Lou

The dress was Archer’s idea. The knives were mine. He said I’d look harmless. I said I’d rather fight naked, so we compromised on a corset and five blades.

Not that any of it will save me if tonight goes wrong. People burn for less.

Archer’s mudbrick home traps heat like a furnace, and I’m standing in the middle of it, pulling the laces until my ribs protest. A single drop of sweat slides between my breasts before soaking into the linen. Soap and lavender linger on the fabric, too clean for a city that sweats dust. Not to mention that white is for the lucky few in Senix—the ones with clean hands and spotless floors.

My fingers slip, and the whole thing bursts open. “This is fucking impossible.” I throw up my hands. “You could help instead of just lying there looking pretty?”

Archer lounges on the cot, tossing a knife from hand to hand like the world isn’t closing in. His shirt hangs open at the collar, sleeves rolled, tattoos half-visible.

“Since you finally admitted I’m pretty, I guess I can be of service.” He flings the knife past my shoulder, embedding it into a support beam. The hilt quivers from the force.

Pushing off the cot, he saunters over, stopping behind me, fingers fanning across my hips, heat seeping through the thin fabric. No, not going there. Just nerves. Archer’s practically family. Which is exactly why I pretend this isn’t affecting me.

“You sure about this, Lou?” He yanks the strings until the air stutters out of me.

“No.” The bodice strains against my chest with each breath. “But I’m going.”

“You could stay home and let me handle it.”

“And let you take all the credit?” I raise a brow. “Not a chance.”

His hands settle on my waist as he rests his chin on my shoulder, his stubble scraping my skin. “Wilder’s going to skin me alive.”

My twin has rules: be invisible, stay alive, and don’t poke the flame.

“Only if you let me die.”

“That’s great. Very comforting.” His gaze wanders over me. “You look…”

“Don’t.”

“…like bait,” he finishes, smoothing a strand of his chestnut hair into place. That color is an anomaly in Senix, where everyone else glows in sunrise tones. Archer milks it for all it’s worth, and most women fall for it.

I flip him off, then adjust the neckline again. Too high, and the guards won’t look, and if it’s too low, I’ll gag. I split the difference and hate every second of it.

The door opens, and red dust swirls in from the breeze as Wilder fills the doorway, chest heaving like he sprinted the whole way here. His gaze hits the dagger in the beam. The corset. Then me.

The color drains from his face. “Tell me you’re not doing this.”

“Shit,” Archer mutters, guilt flickering across his face.

I lift my chin. “Go home, Wilder.”

“Not until you tell me why you’re dressed like—” His jaw locks. “Lou, this is insane.”

“No,” I shoot back. My hands shake, so I reach for the dagger embedded in the post, but it doesn’t budge. I brace my boot and shove until the blade jerks free. “What’s insane is letting Eric burn for having an extra bucket of water. Why do you always think I’ll fail?”

Wilder drags a hand over his shaved head. He cut off the same ash-blonde curls I still have after the mines carved the softness out of him. Made him older than nineteen. “It’s not you. No one stands up to the crown and walks away.”

His glare snaps to Archer. “And you. You’re supposed to be my best friend.”

Archer’s mouth hardens. “She’s doing this with or without me.”

I clutch the hilt. “The king burned Mom alive, Wilder. Burned her. And we never even got a reason—just her body dumped on our doorstep.” Her skin blistered raw, fabric fused into it. The stench of burned hair still stings my nose whenever I let myself remember. “I didn’t do anything then.” I meet his gaze. “I’m doing something now.”

“Just because Archer taught you to fight doesn’t mean you’re ready for what happens.”

I slide the knife into the bustle. “Well, silence never got me anywhere either.”

Wilder’s throat works. He looks at me like he’s seeing a stranger—or like he’s losing the last piece of family he has left.

For a second, I want to ditch the daggers and get out of this lie of a dress.

“I don’t need you to understand, but this is what I’m doing.”

I look at Archer and nod. Biting down on the inside of my cheek to keep my emotions from taking over, I turn toward the door and walk.

“Lou—” Wilder’s voice cracks.

