The feeling of deja vu was impossible to escape as Ylia wiped down the counter of the bar. The smell of beer and wine was still thick on the air, even though the House was silent now, the patrons having stumbled back to the ramshackle abodes of Scumbay. Dawn was already on its way, the first fingers of light stretching through the shuttered windows. The eve of New Year had been a raucous celebration, the revelry hallooing long into the night. She was as weary now as she had been after the Battle, maybe more so, for she did not have Telos’ presence to buoy her.

  She missed him. There was no point in denying it. She had convinced herself it was the right thing to send him away. Qala and Jubal had both agreed. Even Telos’ mother, Julya, had said she acted rightly. But now Ylia could not help but regret it. Just when you had him, you lost him.

  He’d promised to return, and that promise was something she clung to in the dark watches of the night. She no longer had Urgal for company, either. She hadn’t realised how much she relied on the great felidae to soothe her nerves until he, too, was gone. A god all along. You had a god curled up in your damn bed! She smiled at that. It was ridiculous. Her life was ridiculous. More like a storybook than reality.

  And yet, for all the fantastical things that’d happened, for all the great adventures, here she was: once more running a House.

  After the Battle, the party had not known what to do. Julya—eminently practical as she was—had been the one to suggest they return to Scumbay and sleep. Limping, wounded, and in a state of shock, the four of them had staggered back through the jungle to the dingy little outpost. Twice, creatures had threatened them, but both times Jubal had warded them off with his flaming hammer. When they had finally arrived, they had been drawn towards the largest building: the abandoned House.

  There were still kegs of beer in the cellars, uncleaned glasses on the tables, a few piles of clothes here and there, spattered with blood. It was as though a wind had swept through the place, carrying off the people to some phantom world, leaving only their belongings behind. Eerie, to say the least, but they were all too tired to argue with a bed, and the House had plenty.

  The next morning, they had eaten dried bacon and bitter eggs and bathed in Scumbay’s dugout pools, trying to feel normal. It was impossible. Grief, fear, and uncertainty lingered on them like a curse.

  They spent the day talking little, eating, trying not to think, until a team of explorers arrived, seeking shelter.

  The three men stumbled in, looking in need of respite, the jungle clearly having had its way with them. If they cared about the fact a theront was sitting in the corner of the House, they gave no sign. Memory, of course, was a law unto itself.

  Ylia hadn’t had the heart to turn them away, and certainly lacked the energy to explain to them that the House was not hers, that the owner and all its occupants had probably been killed by Daimons, that there was no one left in Scumbay and they should make their way onward, to some other settlement. Instead, she had poured them an ale each. When they had placed coins in her hand, she had almost returned them. But then she had put the coins in her pocket.

  And thus, she became the owner of a new House.

  Once that transaction had occurred, the deal was sealed in her mind. She began to think of the House as hers.

  It needed a few changes.

  The faded lettering on the lintel read, The Wet Embrace. The euphemism was both ugly and clumsy. She scrubbed off the gold—which was not hard, given how faded it was—and mixed together charcoal and sap into a black paste that would serve as temporary paint. She didn’t have to think long about the name of the place; it came to her with a kind of dream-certainty. She’d been thinking of Qala, and her mission, and also of her past life as a tavern-owner.

  The House of the Eastern Sun.

  Her loyalty was now to Qala, and Qala’s sun was going to rise. The House would be a means of raising funds—for transport, for an army. The thought of war harrowed Ylia. After the battle with the Daimons, she wanted no more death. But she had sworn a blood-oath. And besides, she would not be left behind. Jubal and Qala—and even Julya to some extent—were her family now. She had buried her father in Scumbay. She had to let that old life go.

  In many ways, it had all come together as though it were ordained.

  The second night, she had laughed and cried herself to sleep, thinking about how funny it was that the moment Telos had left, her House had been restored to her. He truly was cursed. And leaving was part of that curse, she’d realised. He wanted me, so he had to go.

