Zaethan stared at his father’s tunic, covered in honorary fragments of metal and bone. Medals both Unitarian and Darakaian. A formidable picture of success who’d just publicly humiliated his son. By syphoning Zaethan’s personal pryde and scattering them, Nyack Kasim would send a message to the House of Darakai that his son was unfit to lead. That Zaethan did not deserve to be called Alpha Zà, chief alpha of the prydes, and that Zaethan retained the title by birth rather than might.

It was a symbolic castration.

King Korbin, his father, and General Lateef continued their conversation after an awkward moment passed, but Zaethan only heard rushing in his ears. His resentment threatened to boil over, but gradually retreated, dissipating into a somber disgrace. He noticed Dmitri trying to word something, worry pinching his expression. With a quick jerk of his jaw, Zaethan motioned him to drop it. He would not humiliate himself further by mimicking a dog, cowering before its master.

Squaring his shoulders, Zaethan lifted his chin to follow the king’s exit once their meeting adjourned. He stepped forward, but his father’s voice pierced his ears, halting him.

“Stay.”

Zaethan watched the others depart. King Korbin, oblivious to the conflict, walked beside General Lateef and inquired further about his new naval fleet. Dmitri hesitated, but had learned many times over that it was best to leave Zaethan to fight his own demons.

Fixing his eyes ahead, Zaethan listened to his father’s stiff boots striking the masonry of the floor as they traversed the room. The loose fabric of the wrapped gunja pants his father wore beneath his form-fitting military tunic concealed the preserved vigor of his middle-aged physique. Standing scarcely taller than Zaethan, his leathery, corded neck came into view, the side of it riddled from past trauma and poorly healed war wounds.

Zaethan didn’t flinch when the force of his father’s hand collided with the right side of his face.

Nor the left.

“For questioning me.”

Head upright, Zaethan refused to wipe the blood off his splitting lip. His father reached out and roughly smeared it away to assess the damage. If, for an instant, Zaethan hoped it to be an act of affection or remorse, the thought died with his commander’s parting advice.

“Put camilla root on that lip and hide your weakness before the y’siti’s reception. You will not shame my name again today.”

Zaethan hid his pain and peered into the starless black pools looking back at him. The commander seemed to hesitate as his eyes traveled the panes of his son’s face, so very much like Zaethan’s mother’s, rather than his own.

After a few tense breaths, his father deliberately dropped his fingers and wiped them clean against the fabric stretching over Zaethan’s chest. Marking his defeat.

Nyack Kasim then turned abruptly and left his bloodied son behind.

TEN

Luscia

   Luscia crumpled the parchment in her grasp after reading Alora’s brief message for the third time.

The courier, panting in his haste, had delivered the sealed note to Luscia’s apartments just as Mila began preparing her for Dmitri’s dreaded reception. In swift script, her aunt relayed she would not be in attendance that night. Alora’s arrival was still days away.

From a pair of sentences, Luscia had deduced three certainties. The first, an event more momentous than Luscia’s presentation to court as the Ascended al’Haidren to Boreal had occurred in Port Tadeas. Second, this event would delay Alora’s much larger party for perhaps another week. Third, and most importantly, Boreal’s anticipated Ascension offering—the next Sword of Thoarne—had been delayed with her.

Meaning Luscia would not only be attending this lofty reception without her predecessor, but also walking into it empty-handed.

Mila’s meticulous fingers weaved gemstones throughout her hair, reminding Luscia the situation could be worse. She would not be entering a room full of Unitarian nobility and partnering members of the Ethnicam in her worn, muddied traveling gear. Thank the High One that Alora thought of nearly everything and had arranged the transfer of Luscia’s possessions weeks ago, including the wardrobe her aunt had commissioned for her new role in Bastiion.

“I’m thankful for your assistance, Mila, especially in light of this news.” Luscia sighed, genuinely grateful to the girl for taking so much time to coax her tedious cloud of braids and knots, unlike the intricate styles worn by the women of the court.

“It’s my pleasure, Lady Luscia!” Mila’s timid voice brightened. The maid’s trembles always seemed to diminish while she worked. “Your requests are so simple, compared to Lady Sayuri. I’m just happy I can perform them to your liking.”

“The al’Haidren to Pilar?” Luscia clarified.

“Oh yes, I served Lady Sayuri for an entire year before your Ascension. She, well…” Mila paused. “She thought it more appropriate to gift me to you.”

“Because of your lineage, you mean?” Luscia presumed. “The al’Haidren to Pilar thought it more appropriate for a Boreali cross-caste to serve the al’Haidren to Boreal?”

Mila’s fingers ceased their efforts for a moment, then gently began to move again.

“Did Tallulah tell you?” she asked dejectedly.

“Your coloring suggests northern ancestry. Only Tavish or Boreali blood could give you those eyes…and you’re much too sweet to be from Tavaàr,” Luscia added lightly. It was true.

“Lady Luscia, I’m honored by the reassignment and—if you’ll pardon my saying so—quite relieved,” Mila said earnestly. “Lady Sayuri is a very particular woman, and I certainly won’t miss that dark, drafty stairwell!”

“Drafty stairwell?” Luscia asked, confused. “Aren’t the Pilareese suites adjacent to my own?” She’d heard the nearest domed cupola belonged to the al’Haidren in question. With a little effort, Luscia could probably throw a stone from her balcony onto the other.

“This wing—the northern wing—housed the royal apartments until the late Shield Age, forty years ago, when the entire Thoarne family was moved into the southern wing of the palace. King Aquila decided the servant stair to his private chamber was too great a risk during the wars with Razôuel and Mworra,” Mila explained. “But when Lady Sayuri learned of its existence, she ordered the stairwell reopened. She preferred to see us performing our chores as little as possible. So, we moved between her apartment and the servant levels by candlelight, if one had a free hand to hold it.”

Luscia sensed Mila shudder at the memory. What a selfish request, to make those who serve do so out of sight. Lucia did, however, agree with King Aquila’s decision to close the stairwell in the first place. One could never rely too heavily on another for protection. On her first night here, after returning from Dmitri’s summons, Luscia had hidden weapons all throughout her apartment. In the bedroom alone were six blades, and that wasn’t even counting those on her person.