“Friends and guests! My family and I invite you all to join in celebrating the Ascension of the al’Haidren to Boreal. Her presence brings us into a new age as she takes her seat and completes my son’s Quadren! Please, eat to your content, drink ’til your limit, and revel in the evening’s entertainment!”

Dmitri’s father tipped back his glass as he sank into his throne. The shining cup was refilled by the time his elbows hit the table before him.

Dmitri promptly excused them from Flourette’s clutches and strolled with Zaethan toward his table across the hall. “I thought you didn’t believe in the Fates,” Dmitri pointed out as they scaled the steps.

“I don’t. But if I did, I’d be kissing their immortal feet. You were supposed to rescue me from that barnacle, not encourage her.”

“Did you not hear? I just insisted Flourette refocus her attention on the al’Haidren to Boreal. Now you and Luscia will have a common interest to discuss,” he replied, vaulting over the final steps.

Someone’s feeling chipper, Zaethan thought with a grimace.

Avoiding his father, who sat behind them to the left of the king, Zaethan settled into his chair. In doing so, he viewed the opposite end of Dmitri’s table, where the y’siti’s brawny henchman dismissed a servant waiting to assist the al’Haidren and seated her himself instead. Once assured she was content, the bearded, fiery-haired man stepped aside and stationed himself against the closest wall. Her hybrid mutt laid at the y’siti’s feet, though its ears shifted alertly with the noise of the hall. Being Darakaian, and not fully enmeshed in the social delicacies of Unitarian culture, Zaethan was surprised her wild animal was permitted at such a gathering.

“All this for some foul y’siti. It’s absurd.” Accented Unitarian whispered in Zaethan’s ear as Sayuri slithered into place at their end of the table. “And she brings that vulgar dog everyone knows is the spawn of war-taint.”

He couldn’t agree with her more, which was a first.

“Dmitri, darling, this is truly a lovely display.” Sayuri reached past Zaethan in order to drape her hand atop Dmitri’s, slowing the natural staccato of her western accent to a more beguiling cadence. “Boreal’s al’Haidren must be so honored by the incredible generosity you’ve shown her tonight.”

“She is,” a husky voice interjected.

Beyond Dmitri’s profile, the fair skinned y’siti sat forward. Her unnerving eyes traveled up the length of Sayuri’s sun-kissed arm to read the expression on the prince’s face. Angling away from Zaethan, he only saw a dimple emerge on the lively skin of Dmitri’s normally hollow cheeks. The witch half smiled and nodded at some unspoken understanding before she turned to answer a question posed by Ira.

Below their platform, a parade of alluring Unitarian dancers spread around the base of the dais as music enveloped the room. Zaethan caught a knowing look from a handsome woman in the back as her performers entertained the crowd of hungry nobles. Salma Nabhu tilted her head toward one of the glistening, twirling dancers, offering a temporary solution for his mood. The girl in question was beautiful, of course. In the torchlight, the dancer’s vitality rolled off her skin with her sweat, and sepia-toned hair moved around her like a sandstorm from the Wastes.

“Gregor Hastings is already intoxicated, and it isn’t even the second course,” Sayuri murmured beside him. A howl exploded from where the Haidren to Bastiion laughed enthusiastically with the king, unconcerned with the serene queen trapped between them. “No wonder Ira is never sober.”

“Sayuri, I have to suffer through the entirety of this event as is. Don’t make it worse by opening your mouth,” Zaethan spat in a low voice.

Per tradition, the evening was far from over. The Houses would have prepared a variety of performances to accompany each course of the meal, Boreal being the exception. Since being driven out of the Proper over the last decade, members of the northernmost House were generally less willing to participate in court gatherings with the rest of the Ethnicam. An arrangement preferred by the majority.

“There will come a time, Lord Darakai, when you and I will see the need for each other.” Sayuri pursed her ruby lips. Peering over his shoulder, she quietly continued, “Watch her. She is not like her aunt, Zaethan. You’d do well to consider that when you choose to distance Darakai from Pilar’s hand of friendship.”

Zaethan despised Sayuri, primarily for her many attempts to openly seduce Dmitri, but the sharpness of her narrowing eyes urged him to rotate in his seat. The y’siti had twisted as well, except her gaze was fixed on the table behind. Zaethan followed her line of sight to the empty seat beside Gregor Hastings. Worry flashed across her face before reassuming her expressionless state. Her strange eyes caught his, and Zaethan’s mouth eased into a vicious smile. The y’siti had finally realized just how alone in their world she really was.

Breathing in, she elevated her chin and faced forward to resume a dull discussion with Dmitri and Ira over the Province of Wendylle.

His thoughts returned to Sayuri’s counsel. Zaethan risked a sidelong glance at her predecessor, seated near his father. Tetsu Naborū rapped his metal nailpiece against the tabletop as Lord Felix Ambrose, an entitled yancy from Galina, spoke rapidly into his ear. Zaethan wasn’t surprised. As the elected Chancellor of the Shoto Collective, Pilar’s congress of scholars and statesmen, Naborū had woven a web of political partnerships over the years, each to his benefit. In addition, adopting the role of Haidren after the death of his brother meant a man like Naborū encountered few limitations and knew how to circumvent them when he did.

“But you are exactly like your uncle, Lady Pilar. A conniving little snake,” Zaethan hissed, turning back to his plate. “And that time you speak of is not tonight.”

Salma’s dancers glided off the floor as the cymbal clashed again, signaling a transition into the next course. Darakai’s painted drummers took their place, the masculine uproar causing the staff to jump while they exchanged the empty dishware with something colorful and overflowing. An attendant lifted Dmitri’s plate, then apologized profusely when he nearly knocked the prince’s cane off the edge of the table. On and on the charade went, performance after performance, delicacy after delicacy.

When the cymbal marked their final course, the original musicians took to the dais for the remainder of the night. Zaethan pinched the bridge of his nose and eagerly awaited the first opportunity to leave.

“Luscia, I think dessert is the perfect opportunity to display your skillset. I’ll inform Alora how seriously you’re taking your duty to sing me lullabies,” Dmitri jested with the y’siti, apparently referencing some prior conversation.

“What a grand idea, Your Highness! The court would love to hear the elusive al’Haidren to Boreal sing for us all.” Sayuri stretched across Zaethan once more, tugging Dmitri’s arm.