Anchoring onto his sympathetic eyes, Luscia tried to discount the eerie prickling along her neck. With a smile and feigned confidence, she faced forward and positioned her back to the unnerving sound of metallic clicks and crumbling insects.

ELEVEN

Zaethan

   “You promised me, Zaeth.” Dmitri said, mouth clenched, as he put space between Zaethan and the rest of his Quadren. “You swore you’d be civil with her!”

The prince shoved his uncooperative hair away from his face in frustration, only for it to fall right back in his eyes. Zaethan walked with him, matching his stride to the clack of Dmitri’s cane as it rhythmically smacked the floor. They meandered through a maze of chattering yancies, the majority of whom were too lost in their own amusement to even notice the crown prince weaving among them.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset. Having nothing civil to say to your y’siti guest, I prudently said nothing at all!” Zaethan challenged.

Dmitri stopped and faced him. “Which was completely uncivil!”

“I will not degrade myself for the comfort of a witch!” Zaethan nearly shouted, inspiring people to step back and immediately form a ring of muffled gossip. “You don’t know this y’siti, Dmitri, or what she is capable of. Not like I do. Don’t ask me to play nice with the viper aimed at your throat!”

Zaethan knew his friend was struggling to teach him some lesson in courtly decorum, but he felt the restraint he’d demonstrated deserved to be commended, not corrected.

It was ridiculous how the Ethnicam still came together under the guise of mutual esteem. Through perseverance and countless compromises, it’d taken centuries for the other Houses to weaken Boreal’s twisted hold on the line of Thoarne. With their mysticism and superstitious practices, the Haidrens to Boreal maintained an unmistakable power over the Orynthian realm and her rulers. It wasn’t until the early Stag Age, when Korbin drafted treaties with Mworra, Razôuel, and Tavaàr, that Boreal’s strange supremacy finally broke.

This entire event was a mockery—as if Bastiion, Pilar, or Darakai would ever truly celebrate the renewed influence of these creatures. Nevertheless, here they were, playacting now that the mysterious al’Haidren to Boreal had come out of the mist for all to see.

“She’s not a witch!” Dmitri hissed at him. “Do not speak that abhorrent profanity in my presence again. I mean it, Zaeth, do you understand? She is your equal, and her name is Luscia.” Dmitri’s voice rose louder as the foreign name passed over his lips. “You’d better get acquainted with it quickly, because she’s not going anywhere.”

Zaethan was lost for words as he considered his lifelong friend. He couldn’t recall the last time Dmitri had raised his voice—with him, or anyone.

He scanned the breadth of the room and saw the y’siti casting a cold, emotionless gaze onto Sayuri Naborū-Zuo while the Pilarese al’Haidren conversed in her notoriously catlike manner. The y’siti did not speak in return, but stood resolute like the ice she’d surely been cut from. No longer did she resemble the spirited, dauntless child he’d caught dancing in combative positions upon the railing of a ship. Gone was her vigor and youthful exhilaration. The House of Boreal must have beaten those qualities out of her when they replaced them with the stony detachment she now exuded. Her entire countenance reminded Zaethan of some fabled bird, agelessly observing her surroundings through each cursed eye, one steel and the other cerulean.

Reluctantly, his attention returned to Dmitri when an irritating jingle of jewels drew near. Zaethan closed his eyes and systematically cracked each knuckle on either hand, as the scent of poppy perfume foretold the imminent arrival of Flourette Hastings.

“What are you doing?” Dmitri asked suspiciously.

“Bracing myself.”

“For wh—”

“Lord Zaethan, there you are!” Flourette squealed as she made impact, lacing both of her arms around one of his. Her pitch must have breached another octave by the ache it left in his eardrum. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Her flirtatious gaze landed on Dmitri. “Oh! Hello, Your Highness! Don’t you both look dashing tonight!”

Dmitri opened his mouth to respond when she took a breath, then briskly shut it again as her babble continued.

“You look so handsome in green. This fabric feels even more marvelous than it appears.” Her fingers explored the surface of Zaethan’s jacket. “Isn’t Lord Zaethan just the finest al’Haidren to Darakai that Bastiion has ever seen?”

“Isn’t he, though?” Dmitri encouraged her, stifling a laugh.

Momentary delight took precedence over their argument, at least for one of them. Dmitri rubbed the side of his face in an effort to cover a satisfied smirk. Zaethan stared at his friend, pleading for mercy, but Dmitri was punishing him. The prince attentively listened to Flourette’s gossip, pretending not to notice when Zaethan reached behind to capture her wayward fingers when they brushed his hairline.

“How fortuitous it is, Flourette, that we are burdened by your company when there are so many others eager to hear your commentary,” he stated blandly, releasing her spindly fingers.

Zaethan felt a swift rap below his knee as Dmitri cautioned him to remain civil with Flourette as well.

“Well, we couldn’t have it any other way, could we? How would I enjoy the evening if I left you all by yourself?” She giggled and began to twirl one of his locs around another meddlesome finger.

“We’ll never know until you do, Floure—umph.”

The cane thwacked his leg harder, enunciating the warning.

“Lady Flourette, have you a chance to meet my final al’Haidren?” Dmitri asked. “I’m sure she’d welcome the perspective of a native courtier, especially since your father serves as both Haidren to Bastiion and Minister of the Peerage. Would you like to make her acquaintance?” he seamlessly suggested, offering Flourette his royal dimples as he eyed Zaethan shaking out his leg.

“Of course, Your Highness! She’s probably lost without me, you know, after all those years trapped in the highlands.” Flourette’s hand fluttered up to press against her heart. “Is it true the Boreali live in the trees? Do you think she knows what a bathtub is for?” She shook her head and let out another high-pitched giggle. “I can only imagine the work I have cut out for me, but I will make you proud, Prince Dmitri!”

“I’m certain your efforts will not go unnoticed, Lady Flourette.”

Zaethan saw a palace attendant climb the dais to signal the king’s official welcome. He picked up a cloth-wrapped hammer and struck the hall’s enormous bronze cymbal.

“Thank the Fates,” he mumbled.