[P] a night so black that the blackness hummed.

[Acton]

Acton these violent delights have violent ends   It was a wonder the scene before him did not douse all his fire in fear, in horror. Maybe the most terrible part was this: it was far from the worst thing he had seen Raum do. He had done as gruesome acts himself, and never once thought himself mad - but madness was all he could see, now, as he studied the silver Ghost. Perhaps the maze was a part of it, the way the hedges seemed to lean in over them, blocking light and noise save for the distant staring moon. There was the taste of used-up magic on the air, caustic and strange. But Acton knew it was really only Isra - the way he could not see her without seeing the creature she had been, cowering in shadows, stealing to live, heedless of the weapon on her brow. This might have been a fitting end for a girl like that - but never for a unicorn. It was a distinction he’d never understood before. Raum’s voice was velvet, so soft he had to strain to hear. The wind whispered more loudly, the moon possessed a warmer gaze than the Ghost. “I’ve always been a crooked bastard,” he said, and licked his teeth. His gaze did not leave the searing, frigid blue of Raum’s; he did not trust himself to look at his queen. “You think a crow could so easily become a dove?” Acton laughed a black dog’s laugh, one that covered like soot the sound of the blade sliding free. Oh, what a familiar summons that was, how many times had he answered its clarion call. Like each time before the flash of silver drew his eye; his gaze fell to the knife, his mind to the memories held by its gleaming, savage grin. How many times had he hefted the blade? He wasn’t sure whether it was the same one he’d used to carve the scar down Bexley’s face but there was something intimately familiar about the curve of the handle. He didn’t need to test it to know its sharpness; Raum tended to his knives with the care of a lover. He was always so attentive - it’s what made him deadly. Oh, Acton’s heart was a wiser thing than his head - it beat like fists against his ribs, it begged him away. Back into the pathways of the maze, not so different from those dim and winding streets, the markets and alleys of the city he so loved. Nobody would know he’d been there; it would not be so difficult, to claim ignorance on a night as chaotic as this. But he had never been a coward. Sometimes a madman, sometimes a fool, and never anything more than a back-alley criminal.   Of all of these and more, Acton thought a hero was the most ill-fitting role he’d ever played. For the briefest of moments his gaze found Isra’s, and he wondered if someday she would tell the story of tonight. He liked the idea of it, a starring role in one of her tales. But there was nothing but bright hate in her gaze, and it forced his own away. Finish it, Raum was saying, and Acton thought Yes. It is finally time. “For you, brother, anything,” he said, and met that drowning stare. Was there something there of the man he loved, buried in the fathomless blue? Would it matter if there were? Even now he was flush with adrenaline, almost eagerness. For the magician had always, always wondered which of the two of them was faster. In one swift motion Acton seized the knife and drove it for Raum’s throat.