  She sighed as she finished up scrubbing the last of the bar. It was fairly clean, given that the rags she had to work with were soiled and in need of replacing. It was much harder for her to get new stock at this place. Deliveries came from Wayfarer’s Rest every two weeks, though they were not on regular days, nor contained the same goods each time. She had to make do. But she was fine with that. This was not her future, merely a means to an end. When Qala gave the orders, they would up and leave this place. It would be soon, Ylia knew. Qala had been more restless of late. She went out into the jungle sometimes—though for what purpose, Ylia didn’t know. She did not fear for Qala. Even though she was weaker, now, having spent so much energy in the battle, she was still a formidable sorcerer. However, Ylia knew Qala would be saving her strength as much as possible for the final battle with her brother.

  But until that call came, Ylia contented herself with the life she’d known for ten years before Telos showed up and changed everything. It was almost alarming how easily she slipped back into that old skin. Chatting to the explorers who wandered in through her door. Polishing tankards and pouring pints. Preparing Daimonwine. It was all second-nature, as easy as dressing in the morning. As such, the three moons since the Battle had passed in a haze, more like dream-imagery than something she really lived through. The Battle seemed the last real memory she had—and that was indescribably sad.

  Her reverie was broken when she spied Jubal’s shadow out of the corner of her eye. The theront moved alarmingly silently for one so tall and muscular, but she knew he’d lived as a hunter for decades—almost certainly longer than she had been alive.

  Jubal had been teaching her how to train her senses to perceive that which did not wish to be heard.

  She looked up and smiled.

  He grinned back at her. Despite how well she knew him, the bovine size of his teeth still made the gesture oddly threatening.

  “Good,” he said. “You are a good student, Ylia Hart.”

  She smiled again.

  “A student is only as good as their teacher.” She was pleased that he no longer wore cloaks or hoods. He walked free. And she knew he would remain so, now. He could never hide again, even if it meant forfeiting his life.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Enough flattery,” he said. “Get your bow, and let us practice.”

  Ylia went to the back of the bar and brought down the huge yew bow from where it hung on the wall; a garish tapestry, depicting several lewd acts, had once hung from the same nails. The previous owner of the House had evidently tried to capitlise on human appetite, starved out in the midst of the jungles. Ylia was pleased to wash away the taint and establish something more wholesome, even if it was only temporary.

  She retrieved her quiver of arrows from a compartment underneath the bar. Most of the arrow-tips were wrought of iron and steel, but one gleamed palely, shimmering with a golden aura that reminded her of the Godshome. This was a god-steel arrow, the only one she had been able to retrieve from the Battle. She had seen how effective the Furies’ weaponry was against Daimons, and though she also still possessed the god-forged hand-cannon—which she had dubbed The Leveller—she thought it would not hurt to have more weapons that could hurt Daimons.

  But your next enemy will not be Daimons, she thought, darkly. They will be human beings. Qi’shathians loyal to Quen Yu...

  She had to put such thoughts from her mind. Her role would not be on the front-lines, though she had no doubt she would see some action.

  She followed Jubal through the gigantic House, which easily rivalled The Drunken Dragon for size, and out a back door that led to what Yarulians would term—confusingly—a beer-garden. A pergola, overrun by exotic vines, barely stood upright as the jungle tried to reclaim it. An open stretch of earth—cleared for tables and chairs—was already being invaded by bindweed and mushrooms. At the far end, Jubal had erected rough wooden effigies in the shape of diminutive men. These would be her target practice for today.

  The dawnlight washed everything with gold. Memory, even its dingy settlements, almost looked beautiful at this time of day. The same could not be said for the swelter of midday, or the foggy penumbra of night.

  “Let us start by remembering the basics,” Jubal said, as he always did at the start of one of their training sessions.

  She planted her feet shoulder-width, placed the bow in her left hand, and slotted an arrow to the niche Jubal had helpfully carved into the yew. She drew the string taut with a fluid movement, levelling the arrow at the dummy.

  The first few times she had used the bow—trying to shoot fish in a river back in Aurelia—she had barely been able to pull the bowstring taut. She was stronger than pretty much any woman of her size, probably stronger than most men, but Jubal was another story—and the bow was made to his physique.

  Now, however, practice had made perfect. She took a long, deep breath. Here was the moment of exquisite power. She felt it running through her fingertips, her arms, down her back, into her feet. A slight trembling. It was addictive, to command such force, to hold it at bay. She imagined this was what magic felt like, albeit magic was even more potent.

