“I know, from experience, that you never tell the truth.”

Sayuri prowled toward him, as if another person suddenly occupied her skin. Warm breath puffed against his chin when she leaned in, coaxing, “I told you there would come a day when you and I would need each other, Zaethan. We could make a memorable alliance in this game she’s playing. Very memorable.”

He felt her nails skim the underside of his jacket when she reached around and dragged him against her. Zaethan suppressed a smirk and let his lips brush her ear.

“Dmitri chose a ‘putrid whore’ over you, Sayuri. Why would I want even less?”

Shoving her aside, he straightened his sleeves and headed for the war room, her petty scream echoing at his back.

It was unclear what drove Zaethan to seek out Orynthia’s notorious war room, except his longing for an empty space, his desire to breathe, or perhaps its library of maps.

He rebound his dreaded coils as he marched through the palace. There were too many moving pieces on the proverbial board. Between the cross-caste killings, Dmitri’s sudden need for a wife, and Sayuri’s near descent into madness, Zaethan needed to clear his head before his fists found a simpler solution. With the openness of the plains out of reach, the vacant war room would have to do.

When Zaethan arrived at the ornate entry, he reached for the byrnnzite handle, then wavered. Masculine chatter trickled through the crack between the twin doors, though to his knowledge, no military discussions were planned for that morning. Confused and intrigued, he pressed an ear against the fissure.

“…nearly ready, coming to eighty warships…”

“… impressive, Lateef. Our navy will nearly double that of Razôuel.”

“My navy, Tetsu. Don’t forget where we stand, you and I...”

“…vessels may belong to you, Nyack, but they’re berthed in my waters.”

Pulling back marginally, Zaethan scratched the newly grown scruff at his jaw. The king’s contract with Pilar was for forty vessels, not eighty. He’d sat at the table, in that very same war room, when the agreement was signed.

If Zaethan’s father, both Haidren and Commander of Orynthia’s armies, had negotiated a secondary contract with Tetsu Naborū, it was a deal between Haidrens outside the crown’s awareness. Dmitri’s father was many things, but proficient in military dealings was not one of them. It was entirely possible the king would overlook additional warships stationed in Pilar, but the greater question was why the naval expansion had been ordered in the first place.

“…prydes will handle that, when the time comes.”

“You speak as if you hold authority, little Alpha, whilst being no one with nothing to your name…keep your pet in line, Nyack, or put him outside.”

Zaethan crammed his ear against the door again, wishing not for the first time that his hearing was cursed like the y’siti. Whatever bargain had been arranged between Tetsu Naborū, General Lateef, and his father, it affected the prydes. Zaethan’s prydes.

Except it wasn’t Zaethan at his father’s side in the war room. It was Wekesa.

“…place in Bastiion secured. Get used to it.”

“What about that son of yours, Nyack? He’s your al’Haidren. Will that not spark trouble for…”

The tenor of a younger man snickered, dampening Naborū’s inquiry and his father’s reply.

“…never worry yourself with insignificant details, Tetsu.”

Breathless, Zaethan stood mute in the empty hall, unable to move.

Like a satchel of stones, his stomach plummeted to his feet, numbing his toes. He knew he’d become a disappointment to his father. A reminder of his mother’s death; an ever-present barb in an unhealed wound. But at the very least, pain ensured his significance. Without that pain, Zaethan wasn’t sure if there was anything left between them.

In a rush, he rolled his body to the side when a click of the handle signaled their exit. As the doors pushed open, Zaethan sucked in air to flatten himself between the decorated slab and the cold stones at his back. Watching them through a thin crevice, they concluded their discussion.

“…your men. Order them to be on watch. I don’t want any interference, yeye qondai?” their commander instructed Wekesa as the pair followed General Lateef to the end of the corridor. Even from the back, Zaethan could tell Wekesa had begun dressing in the finest Unitarian garb the Bazaar had to offer. From the fine wax coating his braids to the virgin leather of his boots, he’d thoroughly transitioned to life in Bastiion, and the bastard was enjoying it.

“Uni zà, Commander.” Wekesa struck his chest eagerly. “I will see it done.”

“Uni, that you will.”

Unable to look away, Zaethan’s jaw slackened when his father lifted an arm, cabled in scars and muscle, and patted Wekesa on the back—a gesture Zaethan had never once experienced at his father’s hand.

Together rounding the turnoff, they were gone.

After a few moments, Zaethan shoved the door off himself and struck the bronze-plated wood with force. Knuckles throbbing, the door flew back on its ancient hinges, threatening to bust from the framing.

“One so insignificant should be quiet.”

Zaethan spun in place. Drowning under the silvery swell of his shoto robes, the reedy and jaundiced Haidren to Pilar waited patiently beside the archway. The tail of his pointed beard rotated like the hand of a compass when his head angled eerily, and he fixed his yellowing eyes intently on Zaethan.

“Just looking for my father. Jolly fellow.” Zaethan stretched out his shoulders, resisting the inexplicable urge to itch his exposed skin all at once. “Seen him?”

Tetsu Naborū’s lips quirked at the sides before his head propped upright again. Zaethan had never taken to the man, and this sort of kakk was a perfect example why not.

“I have seen many things and foresee many things to come, young Kasim.” Naborū waltzed closer, accompanied by the reek of sour pipe marrow. “I foresee that an insignificance should be quiet. It doesn’t think…” He touched his metal nail-piece to his temple. “It doesn’t speak…” The tip dragged to his thin lips. “…unless his master ordains it. So, run along, young Kasim—run to your master and heel.” He dropped his claw to his thigh and patted it, like one ordering a hound.

“Treat a man like a dog, Lord Haidren,” Zaethan folded his arms stiffly and stepped back, “and eventually, he’ll bite like one.”

Refusing to lower his gaze until he put his back to Sauryi’s uncle, Zaethan strolled to the turnoff, admittedly a bit faster than he’d intended.