“Perhaps. Or merely a statement as uncooperative as your own?”

Zaethan’s head whipped around. He knew he needed to calm down—his anger would only be met with further deflection. Dmitri always refused to listen to passionate shouting, which, unfortunately, was Zaethan’s natural tone of voice.

“I’m trying to fulfill my duty to you, Dmitri,” he said, exasperated. “How is that uncooperative? And then she comes here and starts giving orders to our sentries, as if they were her own! Sentries stationed for your wellbeing!”

“Do you sanction guards to bookend the corridors outside the Pilarese suites? Or the Unitarian?” Dmitri posed, making his point with infuriating ease. “One sentry, surely, out of respect for the resident’s status at court, but no more. She isn’t incompetent, Zaeth. In fact, I suspect she’s incredibly sharp.”

“Sharp like wolx teeth capped in witchiron!” Zaethan bit out. “And then you went and invited her for a midnight tea, without your guard! You should have called for me, Dmitri.”

Dmitri simply sighed and rubbed his right temple. Then his gaze turned sharp, and he squinted at the scabs over Zaethan’s knuckles.

“Might I ask what happened to your hand?”

“Just keeping your loyal subjects in line. Some real class acts loitering around Bastiion these days.”

“I do hope they remained loyal after you were through.”

“Stop distracting me,” Zaethan grumbled. “My pryde’s patrolling isn’t the issue. The issue is that creature upstairs.”

“I wish for this argument to end. My al’Haidrens are equal in my eyes, so they should be in yours as well,” the weary prince stated with finality.

Zaethan opened his mouth to reply, but tempered himself as Dmitri’s father burst into the war room. Behind him were a pair of solemn, southern-skinned men speaking to each other in lowered voices as they trailed their king.

“Dmitri, my boy!” the king said joyously. “Congratulations at last!”

Korbin Thoarne rounded the spherical room and headed straight for his son. Outstretched hands engulfed Dmitri’s thin shoulders and shook them with gaiety.

“Your final al’Haidren’s arrival…what a splendid day this is!” he exclaimed, looking proudly into the face of his only heir.

Zaethan could see occasional similarities between them, enough to prove their relation, though it was Queen Lourissa who shone through Dmitri most. Her aristocratic nose, delicate bone structure, and lighter frame contrasted with his father’s substantial brow and brawny stature. But while only a few might pick out Dmitri as the son of Korbin Thoarne at first glance, none could dismiss the same beaming grin they shared. It was sad, Zaethan often thought, that though all Orynthia associated that memorable feature with their king, rarely did they comment upon it in their prince.

Clapping his son on the back, nearly pushing him off-balance, the king made his way around the table to where Zaethan held the rigid position expected of a Darakian alpha. A hefty palm landed on his left shoulder and gave it a tight squeeze.

“A splendid day, indeed!” King Korbin repeated, smiling widely. “For you, too, Zaeth. A complete Quadren!”

Zaethan had expected his exuberance. While Dmitri’s denial of the y’siti threat was due to sheer optimism, Zaethan had learned throughout the years that the king’s regard for Boreal was downright delusional. Like most of the nobility, Korbin Thoarne classified the Boreali as archaic mystics who, like oil and water, would just never fully blend with the rest of the realm. Zaethan, of course, maintained the same judgment as most of the Ethnicam: y’siti were vile, and their witchery was from the Depths.

Nevertheless, he summoned a pinched smile and nodded at the king’s statement.

“Still keeping my son out of trouble?” He raised a bushy brow mischievously, suggesting he believed Dmitri spent more time in taverns than he did reading dusty literature.

“Trying to, sire,” Zaethan replied. “Regrettably, he tends to admire the trouble.”

The king rolled with laughter. Zaethan relaxed a fraction and chuckled at the prospect of Dmitri wasting an evening in a place like The Veiled Lady. Knowing his friend, Dmitri would be more likely to tutor one of Salma’s night-callers than employ one for his own pleasure.

Looking away from the prince in question, Zaethan’s eyes found Darakai’s chief warlord.

Hints of revulsion were hidden throughout his father’s demeanor as he casually peered over the sea of Orynthian maps. It was disguised in his unblinking, hard black eyes. In the tautness of his shoulders, as his stance wordlessly proclaimed dominance. In the slight snarl that pulled one nostril up into a pockmarked cheek and melted into his shaved skull, etched with the scars of his victories.

In an instant, Zaethan swallowed his amusement, adopting his previous posture, and lowered his gaze to the table. Whether it was the king’s affection for Dmitri’s childhood friend or Zaethan’s own conduct that had triggered his father’s ire, he couldn’t tell. Either were certainly enough to incite his father’s anger, when Zaethan’s birth was itself a disappointment. As the thief who stole his mother’s last breath, Zaethan had long accepted that a man like Nyack Kasim could never deign to love him.

“Shall we begin, Majesty?” Zaethan’s father asked, his voice smooth like Galina wine. “As mentioned, there’ve been displays of rebellion along the borders of Hagarh. Here and here,” he tapped a forefinger at various points near the Yakov River, “the mudmen have begun tempting the perimeter. It seems these leeches are no longer content with our agreement.”

“They claim we’ve kept control of the Miraji Forest for too long, and that the land is rightfully theirs to take,” General Lateef interjected, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the notion.

“Hmph.” King Korbin studied the areas mentioned. “The mudmen haven’t troubled us in ages…what do you think provoked them after so much time? They must realize how easily Orynthia could subdue an uprising.”

“Apparently they say that ‘the wind told them.’ That ‘it was time.’” Zaethan’s father’s upper lip curled with disdain. “As if Orynthia would bend to the will of a marsh-wader.”

“But the Gulgons carry sticks and spears. They still coat themselves and their weaponry in muck, so what could they possibly hope to gain in a standoff? We’ve held the bulk of Mirajii, aside from their remnants, for centuries,” Dmitri wondered aloud.

A fist the shade and texture of charred bark struck the table, causing Dmitri to jump, and landed in the center of the marked wetlands.

“Because they are resisters! And resisters must be broken, or they’ll continue to revolt!” Zaethan’s father declared.