The realm had only rumors to speculate what truly existed inside the House of Boreal, as few who ventured into their highlands returned to speak of it. Archaic occultists, the y’siti were their own breed—colorless, lifeless soul-eaters. Many whispered that their cadaverous appearance was the result of ritual bloodletting and sacrifice, that they drained their humanity away in hope of the moon’s favor. Some suggested the y’siti carved the hearts from their offspring and traded with the Fates for something cold and savage instead. Something unnatural. The other members of the Ethnicam usually disregarded the stories, but Zaethan had witnessed their validity firsthand.

Simmering at the thought of Luscia Darragh Tiargen, and the danger she was about to bring into the palace, he downed the golden liqueur in his glass and savored its bitter sting.

“We have to talk about your new security measures, Dmitri.” At the prince’s dark look, Zaethan rushed to add, “Uni—it’s time. The witch is said to arrive soon, along with the rest of the y’siti. With that in mind, I’ve drafted a list of alterations to the guard rotation, a log system for private visitation, and a new training regimen for those assigned to this wing. Also, I want you to keep either Zahra or Jabari within sight of you at all times.”

Heaving a sigh, the prince set the documents aside and perched forward. Clasping his hands together, he eyed Zaethan intently.

“She’s not a witch, Zaeth.”

Zaethan stared at him in astonishment. “In a handful of hours, another full-blooded y’siti will be walking these halls!” he exclaimed. “A y’siti raised completely outside Bastiion, fully indoctrinated in that foul Boreali sorcery! Therefore, one of my pryde will be with you at all times—minimum.”

Zaethan glowered over the tray of food Eugenio delivered, exasperated by Dmitri’s inability to see through Boreal’s deceptions.

The prince’s aristocratic nose crinkled as he pursed his lips. “Oh, is that all? Any other demands you’d like to make?” Dmitri asked, with practiced patience.

“Uni. Yes, actually. The al’Haidren is to be housed on the lower level, near the guard offices.”

Dmitri’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I’m not putting my newest al’Haidren in the dungeon, Zaethan.”

“Our facilities are very generous,” Zaethan grumbled.

“Behind bars, in the dark, with no windows?” Dmitri clarified.

“She’d burn in the daylight, anyway. It’s better for her complexion.”

“I’ve already ordered the appropriate accommodations be made to her apartments. They began earlier this afternoon,” Dmitri said, dismissing Zaethan’s plans.

“But her presence will be an ongoing threat just a floor below this one! Depths, Dmitri! How am I supposed to shield you from what you refuse to see?”

Zaethan stood, seething as he began to pace. Dmitri was his charge. For centuries, the al’Haidrens to Darakai had protected Orynthia’s crown princes and, eventually, her kings. It was beyond personal consideration for a friend; it was duty. And for the first time in their personal history, Dmitri seemed to be truly questioning Zaethan’s judgment.

“Boreal’s Haidrens and al’Haidrens have been housed on that floor for generations, Zaeth, and none have proven to be assassins. Besides, if she was a threat to anyone’s safety, it would be yours, I think.”

Zaethan paused his pacing mid-step to study the other man. Dmitri smirked at a memory from their youth.

“Don’t make this about me. You know that was an accident,” Zaethan said defensively.

“You accidentally pushed her off the railing and into the bay?”

A muscle moved in Dmitri’s jaw, but he retained his calm indifference. It was a talent Zaethan had envied on many occasions.

“I didn’t push her. I…knocked her. Into the bay. Accidentally.”

“Yes, so you’ve said. You broke her arm, you know,” Dmitri countered.

“Kàchà kocho,” Zaethan shot back. “She was fine the next day.”

“You know I hate that phrase. It doesn’t mean anything! Zaeth, the girl’s arm was in a sling.”

“She deserved it.”

“She was twelve.”

Dmitri reclined his head against the arm of the sofa and closed his eyes. He suddenly looked exhausted, apart from the triumphant grin he wore, content with the temporary win.

It didn’t matter how many attempts Zaethan made to excuse what he’d done the night of Dmitri’s Ascension. His friend would never understand. Zaethan had already humiliated himself enough the morning after, when he’d tried to explain. Glowing eyes, he’d said. The prince had merely chuckled and shook his head, convinced Zaethan’s vivid story was the result of too much wine.

But he hadn’t imagined or hallucinated anything, and Zaethan never touched any refreshment besides water when his father was near. It still stung that Dmitri had never considered that.

Over and over, he’d replayed those events. In the month following, Zaethan nearly lost his sanity picking that night apart. Yet, with six years to forget, it still haunted him.

Fireworks shot into the darkened sky, exploding among the stars that littered Thoarne Bay with tiny pricks of light, reflecting the tears of Àla’maia, the moon. Guests spread along the deck of the private vàssa ship, cheering hungrily for more. Bastiion’s elite loved to be entertained, he’d thought, watching their lush clothing shine in the night, much like the very stars overhead.

The newly Ascended prince stood several feet away, surrounded by a cloud of ruffles and perfume. Every ambitious daughter of the nobility was eager to ensnare Dmitri Thoarne, along with his crown, now that he’d crossed into adulthood. Zaethan smirked at the prince and jerked his head to the left, communicating his vote for the animated brunette who’d elbowed the contestant interrupting her.

Yes, she’d do.

He turned back to the celebratory display illuminating the docks, currently devoid of the colorful floating stalls that usually made up the Drifting Bazaar. Bastiion’s young al’Haidren launched into another monologue about the grandness of his estate in Arune, encouraged by the bubbly intoxicant in his hand. And across the deck, the little y’siti played atop the ledge of the railing. Scanning the cluster of partygoers, he couldn’t find her keeper. The Haidren to Boreal was nowhere in sight.

His obligation to protect Dmitri had won out, and so he watched her. The witchling had worn leggings beneath her formal garb, which soon proved intentional. She moved with an otherworldly grace atop the thin wall of lacquered wood, balancing, flipping, rotating. She played with more strength than he exhausted in standard drills. The formations eased into a kind of silent dance as she leapt from the ball of one foot to another, moving her palms in sharp patterns to cut through the gathering smoke of the fire show.