Flourette’s eyes jumped to the Najjani captaen, appraising his form. A coquettish grin appeared, and she batted her lashes excessively. Suddenly enraged, Luscia wrenched her hands out of Flourette’s and gripped Marek’s forearm. A menacing sound rattled from the back of her throat as she stepped around the Hastings siblings, jerking the captaen with her.

Behind her, Luscia heard Flourette gasp. “Ira! Did she just growl at me?”

“Yes. Yes, I think she did,” Ira answered approvingly.

After another series of rapid turns, Luscia spotted the alcove to the left. Detecting no further pests in the corridor, she reeled Marek into the shadows, eager to move into action.

“By Aurynth, Ana’Sere!”

Luscia advanced, pinning Marek against the stone. “The luxiron—where is it?”

“You saw.” His lips tensed. “It was confiscated.”

“Marek…” Luscia whispered, shaking her head. She propped her leg on the molding, pressing against his own. Her fingers dropped to hike back the fabric of her surcoat where it split along her thigh. “You and I both know that was not all we carried with us into Bastiion.” Much like their luxsmiths, Boreali woodcrafters were just as skillful in their expertise, proven by the trunks that Bastiion’s own sentry had delivered to her apartments. Namely, the secret compartments built into ever single one of them. Flashing the hilt of Ferocity, she continued, “I’ve learned there are training spaces on the floor above. I think it’s time we christened one.”

Luscia saw the muscles of his jaw flex as he peered down at her, registering their rare proximity. She heard his breathing shift to a measured tempo. With each inhale, the plaited leather across his chest brushed her breasts before retreating with the next exhale.

“Wem.” Marek swallowed and dropped his eyes to where they touched. “I will gather the men and meet you in thirty minutes.” Swiftly, his gaze darted back to meet hers. “What calls to you?”

Luscia smiled with all her teeth.

“Bring me the wraiths.”

SIXTEEN

Zaethan

   Zaethan used a damp woven cloth to scrub the dried blood from his fingers as he walked, welcoming the abrasiveness of the rough material. It was fitting.

His beta kept pace with him on the way to his apartments. Soured proof of today’s hunt clung to his outer tunic, and though Zaethan tried to listen attentively as Kumo briefed him on a recent assignment, his eagerness to wash was distracting. He’d not claimed the title of Alpha Zà by having a weak stomach, but this blood was different. Y’siti hands had defiled that buck, and now its corrupted blood coated Zaethan’s flesh, taunting him.

“…Dhalili spotted Wekesa’s pryde passing through the southern gate this morning,” Kumo reported with a frown, as neither man was fond of Zaethan’s rival. “She didn’t enter the city herself—just sent word through Jabari. I told her to wait for your instructions near the waypoint.”

Zaethan halted in the middle of the corridor.

“What?” He blinked, confused. “Doru, stop…the commander mentioned the transition of authority over our investigation just yesterday. Wekesa’s outfit is supposed to be stationed days away,” Zaethan said suspiciously, shaking his head. “Dhalili saw this? Were they his warriors, or did she physically see him at the lead?”

Zaethan eyed his beta, anticipating an unfavorable answer. Dhalili Pàdomà was his best scout, and her word was typically more than reliable. Though his father had forced him to send the larger portion of his pryde to the border of Hagarh, Zaethan Kasim was still Alpha Zà of the Darakaian militia, and a boarded alpha required a pair of roaming eyes to shield his position from aspiring Jwona rapiki—Fate writers—like Wekesa. Apparently, even a nameless bastard could rise in the commander’s favor over his own blood.

Birdlike and light as feather, Dhalili served as his eyes and ears throughout the plains, adept at both speed and discretion. Her slight form, similar to that of an adolescent boy, allowed her to adapt like a chameleon in every setting, become an unsuspecting resource outside his father’s scope.

Unfortunately, her talents would not change the truth of his current predicament.

“He is here, Ahoté. Dhalili recognized Wekesa’s face by that ugly scar you gave him, yeah?” Kumo added wickedly.

Zaethan squeezed the cloth in his fist until it bled onto the mosaic floor. This meant his father had called Wekesa to Bastiion long before their conversation outside Zaethan’s quarters, less than a day ago. Enlisting Wekesa must have been his intent from the first mention of the Boreali cross-caste attacks.

“Shtàka,” Zaethan snarled. “Where is he now?”

“At the docks.” Kumo blew out a breath and cracked his knuckles. “Close to dawn, Unitarian sentries found a body floating in the Drifting Bazaar. Same kakk, corpse drained. They’re down there inspecting it now.”

Zaethan’s fist met the wall, causing more damage to his already splitting skin than to the ancient rock. Dust particles rained from the ceiling at the impact. Scowling, he wrapped the fresh wound in the woven fabric before he made it worse.

“Zahra paid off the guards outside Wekesa’s guest suite to relay his comings and goings, at least,” Kumo said, as more dust trickled onto the shoulder of the beta’s belted tunic.

“Shh.” Zaethan brought a finger to his lips.

“Was only a few crupas, the yancy blockhead.” Kumo lowered his voice to whisper and brushed off a third sprinkle of fine powder. “Loyalty runs cheap these days, uni?”

“You’re the blockhead, cousin. Now, shut up!”

Tilting his head back, Zaethan watched increments of dust and soot repeatedly escape creases in the limestone wall. Keeping an index finger at his lips to signal silence, he rested an open palm against the cool rock. Routine vibrations greeted his skin, like a muffled heartbeat from the opposite side.

“Kumo,” he ordered, pivoting to his beta without breaking contact with the stone. “Tell Dhalili to keep watch over the gates and inform me of any more visitors. I want Zahra on top of Wekesa’s operation within the city, specifically the palace. She is to report both morning and night.”

“Ah, yeah…” Kumo paused, blinking at Zaethan’s erratic fondling of the walls. “And I, Alpha Zà?”

“Stay near Dmitri until I relieve you.”

“Uni zà.” The beta lowered his chin and struck his chest, then hesitantly turned to leave. “Shàlà’maiamo.”

Zaethan wandered along the corridor, dragging his open palm against the stones as the slight tremors grew stronger. Beating twice, a pause, then twice again, his initial image of a heartbeat suddenly became unsettling. Originally reserved for the local military, Darakai had little need for this wing ever since Dmitri’s father secured treaties with neighboring kingdoms, leaving the rooms vacant. Spinning off the main walkway, he took the next left down a narrow, less frequented passage. The pulses led Zaethan through another deserted hall, or so he thought. About to change course, he noticed the outline of a man standing in the shadows, near the door of a forgotten training chamber.