STANDING AT THE BASE of the wall, I glance at the timer on my PED. 11:04:16. Crossing to Baqir took far too long, but there’s still time. After a rapid ascent, I’m atop the outer wall. Immediately my nostrils fill with musky, spiced perfumes, and my ears pick up the overly jovial conversation of the guards below, like the ones who laughed as they surrounded a defenseless young girl that dark day so many years ago.

Inside the wall, two of Kapka’s men patrol with pikes in hand. They cross paths and take a moment to talk, snickering about who knows what. Now’s my chance. I descend, feline in my movements. My boots thud against the icy cobblestones, and I immediately roll into the shadow of a nearby building. One of the men turns, searching for the source of the sound. He resumes his conversation.

Slipping across a narrow alley, I press myself against the wall. Like a black cat under the cover of darkness, I slink from one shadowy corner to another. It’s a long and tedious process, testing the best of my patience—constantly having to flatten my body against the cold ground as a silk-laden caravan of traders passes or someone opens a door to throw out some murky dishwater.

The buildings here are different from those of Logos. Made of stone and mortar, the squat dwellings harbor a single living space for an entire family. All of them are like this as far as the eye can see, except for one: a massive structure, part of the old world. Kapka’s fortress. From here, it’s possible to see his guards walking the perimeter, carrying their machetes. Even from a distance, the place gives me the creeps.

* * *

HIDING IN THE SHADOW of another building, I’m much closer to the palace than I’m comfortable with. I hate this place. Mostly because of its governor, Kapka. A hard-line zealot who claims to descend from the terrorist leader who instigated World War III, he’s a soulless monster. Part religious fanatic, part gangster, all warlord—the sort of man you don’t want to meet and you really don’t want to cross. It’s true that he united the many segregated Musul factions under a single banner. It was accomplished by the sword. Get in line or be cut down. Political rivals, enemies, and any other opposition were quickly and viciously dealt with.

Why did Clief have to go and get me mixed up in this guy’s business? It shouldn’t be my problem, but now that I’ve dismantled a few of his guys, it is. Probably should have killed them—but that’s really not my thing. Not unless there’s no other option.

Over the snapping of the frozen wind, the moan of a child in distress reaches my ears. I crane my neck, trying to pick out its origin, moving as quietly as possible between the snowdrifts piled in the alleys. At the edge of a housing row, I crouch again and quickly peek around the corner into the alley ahead. Near the end, down on all fours, is a girl, probably nine or ten years old. Five of Kapka’s guards surround the poor child, tugging at her robes and making barking sounds.

Not your business, Mila.

I slide down the wall to the ground, press up against the cold stonework, and reassess the route. About half a mile ahead of the mob of guards is the outer wall of the enclave—my way out. The child’s sobbing grows louder. Breathe, Mila. She’s not your problem.

There’s another sound from the alley now—a scuffle. Another peek. A man struggles with the guards. Hitting him with their clubs and fists, they quickly subdue him and pin him against the wall. He screams, his eyes wide with fear as he reaches for the girl. Another guard holds her against the ground, pulling at her robes.

Don’t do this, Mila. Don’t try to be a hero. But I’m already climbing. There’s no turning back now. I scramble up the side of the dwelling to the roof. These men do this because there’s no consequence. No one to tell them they’re wrong. Well, today there is—and the only language they’ll understand, especially from a woman, is violence.

Yeos, lend me your strength.

Staying low, I fly across the rooftops, locking my sights on the fracas below. If I’m lucky, I can teach these jerks a lesson, hop the wall, and not drop too much time before getting the hell out of this place. This is beyond stupid. But there’s no more ignoring this little girl. Not today.

Launching from the edge of the roof, I’m well into my descent before the first one sees me. Startled, he screams something unintelligible before my boots slam into his neck. His body flies out from under me as the force pushes him across the cramped alleyway and into a pile of garbage. I land and drop into a leg sweep, knocking another guard clean off his feet. He falls hard and strikes his head against the icy ground.

Two down. Savages. You had this coming.

Rising to my feet, the voices around me jabber in their native tongue. The one holding the girl glares at me and shouts at his friends. With a skip-step, my boot lands hard under his chin. He bites through his own tongue midsentence, blood spraying from his lips. Another comes at me from the left, his machete whistling as it cuts through the air. I duck the first swipe, catch him on the back swing, and trap his arm. Bracing it, my forearm slams behind the elbow, forcing the joint to separate. He screams in agony, drops the blade, and falls back against the wall, clutching his disfigured arm.

Something hits me from behind like a wrecking ball, striking me low across the side of my neck. My world spins, the ice and clouds and shouting men mixing in a swirling mess. I take another hard hit to the ribs followed by a heavy-handed blow to the head, dropping me to my hands and knees. A trickle of blood streaks down my cheek. My body shakes involuntarily, my head swimming with pain and nausea.

Stupid, Mila. You couldn’t just mind your own business for once.

The young man and the girl run in the opposite direction down the alley.

Thank the Lightbringer.

The hood of my jacket is yanked back. The men gasp at the realization I am not only a woman, but a foreigner. Several of them swear. Another spits on my head.

“Logosian!”

Damnation, they’ve seen my brand.

The man with the severed tongue now stands before me, bearing a sinister grin.

“Joo whill rekret dish day, Yogosian.”

“Don’t—”

He kicks me in the teeth. The overwhelming blast of pain sends me tumbling backward into a black abyss filled with blood and spiced perfume.

Yeos forgive me. I’m as good as dead now.