guessed all the important people—including the General—would be in the grand room, with Lyra. He wondered if she were terrified, all alone with them.

Silta turned the corner and dropped down the steps two at a time. Her feet were silent against the floor, and his...weren't.

"You might as well just announce you're coming down," she whispered over her shoulder.

"You'll be fine until somebody steps on your foot," he told her, attempting to land a little lighter. He couldn't help it; agility was one of his better attributes, yet he paled in comparison with her unique predisposition to control.

They paused at the landing, and Archer was surprised to see that the basement was run-down at best. The corners of the walls were peeling, and he was pretty sure he saw a mouse race behind a brick. He'd had a thing against mice ever since he was a kid.

Silta stopped suddenly, and he barely stopped in time. "Crisps," she whispered.

He looked to where she was pointing. There were two men in golden uniforms, looking straight ahead. They hadn't seen them yet.

"They have pistols," he whispered, nodding to the crisp's belt.

"Pistols are inaccurate. Just keep moving."

"Or we could have some sort of plan!" he breathed. She was about to move, and he felt wildly out of control in his own skin. "I'm not walking into gunfire," he reasoned.

"Of course not. Run."

Archer took her by the shoulder, stopping her from moving. "You're going to get us killed. Death by improvidence."

"Yes mother," she said. "Speaking of which, I don't want you leaving anyone alive. Rule number four, Kingsley. Tie up your loose ends. Those you do not finish now will come back to finish you later."

"What's with the rules?"

She didn't answer, but she slipped away from him as she crept along the wall. When she came into view, she moved to the middle of the hallway.

There was a flash of recognition in the eyes of the guards as they placed her. They ignored their longknives, went straight for their pistols.

"Even those won't save you," she said. She went for the torso of the one on the left, leaving the other for Archer.

The guard was easy, at first. He could be killed rather quickly, but Archer wasn't going to kill him, no matter what Silta insisted. He just needed to get his hands—

The guard pulled away a little too far and got a handle on the pistol before Archer could reach for it. He cocked and aimed.

The sound of the gun ready to shoot shocked him. So just like that, he'd die from a bullet? After all his training, he really would die because he tried to show mercy? In the end, Silta really would be right.

The guard jerked to his left, blood smattering on his neck.

Silta dropped the pistol she must've pulled from her guard. "The hell was that, Kingsley?" she snapped, golden eyes sharp.

"So it's a problem when anyone other than you puts a gun to my head?" Archer asked.

She knelt down and tossed the second pistol to him. "Mercy kills the merciful," she muttered.

"That's ridiculous."

"Yeah? Let's back up a few minutes, then. I'll stay out of it this time."

He made a face, gesturing for her to move into the weapon's room, but she was still looking at the dead guards.

"You know," she said, nodding to the one closest to her. "He's about your size."

Archer looked at her. "No."

She glanced at him. "Yes."

*

He could barely breathe.

The helmet was beyond tight and the armour made his skin itch. He pushed the visor up a little and continued to race down the hallway, the sounds of his footsteps the only disruption of silence. He came to the east staircase, hopping the rail and taking the steps three at a time. He was so full of adrenaline he couldn't even feel the pain in his leg, which was a wildly freeing realization. He reached the third floor and turned, rushing by the balcony where the guests went about their evenings, completely oblivious.

He finally made it to the grand room on his right, and he yelled for the three guards at the door.

"I must speak with the General," he called.

The guards turned to face him, and the one with the most chevrons stepped forward. "Any news?" he asked.

Archer nodded, catching his breath and trying not to look anyone in the eye. "We have panthers, sir," he said, careful to keep his voice low. Silta explained that royal intelligence had a complex system of code names to deliver information. Luckily, the Avourienne was more than aware of them, including their own.

The soldier immediately snapped around, gesturing for Archer to follow. He didn't ask any more questions nor offer any suspicion, perhaps because Archer truly did look the part—although, he had already wrinkled his neckline by running.

