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The square went quiet by degrees.

The other Templars knelt where the chains held them, breath fogging in the cold. The pirates were doing the practical work of disarming, binding, gagging, with the easy competence of people who'd done it before. Somewhere on the ship's deck someone was laughing. Safira walked across the square towards Marcin, her boots crunching, her pistol holstered.

Marcin lifted his head. His face was bloodied. He looked composed in the way of a man who'd decided what story he was going to tell about this, later. He didn't look at Idonea, or at Safira. He looked at Lysander.

"How long have you been able to feel the Nexis?"

Lysander didn't answer.

"Three months. Six." Marcin's voice was conversational. "I knew the moment you came back from the last errand. I have been waiting for it to finish." He smiled. The smile was small and almost kind. "I am sorry, brother. I would've made it quick."

Idonea looked between them. Marcin had known what Lysander was becoming, known what it'd cost him, and still he waited. Lysander would've chosen a person. Marcin had chosen an outcome.

Lysander's good hand tightened on the sword's grip. He didn't strike.

Safira stood tall over them, pistol aimed squarely at his head. “Looks like we won.”

Idonea turned from him, chest heaving, and staggered towards the terraced houses. The pounding of fists still echoed faintly. She pressed her bloodied hand against the first iron lock. Current pulsed outward, searing the metal. The lock split with a sharp crack, and the door swung open.

Kitsa raced out, Idonea staggering under the force of her embrace.

“Thank you,” Kitsa said and released her.

The witches took in the surrounding carnage. None of them looked frightened, and that surprised her. Lance perched himself atop the fountain’s shattered statue. Idonea noted his bloodied wings, and knew he'd done his own fair share of damage.

Safira’s eyes narrowed between Idonea and the other witches.

“Well, doll?” the pirate captain asked.

“These witches will no longer be safe in the Republic,” Idonea said, and took a deep breath.

Lysander walked up to her side, his right arm bleeding from a wound.

Kitsa’s eyes widened. “Let us help heal you.” She glanced over at some of the other witches.

Idonea nodded. “That would be most welcome.”

Lysander looked at the void where his left arm used to be, now not even a mechanical one there. The empty space where the arm should've been made her stomach turn.

She reached out and touched his shoulder. “You can always make a new one.”

Safira was calling orders to her pirates. “Gag the loud ones. If they twitch, break a finger.”

Kitsa’s eyes widened and pressed both palms to Lysander’s bleeding bicep. “Hold still,” she said.

Kitsa closed her eyes. The bleeding eased, then stilled. The torn muscle twitched under her hands, and Lysander’s jaw clenched.

He glanced at his left shoulder.

From the fountain ring came a muffled grunt; one of the younger Templars testing the chain. Kerem obliged him with the back of a pistol. The noise cut off.

Once Kitsa was done, Idonea smiled at her. “A favour. Please go check on Alcaeus. Assure him all is well.”

Kitsa nodded and ran off.

Safira strolled back over to Idonea. “Now what?”

Idonea looked towards the Templars, swallowing. “Haul them into one of these houses. We lock them up there.”