  As she exhaled, she let fly.

  The arrow sang.

  It struck the dummy right between its false legs with a satisfying twang.

  Jubal grinned.

  “Impressive,” he admitted. “But it is one thing to shoot a stationary dummy, and another to shoot a living, moving thing. The head and the groin are very small targets. An arrow through the chest will do the job just as well, and it is a far larger target.”

  Ylia nodded.

  “But what if my opponent is wearing armour?”

  “It is a good question,” Jubal said, and there was a sadness in his voice. He, too, was likely thinking about Qi’shath. It was one thing to shoot shape-shifting monsters, quite another to shoot men and women. “Qi’shathian steel is notoriously strong. You might have difficulty piercing a breastplate made of it. I would aim for the thigh, collarbones, or neck. Still a bigger target than the head and groin, but less likely to be well defended.”

  Ylia nodded again.

  “That’s what I’ll practice then.”

  For the next hour, she emptied her quiver, collected her arrows, and emptied them again. By the end of the training session, she was able to reliably hit the thigh and neck. One or two of her iron arrows had broken with repeated use. Jubal told her not to worry, that she would likely be furnished with better equipment before long.

  When it was over, Ylia was coated in sweat, and her whole torso ached. Add to that the lower back pain of being on her feet the whole night, and she was ready for rest.

  She went down to one of the pools in the middle of Scumbay. She had erected a screen of material using some wooden poles, so that she could bathe in relative private. The water was humid—and a little murky—but better than not washing at all.

  When she was dressed again, she staggered back to The House of the Eastern Sun, found her bed, and collapsed. Time to sleep through the heat of the day, she thought. She was a Tezadan, so should have been well-adapted to the heat. But her many years in Yarruk seemed to have made her prefer the cool.

  She was about to fall asleep when a stray, fearful thought crossed her mind—like a bird of prey suddenly appearing in a clear sky. She reached under the pillow and touched the cold, unnatural metal of the hand-cannon. The Avenger, she thought, shuddering. It was a foul weapon—having nothing of the elegance of a bow and arrow—but she knew she would be a fool to get rid of it, especially with what was to come.

  Slowly, she slipped out of consciousness, into the deep realms of sleep.

  She dreamed of war.

  And of Telos.

  ***

  She awoke to the sound of commotion. Trampling feet. Alarmed murmuring. It took her a few moments to gauge where and when she was. For a moment, she thought she was back at The House of the Verdant Sun, in Yestermere, and some drunkard had staggered to the door of her House, unwilling to accept that the night was over. She saw, fleetingly, before her eyes, the attic room she had called her own. She even looked for Urgal. Then the reality of her life came flooding back. So much has changed, she thought. And despite it all, she realised she would not have it any other way.

  Armed with that comfort, she changed out of her bedclothes by pulling on some old boots she had found abandoned in the House, and the blouse and leather britches she had purchased in Daimonopolis—which were now looking travel-sore indeed. She lifted her pillow and put her hand on the Avenger—then hesitated. She gritted her teeth. Better safe than sorry, she thought, and slipped the weapon around her neck via a leather thong attached to its handle. The hand-cannon hung between her breasts, partly concealed by the loose blouse.

  She headed down the stairs and found a few explorers gathered in the main room. Jubal and Julya had kindly agreed to work the House during the day in exchange for Ylia covering the night-shift. They had made a simple broth for the lodgers, and kept them supplied with ale.

  But now, all eyes were on the door. A few stood by the shuttered windows, staring out.

  “It’s an army!” one explorer cried.

  “What the hell would an army be doing here?” an older explorer barked.

  There were arguments and debates. Ylia cut across the room, Jubal and Julya falling in step. They exchanged looks, each suspecting what they might see, but not willing to offer any suggestion; then, they opened the door and stepped out into Scumbay.

  Ylia’s breath caught. She did not know what she had expected, but certainly not this. She knew Qala had been up to something—the long absences and the furtive planning had not escaped her notice. But this was something else.

  On the other side of Scumbay, emerging from the darkness of the jungle, came Qala, her hood down, so that her long white hair shone in the day’s blistering light. Her face was grim—not a face of triumph, exactly, but of bittersweet victory.

  At her back did indeed march an army.

  An army of theronts.