Picking up his pace, Zaethan’s fingers rustled over the hilt of his kopar as he drew closer. Distant torchlight casted an eerie, inconsistent halo around the intruder’s golden mane of hair.

Y’siti.

“You there!” he yelled, gripping his sickle-sword as the vibrations became more audible. “This is a restricted area! Y’siti are not permitted on Darakaian floors!”

The Ethnicam allowed the Najjani shadowmen to roam in Bastiion for one purpose: protecting their Haidrens to Boreal. The Najjan blocking the old door appeared to be roughly the same age as Zaethan, which meant he must have belonged to Boreal’s al’Haidren. Making it highly probable the younger witch was breaking Unitarian law on the other side.

The thought brought a sneer to Zaethan’s lips.

“Open this door immediately,” he commanded her man.

Up close, Zaethan watched the shadowman sigh, seeming fully at ease. His stance was immobile. Only blue-green eyes shifted to acknowledge that anyone had spoken at all.

“By refusing to open this door, a chamber under the jurisdiction of the Darakaian military, you condemn your y’siti al’Haidren to more of the Ethnicam’s discipline than her actions have already earned her,” Zaethan threatened.

Boreali eyes shot to his and narrowed as the shadowman considered the warning. Just when it seemed the man would not yield, he warily cracked open the door and allowed Zaethan to pass through.

He’d not stepped into one of these rooms in years. Nor was there evidence to support another body had either, before today at least. The rhythmic beating boomed louder once he was inside the octagonal space. Tattered mats and filthy equipment couldn’t damper the sound when clashes of metal accompanied the ruckus.

For a moment, Zaethan couldn’t speak. The criminal display before him was too rare to expel—yet. Gaping, he watched the y’siti wielding their coveted weaponry, moving as if they carried mere cutlery instead of the most magnificent blades in the realm.

Crescent wraiths.

Due to the ban on witchiron, no Orynthian of any House, including Darakai, had come across the deadly instruments in decades. To see them in action was even more unheard of. Beautifully crafted with captivating intricacy, the shining arcs cut through the air like water and proclaimed gravity a human myth. Held in each hand by a shielded center hilt, the shadowmen battled in rotating offensive maneuvers.

No man warred like the Najjan. Zaethan’s jaw slackened even further when he saw who warred alongside them.

Two shadowmen faced forward, their backs to Zaethan, immersed in the duel. The witch’s ginger henchman carried a strange, vented staff carved from bone that he used to strike the floor repeatedly. The second man stood much taller, whittled from the iciest winters. His snowy fall of hair swung as he clapped in approval.

And in the center, two beings circled each other hungrily.

Between rapid, blurred movements, Zaethan recognized the larger fighter as the al’Haidren’s escort from their hunt. Captaen Bailefore, he’d heard Dmitri call the shadowman. The captaen’s opponent, notably smaller, fought swiftly, evading his strikes. When he missed a fourth time, Zaethan saw the witch smile widely, laughing aloud at Bailefore’s failed attempts.

As to how her evasion was possible, Zaethan couldn’t begin to fathom—for the al’Haidren to Boreal fought blindfolded.

The rhythm of the red-haired shadowman keeping time faltered when he realized they’d acquired an audience. Bailefore’s face shot to Zaethan, causing his footsteps to stumble in their graceful dance. Not perceiving the change in atmosphere, the al’Haidren sprinted off the wall and flung herself at the Boreali captaen, similar to a falcon diving after her prey. Twisting her surprisingly agile body through the air, an arced talon sliced his shoulder on her descent as he spun to the right, barely in time.

She landed in an animalistic crouch, hardly out of breath. Zaethan felt history creep down his spine. He should have killed her six years ago, when she was still a cub. This y’siti moved faster than the captaen of her own Najjani Guard. She used their sorcery to see without her eyes. It’d made her laugh with pleasure.

Zaethan’s dread rapidly shifted to a feeling of triumph. Finally, he had enough evidence to take to Dmitri, to the entire Ethnicam. Boreal’s seat on the Quadren would be no more. Both witches would be banished, along with their shadowmen. Zaethan would restore honor to his birthright, to the name of Kasim. He would singlehandedly dethrone the House of Boreal.

Grinning sardonically, Zaethan brought his hands together and applauded their demonstration.

The witch ripped off the black silk blindfold. Her unnerving eyes widened, but he looked away, avoiding them and noting her choice of attire. Instead of the garb expected of her station, she’d donned humble sparring gear: a collared, sleeveless jerkin tightened at the waist over men’s trousers, emphasizing the curves of her figure. The y’siti’s pale arms showed more muscle than he’d expected—more like his third, Zahra, than a courtier. Most of her ghostly hair was pulled into an efficient knot. His gaze stopped just above the collar of her jerkin, where a taut, withered scar crept toward her earlobe, disfiguring her smooth neck.

The Orynthians believed Boreali skin couldn’t bleed. He was happy to see that was not the case.

“Oh, don’t stop on my behalf,” Zaethan remarked, picking at a hangnail. “It’s a spectacular show. The king will appreciate it, don’t you think?”

The one with locks of fire—Bailefore—pushed through the others, wraiths in hand, and shouted some kakk in witchtongue.

“I wouldn’t suggest that, but your call. Kàchà kocho.” Zaethan shrugged, then folded his arms. “First count, illegal contraband on royal grounds.” He released a finger to count for the y’siti. “Second, lying about said illegal contraband to royal authorities...hm, that’s not so good. Ano.” A second finger joined its neighbor, followed by a third. “Do we want to add number three, assaulting the al’Haidren to Darakai, to the list? I’d think not. Unless you’d all prefer to be sentenced to death, in which case by Owàa, do continue. You have my full support.”

Her men began to argue in Boreali, much to his amusement. It was a moment he intended to savor.

“Lord Darakai,” the sorceress spoke above their disagreement, “my men and I reserve the right to privacy, which you have infringed upon once again. Is this the foundation you want to lay for our diplomatic relationship?”

“I don’t want a relationship with the y’siti,” he spat, earning a snarl from one of the shadowmen. “Nor do any of the others on Dmitri’s Quadren.”

Staring at Zaethan, she murmured under her breath. The shadowmen glanced between each other and back to their mistress.