I look back. “Don’t worry, Wilder. I got this.”

Archer steps in beside me, resting a hand on Wilder’s shoulder. He shrugs it off, eyes never leaving mine.

Outside, the night stretches dark and wide. I breathe out slowly, steadying my heartbeat. No backing out now. If we succeed, Eric walks free, but if we fail, we burn too.

“Let’s go,” I whisper.

***

The wind kicks, slicing through the alleys, red dust clinging to the hem of my dress until the white turns the color of dried blood. And that’s why no one in our section wears white, because it remembers every step you take. The sunset bleeds over the rooftops, turning the city to copper and shadow. Some might call this beautiful. That precise moment when the sky is set ablaze with fiery hues. I call it vomit-worthy.

The curfew bell hasn’t rung yet, but doors shut and lanterns vanish behind barred windows. No one stays out after dark, not unless you’re stupid, suicidal, or one of us.

We move through the Dust Market side by side, silent but alert. The stalls are bare, and whatever edible or sellable was left is long gone, picked clean like carrion.

“Wilder’s face…” I blow out a breath. “I hate this.”

“He hates it more.”

We duck beneath a collapsed archway as torches flicker to life across rooftops.

“He’ll forgive you,” he says.

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

A heavy silence sits between us for a few steps.

“You remember the plan?” Archer whispers.

“Yours or mine?”

He exhales hard through his nose. “Yours ends in corpses. Stick to mine. Get in, cause a distraction, and keep the guards occupied. I’ll handle the ropes. No blades unless you have to.”

“Define have to.”

He stops and catches my arm. “Lou. I’m serious.”

I meet his gaze. “So am I.”

We reach the mouth of the final alley. Cinder Square stretches before us, cobblestones forming the Royal Seal, a blazing flame. Two guards stand watch, and Eric is tied at the center, sagging against his restraints.

When the Concord fell apart, E’aue dried out our rivers, leaving Senix pale and lifeless. Then our king turned that ruin into punishment, a city of ghosts scraping for crumbs. Take too much water or break the ration law, and you end up tied to a stake, waiting to become a warning like Eric.

“I go right,” Archer says. “Count to a hundred.”

I nod, and without another word, he slips away. I start counting. My fingers find the blade at my back, the steel hilt biting against my skin.

At ninety, my breath shortens. Ten seconds later, I wipe my damp palms against the dress and drag in a breath so deep the corset threatens to split open. I shove a hand beneath the bodice, lifting one breast then the other. Heat crawls up my neck, but I ignore the humiliation coloring my cheeks. I have to sell the part.

Then I run, boots hammering against stones, breath scraping through my throat. “Help, please.” My voice bounces off the houses surrounding the square. I don’t fake my ragged breaths; they come naturally.

Two guards straighten near the well. One is young, close to my age, with a pathetic excuse for a mustache clinging to his upper lip. The other is older with cold eyes and a rigid posture. I wonder if he’s ever smiled.

Their hands drift to their swords, but after a quick scan they ease, shoulders loosening. “What are you doing out after curfew?” the young one demands.

“I—I’m sorry,” I gasp, words tumbling with my breath. “I had to get help. A man’s trying to access the well at Coal Square.”

The younger soldier’s fingers twitch toward his sword as he exchanges a glance with his comrade. “There are guards stationed at that well,” he says, uncertainty lacing his voice.

“They’re unconscious.” I choke on the next word, forcing a sob. “You have to go there; save the well. What if they’re from E’aue? What if they’re here to use the water against us?”

The older soldier cracks his neck, the torchlight catching the tattoo on his skin, an X: Tenth Division, Immolation War. He’s seen what our neighboring country, E’aue, can do.

Soldiers ink their service into their flesh, proof of loyalty and ownership. I’ve always wondered if the ink burns when it’s carved in or if the pain comes later, when you realize you’re branded forever.

The young one shifts, weight rocking from heel to toe. “Should we investigate? Just to be safe? The water people have been spotted—”

“That’s enough,” the other soldier snaps. “I’ll go. You stay here.”

