We look to the executioner, crouched, hands flexing on thighs. Their figure seems to flicker. An Illusion? But Death laced me back to this House weeks ago, held me in his arms, stood before all of Versara to execute my friend, and has been at a king’s side for over a century.
Death is watching us.
“You understand now,” they say.
My mistress’s magic reaches across the plane, fluttering the executioner’s cloak. She frowns. “You aren’t an Illusion.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I don’t care what’s under your cloak,” I say. “I just want to know why we perceive you differently.”
“It’s part of the oath I took to represent my House. To become as faceless as death itself.”
My mistress shifts. “So what are you?”
“What you fear most,” Death says. “Usually, a loved one who did not know how to love.”
“I do not seek the approval of males,” I mutter.
“No, you just seek safety in them.”
I flinch, eyes burning.There is no safety in them,I think, and finally understand.
“Enough.” Kassandra stares down the executioner, face smooth and unreadable. “You claim your House collects no debt, yet you still protect Amyria. Why?”
“Because it is needed.”
“And your House grows with anyone who survives the Desert Walk. You must be the biggest House at this point.”
“Few survive the Walk.”
“But some do?” I wonder.
“Yes.”
“But the scorpions and carnivorous sand turtles? The winds of the Amyrian Desert?”
“Are you a child?” Kassandra sighs. “These are ghosts you fear.”
“They exist,” Death says, “but we do not harm the creatures if they do not harm us.”
We fall silent for a moment, the air thick and full of iron.
“Take me to the king,” Kassandra says.
“I can’t do that,” the executioner replies, hands flexing on their—his—thighs, the visage of a male once more to me.
“I’d like to speak to my creditor.”
“He’s…indisposed.”
Kassandra rubs her face, swearing.
“Why?” I ask.
“The anniversary of his mother’s death,” she replies. “He drinks himself stupid for the entire week.”
“Well, if the king can drown himself for his mother, surely he could understand that we—”
