It took three days for the Ghost to agree to the meeting. Dixon picked the Sleeping Siren, the most neutral, private place in the city, and dispatched his network of spies with a message, a summoning to the shop for a parley. Somehow, she’d still been in Ennore, and Dixon’s spies had found her, and she’d sent her reply in the form of a slip of parchment that read, See you soon. So Wil and Dixon waited in the shop, seated at a table that they’d cleared for the meeting.

The bell above the door jingled as the Ghost entered the Siren that night, chin inclined and wary. She wore the same tight, black clothing she had the first time Wil had seen her, and the same loose white braid that swung over one shoulder. The candelabras on the floor of the shop were lit, casting flickering orange firelight across the planes of her high cheekbones and mismatched eyes. Her hand rested casually—though not inattentively—on a hilt at her hip.

“Miss,” Dixon began as he stood from the table. “Good of ye to come.”

She peered around the shop, eyeing its cluttered shelves and tables. “Right,” she muttered.

“Before we begin, I havetae ask ye to disarm, if ye dinnae mind,” Dixon said. She scowled, but unbuckled her belt. She set her weapons on the high table that served as a countertop for the shop, next to where Wil had set his own knives. Dixon gestured for her to spread her arms, and she did, begrudgingly waiting as he patted her down, searching for any hidden weapons. He didn’t find any, because he straightened after a moment and stepped back from her.

“So, Miss…?”

“Montarac. Arryn Montarac.”

“Miss Montarac,” Dixon said. “We’re here to discuss a trade for the Solis. Have ye got it?”

She snorted. “Of course.”

“Can ye set it on the table, please?”

She held Dixon’s gaze as she took the Solis from her pocket. She held it up, its pale gold glow flickering, and Dixon gestured for her to set it on the table where Wil sat. She obeyed wordlessly, but kept it close to her. Wil’s fingers ached to reach for the stone, for one of his silver blades, anything, but he kept them folded neatly atop the table.

“One more thing,” Dixon added.

She wrinkled her nose when he pulled a silver ring from his pocket. “What the hells is that for?” she growled.

“It’s just to prevent ye usin’ magic,” he said. “All ye havetae do is wear it for the duration of the parley.”

She frowned and took the ring. “Fine.” She slipped it onto her finger and shivered, wincing as her magic left her. Wil might have been imagining it, but he thought her skin went pale, her white hair losing a bit of its luster. She took a steadying breath before crossing to the table set up in the middle of the shop floor. She slumped into the chair across from Wil, Dixon between them, and sat back, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Brilliant,” Dixon said. “Now, we are prepared to make a generous offer for the trade of the Solis. Name yer price, Miss Montarac.”

She pursed her lips as if in thought. “And what if I decide to take whatever generous offer you’re willing to make and the Solis and run?”

Dixon frowned. “Then ye will’ve violated the terms of parley, and yer life is forfeit.”

“And if I refuse the offer outright?”

“Then yer free to go, and we willnae stop ye,” Dixon said. “Ye can go forward with whatever plan ye’ve set in motion. But understand this: the whole of the Venandi will be after ye if ye do, along with the royal army. Ye and all yer accomplices will be slaughtered.”

“So I’m fucked either way?” she asked plainly.

Dixon sighed a little. “Aye, for lack of a better word. I’d recommend takin’ the deal.”

She snorted. “Hm.” Her eyes flitted to Wil. She gave him a skeptical once-over, dragging her eyes up and down his seated form. “What’s with him? He certainly lives up to his name, doesn’t he? Silent as a crypt.”

Dixon sighed. “He cannae hear, so he doesnae speak,” he said. “I’m here to translate and mediate.”

Heat grew in Wil’s chest the longer she stared at him. Her head tilted like a curious cat as she studied him, and he glared back. She didn’t falter, didn’t lower her eyes. She only smirked, dimpling one cheek.

There it was again: that little nagging feeling that pulled him to her. That bit of him that was impressed by her. He shoved it down deep inside him.

“You’re a Halfling,” she said. It wasn’t a question. She made a little humming noise as she considered. “Your very existence is illegal, is it not? How does someone like you manage to stay in the king’s good favor? I mean, how valuable could you really be?”

“Miss Montarac…” Dixon warned.

She ignored him. “Answer me this, Still Shadow. Why ever would the king keep a Halfling in his employ? Is he that much of a fucking hypocrite—”

“Enough,” Dixon snapped. “Name yer price, Miss Montarac.”

She finally tore her gaze from Wil’s to smirk at Dixon. “I want the king,” she said plainly. “And the Venandi.”

Wil scowled. He didn’t have to wait for Dixon to guess his thoughts, because his friend spoke his question, albeit more politely than Wil would have asked it.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss?”

She shrugged. “They’re in my way.”

Wil glanced at Dixon. She can’t be serious, he signed.

Afraid so, Dixon signed back.

Wil sighed. Ask her what she means, he signed. Dixon asked the question aloud.

The Ghost smirked. “I mean I want them out of my way,” she said.

To destroy them?

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Wil scowled. I would, actually, he signed, and Dixon translated.

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need to tell you anything, Halfling.”

Don’t call me that, he signed, just as Dixon replied, “He doesnae like to be called that.”

She narrowed her eyes at Wil. “If you’re not a Halfling, then I must be the fucking queen.”

“Easy,” Dixon snapped. “Both of ye.”

Wil sighed. He glanced at Dixon. What the hells am I supposed to do?

She’ll kill the king, surely, Dixon signed. Gods know what damage she’d do to the Venandi with access to the keep.

Wil shook his head. What she’s asking is impossible.

Arryn piped up. “If we don’t have a deal, then I’ll be going.” She set her hands on the table and began to rise from her seat.

Dixon reached a hand forward to stop her. “We can give ye gold. Riches. Whatever you want—just reconsider—”

The Ghost crossed her arms across her chest. “I told you. I want the king and the Venandi,” she said. “I’ll give you some more time to think it over, out of the kindness of my heart.” She pulled the silver ring off of her finger and tossed it onto the table. It clattered and spun to a stop. She seemed to regain some of her color once the silver lost contact with her skin. “If I’m not getting what I want tonight, gentlemen, I’ll be on my way.”

She scooped up the Solis from the table, and its pale gold light flared in her hand before it disappeared into her pocket. She turned and plucked up her belt and weapons from the countertop. “I await your answer, Still Shadow. Don’t keep me waiting,” she said, and sauntered out of the Sleeping Siren into the night air.

Wil breathed a groan and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. Beside him, Dixon rested his folded arms atop the table. He sighed and muttered, “Shite.”

Godsdamnit. Godsdamnit. He thought back to what his father had said. “How could you have been so stupid?” Shame roiled in his stomach; Lysander was right. He was an idiot for thinking a parley would work. For thinking he could get to the Ghost and the Solis this way.

For thinking that mercy was even an option.

Wil had spent years of his life training to become a witch hunter. The time for clemency was over. It was time for the Ghost to die.