He burst through the doors dramatically behind the other guard, who called out for the General. As Silta had said, there was a large throne in the middle, towards the back, away from them. The General stood next to the throne, looking the same as when they'd spoken to him earlier. Perhaps he actually hadn't bought the story they told, or perhaps something else set him off. Either way, Archer planned to stay far enough away that the nobody would be able to put two and two together.

"Sir!" the other soldier shouted. "We have word she's been spotted."

The General whirled around to face them. He didn't ask who she was. He didn't question this lone soldier away from the rest of his peers, not when this excellent news came with him. The whole first, then the parts.

"Is she alone?" he asked, to which the guard turn to Archer.

"No, sir," Archer said. "The whole crew is out there." He searched the room as he talked. To his left was Lyra, leaning up against the wall, pistol to her ear. She hadn't recognized him yet, but someone else had.

The weapon's manager was closer to Archer, arm in a sling, peering in to look. Recognition was on his face, but it turned pale with the dilemma in front of him. He finally turned away, caught between loyalty for his general and the morality of his saviour.

"Take three platoon," the General said. "Lead them to where you last saw her. Bring them both to me." His voice echoed across the large space. "We'll take down that entire ship, and we'll do it today."

"Aye, sir," Archer replied, then immediately cut off. That was what they said in response to a command on the ship, but he doubted they said that in the King's army.

It appeared no one noticed, with the exception of Lyra, who glanced up and squinted at Archer, then let out a little snort.

He turned, eager to get out. Three platoon was the team of about thirty men currently in the grand room protecting the General, so Silta had been right after all—to bring down the Avourienne as a newly appointed general would be high enough of an honour to make a poor decision regarding his own safety.

Archer opened the door once again, stepping over the threshold to allow the men to file out of the room. When the last man was out, he stepped back into the room and wrestled with the door to push it closed. He took the wooden barricade from where it was leaning, hefting it into the holder. Just as he took his hands away, two arrows sunk into the wood on either end of the block, securing it into place. Nobody was getting in or out of this room through that door.

Archer turned, pulling his helmet off. It was so hard to breathe in there.

Once the remaining men recognized their mistake, they covered the General, but arrows found a few of them as they did. Archer looked for Silta on the interior balcony but couldn't find her yet. He glanced over at Lyra.

"Really thought ya'll we're gonna leave me here," she called from the wall. She appeared outwardly irritated, her eyes lazy and her eyebrows lifted slightly. Still, Archer saw through that act. Her fingers shook, and there was sweat beading behind her ear.

The guard on Lyra shouted when Archer tried to come closer, "Not a step more!"

Archer took another step anyway, earning another, "No more or I'll shoot her!" He stayed where he was for now.

There was a strangled cry from above, and finally Silta was visible on the balcony. She leaned back against the railing, the longbow string taut against the neck of a crisp. Her arms showed no strain; her face showed no fatigue. Physics was her friend and gravity her weapon, doing all the work for her.

The trapped crisp fell to the floor, but another came from further down, struggling to draw out his pistol. She twirled her bow back around and put an arrow through his chest before Archer could follow with his eyes. It was the last crisp up there, so she stepped up onto the railing.

"Don't jump—" Despite the beginning of his warning, she did it anyway, rolling out the impact of the drop with no issues. Archer would've snapped both his legs.

"Cauldon, right?" Silta called to the General, whose remaining troops were doing all they could to protect their leader. She took a few steps so she was beside Archer, then nocked another arrow, not taking a moment's rest. "I heard you're looking for me."

The General had only three men in between him and the murderous woman, but his face could still be seen. Surprisingly, he remained deadly calm, dark features painfully steady. He glanced to the door behind him, knowing that in order to get those arrows out and call for help, they needed to get around her.

"Panthers," the General said. "Take a pause on killing my men for a moment, won't you? We'll talk."

She nocked another arrow, taking out the man to the General's left. He did not flinch as one of his last men fell, impossible steady in his clear loss.

"I'm done now,"she said. She slung the bow around her shoulder. "Let's talk."