He turns his icy gaze on me, and a shiver slices down my spine.

“Don’t let this woman out of your sight. If she’s lying, there’ll be two burnings tomorrow.”

I steal a glance at Eric, who slumps against the stake, bruises painting his skin, but his chest rises and falls. He’s alive.

Footsteps fade as the older soldier strides away, and the square exhales. I size up the guard left in front of me—his uniform hangs loose from a frame that hasn’t yet learned to look tired, and his gaze skitters across the stone like a new recruit. Good. Dealing with the other one would have presented more of a challenge.

Archer warned me not to use my knives, but he didn’t know I’d be facing someone my size, someone jumpy.

I step closer. “I’m lucky to have you here to protect me.” Batting my lashes, I offer him a soft smile.

The man furrows his brow. “What’s wrong with your lips?”

I resist the urge to stab him for asking, but now’s not the time. The right side of my mouth tilts down. Archer calls my crooked smile charming, but to me, it’s a reminder of the day everything changed.

I trail my fingers along the neckline of my dress, and his gaze follows the movement.

“You’ll protect me if someone comes, right?” I force a quiver into my voice. This will be too easy.

He straightens, puffing out his chest. “You wouldn’t need to worry.” He hesitates. “But you broke the law. Being out after curfew is punishable. No one can protect you from that.”

Stepping closer, my arm brushes against his. He shifts. I swallow the bile rising in my throat, not from the filth of him but from the uniform and the memory it drags with it. The king may have sparked the fire, but his soldiers stood by and watched, making them just as culpable. This one is no different.

“Maybe we can work something out?” I ask. “I don’t have coin, but I can be … grateful.”

His throat bobs. “I’m a soldier of the flame. I follow orders.”

This is bad. He’s too alert, which means Archer won’t get close. My fingers brush against the cold steel at my lower back as I make my choice. One fluid motion, just like Archer taught me. Unsheathe. Pivot. Strike.

The blade slices through the air, aimed for his jugular.

“What the—”

The soldier reacts fast, his blade ramming into mine, the impact rattling up my arm. Gritting my teeth, I shove harder, but he doesn’t budge. Fuck.

His knee hits my stomach, and air explodes from my lungs. Staggering, my dagger slips from my grip and skitters away across the cobbles. I reach for another, but the fabric tangles around my legs, and the corset digs deeper. Stupid dress. I can’t reach the blade fast enough.

“You’ll burn for this,” he seethes.

I lash out before he can swing, fist cracking against his jaw. Pain sears through my knuckles, but I keep going. Twist, drop low, and drive another hit into his ribs.

A guttural howl rips from his throat as he lunges at me, his blade clattering to the stones. My back hits the ground hard, and before I can recover, he’s on top of me, hands clamped around my throat, face twisted with rage. Blood beads at his nostrils and splatters against my cheek.

“Maybe you won’t burn,” he growls, breath sour against my skin. “Maybe I’ll end you tonight.”

Black spots burst across my vision. No. I will not die today.

I elbow his temple, but he dodges. My chest convulses. My nails scratch uselessly against his arms.

Then—silver, a flash in the corner of my eye. Archer’s blade buries itself in the soldier’s temple with a sickening crack. His eyes widen for a split second before he crumples to the ground.

I lie there, chest heaving as the world narrows to my ragged breath and the tang of iron in the air. The soldier beside me isn’t a monster anymore. Just a man. A very dead man.

Archer steps into view, dark-eyed and panting. He pulls the cloth from his face, gaze sharp as steel as it sweeps over me.

“What the hell happened?” His hand closes around my elbow, hauling me upright. “Are you hurt?”

I shrug him off. “I’m fine.” My voice is hoarse, each word like sharp needles against my throat.

A muscle ticks in Archer’s jaw as his gaze drops to the body. “We weren’t supposed to kill anyone.”

“Well, you were late.” I lift my chin. “I had to improvise.”

“You fought him?” he says, like he can’t believe his own words.

“He was too nervous. He would’ve heard you sneaking up.”

“You could’ve died, Lou.” His voice drops low, near-breaking. “Killing changes things. Every time.”

