We Who Will Die (Empire of Blood #1)

Magnus brays like a donkey when he laughs.

He lounges back in his chair like it's a throne, idly gesturing for a barmaid to fill his cup as he peruses his cards. She sends me a wry look and makes her way from the bar, a bottle of wine in her hand.

The barmaid is responsible for serving both men.

I'm responsible for keeping one of them alive.

And so, each week as I stand in this exact spot, I focus on the money I'll earn. Money I desperately need.

Heat radiates from the fire on the wall to my left, turning my eyes heavy-lidded. I shift on my feet, boots clinging to the sticky floor as I force myself to stay alert. My position is a strategic choice. I can see almost the entire tavern, and it's the best view of the clock hanging above the bar.

Fifteen minutes, and I'll have earned enough money for a trip to the apothecary. The half tonic I left for Evren isn't enough to ease the anxiety that gnaws on me day and night.

Magnus stops laughing, and I hear more than one sigh of relief from the patrons sitting at nearby tables.

On Magnus's left, Gaius nods at the barmaid to refill his cup, rolling his eyes as Magnus gestures broadly, immediately knocking the cup with his large fist. The barmaid's bronze sigil flares across her brow, and the cup rights itself, the arc of the wine reversing to splash back in.

The barmaid looks young enough that her power must still feel like an unexpected gift she's only just begun to unwrap.

Gaius studies his cards, his brows slamming together. When he reaches for his own drink, I catch a glimpse of his hand.

Fold.

But he won't. I sigh.

I used to love this game. I relished being underestimated, delighting in the way I could swipe piles of coins from players unaware of my reputation.

By the time I was old enough to take a seat at the backroom tables of the Thorn's most notorious taverns, I was winning enough to supplement my mother's meager income.

Some part of me still misses the thrill of studying my opponent, of keeping my own expression carefully neutral while I surveyed my hand … even though I know it attracted too much unnecessary attention.

At least fifty people linger over wine, ale, and mediocre food.

Tables are packed tight, forcing strangers into reluctant intimacy as they jostle for space.

It's a typical crowd for this time of night—late enough that anyone still here is relaxing after a long day of work or planning to stay until last call, unwilling to go home to their own loneliness.

From behind the bar, Yorick meets my eyes, his bald head proclaiming his sigil-less state.

I shake my own head. Stubborn bastard. No matter how many times I tell him he should refuse Gaius entry, he insists he won't turn away a paying customer.

It's difficult for mundanes to eke out a living anywhere in this city, and Yorick knows that better than anyone.

One of these days, that collection of high-quality wines he's so proud of will end up in pieces on the scarred wooden floor—along with the mirrored wall behind him.

The customers who have been his regulars for the past decade will find their night ruined, and his reputation will be shattered along with his wine.

Another glance at the clock. Ten minutes.

At the table, Gaius still hasn't folded. Magnus has the better hand. He throws his cards down with a grin, and Gaius curses.

I crane my neck. If he'd played smarter, he could have won.

Gaius's shoulders tense, and he shifts his attention toward the door. All my senses go on high alert.

When he first hired me, I'd assumed my presence was a way to display both his wealth and his sense of self-importance.

I soon learned he had good reason to fear for his life.

If I'd known how many men would attempt to kill him for sleeping with their wives or cheating them in business, I would have negotiated a much higher wage.

At least I would have attempted to negotiate a higher wage. Everything they say about beggars and choosers is true.

Gaius's beady eyes are intent, and his wiry body stiffens. His hand slips beneath my side of the table as he keeps his attention on whoever is walking toward us. Two fingers tap against his thigh.

I suppress an eye roll.

This little signal is something he insisted on early in our business relationship. Apparently, for Gaius to look my way would be an intolerable admission of fear.

I drag my gaze across the tavern to the well-dressed man striding toward us.

"Gaius Panthen," the man shouts, and patrons move out of the way, giving him a direct path toward my client.

He's taller than Gaius, and his wide shoulders are thick with muscle. I'd put him in his early sixties, but he's moving with the ease of a man twenty years younger. His silver sigil sweeps out across his forehead, ending at the middle of each of his eyebrows.

Murmurs pick up at the tables nearby. Sigilmarkeds mix with mundanes in Yorick's tavern, but it's not often we see a half-crowned silver.

