Unmoving, Zaethan cocked his head at the weapon, noticing flakes of crimson along its tail. Uneasiness stiffened his posture. The witch carried a whip, while he only had two sticks.

“Ano zà. Not until you tell me what that’s for.”

“Incentive,” she answered, suppressing a grin. “Now come along and stop pouting.”

Her chin lifted defiantly, passing him across the mat, as if she were his equal in height. In reality, she barely stood taller than his scout, Dhalili, who frequently and convincingly impersonated children while gathering intel. The y’siti unraveled the whip, sending its length tumbling to the ground, uncoiling around her feet. Like his, they were naked.

“Crescent wraiths require agility as well as balance. Move too slow, and their length becomes a hindrance. Moving fluid like water…” She furled the whip, cracking it on itself. “…the wraiths become a sphere of death, both offensive and defensive. One weapon, one being. If you are unable to sustain their momentum, the victim is you, instead of your intended.”

Zaethan repositioned the curved rods, raising them between his gut and the witch. “You’re not using that on me.”

The corners of her lifeless lips flicked upward as she tenderly slid the whip through her open palm. “My own Captaen Bailefore used this same feidierdanns during my training, on the Isle of Viridis. These bloodstains are proof of his effectiveness.” She tilted her neck, scanning him up and down. Shrugging, she sighed, “On a Darakaian, it’s unlikely to be worth the time. Few can stomach it.”

He knew the y’siti was baiting him. She’d become rather good at it, too. But based on the skill with which she’d wielded the wraiths alongside her captaen two weeks ago, he also knew she was telling the truth.

Flexing his shoulders, he hoisted the rods in the air and gritted his teeth.

Her unnatural eyes twinkled with excitement. “Start spinning.”

Several hours later, at another one of Dmitri’s useless Quadrennal meetings, Zaethan watched the y’siti crane her ghostly neck from across the historic pentagonal table.

How he wanted to strangle it.

Zaethan’s toes curled while Ira blathered on. It was miraculous that Gregor’s son had managed to button his own coat today. The smell of stale ale wafted off his lapel. Zaethan readjusted in his chair, trying not to wince at the sharp pain in his feet. He refused to give the y’siti any gratification by hinting at the lingering sting of the shallow cuts she’d made. Irritatingly, the gauze stuffed inside his pigskin boots only made things worse.

Weeks under her peculiar and rather vexing tutelage, she still avoided the crescent wraiths. Consequently, he imagined the y’siti’s death on a regular basis. He might’ve moved to orchestrate it—she’d certainly driven him mad enough—were it not for the subtle enhancements her training had made to his balance and endurance. Shtàka, even his posture. Zaethan would never admit it aloud, but the northern methodology had even started to influence his drills with the palace guard, as well as his exercises with the pryde.

“Lady Boreal, you’ve stayed silent the majority of this debate. I’d love to hear your perspective on the matter,” Dmitri ventured, halting Ira’s passionate insistence that his estate would serve as an optimal venue for royal guests.

Faint shadows pooled beneath the y’siti’s cryptic eyes, adding to her spectral appearance. He’d noticed them earlier that morning, when she’d lashed his feet as he spun in circles like a fool. By the time he ended their session in favor of the sentry drills, he’d left her standing upon a scarlet canvas of his own making.

Damn her to the Depths, Zaethan thought with a scowl, knowing it would only make him faster tomorrow.

“I’m not convinced the best use of this Quadren is to discuss lodging arrangements for the Queen of Razôuel during their official visit.” Disinterested, the witch spoke to the table, but eyed Dmitri intently. “The Zôueli are no strangers to massacre. Perhaps they would enjoy the newest attractions of the Drifting Bazaar.”

“It is a ma-massacre.” Ira hiccupped back into his seat. “The price those greedy merchants demand for the shtàka they tout is criminal!”

“Lady Boreal raises a real concern.” Sayuri brushed her jet hair over a glistening shoulder, baring it for Dmitri as if it were a cup of sweetened cider. “We certainly can’t parade the Zôueli queen along Thoarne Bay, not after it’s been polluted with Boreali scum. It’s an embarrassment, really,” she added haughtily.

Zaethan’s eyes narrowed at Sayuri’s knowledge of the body pulled out of the bay upon Wekesa’s arrival to Bastiion. But then again, what need did the valley pryde have for confidentiality. Court rumor was their ally, anything to bolster confidence in Wekesa’s investigation.

“Lady Pilar, this Quadren mourns the loss of—”

“Another exotic prize, squandered.” Ira threw his courtier hands in the air, cutting off the prince. “My father has yet to replace our northern cross-caste! They were rare to begin with!”

It amazed Zaethan how the witch did not move to strike either of them. His feet stung, the pain a vivid reminder of the violence her petite frame could inflict; the confidence she masked under layers of poise and linsilk. Even he, a Darakaian alpha, was sickened by the recent crimes against the north’s forgotten children. Each an innocent, lost to Bastiion’s cruelty.

Had it been Darakai’s cross-caste floating in the very public waters of the Bazaar, Zaethan would’ve painted each al’Haidren in bruises for their privileged snobbery.

“I will never understand why you trouble yourself, Ira.” Unconcerned, Sayuri trailed three elegant fingers to the base of her throat. “What is your father willing to pay for another? A few silver dromas? His gold?” She slunk leisurely into her seat and peered through thick lashes at the y’siti. “How can any creature be worth an entire auras when it looks just as dead while it’s still alive?”

“Lady Pilar!” Dmitri exclaimed, stunned.

A loud thump sent tremors across the tabletop, rattling the glassware.

At last, the y’siti stood. Her grip tested the limits of the wood table. Although she uttered not a single word, her expression spoke volumes. A flush of rage erupted over her taut cheekbones. Zaethan squinted at her. He could’ve imagined it, but he swore the ends of her hair lifted, floating in a nonexistent breeze.

Her Orallach beast bared his elongated canines at Sayuri. It was insulting that the same animal had slept contently while his mistress whipped Zaethan’s feet just hours prior.

“Today’s session is concluded.” Dmitri gathered his walking cane abruptly. “All but Lady Boreal are dismissed. Please, leave us.”