“You were never alone.”

Dmitri’s eyes glistened as he released a shaky breath. “We sometimes forget to expect the light, when all we see is the dark.” Breaking into a weak grin, he pointed to the brightening sky. “And yet, despite our disbelief, it never fails us. My first act as king will be to reassign the cross-caste investigation to your oversight—the one your father transferred to the command of that visiting alpha. That was wrong of him. Today, we will make it right.”

A chill rolled up Zaethan’s shoulders. In all the commotion surrounding Korbin’s assassination, he’d barely begun to process what he’d witnessed in the backstreets of Marketown. Alleys free of Wekesa, instead tormented by a different kind of monster. The better part of the summer had been squandered chasing the wrong man, when all along, he wasn’t chasing a man at all, but a beast.

Zaethan shifted on the bench uncomfortably as the memory of Ambrose’s rotting features flashed before him. The sunken cartilage in his face; the flesh darkened from disease; decay rimming every orifice. He’d only heard stories of war-taint, as it had been flushed from the bloodlines through the course of generations. No story could have prepared Zaethan for the creature Ambrose became—a creature without limit to his endurance. To his pain.

A shiver crept up Zaethan’s neck, remembering the way Ambrose moved despite the carnage, driven by something else, something other, even as his bones jutted from his body.

No one could move like that. Not even the witch.

“It’s no longer a concern.” Zaethan tugged on the lacing near his throat, loosening it. “After I left the solstice celebration, there were some developments in town. Another victim, or would-be victim. We apprehended the perpetrator, but in the struggle, he was killed.”

Dmitri let out a puff of air, “I bet the commander loved that, apprehending a murderer against his orders.”

“I’ll be sure to tell you when he finds out.” Zaethan cleared his throat, choosing his next words carefully. “Dmitri, the man was war-tainted,” he shared warily. “Absolute kakka-shtàka frenzied. No longer human. We also received a few reports of men fighting last week near butcher’s row, one of them covered in boils and the like. I’ve not heard of it spreading, but you need to know that war-taint was here, in the city.”

“War-taint…in Bastiion?” Baffled, Dmitri crooked his chin, scratching it. Briefly, life sparked behind his earthy irises, a temporary distraction from his pain. “But why target the children, and northern cross-castes specifically? Historically, victims of war-taint ravaged everything they encountered.” Fatigue relaxed the tension in his brow when he inquired, “What of the body? We can’t risk contamination.”

Zaethan folded his arms, remembering the tale the Boreali captaen had spun. “The body was…cremated. Nothing left.”

Dmitri nodded, content with the half-truth. In the aftermath of a royal assassination, neither the House of Darakai nor Dmitri’s premature reign needed the additional complication of a dead nobleman, slain by the hand of the militia prydes. Or, worse, by the hand of two rogue al’Haidrens. Admitting Ambrose’s death to the Ethnicam would only result in political nightmare, for him and Dmitri alike.

“Please relay all the findings of the investigation to Luscia, at least. Those poor children,” Dmitri muttered. “As you can imagine, their murders have burdened both her and her aunt for some time.”

“I will ensure Boreal is notified.”

“That is a small gift—to know such heartbreak has finally come to an end.”

Zaethan hesitated. He tucked his chin to his chest, inhaling deeply. Taking a step into the unknown, Zaethan could not predict his friend’s reaction to his next statement, though he had to try.

“You could prevent another such heartbreak.”

Dmitri frowned, confused. “How do you mean, Zaeth?”

Zaethan tightened his crossed arms, pinning them against his middle. “I don’t think she did it, Dmitri. By Owàa, by the Fates, by the moon herself. I think we should wait, conduct a formal trial in front of the Peerage. It’s the least we offer common criminals.”

Dmitri flinched backward, creating space between them on the bench. “Salma Nabhu is not just another criminal! That woman brought that venom into my home, into his hands! He’s gone,” Dmitri croaked, a sob escaping before his mouth tightened. “He’s gone, and you’re really sitting here, defending what that woman did to take him away?”

“Ano zà! No, Dmitri. I’m not defending anything.” Zaethan slipped out of his native tongue, collecting himself. “I’m asking you if we want to be the generation who continues to withhold the right of trial from cross-castes, or the generation who offers it? Maybe she is guilty, but what if she’s not, Dmitri? The cross-caste have no representation in the Ethnicam, no one to speak for them—”

“And so you will?” Dmitri cut Zaethan off, fervor enlarging his hazel eyes. “Do you realize what you’re asking of me, Zaeth?”

“Salma Nabhu could not have orchestrated an act of this magnitude alone, Dmitri. Razôuel could be a real threat—”

“I know she didn’t do it alone!” Dmitri snatched up his cane, panting heavily. “I’m beginning a rule steeped in betrayal—the backdrop of my legacy will forever drip my father’s blood! And no, it wasn’t Razôuel. The proposed marriage contract limits Rasha and all of Orynthia to my governance, to extending the line of Thoarne.”

“But who else could possibly gain from this?”

“The Peerage.” Flexing his fingers around the cane, Dmitri glowered down at the gravel. “You don’t understand the fragility of this season we’re entering, Zaeth. But the Peerage, whether a single member or many, have realized it. In recent years, some councilmen have voiced their doubts about my succession. The province of Agoston, for instance, has had misgivings since my Ascension. One of their nobles—Lord Ambrose, I’m told—elected to not even attend the feast the other night. No one has been able to account for him since.”

“Felix,” Zaethan repeated. “Felix Ambrose.”

“It’s simply a theory, but that’s the point, isn’t it?” Dmitri squinted at Owàa’s brightness, well-seated in the sky. “Hushed theories, whispering all around us. I see your point, Zaeth. I do. But the Peerage will mistake mercy, however intended, for weakness. And if they perceive my weakness, those responsible for my father’s death will just seek another Nabhu and do this again.”

Dmitri’s eyes slid to Zaethan’s, locking onto them. His friend looked like the very ghosts he spoke of, haunting his reign. Lavender bloomed around his lids. Burdened by grief and weariness, he desperately needed sleep.