“Zaeth…” Dmitri’s lean shoulders fell. “I just—”

“Save it for your next forum…Your Highness.”

Whatever Dmitri tried to say in defense of himself, Zaethan never heard. He rammed the brass doors open and charged down the hall, the deafening echo masking any rebuttal to his exit.

Consumed with rage, Zaethan eventually turned a corner to the wing of Darakaian suites. In a concentrated haze, he barely registered the ominous presence of the very man who fueled his urge to escape. From the clenching of his pitted jaw to the way his thick, scarred arms crossed over his chest, Zaethan’s father appeared to have been waiting outside the apartment for some time.

“Doru, control yourself. Your brooding embarrasses my entire House, like a weak hatchling whining for its mother,” his father said scathingly, sucking his front teeth. “Rumor says the prince initiated his Quadren prematurely today. What was discussed in this little gathering?”

“I was under the impression that the dealings of a regent’s Quadren were of the utmost secrecy,” Zaethan tested, more out of defiance than over actual principle.

His father brought his face dangerously close. His hot breath threatened Zaethan’s cheeks.

“But you were not meeting with a regent,” the commander warned. “You sit in that seat to serve Darakai’s benefit. Lest you forget, I am Darakai. And because you’ve proven ineffective at the most elementary assignments, you will do exactly as I say. Is that clear?”

“Uni. Uni zà,” Zaethan breathed, voicing his absolute yes.

“Good,” his father growled, pulling back a fraction. “Now, we can use this prematurity to our advantage. The y’siti can’t be trusted, of course. Keep her segregated from the others, just as I enlisted Tetsu and Gregor in alienating her aunt years ago. The Hastings brat is a fool, so it would be better to align yourself with Tetsu’s neice. Pilar’s and Darakai’s goals are mutual for the time being. The Pilarese girl could be an asset to us.”

“I agree the witch should be watched, but I doubt Dmitri would turn to her completely. Not over the friend he was raised with—and not enough to require aid from Pilar,” Zaethan reassured his father.

“Meaning you?” The commander snorted his contempt. “That vile abomination is still female. Unless there’s an aspect of your relationship with Korbin’s son that you’ve made a point to conceal from me, then uni zà, he would. You may have given the prince a prized Andwele mount, but you are not the one he is mounting. Or are you?”

Blood rushed to Zaethan’s cheeks, warming them. “We’re taking it slow,” he bit out sarcastically.

Instantly, his father snatched Zaethan’s collar, twisting his grip so it tightened around his windpipe. His cold, black eyes narrowed as Zaethan tried to not give him the satisfaction of wheezing. “Mind her,” he said, letting go. “Y’siti are deceitful by nature, and history has proven that Thoarne men do not hesitate to taste whatever they desire.”

Rather than commenting that Dmitri was not the type, Zaethan cleared his throat and prudently switched topics. “Did you come for my report?”

“Is it even worth hearing?”

“One of Gregor’s Boreali cross-castes was murdered this week in Arune. It may be related to the killings in the Proper or part of the reason the Haidren to Boreal was delayed in Tadeas—” Zaethan began, eager to redeem himself.

“I am your Haidren, Chief Warlord of Darakai, and Commander of Orynthia,” his father said coldly. “Did you think I would wait around for you to drag these petty scraps of gossip back to me? Your old friend Wekesa is alpha of the pryde stationed in the Valley of Fahime. He does what you cannot and keeps me sufficiently informed.”

The corner of his father’s mouth twitched. He was enjoying this turn of conversation, Zaethan realized. In claiming the position of Alpha Zà, Zaethan had thought he’d finally be free of his long-standing rivalry with Wekesa—a rivalry that had earned him enough scars in failed attempts to earn his father’s approval. Yet even without greatness in his line, and no family name to support his own, Wekesa still somehow maintained his hold on Zaethan’s heels.

“Then perhaps I can continue to investigate the deaths within the Proper,” Zaethan suggested, trying to keep any hint of desperation from his tone.

“Wekesa is steadily proving to be Jwona rapiki, a fate writer for Darakai. Your victories are disappointing, and Wekesa’s have written over them. He will lead the investigation throughout the plains as well as within the Proper,” his father and commander declared. He crossed his arms, rolling back his shoulders and awaited Zaethan’s admission of defeat.

Zaethan lowered his head, inwardly chafing at the gesture. “Uni zà, Fath—Commander Zà.”

He held his breath until the sound of his father’s boots could no longer be heard, treading into the distance. Then Zaethan spun and threw open his apartment door, causing the walls to shake. Locking himself inside, he screamed until his throat became hoarse and collapsed against the wooden entrance, burying his head between his palms.

Kwihila rapiki mu Jwona.

Victory did write over fate. And so, as his rival Wekesa, the bastard fate writer, had erased him, Zaethan vowed to erase the witch from Boreal.

FIFTEEN

Luscia

   An arrow soared past Luscia’s shoulder, nearly enlisting a collection of blonde hairs in its lethal pursuit.

She twisted in the saddle to see that the target was an average-sized buck grazing among the farthest trees in the distance. Assessing the trajectory of Zaethan Kasim’s arrow and the angle at which it sailed, Luscia abandoned her long-awaited discourse with a certain Orynthian prince and kicked the mare into a run.

The savage whooping and howling of Kasim and his warriors died when they realized she’d dashed to greet their conquest, though she hardly cared. A Darakaian wouldn’t see what she did and, likely, wouldn’t be too concerned if he could. Once in the animal’s vicinity, Luscia slowed her horse, but did not wait for the mare to halt. Seamlessly, she slid from the saddle and sprinted the rest of the way on foot.

Lying on the forest floor, the buck struggled to breathe. It was as she’d anticipated. Kasim’s aim had been too low to strike the skull and yet too high to plunge the heart or liver. She dropped to the earth and cradled the deer’s head in her lap, soothing him with Boreali hymns. With one hand she stroked the frightened animal, while the other reached beneath her surcoat and gripped her consort dagger, Ferocity.

“Tadöm, Ana’Brödre. Tredea’Aurynth,” she whispered tenderly in the buck’s ear. Her mother’s blade caressed the hairs of his neck and ended his suffering.