“I did warn you, Bahira, I do love a good game. And—” Dmitri bit the tip of his tongue as he completed his second move, swiping two more marbles. “—I rarely lose.”

His dimple emerged as he smugly boosted off his forearms, bolting upright, thoroughly pleased with himself. His boasting turned a bit sheepish when he glanced at the princess in question, sprawled over the lavish cushions surrounding their game. Bahira’Rasha lifted a brow under a dangling string of jewels, challenging him in return.

Across the multicolored set, Sayuri wound her long, silken hair around her fingers. Tossing the sleek jet strands over her shoulder, the Pilarese al’Haidren slunk forward, angling her lowcut bodice over the playing board.

“Neither do I, Your Highness,” Sayuri simpered, plumping her ruby lips.

Luscia let her lids close, steeling herself. Pilar’s al’Haidren was relentless, even in front of company.

“Thankfully for our sake, you aren’t playing, Lady Pilar.” Dmitri responded awkwardly and picked up a glass of water, accidentally splashing his trousers.

Sayuri shifted closer, producing a dainty handkerchief and dabbed the inside of his thigh. “I never stopped,” she purred.

Gulping, Dmitri let out a shaky laugh and snatched the square of fabric from her, rising with vigor. As he meandered to the edge of the tent, which sheltered their gathering on the spacious lawn, Sayuri’s eyes tapered like a cat, sliding between Luscia and their foreign guest. Sitting back, she brought the goblet to her mouth and smirked over the gilded rim.

Luscia surveyed the princess nervously. It was unclear if, in her assigned role, she ought to condone Sayuri’s behavior or apologize for it. However, her concern was short-lived, for it appeared the Zôueli princess was not fazed in the least. Snapping a grape off its stem, Bahira’Rasha brazenly held the al’Haidren’s stare and popped the Wendyllean fruit in her mouth. The marigold-colored grapes had been harvested from the Hastings’ private vineyard in Arune, and it was a blessing that Bahira’Rasha’s brother preoccupied Ira on the lawn, rather than inside the tent, for he would have thoroughly relished the visual.

“A sweet solstice you have this year,” the princess commented aloofly, seizing another grape. “Your summers are milder than Razôuel. More pleasant, I find.”

As a bead of sweat trickled down her neck, underneath the thin lace collar, Luscia attempted her most believable smile. It was feeble at best. She’d long since decided that a freezing Orallach blizzard was more favorable than the humid, hedged lawn the Unitarians had selected for this picnic. Even if Thoarne Bay were drained until its last drop, it’d be no match for the moisture that suffocated the plains.

“It’s best not to grow accustomed to it here,” Sayuri commented, gently fanning herself. “It could be years before you’ve the chance to return.”

“Tell me again, Lady al’Haidren.” The princess stroked Luscia’s arm lazily, the only indication she was being addressed instead of Sayuri. “Why does your prince need a Quadren if he’s not yet a king? All the chatter from your Houses, it’s so…meaningless, yes?”

Luscia shifted uncomfortably on the tufted pillow when the princess’s fingertips skirted away and returned to her own lap. Even by royalty, she did not like being touched so candidly.

“Our prince aspires to build something new during his reign.” Luscia nodded at Dmitri, who scratched his chin, apparently trying to make sense of Ira’s clumsiness outside the breezy tent. “By engaging his al’Haidrens on a Quadren, albeit prematurely, he can leverage our strengths for the greater unification of the realm.”

The princess’s expression was skeptical beneath the emerald gems strung across her forehead. “And this…” She languidly pointed toward the lawn. “This is the strength?”

Following the angle of her forefinger, encased in stacked bands of rare metals, Luscia frowned as Ira thwacked himself in the eye while drawing his ornamental bow. Then, resituating the excessively feathered fletching against the bowstring, he somehow sliced his hand. Ditching both pieces, the al’Haidren to Bastiion clutched his bloody palm and danced in place. At the sound of his yelping when he stepped on the abandoned arrowhead, his juvenile companion, Bahir’Tozune, ran to Ira’s rescue so it wouldn’t happen twice.

“Strength comes in many forms, Bahira,” Luscia offered weakly.

Gratefully, the princess chuckled and patted Luscia’s hand. “You, I like. You may call me Rasha, as friends do say. And I, to call you…?”

“Luscia.”

Over the gaming table, Sayuri gawked in disbelief. For a woman whose eyes seemed eternally narrowed, it was a sight to see them so enlarged. Luscia wondered how the Pilarese beauty would look were she not so discontented all the time.

“Loo-Shah…” the princess repeated, pronouncing her name as if unrolling a scroll from her tongue. “Loo-Shah of the Boreali highlands. Your people, the northmen, come from the mist, yes?”

“Wem—yes,” Luscia translated, dabbing away the perspiration pooling in the crest of her upper lip. “Though I’m finding there is a different kind of mist here in the lowlands.”

Sayuri reclined on the cushions and ran a nail down her bare, copper-toned arm, kissed by her more accepted lineage. “You see how the Boreali putrefy under our sun, Rasha? It’s dangerous to even invite them to court.”

“Bahira’Rasha,” the princess sternly corrected.

Insulted, Sayuri pouted. Rising off the cushion, she strutted over to Dmitri, who continued to watch Ira from a shaded tent post, likely concerned for the welfare of his Unitarian al’Haidren. Drawing close, Sayuri threw her shoulders back unnaturally, like a pole were wedged into the boning of her corset. Swift and ladylike, she took his arm, holding it snugly.

Feeling a tug on her scalp, Luscia turned to discover the princess playing with a strand of her hair.

“The color is gone?” she questioned inquisitively, and passed it under her jeweled nose, sniffing. “Because the sun is so mighty, or does it grow empty of life?”

Conflicted about whether to recoil or to laugh, Luscia politely slipped her palest locks through Rasha’s grasp. “My brother’s is even lighter.”

The princess beamed, her interest visibly piqued. It was remarkable how Luscia’s kind were despised by her own realm, when the heir to another wished to know everything about them.

“Call your brother to us, yes? Enough of the prancer,” she said, dismissing Ira.

“Regrettably, I cannot,” Luscia said wistfully. “Phalen is not permitted in Bastiion.”

“He…stays in the mist?”

Rasha’s expression suggested she envisioned Phalen to be some woodland nymph among the toadstools, rather than a blade-laden luxiron apprentice. Peering through the wafting tent, Luscia considered Bahir’Tozune as he foraged Ira’s arrows, staked erratically throughout the grass.