“No, no. I was just referring to—”

But before Dmitri could explain the nature of his comment, Sayuri bolted from her seat and dashed to exchange words with the king. Promise twinkled in her eyes when she sauntered back down to their table.

“Dmitri! I didn’t know your al’Haidren had prepared something for me!” King Korbin shouted over the noise of the hall.

“Father, it’s…it’s a misunderstanding.”

“Everyone!” With dazed eyes and slurred words, Dmitri’s father clapped for the room’s attention. “My son’s al’Haidren has prepared a treat for us before she presents Boreal’s Ascension offering!”

“Luscia, I’m so sorry. He’s—I can explain it to them,” Dmitri started to say.

“It’s not your fault,” Zaethan overheard her respond stoically. “It is an honor to sing for you, Your Highness.”

Standing, her guard escorted her to the dais. Halfway there, the y’siti paused and returned to Dmitri.

“If you’ll permit?” she asked and cautiously reached out for his cane.

“Oh! Yes—of course,” he promptly responded, his regal nose crinkling quizzically as he gestured to the cane in her grasp. “Whatever you require is yours for the taking.”

With his permission, she gave a short bow and continued onward.

Sayuri reclined smugly and crossed her arms expectantly. “You’re welcome for this,” she murmured to Zaethan.

As the al’Haidren climbed the dais with the help of her escort, the imported material of her dress shifted with her graceful movement. It was strange how the modest cut was distinctly masculine, military even, yet made her look anything but. She lifted her ghostly, heart-shaped face to whisper to her henchman. He stared at her with momentary skepticism before bowing his head and retreating to his position at the end of their table. The crisp lines of the y’siti’s face shifted as she closed her unsettling eyes, situated under dense, tawny brows, and began to mouth phrases under her breath.

Zaethan’s gut tightened. The witch wouldn’t dare use one of her arcane spells in the open, surely? Then, striking Dmitri’s cane against the stone she stood upon, a deep and haunting ballad echoed off the walls of hall as the y’siti began to sing.

The Earth became dark, her blood spilt anew,

Betrayal so deep, burning tears ran true.

She drank of the shadow, then drowned in fire,

Who could rescue her from our taint and mire?

Rul’Lothadim Aniell,

rul’Lothadim, On High.

In the mist it hid, between trees it dwelt,

Before the Light of Him, whom Tiergan knelt.

A touch breeds death, this radiance would save,

His Gift to Boreal, the High One gave.

Rul’Lothadim Aniell,

rul’Lothadim, On High.

Zaethan jerked when the Najjani guard at the foot of their table took his sheathed sword, having unbuckled it, and accompanied her rhythmic clamor. His rich baritone joined her chilling tale.

Those of North they sang, yet of East they sought,

Unaware of the terror, which Tiergan fought.

Bold Thoarne traveled far, a brotherhood sealed,

By might nor by force their lands slowly healed.

rul’Lothadim Aniell,

rul’Lothadim, On High.

Old hunger recalled, scarred mouths of teeth drank,

Tearing flesh from bone, their thirsty claws sank.

Monstrosity pushed and would not abide,

Brothers East and North, whose fates did collide.

rul’Lothadim Aniell,

rul’Lothadim, On High.

Fallen pierced and slain, the Dönumn became

Tiergan’s tomb, Thoarne dread, stolen hope remained.

On scorned knees he pled, spirit threads rebind,

Brilliant breath sprang forth, men no longer blind.

rul’Lothadim Aniell,

rul’Lothadim, On High.

Male voices resonated throughout the Hall, though from where they originated, Zaethan couldn’t tell. Rage flared inside his chest. The y’siti were concealed in their midst without his foreknowledge. Zaethan pivoted and beheld Dmitri, who sat forward, listening in wonder.

An unnatural breeze swept the room, lifting the y’siti’s hair like ash fanning off a fire. The raw gems knit throughout her tresses chimed as they rustled in place. Slowly, Zaethan’s hand felt for the hilt of his kopar.

History written, and history rings,

Even leaves know for whom life sings.

He mends every wound, joins feathers to fly,

When all men forget, still the Earth will cry,

rul’Lothadim Aniell,

Rul’Lothadim, On High.

Dmitri hopped out of his seat and led the crowd in applause. The witch bowed solemnly and descended the dais, returning to their table. Reaching into her skirts, she pulled out a curved dagger.

A gasp shuddered over the crowd as Zaethan’s limbs leapt into action. He pushed off the table and shot an arm across Dmitri’s torso, calling for the guards. Within moments, sentries filled the hall, eliciting shrieks from nearby noblewomen when they drew their swords, the metal screeching.

“Lateef!” Zaethan heard his father shout over the frenzy, from his place at the king’s table. “Seize that witchiron at once!”

This is why she came out of hiding, Zaethan thought, panicking as General Lateef tore through the swarm of men. She wanted an audience to her massacre.

“This is completely inappropriate!” Dmitri sputtered. “She is a member of my Quadren!”

Ignoring the crown prince, Zaethan’s father hurried down the steps of the platform. Sentries moved to surround the witch, swords pointed at her neck, shielded only by a thin layer of fabric. Despite the imminent threat, the y’siti remained calm, slowly kneeling inside the circle of men and lifting the dagger in the air for all to see.

A flutter of relief skirted through Zaethan’s gut, though his arm still hovered in front of their prince. Y’siti should never be trusted, even before a sea of witnesses. His left hand, positioned inches from Dmitri’s plate, crept toward the napkin on the table. Zaethan stared forward as his forefinger eased under the fabric and took hold of the prince’s dirtied carving knife. Flexing his hand around the hilt, he felt the cold of the iron seep into his skin.