He elbowed Dmitri in the ribs, grimacing as he scratched at his jacket. “Your royal tailor is a fraud. This thing itches like the Depths.”

“Maybe if you’d held still,” his friend said through his teeth, grinning for the rest of the room, “then it would fit correctly.”

Twisting, Dmitri resumed his conversation with the princess and her Boreali pet. Zaethan spooned at his bowl of thissle bisque, keenly aware it shared the color of vomit, as an ensemble of woodwinds descended the dais. A line of shoto’shi, each an acolyte to their Shoto Prime, replaced the musicians just as the soup course was swapped with something more substantial.

“I hate this one,” he grumbled, eyeing a box affixed to the ceiling.

“That is because,” Sayuri interjected, using her butter knife to check her reflection, “you Darakaians don’t appreciate the complexity of the shadow box.”

“Darakaians don’t like liars,” he corrected. Zaethan narrowed his gaze at her uncle, about to light the first dome. “This shtàka—this is why the Ethnicam doesn’t trust the Pilarese. What you say, what you show, is never what you mean.”

“I’ve never deceived you, Zaethan.” Her lips puckered, excessively rouged. “The fact that you are so adamant about this says more about you than it does me.”

The head of a stag blossomed over the dais, the tendrils of its antlers seeping onto the main floor. Sayuri’s uncle lurked outside the student formation as the shadowy antlers melted into the wings of an owl. The shoto’shi swayed, making it fly, as he prowled toward the second fixture.

“A Haidren to Pilar is always a better liar than that, Sayuri.” Zaethan sat back and folded his arms, his appetite diminishing. “You ought to seek lessons from your own. I’m sure it runs in the family.”

Sayuri simpered and brought a plump berry to her mouth, biting it off the stem slowly. “You should hope so…behind your father, there’s so much to live up to, isn’t there?”

Zaethan’s head snapped up. She licked the dark juice from her lip and resumed watching the performance. His fists clenched beneath the table. Down the row, Dmitri started to rise as another chair screeched. Told not to worry, both royals eased into their seats as the Boreali al’Haidren excused herself from dinner, leaving in the direction of the balcony. Seeing her captain follow, Zaethan ignored any budding curiosity as to what caused her to seek the evening air.

When the match of the fourth and final dome was struck, the scene dispersed across the dais and reformed into Bastiion’s silhouette, the bulbous cupolas of the palace readily familiar to the audience. Movement caught his attention beyond the brightness at the center of the hall. Zaethan squinted. Kumo stood just inside the entrance, away from his assigned post on the opposite end of the eastern wing.

Locking eyes with Zaethan, his beta signaled him over, then ducked behind the gigantic doors, returning to the main corridor.

“I must check on the guard—I’ll be right back,” he muttered to Dmitri before abandoning the meal, an uneasiness spreading in his chest.

Outside the Hall, Zaethan found Kumo tucked behind a column, posture rigid and expression tense. As he drew near, Kumo scratched the backs of his knuckles.

“Spit it out, cousin,” Zaethan ordered.

Kumo tensed, crossing his arms. “Wekesa is missing.”

“What do you mean, missing?”

“He should have been in there tonight with you, ano?” His mouth tightened, tilting it toward the Hall. “Zahra said Wekesa’s not gone to his apartments all evening, claims he never came back. Jabari checked the guard house, yeah. Playing no cards, nothing. But the sentries…” Kumo paused, watching Zaethan’s reaction.

“The sentries…?”

“Some of the sentries say he headed to the kitchen earlier—”

“Shtàka!” Zaethan squeezed the hilt of his kopar in one hand and punched the column with the other. “This night, of all nights! Uni, of course Wekesa planned his next attack tonight—he knew I’d be stuck in there for that yancy charade.” Rubbing his busted knuckle, Zaethan shook his head passionately. “We move one step, he’s already two ahead. Every time.”

“Meme qondai, I get it.” Kumo edged closer, away from any possible listeners. “Send Zahra and I back out there. Stay in the Hall, avoid questions, yeah?”

“Ano zà. Not again,” Zaethan spat forcefully, Takoda’s bloodstained sheets fresh in his mind. “I want Zahra on Wekesa’s pryde, watching his men. They’ll give something away eventually, if they drink too much. I’ll find Jabari, assign him elsewhere. Let’s keep the cub out of this.”

“Then I come with you, Ahoté.”

“Ano, Cousin. I want you here in my place, with Dmitri.” Zaethan checked behind them, knowing the Pilarese exhibition would conclude at any moment and that they’d soon be joined by the shoto’shi in transition. “When they exit, slip inside, yeah? Keep to the exterior, you’ll be less noticeable. Don’t take your eyes off the prince.”

Kumo hesitated, but struck his fist to his chest. “Uni zà, Alpha Zà. I won’t leave his side until you return.”

“Takoda—I need to ask him to do something first. You said he was awake?”

“Eh, he started to come to earlier,” Kumo confirmed, peering around the column as the door creaked. “Nothing coherent, ano.”

“Shàla’maimo.” Zaethan’s fist left his own chest and bumped his beta’s heart twice. “Don’t leave the prince,” he reiterated in parting, pointing at the Hall.

As the robed students departed the celebration, Zaethan launched into a sprint and sped around the bend, running up the nearest stair. He dodged a valet, causing the man to whip his wheeled drink cart over in the process. Shards of crystal bathed the floor, spilling wasted spirits across the vast corridor as Zaethan threw up his arms and smacked into a lady’s maid. Jumping over her basket of table linens, he charged up the steps toward the apartments.

As he climbed the heights, Zaethan ripped the blasted satin jacket off his upper body and flung it aside, ditching it on a landing. With a swell of relief, he spread out his shoulders, rolling them as he plunged down the passage to the suites of the northern wing. As he’d not done in ages, Zaethan pleaded with the Fates, begging for the witchling’s sorcery to have brought Takoda to consciousness.

He was the only person who could provide testimony to the identity of the cross-caste killer. Should something similar befall Zaethan, leaving his pryde in the hands of a butcher, he needed to ensure Takoda’s account was recorded, before it was too late.

He dashed under an archway, skidding into the doors of the Boreali suite. Standing before their height, Zaethan released a howl of frustration, remembering Takoda had already been moved earlier that evening. He slammed his palms against the wood, rattling the giant slabs within their framing. Pushing off, he started for the opposite end of the corridor, where the passage rejoined the common route to the residential apartments.