Leaving their horses with Warrior, the two Night Riders slipped around the edge of the forum towards the prison and the Proctor’s villa. Once, when home to the Prefect of Bridgetown, that villa had been an elegant and sweeping monument to Evendarian power and prestige. Now it was painted in blue and black, the colors of Clas Aller.

Olorian standards featuring Clas Aller’s bull stood on either side of the main entryway, a reminder of Akhet vasAller’s military service—hadn’t she served in Fredirick vasGollep’s army? Shade suppressed a smile. That made this even sweeter.

“She likes to tell people how she was one of the key officers at the Battle of the Bridge,” Cynic hissed. “Said she got Bridgetown for her service there, but what everyone knows is that she’s still sore over the injuries she took and likes to take them out on Evendarians.”

“How barbaric.”

“You’d think a good healing would set her straight, but apparently, the woman’s a bitch.” Cynic shrugged and then cocked her head to listen. “Is that what I think it is?”

Shade paused as they passed the prison. “I think so.”

It wasn’t screaming. No, whoever Akhet’s torturers were working on was beyond screaming. Those were the quiet whimpers and labored breathing of someone in the throes of death, of a person pushed too far and reaching for darkness.

Shade knew those sounds too well, knew Instance made them just before he died. Far too many Evendarians had over the past twelve years… and would for years yet to come.

“Here first?” Cynic asked. “Might as well get those two monsters.”

“Agreed.” Silently, Shade drew his sword, comforted by the cool feel of her leather-covered grip in his hand.

Cynic did the same, drawing a dagger in her left hand. She was a tall woman, several inches taller than Shade’s own average height, and made her schiavona look small.

They crept towards the prison doors. It was mid-November and nearly a new moon. There was very little moonlight but plenty of lamps and torches in the forum—less than there would have been under Evendarian rule, but enough that the pair danced from shadow to shadow.

Several long minutes passed before Shade could peer through the double-barred doors. There were two guards just inside, but both were looking in, not out, and the doors were not locked. Shade had broken into enough Olorian prisons to know what that meant. Someone important was inside.

He glanced at Cynic; she nodded, tiptoeing to the opposite side of the doors. Sneaking a quick glance at the hinges, Shade noted they were well-oiled. Good.

A quick push from his left hand sent the doors flying open; Shade leapt through them a split second later with Cynic on his heels. His silver-bladed schiavona snapped up, driving right through the throat of the lefthand guard, severing his throat and his vocal cords too quickly for him to scream. A split second later, Cynic killed the one on the right just as quietly, with a dagger to the base of the skull.

Both caught the dead bodies and lowered them to the ground.

By then, the whimpers had faded, but a light down the hallway to the right told Shade where the torturers were. Still, he paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust.

Olorian prisons were usually cramped and full, but the cells here were empty. All of them. There were multiple sets of chains in each and dark stains on the floor, but no prisoners. Stalking towards the light, Shade double-checked every cell along the way.

All empty.

What kind of operation was Akhet vasAller running in this city?

The last room on the right was the standard location for a torture chamber; Olorian prisons usually had one on each end, and the left end was dark and quiet. But voices drifted out of this one through a partway open door—why close it and shut the sounds of terror and pain away?

Fury rose again; Shade forced it down. To his side, he could see Cynic’s pale face pinched and tight. She was having a harder time containing her anger, and her knuckles were white where she gripped her weapons. But her hands were steady.

Let’s kill these assholes, she mouthed.

Shade didn’t bother with an answer; he just shoved this door open, too, but this time he let Cynic lead into the room. She cut right; he went left, each surprising and killing a guard within seconds. Much to Shade’s surprise, there was a second set of guards, these flanking Akhet vasAller herself.

And here Shade had thought they’d have to hunt her down. How convenient.

“Kill them!” The Proctor wasn’t armed and backed away while her guards advanced.

Cynic’s thrown dagger took the first down; Shade stepped forward, parried a wild thrust, and stabbed the second in the heart. He landed in a heap as Akhet scurried behind the two torturers, ignoring the dead body on the floor.

The dead woman was Evendarian, of course. Shade didn’t need more than a glance to know that or to know she was dead. Her guts decorated the floor, as well as one torturer’s hands.

One torturer reached for a dead guard’s sword, only for Cynic to kick him in the face and take his head off with a powerful downward slash. Shade’s kill was more economical; when the other torturer tried to run, Shade simply caught him by the arm and drove his schiavona into the base of his neck. Momentum carried it down and severed his spine and several other vital organs. By the time Shade twisted the blade free, the torturer was already dead.

“I can pay you. Don’t kill me. I can give you whatever you want.” Akhet held her hands up, backing into the far wall.

“Can you bring Instance back to life?” Cynic stalked forward.

Akhet blinked. “Who?”

“The Night Rider your monsters killed!”

“I was just doing my duty!” Akhet shrank back, her voice rising to a quiet scream. “It’s not my fault. And I can pay you. All you have to do is leave. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

Cynic stopped. Spat. “Coward. You disgust me.”

“Please! I don’t want to die.”

“Neither did Instance, but I bet you gave him a bunch of choices, didn’t you?” Cynic leaned in close. “Did you offer him mercy, or did you ask them to draw it out for your entertainment?”

“Stop playing with her and end it, Cynic,” Shade said.

He was counting seconds in his head, estimating how long it would take for Akhet’s soldiers to reach them from the guardhouse. They had time—not enough to burn the poor Evendarian woman Akhet had tortured to death—but not if Cynic continued taunting the Proctor.

Tormenting an enemy was not the Night Rider way, either.

Cynic twisted to glare at him, and for a moment, he thought she would argue. Instead, she turned back to Akhet and whipped her sword across the Proctor’s throat.

Akhet collapsed in a heap.

They moved out and met up with Warrior without another word, slipping out of the city before Akhet’s guards could track them.