Zaethan stood with the others, but had no intention of leaving them alone.

“She’s rabid, Ira,” Sayuri declared as the al’Haidren to Bastiion opened the door for them to exit. “Absolutely rabid!”

Dmitri looked expectantly to Zaethan. In a wordless exchange, Zaethan’s gaze bounced to the upset y’siti and back to his charge. There was danger in isolation, and the prince knew it. Nevertheless, Dmitri’s eyelids fell before he tilted his chin toward the corridor, a clear reinforcement of his earlier dismissal. Bridled into obedience, Zaethan downed the remainder of his bwoloa, slammed the glass onto the tabletop, and left Orynthia’s foolish prince to learn for himself.

Entering the lofty, sweeping hall outside the Quadrennal chambers, Zaethan kneaded the back of his neck as he turned eastward, toward his office in the guard house. Suddenly, his arm dropped rigidly to his side. Near the wall of arched windows, brightly lit by the midday sun, General Lateef nodded in conversation with a braided man. While the alpha’s face wasn’t in view, the wicked scar on the shaved side of his skull was enough to identify his rival. Zaethan’s teeth ground against each other.

Wekesa.

Zaethan approached them, making an effort to relax his shoulders. “Owàamo, General.”

“Ah, owàamo,” General Lateef muttered with a gruff nod. “Alpha Wekesa and I were waiting for your little cub party to disband. The commander asked that we relay your orders before joining him to evaluate Wekesa’s pryde and their assignment in the Proper.”

The general gestured at the third man, who reclined smugly against the nearest column.

Zaethan took his time assessing his rival, savoring the intimate view of the scar he’d carved into Wekesa’s head during their final challenge. It had not healed well, but in an unseemly patchwork of discolored flesh. Unblinkingly, Zaethan met Wekesa’s coal eyes. They were usually ravenous, each poisoned with an unquenchable anger. Never changing, even when they were cubs in child’s play. But today, a spark of victory had settled in his dark irises; a spark Zaethan needed to extinguish before it grew into a wildfire.

“Zaethan,” Wekesa said in place of an appropriate greeting, jutting his long chin higher.

Taking two steps forward, Zaethan squared his shoulders and brought his chest an inch away from the subordinate alpha.

“Again,” Zaethan coolly suggested.

“Owàamo,” Wekesa bit out, though his line of sight did not waver, “Alpha Zà.”

Zaethan gave him a lazy grin before pivoting back to Lateef. “What orders do you bring me, General?”

“Our commander has arranged the delivery of certain…southern indulgences…for the king’s private enjoyment. Tonight’s shipment requires a stand-in,” the general explained. “You are to arrive at The Veiled Lady at quarter past midnight and retrieve the next shipment from Salma Nabhu. She is expecting a proxy. Order the ‘Crown Special’ at the tavern bar. You will be escorted to her office. Take the shipment and bring it to a Darakaian cross-caste named Druska, in the kitchens. He will see it’s delivered to the king’s chambers.”

Zaethan swallowed the bitterness foaming in his mouth. Wekesa watched his features as they contorted, obviously anticipating Zaethan’s poor reaction to the assignment. It was an errand. His father had sent Zaethan’s greatest rival to deploy him on a smuggler run.

“Shamàli, General, might I volunteer one of my pryde or a less recognizable party?” He phrased the request carefully, so as not to question his superior.

“Ano zà.” Lateef jerked his head, leaving no room to refute. “Your father’s orders were very specific. He also tasked me to relay that, had you not been late the past week of morning drills, he wouldn’t have to assign you during the night. Like yourself, he says, smugglers are not known for their punctuality.”

Zaethan heard a snicker from behind and shifted to see an arrogant smirk pulling Wekesa’s rough skin into a series of creases. He made no attempt to hide it, for Wekesa didn’t need to anymore. Their commander called him Jwona rapiki, and it would not be long until Wekesa attempted to write over the fate of Zaethan’s victory for the title of Alpha Zà.

Without an unexpected advantage, Wekesa could take it. He could rip it away. Zaethan knew it, as did his rival. It wasn’t overconfidence, it was acknowledgment. Had Wekesa not slipped in the wet earth as it had begun to rain that vicious day of their challenge, the ugly scar he now bore would’ve marked Zaethan as inferior. It had been intended for him until that timely downpour, and neither man was able to forget it.

“Fine,” Zaethan said, then turned to address his rival. “But before I go…Wekesa, starting tonight, five of your pryde will pull double rotation in the Proper. You may report directly to the commander now, Wekesa,” he added darkly, “but your pryde still belongs to me. Their efforts have been futile, so I will give them no relief until this killer is found. And for each new body discovered, another in your pryde will lose sleep. Yeye qondai?”

Wekesa’s wide nostrils flared. “Uni.”

“Again!”

“Uni. Zà. Alpha. Zà.” Emphasizing each syllable, Wekesa sluggishly brought his right fist to his heart and then let it swing limply to his side.

Zaethan’s gaze lingered on Wekesa before remembering the general. “Shàla’maiamo, General. I will see that my father’s task is carried out.”

Striking his chest, he lowered his face to their superior and was just turning to leave when the doors of the Quadrennal chamber slammed into the adjacent wall. The witch released a snarl of frustration as she and the wolx stormed in the opposite direction, ripping a string of metal beads out of her own hair in the process. She looked positively feral, and Zaethan’s jaw clenched at the soreness in his boots.

That y’siti better show her witchiron soon, he thought, or I am going to cut it off her.

Zaethan’s index finger circled the rim of his glass impatiently before he kicked back the contents with a grimace. The bwoloa seared his gut as it made impact. It tasted terrible.

Zaethan hated cheap bwoloa.

“Another,” he barked to the tightlipped barkeep. He slid two copper crupas to the man, who grunted in response.

It was unclear whether the fellow was unable to respond, or simply refused to add to Zaethan’s illuminating conversation as he waited inside The Veiled Lady. After Zaethan ordered the “Crown Special”, the barkeep disappeared for a handful of minutes only to return in utter silence. It’d been an hour since then, and patience was not a prominent quality of Kasim men.

He spun on the stool to resume his watch over the tavern and its evening rabble. Packed with thirsty yancies and tired sentries, Zaethan estimated Salma would be content with her profits tonight. A diverse array of beautiful women swathed in colorful scarves catered to the gambling tables, their laughter and flirtation enticing poor fools into deeper debt. In the darker corners, curtains disguised pockets of pleasure and pathways to the tavern’s darker dealings. Salma Nabhu was a true entrepreneur who understood the value of limiting supply to a sea of demand.