Alarion was up and armed in an instant, the tip of Echo pressed so tight to the short man’s neck that he had to crane his chin to avoid drawing blood.

  Centre said in perfect Ashadi.

   Alarion said, falling back into the familiar language without even intending to.

   He laughed softly, though when Alarion seemed less than amused, he continued.

  

  

   Alarion snarled, the tip of Echo drawing a bead of blood despite his intentions.

   Centre said, though it was clear from his tone that his sudden shift toward directness had less to do with the sword at his neck than his sympathy for Alarion’s distress.

  Alarion took a few heavy breaths, then reluctantly withdrew Echo to its miniature form. Looking closely at Centre, he felt something was… off. The effect was so subtle that Alarion would never have noticed it on his own, but once he knew to look, he saw the flaw. Every time he looked at Centre, some detail changed—a mole shifting an inch, a fleck in his eye trading sides. Worse, when Alarion focused on one flow, the others slipped from his mind.

  Stranger still, Alarion could not find even a single thread of magic suggesting the illusion. Even when probing it fully with [Unraveller’s Sense], it was as if the effect was entirely mundane.

   Alarion asked.

   Centre said, fiddling with a thin metallic band around his neck as he turned and bowed slightly toward where he must have thought the girl in question was still standing.

  The move reignited that spark of fury within Alarion, his protective instincts kicking in as he asked,

  Centre was forthright and succinct in his answer.

  

   The man laughed. Centre frowned in annoyance as he failed for a third time to open a clasp at the side of his neck.

  Alarion eyed him skeptically for a moment, then reached out and tore the chain free with a single sharp yank. It let out a single, high-pitched whine, then fell silent.

   Centre said, his voice deepening with each word as reality reasserted itself.

  Centre—the real Centre—was quite handsome for his age, though he held the look of a man who was not quite willing to accept that time was catching up to him. His hair, what little of it there was, was tied in a neat top knot of grey, silver, and black. He wore a short, distinguished beard that did nothing to conceal a lifetime of smile lines at the corners of his lips, though its pointed tip suggested a habit of nervous stroking.

  His hands were uncalloused, suggesting that the man was a schemer, not a fighter, but his crooked nose disagreed. It had been broken more than once, and probably not by accident if the myriad small scars on his hands and forearms were any indication. A troubled youth, perhaps.

  The robe he wore beneath the glamour was expensive, but not ostentatious. Made from imported silk, it spoke of means but not riches, the simple crimson garment worn for comfort over style.

  Altogether, he looked less like a mass murderer than any one of a hundred petty merchants. Only his eyes spoke the truth, and perhaps only to Alarion. He’d seen that same gaze every time he looked in the mirror.

  Centre’s eyes were a vivid violet that matched Alarion’s own. An uncommon color in Ashad, they would have stood out for that alone, but it was the rage behind them that spoke of true familiarity. This was a man who had known true, uncompromising loss. It had angered him, radicalized him. A cruel world had taken the best parts of him and turned them bitter.

  And they were familiar in more ways than one.

   said Alarion.

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

   The man brightened at the news, his head tilting slightly to one side.

  Centre had been one of dozens of refugees who had come to the Villa looking for assistance after Alarion’s speech months earlier. Alarion didn’t recall the specifics, and he wasn’t even sure he deserved the credit for what the Vitrians might have done, but he remembered seeing those eyes, the ones so like his own.

  Alarion frowned as the realization struck him.

   Centre confessed.

  

  

   Alarion spat.

   Centre countered, a bit of bite to his voice.

   Alarion repeated, the word dripping with disdain.

  Centre laughed as if Alarion had told a tremendous joke.

  

   Alarion opened his mouth to reply, but Centre spoke over him.

   Alarion frowned.

   came Centre’s retort.

  If Alarion could have struck Centre without proving his point, he would have. Instead, he glared at the man as he said,

  Centre’s left eye twitched almost imperceptibly, then his expression softened, and he sighed.

   Alarion said without hesitation. Subjugation was one of the Auxilia’s primary duties, which made fiends one of the few subjects covered extensively during their basic training.

  Though not the strongest known fiends, False Hearts were among the most dangerous. Able to spawn lesser copies of themselves from those they killed, a single False Heart could cause an exponential cascade of death and destruction unmatched by any of their kind.

  Thankfully, they had weaknesses. While the False Heart was as ageless as any other fiend, its lesser copies were not. They deteriorated in a matter of days or weeks, their lifespan inversely proportional to the strength of the corpse used to create them.

  Better still—for some twisted definition of better—a False Heart could not create Revenants. In the field, their animalistic desire to replicate was a wildfire that burned through all the bodies and biomass that a True Heart needed to become a national or continental-level threat. Though dangerous and deadly, to be sure, a false infestation usually burned itself out before the Auxilia even responded.

  That the cataclysm would be short-lived would be little comfort to the thousands who would die if such a creature were allowed to rampage through Ashad-Vitri.

   Centre nodded.

  

   Centre corrected.

  A thought occurred, and Alarion felt his stomach turn.

  

  Alarion struck him.

   Centre groaned from the floor as he rolled onto one side. He raised a hand and touched the deep red mark on his jaw, wincing as he did so.

   Alarion asked, seething fury in his voice. He hadn’t meant to strike Centre, he’d barely realized he’d done it. He’d thought of Bergman lying dead in the street, of Kali or Lily. His body had done the rest.

   the old man gathered one knee beneath him, then looked up at Alarion.

  Alarion nodded, and Centre got to his feet, one hand cradling a bruised or fractured jaw.

   The crash of an explosion drowned out the rest of Centre’s answer. The first sign of conflict in nearly an hour, it broke Centre’s calm demeanor in a way that not even Alarion’s punch had accomplished.

   Alarion shouted the moment Centre reached inside.

   Centre shook the pearlescent stone for emphasis before reaching for his ear.

  

  

   Alarion took the item as Centre reluctantly obeyed, then set it into his free ear.

   An utterly inhuman voice snarled back at him.

  “Or’Valde.” Alarion fought down the urge to cuss, drawing a steady breath instead. How had the thing found a new body so quickly? “If you surrender-”

  “You have the o-luh-duh man?” It interrupted. “Give him. This end.”

  Alarion tapped the Simu to silence it as he asked,

  Centre was ashen-faced as he shook his head.

  “Mar-tyr?” Or’Valde pressed impatiently.

   Alarion asked instead.

   Centre answered with such conviction that Alarion reached for his other ear.

  “Mar-tyr!” The monstrous scream in Alarion’s ear nearly deafened him, raw and distorted through the Simu. At the same time, the distant shout tore through the air—a few blocks away but still too close for comfort.