“Loo-Shah was speaking of things,” Rasha’s head whipped around, “elsewhere things. Shall we, friend?” She extended her reach around Sayuri’s tiny waist and grabbed Luscia’s wrist, yanking her away from the other two al’Haidrens.

Fleetingly, Luscia worried the House of Pilar might publicly threaten Dmitri’s prospective wife, but Sayuri’s brows merely furrowed into sharp lines as she watched them disappear into the crowd.

“I hear Pilar speak enough in Jol’Nune. They are my neighbors, you know,” Rasha stated under her breath, “and they never quiet.”

“Maji’maia.”

Someone tugged Luscia’s sleeve where it fell off her decorated shoulders. She was surprised to see that it was Kasim easing through the wall of nobles. At his appearance, the princess slowed her advance, seemingly intrigued. He kept pace with them as they headed toward another tray of Unitarian treats.

Dmitri must have ordered Kasim a tailor and a decent grooming, for it was the finest suit he’d sported since her arrival at court. Worn over trim leather pants, his satin jacket appeared to be custom-made. The crest of the short collar shone under the lively lantern light, the depth of indigo rich and radiant. Luscia gave additional credit to the valet responsible for taming his locs into the ample topknot at his crown, save for the few locs that hung tucked behind an ear, encased in copper thread.

Kasim leaned in. “Kumo reported Takoda’s transfer from your quarters. It’s done.”

Up close, Luscia noticed the cut had already begun to heal, enough for a barber to have shaved a tight margin around the base of his scalp, fading upward, where it’d been neatly gathered.

With the slightest angling of her chin, she acknowledged his update, and he backed away, without a word to the princess.

“So pretty, yes?” Rasha bit off a piece of sweet wafer, staring after Kasim as he crossed the hall to Dmitri’s right side.

“Unfortunately,” Luscia grumbled.

“Oh, Lord Zaethan!”

A bushel of taffeta bounced after the Darakaian al’Haidren, who unsurprisingly ignored her shrill cajoling. Flapping a piece of napery in the air, Flourette hastened after him, like someone signaling for help. A few courtiers stepped out of her path as she latched onto Kasim’s jacket.

The princess looked amused. “Who is that, Loo-Shah?”

“That is the Haidren to Bastiion’s daughter, Flourette Hastings. Ira’s…very enthusiastic sister,” Luscia replied, cringing for the girl when Kasim grabbed her lanky fingers, halting their progression toward the cluster atop his head.

“She has an emptiness, yes?” Rasha gesticulated around her forehead as they headed for the platform at the end of the hall, toward the towering byrnnzite antlers affixed to the throne.

“Wem, yes.” Luscia grinned. “I suspect much the same.”

Guests littering the cavernous space leisurely found their way to the long, pristine tables situated around the perimeter. The tabletops, spread with the finest place settings, sparkled under the lanterns as the sun dove into the waters of the horizon. Luscia escorted the princess to Dmitri’s table, positioned lower than the king’s, where Rasha’s mother would dine.

An additional setting had been placed between Dmitri’s seat at the middle and Boreal’s to his left. Two attendants rushed to scoot both Luscia and the princess into their chairs. Serving royalty first, wine was poured for Rasha before the attendant switched to Luscia, failing to meet her eyes. Missing her glass as his hand shook, the man apologized and scuttled away.

“Orynthia is a land full of people puzzles,” the princess mused, squeezing Luscia’s forearm tightly. “But now, let us speak of your prince. Will he do for me, Loo-Shah, or must I pursue another? Tell me of his nature—I must know.”

Luscia regarded the Orynthian prince in question near the base of the platform. He’d propped a polished boot on the first step, still engaged in some lively debate. Luscia considered the question carefully, aware the Zôueli princess would judiciously weigh her response, despite Rasha’s casual and light-hearted demeanor.

“I can testify his patience is unparalleled, that is certain,” she began, thinking on their most recent conversation in the temple. “He holds a great capacity for feeling, more than most rulers.”

“And you believe this is good for your kingdom?” Rasha turned in her chair, resting her chin on the back of her wrist with ease.

“Do you not?” Luscia paused, studying their foreign ally.

“Men should not carry a crown.” She shrugged and tapped her heart. “Too many emotions, they hold. Women are the backbone of a people. They break their body, mar their beauty, for the life. Each swallow great pain, and call it joy. Men, not the same. Great pain makes a great man crumble. This I know, Loo-Shah.”

Luscia thumbed a shining copper spoon on the edge of her setting. Dmitri started up the steps with enthusiasm. His eyes gleamed, seeing they were already seated, and stopped at the other end of the table while Sayuri took her place. Laughing at something she said, his dimple came forward. A warmth filled Luscia’s chest, pleased that her blood, in the mystery of those vials, granted him renewed liveliness for an evening.

“Bahira.” Luscia faced the golden princess. “What you say holds merit. But we are not the owners of suffering, simply allies through it. I promise you, Dmitri Korbin Thoarne is no different. If you deem sorrow a prerequisite for kingship, you will not find the Crown Prince of Orynthia wanting in that regard.”

“Much to consider, my friend,” Rasha muttered as Dmitri’s hand slid over the backs of the chairs, pulling his own out from the center, Kasim following close behind. Attendants swooped in to assist their prince, as well as the Darakaian al’Haidren, but Dmitri waved them off.

“I see you two are getting on nicely,” he commented, beaming. “I do hope you’ve not plotted my demise in my absence, for I’m certain you’d be very effective at it.”

Chuckling, Rasha slid her thick braid over her shoulder to cascade down her back. Over her head, Dmitri stretched to peek at Luscia, miming his thanks.

The great gong sounded, and Ira skidded into his seat just as the first course was served. Reminiscent of Luscia’s own reception, a parade of entertainers ascended the dais, accompanying the progression of the meal, though with significantly more grandeur and costly extravagance.

“Pow prawn?” Ira raised a shining plate as he leaned closer, rubbing her arm. “They are meant to be shared—a lover’s delicacy.”

“You ought to learn some delicacy, Lord Bastiion,” Luscia answered sharply, staring ahead.

“In time, my snow dove,” he declared, slurping it down.