Chapter 13 · The Rowan on the Roof

Mara's hand went to her blade before she processed the face.

Rowan.

Standing on the tower roof, lit by the city's dying amber lamps, wearing Crowe's house crest stitched clean across his chest.

Smiling.

"This time," he said, voice smooth as silk over a blade, "you die first."

The real Rowan—her Rowan, the one with bruises still darkening his jaw and blood crusted under his nails—went rigid beside her.

"What the hell," he breathed.

Mara didn't move. Couldn't. The double looked exactly like him. Same scar threading through his left eyebrow. Same stupid way he stood with his weight on his back foot, ready to bolt or throw a punch. Same hands.

Except those hands weren't shaking.

And the smile was all wrong.

"Mara." Rowan's voice, low and tight, snapped her back. "Tell me you see him too."

"I see him."

"Good. Thought I'd finally cracked."

The double tilted his head, still smiling. "You're slower than I remember. Both of you."

Mara's fingers tightened on the hilt. Her squad fanned out behind her, boots scraping stone, but none of them drew yet. They were waiting for her call.

She didn't give it.

"Who sent you," she said. Not a question.