Luscia swallowed, her throat dry. She watched the tips of her boots advance across the stonework beneath her skirts. “I acted within my rights, Marek.”

“Just because we have the right to do something doesn’t always mean we should. A conversation would have been nice.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his jaw clench bitterly. “I’m not asking to give you permission, Lusica. I’m asking to offer you counsel.”

Pressure filled her sinuses, suddenly overcome with worry and embarrassment. If she’d endangered Mila in an attempt to protect her…Luscia didn’t know how to begin fixing such a misstep.

Again.

“Callister,” she called, slowing at the landing. “Wait for us ahead. I need a moment with the captaen.”

The page blinked a couple times and continued, stopping short of their next turn, where he fidgeted in place. Luscia pulled Marek behind the nearest marble column and leveled with him.

“Should I send someone after them? Declan, perhaps?” She stared into his stern face until they locked eyes. She found sadness beneath their beryl and teal tones. “She’s not safe here. It’s this place, Marek—you don’t understand. I just…I need her to be safe. Both of them.”

Marek palmed his face. The shade of his stubble rivaled his crimson hair as it’d gone unshaven since he’d learned of her nightly departures. “They aren’t clear of danger yet, but Böwen earned his place beside you.” He raised his arm as if to comfort her, but let it drop and glanced away. “You can trust his instincts—just not everyone else’s.”

She reached out and grazed his chin with her fingertips, tempting it toward her. His stance froze, and his lips parted in surprise.

“Meh fyreon, Ana’Brödre.” Luscia kept her hand against the roughness of his cheek. “I am truly sorry, and…I will try to do better.”

“Tadöm. This thing between you and I—” Marek’s response trailed off as someone cleared their throat awkwardly.

Callister’s head popped around the column. “Lady al’Haidren, please. The prince awaits.” He shuffled aside, wary of the Najjan’s distaste for intrusion.

Luscia smiled gingerly and skirted between them, rescuing the adolescent page from Marek’s intimidation as he readjusted the sheath at his hip.

As the sun began to set, they entered a part of the palace foreign to Luscia. Through a series of ornate gates, walls of byrnnzite emerged to form a sort of temple, open to the elements. A dome of the same material covered a large dais, upheld by a series of statues, their figures undefined though no less imposing. At their feet, a healthy fire sparkled in individual altars encircled by plants, goods, and precious stones.

“You’ll need to remain here, sir.” Callister flinched slightly when the captaen leveled his glare at the page and growled under his breath.

“It’s fine, Captaen.” Luscia laced her fingers together and stepped beside the page. “I will meet with the prince while you and Aksel wait on the steps. You may go, Callister.”

Without further delay, the prince’s page scurried down the steps and back the way they’d come. With a nod to Marek, Luscia entered the odd structure. In front of the farthest statue, the prince sat on a stool in front of the largest altar. An empty stool waited beside him, his walking cane resting between the two.

“A bit humid for fires this time of year, Your Highness,” she remarked as she took up residence on the unoccupied stool.

Dmitri chuckled. Firelight danced over his olive cheeks as he toyed with a carving in his grasp. “I’m told the Fates don’t care much for the weather, and we must appease them regardless.”

“With flame?” Luscia wasn’t familiar with the fluidity of the Unitarian faith, much less the rest of the Houses.

“Actually, it’s the burning, I think.” Dmitri leaned over his knees, his richly embroidered vest crinkling with the movement. “The Fates prefer destruction to newness, so the burning keeps their lust at bay. That’s what the priestesses claim, at least.” He casually gestured to the women weaving incense around the temple, at an obvious distance from the prince. “I despise the smell of it. Why can’t they ever smudge roses?”

“Do your Fates have an objection to roses?”

The prince set his chin on a fist quietly. Angling his head, he replied, “You know, I’ve never thought to ask. I’ll burn them a bushel next time.” Sitting upright, he murmured conspiringly, “But not the Hildureans. Those took quite a lot of work on my part.”

Luscia grinned and pulled his vials from a pouch sewn into her skirt—Mila’s handiwork.

“You’re quiet this evening,” he observed, pocketing the vials discreetly. “I now realize it might’ve been offensive to ask you to meet in this place. I hardly come myself, but when I learned the princess was nearing the city, I thought it best to, well…” Dmitri shrugged. “Just in case.”

Rigidly, he lifted himself off the stool and tossed the wooden trinket into the flames. Some inner pain tightened his mouth as he returned to the modest seat.

Luscia considered the prominent idol rising from the altar. “Your Fates are fickle.”

“Is your High One not?”

“Niit, not characteristically.” She shook her head and studied his totem turning to ash. He’d etched such detail into its creation.

“Interesting,” Dmitri commented, chucking a piece of lint into the fire. “Zaeth’s people believe in what they call Jwona rapiki—Fate writers. They propose,” he continued, picking another collection of fibers off his vest, “that the rarest of men can ‘write over’ the will of the Fates. Do you believe the same? Or are we all just subjects to destiny?”

Luscia laughed sourly. “I pray my actions are not that finite. How destructive it would be to hold power outside Aniell’s will.”

“So, you are a prisoner to destiny, as we are to the Fates?”

“No. Niit, I’m a…partner. To something greater.” Luscia brushed the tip of the solrahs in her septum. “I merely hope to be a good one, and not a disappointment.”

Dmitri pivoted on the edge of his stool, facing her. “Is that a regular concern of yours, Lady Boreal?”

She hesitated, wondering how candid she ought to be with him. Dmitri often made it second nature to forget his birthright in conversation.

“My men hardly look at me anymore. Each time I attempt heroics, I somehow make it worse.” Lusica resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder at the red-headed captaen on the steps.

“I can empathize with the feeling.” The prince sighed knowingly and smirked. “That’s the riddle of heroism, isn’t it? It is measured less by success, than it is our likeliness to fail.” His hand gently cupped her shoulder, avoiding her skin. An intentional awareness, she recognized, for her behalf. “They forgive us eventually, Lusica. It’s in the eyes.”