After unnecessary rounds of perfectly baked crumpets and a procession of soups, a wave of attendants brought the main course to the table. Like a collapsing tide, a company of shotos—likely early in their years of study, by the ashy hue of their voluminous robes—replaced the traffic of the palace staff and surrounded the dais. A series of ropes tumbled from the ceiling into their grasp, adjoined to a floating contraption mingling among the lanterns overhead.

“Oh, I do love this one.” Ira perched over his plate in anticipation, clutching a hunk of braised meat. “Much better than their standard depressing recitation!”

Sayuri’s uncle, the Haidren to Pilar, joined the Pilarese students. His robes were white and crisp, signifying his status as Prime over their Shoto Collective. Around the hall, most of the torches were extinguished, save for a few to cast enough illumination for their dining. Tetsu Naborū leaned over a metal dome and lit a match. As he stepped away into the dark, light exploded from the device, mirroring its beam into the ceiling. Reflecting off the box among the lanterns, the students swayed to adjust the roping like a single organism. In a flash, the head of a stag appeared on the dais, printed in shadow.

The room erupted with applause, impressed by the sight. Modifying their steps, the students twirled the ropes around their abdomens. The antlers of Thoarne’s stag melted into the wings of an owl, flying in place while they continued their dance. Guests cooed in wonder, the Zôueli princess joining their praise. She clapped with delight, pointing at the scene while she brushed back a wisp of Dmitri’s hair to speak in his ear.

After navigating the crowd through a series of images, Naborū moved to the opposite flank and lit an identical dome. The galloping horse on the dais broke apart and materialized into a pack of wolves running through a forest. A shadowy hawk soared above a forest of pines.

Luscia felt an odd stirring in her stomach as he struck another match for a third dome. Settled into the shade outside the circle of performers, the Haidren leveled his gaze at her. Eerily and unblinkingly, Naborū tilted his waxen, yellowing face, just as he’d done after their encounter in the passageway.

A sting panged through her temples. Panic constricted her throat, which had gone raw. She’d taken her last dose just yesterday—it was impossible that she could be having an episode so soon. The pain worsening, Luscia pushed back her chair, grateful that the guests of the hall were too mesmerized to notice her stand.

“Lusica, are you alright?” Dmitri started to rise.

“Niit, niit…I am fine, just feeling unwell.” Luscia stepped away, reassuring him. “Stay, enjoy the show, Your Highness.”

Spinning in place, she found her aunt at the king’s table. Confusion tugged Alora’s delicate brow. Humming consumed Luscia’s hearing, drowning out the words Alora mouthed. Exiting off the corner of the hall, she plunged through an archway, collapsing to her knees on a vacant balcony. Clutching the stone balusters, she pulled herself up, rocked by the tremors controlling her limbs, contorting them unnaturally. Her head sank back, and Luscia felt her lashes flutter as the hum was overtaken by whispers. Some faint, some louder, they blended into an unwanted chorus.

Drawn into the Sight, Luscia’s view of the city over the banister evolved into a shimmering network. Threads of lumin drifted hazily through the streets of Marketown, forming a luminescent map of Bastiion. The whispering waned when she recognized a unique thread, brighter than the rest, twitching in the distance. Its light sputtered as it wound through the alleys, convulsing in agitation.

Gentle pressure touched her back.

“Ana’Sere?” a voice asked through the distortion, its tone far and hollow. “Ana’Mere sent me to find you. Luscia, are you alright?”

Sound rebalanced itself, the cloud dispersing. Twisting, she discovered Marek standing nearby. She’d not even felt him clenching her hand.

“Do you trust me, Captaen?”

The skin beneath his eyes tightened as he searched her gaze. There was a newfound intimacy behind them. “I trust you, Ana’Sere.”

She laced her fingers through his and guided him under the archway. A tingle spread down her spine. Hesitating, she glimpsed over her shoulder into the night.

“What is happening?” he asked.

The light of the Other disappeared, concealed behind the veil. The ominous disorder of Marketown returned, flickering in front of it.

“I’m fulfilling my promise to you, Captaen, and taking you with me.”

Beside Marek, Luscia balanced over the shelf of the aqueduct, surveying a hunting ground of opulence and depravity.

“So this is how you’ve been getting around us,” she heard Marek mutter.

For the first time since the clearing in the wood, Luscia voluntarily sought communion with the threads and summoned the Sight. This time in the presence of Najjan, rather than lycran.

“Bolaeva,” she prayed, her lids falling.

Reopening them, she saw strings of lumin entangling the buildings, connecting and dispersing in an alternate map of the Other. With stillness and resolution, Luscia searched for the restless thread among its brethren. Whispers replaced the vibration in her skull, louder than ever before. Searing tendrils shot up her nape and outward, like twin captors squeezing her mind.

There—among the pipe marrow tents at the edge of the docks, the harbinger thread embarked on a quivering path into the pit of Marketown.

“I see you.”

At her acknowledgment, the murmurs started to scream, becoming an indistinguishable anthem. Luscia sank into a squat, clutching her head. With a pop, their song vanished.

“Luscia…”

She slowly turned to Marek, praying it was him at the end of the call, and not the unseen. He flinched away when her hood fell back, lips parting. Droplets fell, chiming against their weaponry, as the sky opened. Rain rolled off Marek’s hair, and in the reflection of his pupils, her irises were aglow.

“Luscia…”

Marek reached out to touch her, but stopped, seeming afraid. “Luscia, your nose.”

Her hand lifted to wipe away a wetness trickling from her nostril. Blood smeared her fingertips.

“Release your wraiths, Brödre.” She rubbed her hand on the tail of her coat. “We’re losing time.”

Fastening the shroud across her cheeks, she restored the hood and vaulted off the waterway. Luscia struck the ground and sailed into the night after the thread, trusting the captaen to do the same.

THIRTY-FOUR

Zaethan

   She was easy to spot—a pastel specter in a lake of the living.

Arm in arm, the al’Haidren to Boreal walked with Dmitri’s would-be bride. Zaethan was about as interested in forging a more intimate alliance with the Zôueli as he was with his tailor, both of whom Dmitri insisted were essential to the future of the court. But unlike the fingers of a nosy tailor, Zaethan doubted Razôuel would be satisfied with mere proximity to the real prize. Eventually, when the splendor of the union dissipated and the dust of the Ethnicam settled, Razôuel would come for it—the throne of Orynthia.