𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹 | 𝑘.𝑏.

36

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W H A T  I F
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I WOULD HAVE WORN PURPLE, Jesper thought, if I'd joined the Second Army. Feta would have worn blue.

Hundreds, thousands of slender strips of kefta cloth — mostly red and blue, but some purple, too — made up an enormous banner with no discernible pattern, a patchwork of terror on proud display in one of the rooms Jesper and Wylan looked upon.

He reached for the fizzy elation that had been bubbling through him moments before, as the adrenaline of the job had crackled through his body in delicious spikes. For as much as he undeniably loved his work, and undeniably hated himself for loving it, Jesper knew it would be his honor and pleasure to risk capture and execution as a thief and hired gun. Why was it worse to think about being hunted as a Grisha?

Because we can't help that, the Feta that permanently lived in his ear chirped. They'd had this conversation before, away from Nina's dutiful ears. As inevitable as your shooting and my spotlight feel, we still worked for it. And there are people out there who would kill us without need for our names and titles. She had shaken her head. I want to earn my death. Much better to die as the Siren, don't you agree?

Jesper had deflected with, Personally, I would love to die as the Siren.

But he'd understood exactly what Feta meant. It was likely that that day was responsible for their unspoken deal to not tell Nina they were Grisha.

"Let's keep moving," Jesper heard himself say.

Just like the prison and the embassy, the gatehouse in the druskelle sector was built around a courtyard so anyone entering could be observed and fired upon from above. But with the gate out of operation, the courtyard battlements were as deserted as the rest of the building. Here, slabs of sleek black stone were inlaid with the silver wolf's head, the surfaces lit with eerie blue flame. It was the one part of the Ice Court Jesper had seen that wasn't white or gray. Even the gate was some kind of black metal that looked impossibly heavy.

A guard was visible below, leaning against the gatehouse arch, a rifle slung over his shoulder.

"Only one?" asked Wylan.

"Matthias said four guards for non-operational gates."

"Maybe Yellow Protocol is working in our favor," said Wylan. "They could have been sent to the prison sector or—"

"Or maybe there are twelve big Fjerdans keeping warm inside."

As they watched the guard chew a wad of jurda, Jesper found himself spiraling back to the gruesome banner, ricocheting from one what if to another. What if Jesper's father had been afraid of him, not just for him? He'd encouraged Jesper to keep his powers hidden, after all.

What if I'd gone to Ravka instead of Kerch? What if I'd joined the Second Army?

Did they even let Fabrikators fight, or were they kept walled up in workshops, reserved for making weapons?

Ravka was more stable now, rebuilding. There was no compulsory draft for Grisha, no matter how much pressure there was to fight. He could go, visit, maybe learn to use his power better, leave the gambling dens of Ketterdam behind. Maybe learn to use his power in the wild, unorthodox ways Feta specialized in. If they succeeded in delivering Bo Yul-Bayur to the Merchant Council, anything might be possible.

Jesper gave himself a shake.

What was he thinking? He needed a dose of imminent peril to get his head straight.