Kess sent her small knife singing through the air where it landed in the center of the target with a satisfying thunk. She repressed a small squeal of delight. Maude would eat her words if she knew how accurate Kess had gotten over the last few years.

  Another knife flew from her hands, the flick of her wrist perfect, the way the knife tumbled in the air, flawless—it landed with a clink directly next to the previous knife. And that’s not even with Fulminancy, she thought in wonder, though the thought of her powers dampened her spirits a little.

  She shook her head and readied another knife, the metal warm in her hands already. This time, she let some of her Fulminancy bleed into the knife to lessen her headache—a trick she’d learned after catching Arlette’s ledger. It crackled around the metal and Kess sighed in relief as some of the heat left her face and her headache abated.

  She readied the knife and heard the door to the warehouse click just as she threw it. She jumped, ruining her throw, but watched in awe as the knife corrected itself to land squarely among the other blades, like the Fulminancy knew her target beforehand. Mouth agape, she turned towards the intruder.

  “That was terrifying enough at dinner the other night,” Rowan said calmly, taking a seat on one of the piles of boxes behind her line of fire. “You were inches from Eamon’s head—do you really need to practice?”

  “Of course,” Kess said, retrieving the knives. “How else do you think I can get inches from someone’s head?” Rowan snorted, pulling out his own knife and a carving from his pocket. Kess still kept the owl with her, though she felt guilty for doing so. Was it overly sentimental? Perhaps. But clouds, it was beautiful—and it reminded her of the good in the world—of what a man like Rowan could do, perhaps, if someone with Kess’s penchant for destruction cleared the way.

  That thought soured her mood again, and she readied another knife. Rowan worked behind her, nearly silent as she threw knife after knife into the target. She couldn’t really become Mariel. She’d been Mariel that night so long ago, and what good had it done her? She threw the next knife with more force than she intended, and it hit the target hard enough that the board cracked, the gash snaking down the center of the grain. She glanced at Rowan as she went to retrieve the knives, embarrassed. He simply shook his head and returned to his own work.

  “You know,” he said as she tugged the knives from the board. “If I hadn’t seen you reading, I’d assume all of your hobbies are violent.”

  “Everyone has violent hobbies,” she said, brushing her hand over the crack in the wood board with a wince.

  “Not everyone,” Rowan replied. “Claire sticks to books and plants.”

  “Rowan,” Kess said, turning to look at him incredulously. “She cuts people up for a living. You haven’t been under her ministrations lately. If the way she does stitches without anesthetic isn’t violence, I don’t know what is.” She marched back over to the line she’d drawn on the floor, shaking out the tension in her shoulders.

  “A fair point,” Rowan said. He blew some of the wood shavings from his creation—a little tree—and the shavings drifted towards Kess’s bare feet. She scowled at the mess and turned back to what remained of her target, but as she went to throw another knife, Rowan spoke again. “What are you going to do with Forgebrand?”

  She let another knife sink into the board, though this time it flew wide to the right. “I’m not going to do anything with Forgebrand,” she said, readying another knife. “They can go home, be with their families, move on with their lives. Most of them were hired in the last six months, anyway. I’m not starting a war.”

  “Those men signed up for war. They’ve been giving Fulminant children back to the Uphill, for Mariel’s sake.” Kess threw another knife. This one was better, but still went wide as she threw it with too much force. “Maybe you don’t want war, but they do. If you don’t find something for them to do, they’ll find something for themselves to do, and you might not like the outcome.”

  Kess held the last knife in her hand, letting Rowan’s words wash over her. He was right, of course. Forgebrand’s newest hires were volatile, filled with a mix of criminals and militiamen with more time than sense. Many of those men were there because of a grudge against the Uphill, and that wouldn’t die overnight. Kess knew that well herself.

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  “What makes you think they’d even listen to me?” she asked.

  “They think you’re the Seventh Seat. Surely that holds some weight with men who practically worship Mariel.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if I was,” she said, aiming the knife. “Mariel means something bigger to them, Rowan. She’s a myth, a legend—what the original Seat was. They’ve made her into some sort of deity that no normal person could hope to fill, even with Fulminancy.”

  She let the knife fly. Wide again. Clouds. She marched towards the target again, growing increasingly frustrated.

