Luscia’s legs threatened to buckle under her, as if she’d been kicked in the kidneys. It wasn’t until Alora reached the doorway that Luscia realized she’d stopped breathing.

“Se’lah Auryth, Luscia. Until the shores of Aurynth, I will endeavor to make you see.”

Luscia counted her breaths in her aunt’s absence, weighted by an arduous merger of anger and shame. Staring at her half-laced boots, she heard the twins leave; listened to the abrupt pause when Böwen turned to say something, but changed his mind. Noxolo whispered to Declan, too low even for her ears, and then he exited after the twins.

Luscia lifted her chin when the stool raked against the floor and Marek rose. She tried to offer an explanation, but nothing came.

“How—” Marek shook his head, huffed, and twisted the hem of his jacket between his long fingers. He must have gone out in search of her. “How could you?”

It was an accusation, not a question. Her chest compressed as he too departed.

Tears promised to spill over, but Luscia refused them. She’d already demonstrated enough weakness.

“Ana’Sere?” Declan held the door ajar, the last to leave. Light from his candle wavered over the braided, ginger hairs at his chin. “Just give us the night. We took a mighty tongue-lashing, the captaen more than anyone. Boleava, please. Give us one night to lick our wounds, Ana’Sere, and it will be forgotten in the morning.”

“Mey fyreon, Ana’Brödre.” She bowed her head, pressing her eyes shut. “It seems I don’t deserve you.”

Before the door latched, a somber chuckle slid over his shoulder. “We’ve learned many things tonight, Ana’Sere, but that was not one of them.”

Luscia collapsed onto her bed. Her fingertips sought the solrahs through her septum for comfort, but the luxiron’s unnatural warmth did nothing to soothe her. Moments later, those same fingertips dropped to the uneven tissue of her neck, where layers of fabric hid its legacy.

No Darakaian brand, no Unitarian slur, could ever compete with something so timeless it chased her like a ghost.

Failure.

TWENTY-FIVE

Zaethan

   Zaethan tapped the steel point of his quill pen against the blank parchment before him, rebelliously inclined to keep it that way. Dmitri had requested they each bring tools for note-taking, insisting there was a need. Even since their childhood education, Dmitri had loved writing down his thoughts, almost as much as he loved Uriel pie.

Zaethan hated Uriel pie.

Along with flamboyant pens.

“The gall, making us wait on her like this.” A swallow of citrus and sea salt caused him to cough when Sayuri leaned over the table to pour herself a generous flute of Galina wine. “Really, who does the y’siti think she is—the ghost of queens past?”

“That’s a bit rich,” Ira propped his chair on its back legs and blew a kiss, “coming from you, dear.”

“I’m sure she has good reason.” The prince licked his forefinger and turned the page of the ledger before him, otherwise engrossed.

Fleeting and foxlike, Sayuri’s eyes rolled under her lashes. Despite the al’Haidren’s frequent dramatics, Zaethan found himself agreeing with her. He’d waited nearly an hour for the y’siti to show at the abandoned training room that morning. She never did. The witch had been dancing around their agreement for weeks by withholding the wraiths, but today had elected for complete absence.

There was a reason the others in the Ethnicam did not seek bargains with the Boreali: they never stuck. Zaethan stifled a groan and fidgeted in his seat. He’d been stupid to test history in the first place.

“…as if I couldn’t possibly have other social engagements today. Dozens of invitations, callers, and don’t get me started on the appointments—” Sayuri ceased admiring her nails when the double doors creaked and parted slightly.

A sliver of the y’siti’s profile could be seen through the narrow opening. She paused in the doorway, appearing to argue with someone. A red-headed Najjan—the captaen of her guard, Zaethan recognized—stepped closer, backlit from the hall. Their lips jumped furiously, but emitted no sound. It was a characteristic of witch-tongue Zaethan had begun to notice.

When the Najjan disappeared, Sayuri tracked the witch like an archer as she seemed to float toward her seat. Her stride was fluid, strange in its unfamiliar grace, though each step was notably more reserved than her arrogance typically warranted. The bushy tail of her war-tainted crossbreed dusted the floor as he padded inches behind her, almost imitating his alpha.

“Finally decided to grace us with your undead presence?”

“Lady Pilar,” Dmitri cautioned.

“Well, I for one am pleased to see you, my dove.” Ira, slightly unbalanced, leapt to pull out her chair. “Life is just bl-bleak without your wintery radiance.”

“Rich, indeed,” Sayuri muttered flippantly.

“Per—” Ira hiccupped. “—haps, one day, I can undertake the duties of this chair.” Ira attempted to wink, his eye twitching, as he sloppily slid back into his seat.

The quill snapped under Zaethan’s thumb. “I’m going to find better things to do with this pen, Ira, if you don’t lock it up.”

“Meh fyreon. Forgive me, Your Highness, I—”

“Dmitri,” the prince reminded her.

“—overslept,” she finished, barely glancing toward the head of the table. The severe angles of her face were fully exposed today, as she’d donned no trace of kohl and contained her hair in an uncharacteristically tight braid.

Without her Najjani mask, the y’siti looked emotionless. Zaethan was startled to realize how much she resembled her aunt.

“Completely understandable, Lady Boreal.” Dmitri perched forward and dropped his face to find hers, offering a smile. “You and I know more than most how difficult it is for sleep to find us.”

A shrill noise escaped Sayuri’s painted lips, as Ira started to snicker into his cup. Her glare seared an invisible pattern into the northern al’Haidren. Perhaps Zaethan hadn’t been the only one to hear of their midnight strolls. His pryde was discreet, not prone to common gossip. Unitarian sentries, on the other hand…

To Zaethan’s surprise, the y’siti turned to him. “How was your evening, Lord Darakai?”

Ironically, had she bothered to come to training, they could have discussed it. Zaethan would have relayed how he and Takoda almost lost the boy at one point from all the blood loss, or how his Unitarian mother had wailed through the night at the foot of his makeshift sling bed. And, more specifically, the distrust his Boreali father demonstrated after Zaethan mentioned the northern herbs and later pressed him for the origin of that knowledge before they’d departed the merchant’s home.