Flexing her grip around the delicate loops, Luscia recalled Phalen’s parting words when he’d slyly slipped them over her fingers. I can’t add weight behind your punches, he’d said beaming, cheeks covered in soot, but I can give them sharper teeth.

Luscia smirked to herself. Had Phalen been their family’s firstborn, he would’ve made an exceedingly cunning Haidren to Boreal.

Fortunately, while her perfect kuerre was temporarily lost, Luscia retained his radials as well as the consort daggers riding her hips beneath the surcoat. She would have to be creative with their concealment, for those weapons were too dear to be surrendered with an attitude of civility.

“Ana’Sere,” Marek whispered, brushing her elbow, gaining her attention.

Luscia blinked at the palace attendant who’d been assigned as their midnight guide. She couldn’t remember his name, or if he’d even given one. The middle-aged man appeared as troubled as she felt. Perhaps her mute reflections encouraged his nerves.

“M-my Lady al’Haidren, your q-quarters...” the squatty attendant stammered, his small, beady eyes bouncing between Luscia and her possessive lycran. Face ashen, he directed them through a set of lofty, embellished doors.

Exhausted, Luscia was overcome with gratitude at the pleasant scent of the domed living space. Though her Boreali senses ensured an advantage in most circumstances, a heightened sense of smell while navigating the city docks had not been one of them. If her estimation was correct, the apartment faced north over Thoarne Bay, and Luscia had nearly convinced herself that even her private chambers would house the tang of Bastiion’s briny imports.

Instead, her nose was bombarded with traces of cinnamon, nixberry, and spiced vanilla. Stepping forward, Luscia angled her head to appreciate the details of the vast canopy above the cavernous receiving room. Candlelight flickered throughout the chamber, accentuating the subtle variations in the byrnnzite. Trimmed by a ring of granite, the New-World stone shone in a galaxy of copper, red, azure, and gold.

The palace was so very different from the village fortress Luscia had known for eighteen years. In Roüwen, her people dwelt within a refuge of aerial homes, suspended in the heights of Boreal’s ancient, towering trees. A carved city fixed between the treetops, like a hidden world known only to birds and men.

“Shores of Aurynth!”

A basket of linens went tumbling to the floor, dashing Luscia’s memories of home and drawing her eyes to a matronly figure. Several stray hairs escaped the woman’s blonde braid, liberally streaked with grey, emphasizing her ruddy cheeks and the strained rounding of her shoulders.

Boreali. One of Alora’s ladies, then, Luscia surmised. It certainly explained the presence of nixberry in the chamber.

“You must be Lady Luscia. Meh fyreon, Ana’Sere. We were not told you’d arrived!” She scurried about, talking in broken fragments as she checked to make sure all was in proper order.

“That’s quite understandable. Please, bolaeva, forgive our intrusion…” Luscia warmed her tone, humbled by the older woman’s frazzled state. “What is your name, so I may thank you properly?”

“Ock! Yes. Wem. I’m called Tallulah, and the little wisp milling about would be your resident attendant, Mila.” She glanced around. “Where is that girl?”

“Well, tadöm, Tallulah, for all your effort. From what I see here, you’ve made everything look very inviting,” Luscia extended.

Tallulah’s mouth broke into a relieved smile, exposing two very prominent front teeth, which for some reason made Luscia like her that much more. She half curtsied before vanishing into a deeper portion of the apartment, where she called for the “little wisp” to produce herself.

With a groan, the entry door reopened to admit a team of larger attendants, bearing her personal effects. Luscia scanned the items carefully until she at last located a small wooden chest, sleeved in linsilk to shroud its unconventional locking system. Alora had stressed its importance, though to Luscia’s knowledge it merely housed a rare collection of Boreali herbs and apothic materials for progressive remedies. Her aunt was Boreal’s most gifted healer, and at first, Alora had insisted Luscia follow her into the apothic arts. Apprenticing with her aunt through early adolescence, Luscia was initiated into the apothic tradition of herbaceous compounds and their unlimited application. But to her aunt’s vexation, young Luscia—like her brother, Phalen—displayed an early partiality for sharp objects, an attribute they’d most certainly inherited from their father. Abandoning the apothic arts, Luscia had sailed to train with the Najjan on the Isle of Viridis, leaving her tutor at odds with the mighty Clann Darragh.

Once the last articles of gear were distributed, the attendants made an eager exit. As they departed, a head of disheveled, blonde hair emerged through their stampede.

“Ana’Sere, the key to our luxiron has been delivered into the prince’s hands,” Creyvan reported in a huff. His dismay was evident, and inarguably represented their collective feeling of nakedness. Though her party still carried the standard iron blades typically traded with the other Houses, any Najjan would ache for his specialized weaponry.

Tentatively—for she was not accustomed to initiating contact with men—Luscia rested a palm on his sturdy upper arm.

“You did as I required.” She caught his gaze and held it intentionally, detecting his resentment. “You did well, Creyvan. Waedfrel, Brödre.”

His focus drifted to the other four Najjan, who’d begun shuffling items into different corners of her generous living space. Creyvan nodded his approval after taking in the beautiful stonework and magnificent view, as if to be certain it was worthy of her. Looking back to the doors, he ran a hand through his tangled hair.

“There are two Unitarian sentries outside, one stationed on each end of the corridor. The other suites we passed did not have watchdogs,” he said, mouth tight. “I inquired about their necessity and was informed they are ‘for the al’Haidren’s safety.’”

Luscia considered the predicament. It was another deliberate test of wills. She sensed Marek surveying her reaction from the opposite side of the room, where he deposited a patchwork sack of mixed hides. The captaen tried to appear busy when she glanced his way.

He failed.

“Return to the hall,” Luscia instructed, “and tell them that if Bastiion truly insists on protecting the al’Haidren to Boreal, then they would have given me six guards, instead of two. Tell them to think twice before insulting the Crown’s guest so thoughtlessly next time.”

Creyvan’s forehead scrunched, confused, before melting into mischief. His boyish features lit up as he reached for the bronze handle. “If they wish to treat you like a prisoner, we’ll make it inconvenient for them!”

Luscia closed the heavy door to find Marek smiling. His approval irked her as much as it pleased her, which was irksome in and of itself. Marek was an opinionated irritant, but she had to admit, his judgment was very credible.