Through Nic’s earthsight eyepatch, Falken’s figure brimmed brightly near the open panel. He was still here, even if only shadows appeared to claim the chamber’s corner. “Try to escape,” the Grand Divinus dared, still hovering the desk directly over Nic’s head. Her voice was matter-of-fact, as if she dealt with assassins daily. The Grand Divinus clearly noticed her, so that meant she had some precaution against Shade. An anti-mentalism sigil tattoo? “It’s been some time since I’ve taken a life by my own hand,” the Grand Divinus continued. “At least a human life.” Go. Run. But Falken lingered, not a muscle moving. The radiant threads of his anima swirled restlessly, flared and faded, wove and re-wove. And then he backed through the panel. Her chest tightened and her jaw clenched. She looked away. He was invisible by way of the ring, but even as much attention as she’d given could be enough for the Grand Divinus to notice. No, there was no sense in both of them dying. They’d agreed beforehand. They’d agreed, and— “Wise choi—” I’m not dying today either. Nic rolled out from beneath the desk and toward the armoire, clipping open one of the doors for cover. A thud hit the parquet floor. Papers flew like feathers. The armoire’s door ripped off as Nic threw two more of her knives. High. Low. Now. The nightstand’s slab of marble caught the high knife. The bearskin rug caught the low. Damned magic— Nic had her arm around the box of blood vials, readied her last arcanir knife— In front of her face was the tip of a letter opener, its sharp edge glinting in the moonlight. She stopped short. Another shone next to it. A ring of blades, surrounding her. “Enough of this,” the Grand Divinus huffed, waving an impatient hand. “I should have you flayed for this.” Should wasn’t will. Nic didn’t move, but glanced toward the Grand Divinus. “It’s the top left vial. Go ahead and take it.” The Grand Divinus indicated the box with an imperious raise of her chin. “He and I are allies, after all. Call it a gesture of good faith.” Allies? Watching the Grand Divinus warily, Nic plucked the top left vial out of the box. There was no way of knowing whether the woman spoke true, but there would be no guarantees. Not even of survival. A flurry of running steps neared the door to the hallway. Divine Guard—had to be. “Your Holiness!” Without looking away, the Grand Divinus lifted her arm toward the door, and the armoire slid in front of it. “I am well. Do not enter my quarters,” she called, her voice even and hardly raised at all. It would be the perfect time to kill her. But then, of course, an armoire wouldn’t hold that door forever, and the element of surprise was already lost. “I will allow you to leave here with your life and that vial,” the Grand Divinus said, but the ring of knives …