In an unexpected moment of demarcation, she’d chosen to defy her own House—a feeble attempt to save it from her own folly.

Planting her feet hip-width apart, Luscia rolled her shoulders and initiated a series of standard stretches. A shrill yip pierced her ears. Upside down, she turned to watch the lycran’s enormous body spasm theatrically. Opening his elongated muzzle, he released a pink, textured tongue from behind his serrated fangs. Luscia rolled her eyes when he started panting.

“Niit,” she chastised, and extended her body to the opposite side, savoring the sting of her muscles as they embraced the day. “You are not dying of thirst, you manipulative ogre.”

Aksel’s rump thumped against the mat in a slobbery huff. Byrnnzite monoliths and unfamiliar scents were not the only elements of life in Bastiion the animal was adjusting to. Though in Aksel’s defense, he’d spent the majority of his existence traversing freely, drinking from every body of water he happened upon. Luscia hated instructing Mila to limit his consumption while they resided at court, but she’d hate the inverse exponentially more.

Natural adaption, boosted by the hints of metabolized lumin that bridged the genetic rift between fox and wolf, gave the Orallach hybrid a knack for marking pack territory throughout even the iciest winters. Unfortunately, Aksel refused to accept that it was not wintertime in the highlands, and the last thing Luscia desired was for her apartments to smell like his urine during the heat of a fast-approaching Unitarian summer. Being noxiously pungent, a single accident could take months to dispel from her quarters.

Snaking into her next pose, a distant succession of steps pricked Luscia’s ears. “Aksel, heh’ta.” Recognizing the vexed tempo of the harried pace, she prepared herself for company.

“You are late, Lord Darakai,” Luscia remarked as he eased the aged door open.

By his abrupt muteness, she imagined his southern features warping suspiciously at her foreknowledge. She’d never know if it was an accurate assumption, as she didn’t bother to face him.

“Wicked y’siti ears,” the al’Haidren cursed under his breath. “Damn you all to the Depths.”

“Nii’boleava,” Luscia rotated her stretch to reply. “I’d rather not visit this time of year.”

His uncommonly jade gaze narrowed as he greeted her with an unfriendly snarl. It would be tedious to avoid riling him during their sessions. Even in her limited time at court, Luscia had already discovered that it took very little to arouse the temper of Zaethan Kasim. Keeping him in a calm state of mind would be akin to waltzing through a forest of wind chimes in silence—highly problematic, but not impossible.

“I see your witch flesh survived first light.” He eyed her arms as if they were combustible. Perhaps he thought they were.

“Highly observant of you,” she stated, dodging the barb. “Shall we begin, or would you prefer to spend our time admiring my flair for punctuality in your absence of it?”

His nostrils, the same hue as her morning viridi tea, flared as he constricted his fists. He flicked a glance at the wooden sphere beside her feet. Interesting, what motivated this man.

“Where are the wraiths?” Kasim surveyed the room. “We had a deal, you and I—unless you’ve decided to withdraw your trade? Our king takes his breakfast early and is not difficult to track down.”

“Luxiron will be of no use to you today.” Luscia’s hand shot out to hush a second threat. “I promised to teach you how to wield the crescent wraiths, and I will. But first, we must prepare your undisciplined Darakaian body to do so.”

“The House of Boreal has restricted witchiron for centuries,” the opposing al’Haidren cautioned. “My undisciplined Darakaian patience has run its course.”

“Yet I wonder, in all of those centuries, did Darakai share their prized stallions with the rest of the realm?” Luscia countered.

“Our Unitarian prince rides the twin of my own.”

“Wem, but your House has never shared them with Boreal.”

“And we thought the y’siti would never deign to ask for anything.” His ample upper lip curled back to reveal a row of immaculate, well-bred teeth as the obscenity passed between them.

“The point remains,” she finished, eager to begin his lesson so she might sooner conclude it. “Do not begrudge the House of Boreal for protecting what they hold sacred. Luxiron blades are far more valuable than a horse.”

“Have you ever run an Andwele stallion? I doubt there could be anything more sacred.” A distant ember sparked behind his verdant irises, momentarily melting his hostility.

“Then your definition of ‘sacred’ is rather grounded,” Luscia added dryly. She bent to pick up the wooden globe and repositioned it at the center of the largest mat.

“As much as yours is vain, Lady Boreal,” Kasim muttered, following her lead. “I assume your little ball is supposed to prepare me, then? Did you bring the henchman’s stick, too?”

Impatient hands rested on his narrow hips. The other al’Haidren was dressed strangely that morning. A trim but breathable linen vest freed his arms from constraint, whereas his legs stood swathed in draped, loose fabric that tightened at the waist and ankles. Truthfully, it didn’t matter what attire the man selected, however bizarre, as long as it allowed him to move.

“The bomaerod is not necessary for your kind,” she noted, anchoring the sole of her foot on top of the globe to keep it upright.

“My kind?” Kasim’s features darkened.

“Wem. That is what I said, were you not listening?”

It was not an untrue statement. Naturally, Darakai’s fickle al’Haidren would interpret offense where it didn’t exist. A Najjani bomaerod was not meant for his kind, or any other, as it would deliver him nothing but a migraine, an affliction Luscia was rapidly developing herself.

Kasim’s ears were not attuned to the many layers of sound that drowned the senses of the Boreali. During advanced training, the children of Boreal required a tool like the bomaerod to focus that clamor by honing it to a limited sphere of impact. Each beating reverberation maintained a field of range. It concentrated one’s attention solely on the indicators of activity immediately surrounding them. This aid was particularly essential for Tiergan ears like Luscia’s, which were far more sensitive to the constant, buzzing disharmony than those of her own guard.

Not that Luscia could clarify such things to the likes of Zaethan Kasim.

“This,” she established, rolling the object under her sole, “is called a klödjen. Stand upon it, so we may begin.”

Cords of ebony, braided locs swung to the side when he titled his head and assessed the klödjen. The fissures of his brow doubled the longer he studied it. Approximately the width of his shoulders, the globe was encircled by a lateral pane of viridi wood, crafted just wide enough to seat a man’s boot on either side. Luscia grinned as he scratched the back of his neck before shifting to crack his knuckles.