“We all thank you, Lord Bastiion, for your personal support,” Zaethan said with enough sarcasm to satisfy even Zahra, his third, had she been present.

“I’m so pleased to hear our union has become your passion, as well,” Sayuri swiftly added, letting her fingertips brush Dmitri’s hand as she regarded him through her dense lashes.

Zaethan audibly laughed, earning him a deadly scowl from his friend. He couldn’t believe he was obligated to sit here and listen to this kakk. Dmitri had always been an idealist, but this discussion was absurd. Did Dmitri think the Houses would simply come together and abandon centuries-old ambitions and rivalries? That a noble like Ira would put his liquor aside for a cause beyond his own debauchery. Or that the y’siti sorceress would cease sharpening her witchiron while they slept? The notion that the four of them could set aside generations of strife was about as likely as one day referring to Sayuri Naborū-Zuo as Her Highness.

“Some of you may scoff at this proposition.” Dmitri’s eyes targeted Zaethan. “However, I still propose that we open this Quadren privately, be it prematurely. None of you serve your House as Haidren until I serve Orynthia as king. I’m aware it will likely be years before that becomes our reality, but we have an opportunity before us. This is the first and only Quadren to ever be born into an era of peace. So many of these journals, journals like this one,” he passionately urged, lifting a tattered book off the tabletop, “were scribbled inside a tent on a scorched battlefield. But that is not how we begin, and it is not how we will end.

“We are going to use this time, these years ahead, to forge our solidarity. Over time, I can find ways to impose our influence within the bureaucratic realms. The Peerage and the Ethnicam will have to allow it when they see how united we’ve become. And because of that, we can dedicate our youth to something that matters—to the betterment of our people.”

Not since childhood had Zaethan seen his friend speak so zealously about anything. He’d noticed the papers piling up in every corner of Dmitri’s great room and study, but he had just assumed it was the king’s way of preparing the prince for his future responsibilities. And on a day like this, when Dmitri’s color waned and his cheeks shone hollow from exhaustion, his hazel eyes were brighter than ever.

“The Hastings family has always shown friendship to the different members of the Ethnicam. In fact, my father has purchased every type of cross-caste you can imagine for our manor in Arune. Quite an exotic collection, actually,” Ira stated casually, as if Unitarian supremacy was welcome at the table. “Although he lost one just the other night. Rabid coyotes, I think? Anyway, she was exquisite—”

“Ira—” Dmitri interrupted, sensing the ire emanating from the other three.

“No, truly. It’s really a compliment to your kind, gosling,” he said, turning to address the y’siti. “Boreali cross-castes are priced steeply for a reason.”

The y’siti seized Ira’s forearm forcefully, startling him. “What did you just say?”

“Begging your pardon.” Ira nervously grinned. “Lady Gosling, that is—”

“Ira, are you saying there was another attack?” Zaethan grabbed the noble’s shoulder and interrogated him from the opposite side. His pryde had reported nothing of the sort since before the witch’s reception. It was unlikely Zahra or Kumo knew anything—a painful reminder that his father had cut their force in Bastiion by three-quarters.

“What do you mean by another attack, Lord Darakai?” The y’siti pushed away from the table and loomed over Ira. She fixed her unnerving stare upon Zaethan.

The witch did not raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Zaethan felt a series of pricks along the base of his neck. He didn’t lift his hand to touch it, not even when the skin seemed to boil. The sensation vanished when she finally blinked. Wordlessly, she’d seared the truth of what she was into his flesh.

You aren’t human, he suddenly understood. You’re a daughter of demons.

“I’d like to invite you all to attend a hunt,” Dmitri interrupted anxiously. “Zaethan and I were planning on an outing to the Outer Proper tomorrow with some of his men. I’d like to extend the invitation. Lady Boreal, would you grace us with your company?”

Zaethan’s head swung violently toward the worried prince. “Unbelievable!”

“Lower your voice at this table,” Dmitri warned through strained lips.

Zaethan seethed incredulously. That hunt was the only promise of freedom Zaethan had clung to during the last weeks. He was not about to roll over and let Dmitri ransom it for political pacification. Not for the sake of this…creature. But before he could open his mouth to protest, the witch was already accepting Dmitri’s invitation.

“I’d be delighted.” The y’siti’s icy tone defied her smile. “My Aksel has grown anxious and could use the fresh air. It’s been ages since he ran with a pack of animals.”

Zaethan gripped the smooth edge of the table as he witnessed this precious escape being traded away, like a measly handful of copper crupas for Marketown’s most prized jewel. There was now no polite way for him to object to Dmitri’s decision, and certainly not in front of the other al’Haidrens.

“Splendid!” Dmitri said, beaming at her. “Sayuri, Ira, I hope to see you both in the morning as well. I think that’s enough for today. You are all dismissed,” he hurriedly concluded, grabbing his cane.

“Your Highness, a moment of your time, please?” the y’siti requested coolly.

Zaethan glared at her as he rose to his feet. Her ashy hair was worn in a mess of twists, resembling a vengeful ghost in the way she stared down Orynthia’s crown prince. As he strode toward the door, Zaethan’s restless palms itched to strangle her, for bit by bit, this single creature would poison everything he held dear. Tomorrow’s loss was just the beginning.

“Actually, Luscia, would you give us the room? I’d like a word with my al’Haidren to Darakai.”

Zaethan halted at Dmitri’s words, struggling to compose himself before turning around. After a brief pause, he overheard a submissive, “Of course,” before the y’siti stepped around him, leaving the two men in privacy. Zaethan took a deep breath and twisted to face Dmitri, allowing the doors to close at his back.

“What is wrong with you?” Dmitri hissed at him. “This is our legacy, Zaethan. My legacy! How dare you act like it’s all some joke? Or do you believe I’m the joke?” he accused, his brows scrunching together. “This isn’t like you, Zaeth.”

“Ano zà! All of that,” Zaethan yelled, thrashing his arms toward her seat at the pentagonal table, “is not you, Dmitri! Depths! A friend who calls himself my brother would never sacrifice my few precious hours of freedom and proposition them like a stepping stone for his own advancement!”