  “You’re getting better with your Fulminancy, though,” Rowan said, not looking up from his own task. “Maybe you’re not Council material, but you’re still something special, Kess. No Downhill-born man in Forgebrand could tell the difference. I’ve seen how they look at you.”

  “And what purpose does it serve to be improving?” she asked, tugging the knives from the board again. “If I’m not willing to fight with it, then I’m no good to them. I won’t be a leader who doesn’t take part in my own wars—and this isn’t one I want to fight. We don’t know enough. Why is food disappearing? Why is the Uphill barring people from leaving their plateaus? Why have they locked down fighting rings, and why are Duds and Fulminancers alike disappearing? None or all of those things could be connected, and it’s foolish to move without thinking first. Clouds, Rowan, probably half of wars are fought over misunderstandings.”

  She grunted as one knife stuck stubbornly in the wood, finally coming free with enough force that the tug sent her lurching backwards. “It’ll destroy the Downhill,” she finished. Rowan’s voice was quiet and thoughtful when he spoke, though he didn’t look up from his carving. It grew more and more intricate in his hands, the chunks he released carefully chosen as a shape emerged from the wood.

  “It’s already happening,” he said. “Things have gotten to a tipping point, misunderstanding or not. It will be hard to avoid some kind of fighting at this point.”

  Kess sighed, facing the target again. She didn’t have time for a war. She barely had time to learn her powers, to deal with whatever this was springing up between her and Rowan, or to infiltrate the Uphill galas for more information on the Councilman who’d killed Draven. And then there was Oliver’s odd little connection to Forgebrand and the Councilman who’d attacked. Until they actually found a way into the Archives, Kess was treading water. It was hard to ask about her brother without giving away her own connections to him, and there was very little keeping her real identity from being discovered in the first place.

  She considered another round of throwing knives, but she had lost that intoxicating focus from earlier. Instead, she flopped onto a box next to Rowan, watching him work delicately on the tiny tree in his hands. It was already beautiful, but Kess watched him carve often enough to know that he wasn’t done yet.

  “It sounds odd to hear you talk about fighting like it’s inevitable,” she said. “Whatever happened to diplomacy? Didn’t you once tell me that the best way to enact lasting change is through lawmaking and discussions?”

  Rowan paused his carving and looked at her, his gaze calm. Kess realized with a twinge of panic how close they were and felt herself blushing. A tiny smile appeared on Rowan’s lips before he spoke.

  “I’m not saying you have to use those men for fighting, Kess. But sometimes war is inevitable, no matter how much we try to avoid it. Most of those men are mercenaries or militiamen—they’ve spent a lifetime fighting or living in the city’s underbelly. They’re not just going to sit around and wait for instructions. They’re in Forgebrand because it’s active—it doesn’t mean they’re all bad, but it does mean that they’re the type to make their own rules if it seems like life isn’t changing fast enough for their liking. You don’t have to give them a target to attack, but you should give them something to do.”

  “If they’ll even listen,” Kess said, feeling overwhelmed. Clouds, she was the leader of Forgebrand of all things now.

  “They will,” Rowan said. “If they seem reluctant, just show them this.” He gestured to the ragged knife board across the warehouse. Kess rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, knife throwing and hand to hand combat from a small woman they can simply pick up—that’ll win them over.” Rowan laughed.

  “You might be surprised,” he said. “And you can always use your Fulminancy if it seems dire enough. In any case, I’d do something sooner rather than later. We might want troops for the Archives if we manage to get in, even if they’re just for self defense around the perimeter.”

  Kess sighed, feeling resigned. “You’re right.” She took the wooden tree carving gently from Rowan’s hands, and though it wasn’t finished yet, she could see the beauty in the art already forming there. It was the same species of the tree she visited once a year—the tree where her parents’ remains would be, if they had any.

  As she turned the tree in her hands, Rowan watching, she fought through a myriad of emotions. How many people would still be alive if she’d simply accepted who she was? Perhaps she’d been running for too long. But even the thought of sharing this secret with Rowan was too much. She handed the tree back to him and tried to smile.

  Rowan watched her, worry on his features, but already Kess’s mind was churning. “Come on,” she said, getting to her feet. “We have a militia to greet.”

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