A newly awakened bronze sigilmarked might barely stir the wind—just enough to send leaves skittering across the ground.

But as their power matures, so does their command over that power.

If they were lucky enough to become a bronze-crowned, that same wind could tear the roof off a house with a single thought.

Silver- and gold-crowned are on an entirely different level. With the flick of their wrist, a silver-crowned could summon a vortex of wind and rain—while a gold-crowned could create a tornado powerful enough to raze an entire town.

A tidal wave of adrenaline crashes across my every nerve. Gaius forgoes any attempt to pretend indifference, shooting me a wide-eyed look. You'd think someone with so many enemies would have learned to swing a sword by now.

I stride across the tavern, and Gaius trails after me. "Orson Norcross," he mutters.

Orson's eyes flick up to my sigil, and I know what he sees.

Wasted potential.

His gaze slides dismissively from me and slams into Gaius. "You." His meaty fists clench.

"Ahem." Yorick cuts into the sudden silence, and Orson slowly turns his head. Yorick's hand trembles, but he points to the sign on the wall to his right.

No power.

Orson sneers and takes another step toward us, drawing so close I can smell the wine on his breath. "I have no need to use my power," he snaps. "I would much prefer to feel your bones breaking beneath my fists."

A hand slams into my back, and I stumble forward. Gaius pushed me. The coward.

Orson bares his teeth at me. "Out of the way."

"You know I can't do that." At least not for the next few minutes. If Orson had arrived just a little later, I'd already be on my way to the apothecary.

His gaze slides clinically over me, lingering on the sword hilt above my shoulder and the knives strapped to my thighs and biceps.

"I know who you are, champion."

I stiffen. No one else in this tavern would address me that way. They know better. But Orson lifts an eyebrow, waiting for my response.

"Arvelle is a champion," Gaius boasts from behind my back. "My champion. And she'll kill you if you attempt to touch me."

It's Gaius who I'd like to kill. I fantasize daily about shoving my blade deep into his throat. Unfortunately, poverty and desperation go hand in hand.

Orson studies me. Amusement flickers across his face.

"I see how it is," he says, returning his attention to Gaius. "I may not be able to kill you now, but I'm betting your little champion isn't with you every minute of every day." His expression is one of dark promise. "You took my wife, and I'm going to make you suffer before you die."

"Not tonight you're not," I say.

He nods slowly, never taking his gaze from Gaius, who ducks farther behind me. "No," Orson agrees. "Not tonight."

He stalks from the tavern, patrons scattering in his wake.

Silence reigns until Yorick's voice booms across the tavern. "Music!" he demands, and someone strikes up a cheery tune just as the clock on the wall hits 4 a.m.

Finally.

I reach for my satchel beneath the table.

"You can't go." Gaius catches my arm. "Didn't you hear the man? He'll kill me!"

"Sadly, our time together is finished tonight. Try not to make anyone else want to murder you before I see you next."

His hand tightens. "If you think I'm paying you—"

Our eyes meet and the color drains from his face. I know what he sees in the wasteland of my eyes, and it's not pretty. Slowly, Gaius releases me, shoves his hand into his cloak, and pulls out a gold coin.

I pluck it from his palm. "I'll see you next week." If he's not dead by then.

With coin in hand, I tug my cloak around my shoulders and head out into the frigid night.

The moon hangs pregnant in the sky above my head, barely piercing a dense shroud of fog.

This part of the city isn't the worst … but it's close.

Fog's Edge was originally named for the heavy mist that clings to the streets here, wrapping everything in a damp cloud.

But centuries ago, a magistrate drunkenly referred to the district as the thorn in his side. The name stuck.

I hurry down cobblestoned streets, each worn by time and thousands of booted feet.

I'd memorized the bewildering maze of alleys and shortcuts before I was old enough to know my own name.

I know which brothels the sigil-crowned like to slip into through discreet entrances.

I know which taverns cater to vampires with darker interests.

And I know which streets I wouldn't dare walk down without risking a slit throat.

Laughter cuts through the night, sudden and sharp. Near a crumbling fountain at the end of the street, a group of youths heckle one another, the glowing sigils on their brows bathing their faces in light.