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“Ah, of course, my apologies.” The figure reached up to push back their hood and Atticus’ coiffed hair and manicured beard replaced the shadows. “Better?”

Orpheus shivered where he lay, heart hammering out of his chest, unable to meet Atticus’ eyes. “You’re one of them?” He didn’t know why that surprised him. Maybe because he hadn’t pegged Atticus as someone to keep the secret for so long, not when he could have been wielding it against Orpheus these last several weeks. “You’re an Architect?” But it made sense, didn’t it? The medical bag. The knowledge. The blood he’d drained from Orpheus in order to harness the same forbidden magic the hermits had used on him.

Above him, Atticus fiddled with his cowl until it hung evenly from his neck. His was white instead of the gray the Architects wore, edged with silver stitching far finer than anything the hermits had donned. The cloak added a bulk to Atticus’ shoulders that spoke of importance. A kind of ceremony that only accentuated the authority Atticus wore like second skin.

Which made it all the more strange when Atticus said, “As much as it sometimes bereaves me to admit, yes.”

Before Orpheus could ask what the hell that meant, Atticus grabbed him again. The world tilted when he was hauled up onto his knees, whatever remained of his drowsiness shedding when Atticus plopped his bag between them and pulled out his leather roll of tools.

“The heretics who created you were the best of our best. Their betrayal stripped Sanctuary of a generational knowledge we wouldn’t fully feel until several decades later, when we needed it most. What Sanctuary is left with now is a pontification of ideals with very little practical application. Our Architects wear the cloaks but the work” —Atticus unrolled his tools and silver glinted up at him— “well, let’s just say they’ve left the work up to me.”

Atticus withdrew a vial from his bag and inserted one of his needles into it, drawing back on its plunger. “While your and Gwen’s natural ability for magic eludes me, I found I’m quite adept with a very specific alternative.”

“No.” Orpheus jerked away when he lifted the needle into the light, a bead of liquid balanced precariously on the tip.

“Blood magic is a curious rabbit hole; one I didn’t fully explore until well into my years as an Architect. My brethren like to think this was all their idea, but the irony is that Sanctuary wouldn’t have this chance without me. That pesky work, again.” Atticus took Orpheus’ sleeve and rolled it up, the scar on his wrist silvery and exposed. Atticus brushed it with his thumb. “Sadly, we both share the same fear. Your blood is weak, your magic snuffed out. I thought you could do what I couldn’t—teach Gwen how to become a powerful mage and give us another option, but we’ve run out of those, it seems. Both of us. Perhaps, if this doesn’t work, Gwen too.”

Atticus placed the needle against Orpheus’ skin, and he jerked back, begging, “Please, don’t, you can’t hurt Gwen. I can still—”

“No, you can’t, and we both know why.”

Orpheus choked, that wretched guilt clawing at him again while a prick of sensation punctured his skin, the needle sinking in like a knife.

“There you go,” Atticus murmured, thumb depressing the plunger until it bottomed out against the glass reservoir, Orpheus gritting his teeth against the uncomfortable tug in his vein when the needle slid free. Atticus patted Orpheus’ arm to get the injection moving before tugging his sleeve back into place and standing. “Just a little stim to get your blood pumping. We’ll need it, trust me.”

From behind, Serval lifted him. Orpheus stumbled upright, swaying slightly while the first wave of the drug swept through his bloodstream, fire spreading across his skin. Serval shoved his crutch into his hands, and he stumbled along behind Atticus into the hallway where flickering, violet light sent his buzzy head into a spin.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t see her right away: Gwen.

“Atticus,” she said softly, “is it safe?”

Atticus froze, the chill of the dungeon growing a few degrees colder.

All hells, Orpheus thought, had she heard?

“I thought I told you to wait with the others?”

“I wanted to stay with you,” Gwen replied, eyes dropping to the floor while Atticus visibly swallowed, glancing back at Orpheus before shaking himself free and patting Gwen’s shoulder.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Atticus and Gwen led them through the halls. Like her namesake—Guinevere of Arthurian legend—Gwen was dressed in her white cloak, fabric bleeding from her in a gossamer web, intricate gold needlework swirling like the sigils Sanctuary was made of. A circlet adorned her head that matched the richness of her hair, and she’d added a bit of rouge to her cheeks and gloss to her lips, little details that made her look far older than her thirteen or so years, and far healthier than the skeletal girl he’d last seen collapsed inside his cell. She’d recovered, but the stains remained. Dark circles hung below her eyes and a brittleness marked her step that Orpheus—all hells—he was the reason for.

Gwen, I’m so sorry.

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Orpheus knew he deserved that—deserved this—and all that came next.

Duluth’s hand at his back urged him forward, his steps heavy with an unnatural weight, the crutch so much worse than his cane. Sanctuary’s prison walls passed him in a smeared blur while the buzzing in his head became an all-consuming vibration. He stumbled when he limped past the empty-eyed janitor sweeping a set of stairs, his presence jarring loose Orpheus’ memory of when he’d appeared in the study room hallway and drawn Serval away long enough for Orpheus to reach Atticus’ book.

At the time it’d felt like a boon, but now Orpheus suspected it was another curse. A real one this time. A bane he couldn’t fight, foretelling a future he couldn’t escape, no matter how many times he tried. And oh, how he tried.

The buzzing grew, louder and hungry.

You’re going to die. Really die, this time.

By the time they emerged into the bright light of the sun, he could barely hear the roar of the crowd.

Spires pierced a rare blue sky; clouds traded for a bold azure the likes of which he hadn’t seen since his days at the Rawkner farm. Born of the clear sunny day, a warmth swept through Sanctuary, incompatible with the cold dread currently chugging through Orpheus’ veins. Dark shadows still cast their net over the gathered crowd, the square as packed as it had been the day of their procession, but now all of Sanctuary gathered for his execution instead. A mass of thousands ringed the edge of the square, more hanging from the balconies of the homes comprising the surrounding city blocks.