“Alpha Zà?” Timon asked, looking uneasy.

“Do as I ask, and you’ll be reassigned to a rotation upstairs.” Zaethan pointed to the fresh air above. “Just do it quietly. No questions, no answers. Understood?”

“Yes! Yes, Alpha Zà, Lord al’Haidren. Thank you, sir!”

Zaethan and Kumo headed for the stair, trying not to vomit when they walked past a man defecating himself. Departing the lower dungeon, both eagerly climbed to freedom.

“Any fool could see that skinny husk couldn’t do the damage we’ve seen,” Zaethan mused, “let alone leap between rooftops.”

“Depths, one look at his clothes. I told you the witch mentioned the shine off the killer’s boot that night.” Kumo shoved his fists in his pockets. “Must be a yancy, yeah? Or somebody dressed like one, at least.”

Zaethan paused on a landing between floors, still inside the catacombs. Abruptly, he looked to his beta.

“Wekesa,” Zaethan murmured. “He bought new boots…”

“What do we care about Wekesa’s kakka-shtàka footwear—”

“Wekesa needed a reason to come to the city. A crisis valid enough for the commander to permit his entry into my territory.” Zaethan’s eyes widened as he shook his cousin’s huge shoulders. “But why would Wekesa wait for an opportunity like that when he could create one?”

He let go and backed against the wall of the narrow landing. It was possible, but would Wekesa really go as far as hurting children to achieve his ambition? Could Wekesa sacrifice innocents simply to usurp his own alpha?

“Wekesa doesn’t see them as children,” Zaethan answered aloud. “He calls Boreali cross-castes the ‘vermin of Orynthia.’”

“What are you saying?” Kumo asked carefully.

“There’s only one person benefitting from these killings.” Zaethan became lightheaded as a rock formed in his gut. “The same person capable of executing them.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Luscia

   Luscia licked her forefinger and turned a page of the Zôueli compendium, fully immersed as she researched Bastiion’s guests in preparation for her first solstice at court. Razôuel was said to have been founded by a vast wave of maritime wayfinders, in search of a home in the wake of the Forgotten Wars. It was unsurprising, then, that Razôuel maintained a fortified fleet barring their western border.

Luscia was unsure how that helped their fight against a cannibalistic enemy to the south. She made a note to ask someone later.

“Any word from my aunt, Tallulah?” she asked the maid as Tallulah entered the common room, tray in hand. Luscia wasn’t particularly well-educated on Zôueli affairs and had hoped her aunt might provide some guidance before the westerners arrived.

Tallulah’s lip hugged her overbite apprehensively. “Niit, Lady Luscia. Her lady’s maid relays she’s been summoned by the Peerage again, been in their chamber all morning.” She placed the tray of small bites in front of the chaise and poured Luscia a fresh cup of steaming tea.

The vapor was a calming blend of eüpharsis and drösarra leaf, suggesting Tallulah’s own lingering anxiety. Still shaken from her altercation with Kasim, Luscia had prescribed herself a version of the tea for the past few days. Aside from clan leadership, only her men knew the origin of her ghastly scar, and now, likely the al’Haidren to Darakai. Whatever had motivated him to revert to such despicableness, she’d shown her hand during their exchange. Feeling exposed, in more ways than one, Luscia drew the thin blanket higher and accepted the hot cup from the maid.

“Rul’Aniell…all will be well in time,” Luscia weakly assured the older woman, accepting the tea. “Tadöm, Tallulah.”

“Rul’Aniell.” The maid curtsied, nodding to herself. “Yeh’maelim, Ana’Sere.”

A timid knock came from the doors to the apartments. Wiping her chapped hands against her apron, Tallulah scuttled under the vast dome to greet their visitor. Before she could reach for the handles, Marek entered from a side hall and stopped her, seamlessly taking her place in the snug entry.

“Meh fyreon,” he apologized to the maid before cracking open the door. “What is it?” Luscia overheard him inquire of someone on the other side. “Fine. Stay here.”

Her captaen snatched the piece of parchment in his fist and closed the thin gap to the passageway. Wordlessly, he marched to Luscia’s side and offered it without looking in her direction. They’d barely spoken since Alora’s discovery of Luscia’s nightly departures, and his coldness had worsened after her recent decision to send Mila to Boreal.

Creyvan had not been a supporter of her decision, either. Luscia spied him through her unbound hair, where he peeled an apple in the corner of the room. His typically jovial features had waned into a slack apathy in his twin’s absence. She’d not heard his voice in days.

Breaking the prince’s seal, Luscia unfolded the note, scanning it quickly.

Luscia,

The Zôueli are reported to arrive by nightfall.

Five vials would be prudent.

Yours,

Dmitri

Crinkling the parchment, she rose from the chaise and immediately sought her bedroom. Luscia caressed the pad of her forefinger, the same that moments prior had embraced Zôueli history. Heaving a sigh, she gripped the skeleton key hanging between her breasts and sought her chambers.

They walked in silence, with only the clack of Aksel’s claws to break the hollow quiet.

“This is worse than a lecture,” she muttered, draping her arm to skim the lycran’s back. “Just say what you wish, Marek.”

Passing another column, Marek let the moment hang before he complied sharply. “You sent them without any clearance. Böwen is a critical member of this unit.”

“Your Najjan report to me before they report to you,” she snapped back, keeping her voice below a whisper, “and are therefore at my disposal.”

His stride stiffened in step with hers as he bent to her height. “Escorting a stray cross-caste through the Valley of Fahime is not what the elders had in mind when choosing the finest Najjan for your disposal.”

“Mila is not a stray!” Luscia tried not to shout. “How dare you question my intent—”

His eyes flashed ahead to Callister as he led them to the main floor. “There are elements of that journey which you are unaware of, Ana’Sere.” Marek maintained a lower volume to avoid the page’s ears. “Things even Böwen does not know—things he ought to have known before traveling with a woman and two unascended children.”