I shove away the shame curling low in my gut, but my body ignores my command as nausea grips me and acid climbs my throat.

Doubled over, my palms braced against my knees, I vomit. When the spasm fades, sweat slicks my hair to my forehead. I drag the back of my hand across my mouth. How do soldiers do this—wipe the blood off and move on without their body revolting against the action?

A wet crack rips through the silence. I look up just as Archer yanks the dagger free from the soldier’s skull. The nausea surges back like a violent storm.

Archer’s gaze meets mine. For the first time tonight, he looks … drained. His shoulders sag, the corners of his mouth pulling downward, but he says nothing, just turns and walks to Eric’s side.

I force my legs to move, stumbling after him, less graceful than I’d like, but at least I manage on my own. I scoop up my knife from the cobblestones before dropping to my knees beside Eric. The ropes dig into his wrists and ankles, skin rubbed raw and dark with dried blood. Archer saws through them, quick and precise.

The moment the last rope falls away, Eric sags forward like a sandbag, all breath and bone. He collapses into me, and my knees buckle under his weight, arms flailing as my balance slips—

Archer catches me with one strong hand at my lower back.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

He doesn’t answer.

“You can’t be angry. The soldier got what he deserved.” My voice is barely a whisper, each word scraping against my throat.

Archer doesn’t stop. He hoists Eric over his shoulder and strides ahead. I quicken my pace to keep up.

“You disobeyed orders,” Archer whispers.

“This isn’t the military. You don’t get to pull rank.”

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping. “I should’ve known you’d pull something like this. This was a rescue mission, not a kill mission. All you accomplished tonight was angering the Crown. There’ll be repercussions.”

“There would always be repercussions. We stole what they claimed was theirs.”

“Go home, Lou.”

His dismissive tone halts me midstep, but Archer doesn’t miss a beat.

Frustration surges through me, and I run to catch up, grabbing his elbow. “I’m not going home.”

He spins on me, eyes flashing with anger. “The streets will be crawling with soldiers any minute now. Get the fuck home. Or do you need me to escort you?”

The venom in his voice is more brutal than the knee to my stomach earlier. I’ve known Archer since childhood, and he’s never lost his temper with me. No matter what I threw at him, he always met it with a smirk or a joke.

“Fine.” I swallow, wincing at the pain.

Without another word, I turn around. I hate the tears streaking my face. Hate the way Archer’s words echo in my mind, over and over, like a wound I can’t close. I did what I had to do. That man deserved to die. The guards would always retaliate for what we did tonight. How can Archer not see that?

I scrub my palms over my face, brushing away the tears, forcing my mind to clear. My feet move on instinct, weaving through the familiar maze of streets.

A solid force barrels into me, shoulder to shoulder, and I stumble, boots skidding before I fall. The ground hits hard, grains of sand biting into my palms. Pain jolts up my spine, but instinct takes over before thought. I’m on my feet, dagger out, blade trembling in my grip.

A hooded figure blocks the alley, a slow grin curling across his lips. I resist the reflex to adjust my cleavage. If this is how I die—pushed-up boobs and all—I swear I’ll haunt Archer forever. A gust of wind tears through, yanking the hood from his head.

My breath freezes.

Raven-black hair. Piercing blue eyes. No one in Senix has either, let alone both. Only the enemy does. E’aue.

His eyes flick over me, not the way guards look at prey, but like he’s searching beneath my skin for something only he can see. For a blink, his expression shifts—surprise, maybe?—then it’s gone.

He tilts his head. “You don’t scream.” His voice is low and laced with amusement. “Smart.”

“Stay away from me.” My pulse spikes.

His grin deepens. “If I meant you harm, little ember, you’d already be ash.”

Fear grips me, clamping down like an iron vise, and every muscle locks in place. He should kill me. The E’auvians are ruthless. I’ve grown up on tales of their savagery: beady eyed monsters with webbed fingers and teeth filed to points. Creatures more water-beast than man.

But the man in front of me is no monster. He’s human. Terrifyingly human. And far too beautiful for everything I was taught to hate.

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