The man standing before her had a scar slicing across one pale eye. One eye white, the other black. A black hood shadowedhis hair, a metal mask covered his face from below the eyes to his chin. His clothes clung tight to his body, accentuating the significant bulk of muscle that shifted like steel under skin whenever he moved.
“Who are you?” Hope asked.
“I’m No One.”
Ciaran’s mouth curved in a half-smile. “He’s the Key Master of the West House.”
No One snorted. “For example. Tell me, have you lost your cock?”
Hope arched a brow. “No, he hasn’t. It’s intact. But I’d appreciate you minding your own cock—if you have one.”
A muffled snort escaped from behind the mask.
“What do you need?” he asked.
“A hand,” Hope said matter-of-factly, lifting her stump. “Can you help?”
“Not the kind of work that excites me, but for Mister Shadows—of course. Don’t think for a moment I’ll lose count of the favors you owe me, Ciaran.”
“Never had a doubt a mind like yours would forget anything.”
No One disappeared into the back of the shed, the sound of metal clattering and tools shifting echoing like a storm. Hope half-expected him to return with an arsenal of vicious instruments that would make her regret asking. She tightened her grip on the dagger in her good and only hand, reminding herself why she had to endure whatever came next.
Instead, he came back holding only an open bottle of myster, already half-empty. Without a flicker of Taking or Giving—the man’s hands didn’t so much as twitch—the clutter across the marble counter slid aside. Every item shifted, balanced with impossible precision, stacked so delicately that even the faintest breath could have toppled it all.
“Your hand,” he demanded. Cardinals, this man was blunt. “And don’t look.”
“It’s fine. I’m not afraid.”
“I said don’t look. That wasn’t a request, nor the opening of a debate. And—partial truth. You’re not afraid of the pain or of me. You’re afraid you won’t recover the hand you need to kill your enemy. So let me do my job. Mister Shadows, blind her—or I will.”
Hope clenched her jaw, attempting to keep her face unreadable. She gripped Ciaran’s arm tightly, a silent plea not to snap at the man.
“I appreciate your mastery.” Her fingers brushed Ciaran’s metallic arm in emphasis. She opened her hand and Gave herself a thick, Cardinal-red blindfold, wrapping her eyes in absolute darkness.
She half-expected No One to complain—that it wasn’t enough, that he didn’t trust her blindness—but he didn’t.
“Good,” he said, his voice final. His hands, cold as steel itself but with the unequivocal touch of flesh, held her amputated wrist.
She didn’t need sight to know he was numbing the limb. The nerves went quiet, cut off from her awareness until even his touch became nothing.
Sweet, mercilessly effective analgesia.
“The things one learns…” No One muttered.
Hope felt, rather than saw, Ciaran nod beside her, before he whispered, “The things one will keep quiet.” She couldn’t tell if it was a warning to him or a reassurance to her.
“You’re welcome,” the masked man said flatly, just as sensation returned to her limb. Her awareness snapped back all at once, and she didn’t need another cue to strip away the blindfold.
She gasped.
A hand. A whole, gleaming, metallic hand flexed at the end of her arm. She clenched and unclenched the new fingers, admiring the smooth precision of each movement. Cardinal-red sparks flickered over the polished surface, leaping eagerly across the room. She Gave a sharp blade into her palm, then Took it away again before it could strike the counter. The hand obeyed as though it had always been hers—only sharper, stronger, impossibly attuned.
“Thank you,” she said, bowing her head.
“My pleasure, Miss Mandor.”
Ciaran’s stare was sharp, unrelenting, but No One only returned it without flinching.
