Luscia smiled wryly at his insistent tone. “Dmitri…you must expect I wish to discuss the shocking information uncovered yesterday morning. Boreal was already abreast of the deaths in the northern port towns, but not of the cases your al’Haidrens to Bastiion and Darakai seem so familiar with.” She risked a glance in his direction and found him nodding in agreement. “I’d like to request permission for our Najjan to investigate these crimes. As the emerging pattern pertains to my House, Boreal should be involved. We deserve the opportunity to seek justice for our own cross-castes. However, they’ll need full disclosure—if you’ll permit them access through the Unitarian plains to seek it.”

“I agree, Luscia, but my hands are tied,” he said regretfully, fidgeting with the reins in his hands. “My father entrusted the matter to Commander Kasim. Even as crown prince, I hold little influence in military matters.”

“With all due respect, my kinsmen are being hunted, Your Highness. Hunted within this very Proper,” Luscia countered, searching his hazel eyes. “Are you unwilling to even try petitioning your father on Boreal’s behalf?”

“With all due respect, Lady Boreal, those cross-castes are breakaways. Per the Ethnicam’s Accords, they are no longer considered citizens of the House of Boreal.” The prince’s voice steadied and adopted a new, authoritative tone. “I might concur with your sentiments, but the fact remains that these deaths do fall under Unitarian jurisdiction and therefore must be investigated by the military and the prydes. If time does not favor their efforts, then I may eventually have reason to contest. Unfortunately, for now, both you and I are confined by the same Accords in this matter.”

“If you wait to confront the king, more will be sentenced to death by the delay,” she sternly warned, though mindful with whom she spoke. “Darakaians do not care for the Boreali, Your Highness. What is a Boreali cross-caste to them?”

“A cross-caste who is not permitted to reside within your own borders. So, what is a Boreali cross-caste to you, Lady Boreal?” He candidly shifted in his saddle to face her, waiting for an answer.

Yet it was an answer she could not provide him.

Luscia could not allude to what was at stake. Regardless of the crown that would one day grace his head, a higher allegiance required Luscia to tread cautiously. Upon her Ascension, she, too, became oath-sworn to protect the light sheltered within Aksel’s Keep. However much she wished to, Luscia could not speak to Dmitri Korbin Thoarne of the Dönumn Lux. Not yet.

“The Boreali way of life can be…difficult for some cross-castes to embrace, as I’m sure you’ve heard.” She severed eye contact and gazed forward, not liking the direction their conversation had taken. “Our breakaways choose to leave because they do not wish to carry our burden or follow our creed. But this does not mean our House has broken from them. These deaths are a horrific, legitimate assault against Boreali blood, and there’s no amount of litigation that can diminish that fact.”

“My father trusts the House of Darakai to resolve it, and I must follow suit. The cross-castes belong to Bastiion,” Dmitri promptly surmised, closing their debate. “I’d appreciate your support in this, Luscia. As al’Haidren to Boreal, your example will set the tone for how your people are to respond to these attacks.”

Luscia’s lips parted in shock. It seemed the Prince of Orynthia was just like any other Unitarian politician, gathering allegiance with the promise of betterment, but too content to actually challenge anything. She had been foolish to buy into his flowery speeches and late-night conferences. And not only had she fallen victim to Dmitri’s moving words, like a naive little girl, but Luscia had also failed Boreal in her first cause for diplomacy.

Anger simmered beneath her alabaster skin. It melded with the sweat coursing down her back, a gift from the unforgiving sun.

They rode in uneasy silence over the next hour or so, while Luscia reevaluated her argument and the conclusion Dmitri had ultimately offered in exchange. She was furious with them both—the prince for proving to be the embodiment of Bastiion, and herself for not seeing it sooner. Had Alora also suffered such constricting disappointment for the last twenty-five years?

Luscia pressed her mare to keep up with the Darakaians, who beat the trail ahead with fervor. A lagoon of tall grasses danced for miles around their party, a peaceful contradiction to the fanatical rush of riders before her.

She shared their urgency. For once they’d returned to Bastiion’s inner Proper, Luscia intended to have a long overdue conversation with her captaen.

“Might I ask where we’re running off to, Ana’Sere?” Marek questioned between strides, evidently concerned by Luscia’s impatience as she advanced down the corridor.

“Niit!” She whipped around and shushed him. “Not here, Captaen!”

Aware she resembled the very northern zealot Alora had cautioned Luscia against becoming, she hauled the confused captaen along in search of a secluded space, sheer frustration propelling her forward. She recalled a private alcove somewhere along these halls. Luscia had attended Bastiion’s trivial functions, stood poised in the face of their mockery, but the time for passivity was over. Her need could not wait.

“Boleava, Ana’Sere. If you would just explain your distress, then I—”

Hurriedly, Luscia turned at the next bend, but ran into a chest of maroon damask. The impeccable fabric reeked of ladies’ perfume.

“Well, what a treat,” came an inviting tenor. “And here I thought we wouldn’t see each other today. You were in quite a rush to find me, Crumpet—in need of a more experienced escort, are you?” Ira Hastings suggestively arched a tidy brow at her.

Shtàka, Luscia cursed silently and frowned, realizing she had begun to adopt Unitarian slang. She had also assumed she’d escaped his company when the al’Haidren to Bastiion declined to join Dmitri’s hunt that morning, and she didn’t have time for this nonsense.

She looked from Ira, who reclined against the stone wall, to the young courtier beside him, pouting with both hands on her remarkably slender hips.

“Ira, how rude you are!” the courtier scolded, swatting his arm.

“Forgive my manners, Lady Crumpet.” He winked at Luscia. “Allow me to introduce my insufferable sibling, Flourette Hastings. There—satisfied, you festering measle?”

“Hardly.” Flourette rolled her rust-colored eyes and reached for Luscia’s clenched fists. “Ignore Ira, he’s such a twiddleton. But you and I, our acquaintance is so belated! His Highness personally asked me to take you under my wing and share how we do things here in Bastiion.”

“Did he, now?” Luscia felt her nostrils flare.

“Oh, I don’t mind coaching you in a few areas,” the girl assured as she openly studied the hair drooping from Luscia’s braids, blanching slightly when she noticed the blood in it. “Ahem. Besides, friends share many effects with each other…”