Burn it.

Rul’Aniell,

Alora

Underneath the note, scribbled with an unusual sense of urgency, was another page, this one riddled with unfamiliar terms and complicated instructions. The list of essential components wasn’t very long, but it consisted of the rarest and most potent extracts native to her homeland. Ennus thorn, meant to improve immunity or lower one’s fever. Nixberry oil, for pain. Eüpharsis extract, used to treat insomnia and calm the nervous system.

Luscia read through Alora’s unconventional methodology, repeating each line until it was branded in her memory. She scanned the last few ingredients and felt her stomach churn.

Blood

(Five drops from the finger. No more. No less.)

Finally, she identified the ugly stain of darkened rust that decorated the sharpest point of the skeletal key. And for the first time in her life, Luscia dared to wonder if the rumors were true.

She flexed her palms, as if to ask the pulsing, sacred element held within them: “Are we witches after all?”

EIGHT

Luscia

   Convincing Marek that Aksel served as a sufficient escort for the brief walk to the apartments of Prince Dmitri Thoarne had proven a taxing endeavor. Despite the fact that the lycran was one of the north’s most ruthless predators, her argumentative captaen had only conceded when she pulled rank in front of his men—a tactic that Luscia loathed resorting to. Consequently, she followed the page feeling prickly, having left behind an equally frustrated, brooding Najjan.

Her finger itched where she’d applied a quick poultice over the recent puncture. Though the wound would have healed within the hour in any case, the last thing Luscia had wanted to explain was what had transpired behind closed doors to an already watchful captaen. Her quick mixture of gilead leaf and yarrow flower had expedited the healing, thanks to the metabolized lumin within the plants. One of the benefits of the mysterious essence was its ability to amplify the original properties of any substance.

As they strode through a maze of corridors, Luscia counted every door and each sequence of turns. This would be the most important path she’d learn, and while it was wise to remember the route for navigation’s sake, her time on the Isle of Viridis had taught her that it was even wiser to record the less noteworthy: guard placements, their dominant hands, assigned weaponry. Her northern ears, further heightened by Tiergan blood, beckoned Luscia to listen beyond the voiceless doors. The rumble of two snoring peacefully came from the right. From her left, the steady, thumping gait of a heavyset man pacing in solitude.

Beside her, Aksel’s nostrils flared with the bouquet of changing scents. Always her frighteningly astute shadow, the lycran matched the tempo of her footsteps as he maintained contact with her hip. Luscia had expected him to have trouble adjusting to the differing extremes—the beast had spent most of his life running through the frigid peaks of the Orallach Mountains and prowling whistling forests blanketed in thick, lambent mist. Here, the russet fur of his hackles lifted, challenging the contrast of imposing stone walls and foreign sounds of strangers in the night.

Her metaphorical hackles rose with them.

After a change in floors, three byrnnzite archways, and a hall of impressive windows—which offered an intimate view of the thriving city below—the small page stopped in front of a set of doors. The adjoining, ten-foot slabs of red oak and ashwood were overlaid in stunning, swirling metalwork. Sleek bands met at the center, where a double handle was fixed. Molded from radiantly mixed materials, together the handles formed the head of a stag—the symbol of the Royal Line of Thoarne. The byrnnzite antlers sparkled in the dwindling light of the sconces.

Appropriately, it was said that Orynthia lived in the Stag Age. Hundreds of years and countless lives had been lost for the cause of peace, finally achieved during the early reign of King Korbin Thoarne. Understandably, the Unitarians immortalized the symbol.

But only in Bastiion, Luscia mused, would such opulence serve as a door handle.

The page used the knocker and nervously glanced about when the clanging echo shattered the stillness. Luscia couldn’t understand why the boy was so distressed. Even if she wished him harm, as he’d surely been taught, the dozen sentries positioned along the corridor should have provided him with some sense of security. Yet he still jittered in place, eager to be rid of her.

Two Darakaian guards, each stationed on either side of the entrance, received Luscia with an unmistakable intensity. The male scanned her form, seeking any potential threat, while the female’s posture radiated aggression. As al’Haidren to Boreal, Luscia was insulted by their hostile reception, but did not allow her countenance to show it.

The doors parted, groaning in invitation. Instinctively, Luscia’s ears perked as she crossed into the prince’s foyer after the page.

“Your efficiency, young Callister, is lacking,” said a droll voice. Luscia saw it belonged to an elderly valet when he shut the door behind them. “You remain as hasty as my grandmother, who is dead.”

“But the Lady—”

The valet ignored him and curtly cleared his throat when one of the Darakaians wedged the door back open. “No, not you lot. Prince already kicked you out once, best not to repeat it.” His hands, speckled in age spots, shooed them out. “Now, Lady al’Haidren, if you and your…dog…would follow me? His Highness has been waiting,” he directed after a clipped bow.

For some reason she suspected it pained him to do so, and not because of his age.

“Eugen—”

“You are excused, Callister. Thank you for your unexceptional service to His Highness,” the valet wheezed over a hunched shoulder.

As she trailed behind the valet, Luscia silently scolded herself for not changing her attire before this visit with Prince Dmitri. There simply hadn’t been time—she’d already been delayed too long by mixing Alora’s tonic. In the face of opposition, Luscia had donned the northern accents to represent her Boreali pride upon entering the Unitarian city, but a private, late-night summons from the future king had not been considered in her careful calculations. She’d been led to expect him to call on her at first light. For a gender judged predominantly on appearance before skill or intellect, a woman’s first impression was a powerful asset—an asset Luscia strove to wield with intention.

Alas, strolling into the Prince of Orynthia’s apartment dressed as a Boreali battle cry come to life was far from intentional.

The valet led her into a domed great room, much like her own, though significantly grander. It was warmed by a freshly tended fire against the opposite wall. Luscia had thought her canopy was magnificent, but the large fire set the prince’s byrnnzite ceiling aflame.

“The Lady Luscia Tiergan, al’Haidren to Boreal, has arrived, Your Highness.”