The Najjan slipped past Luscia without a sound. His joints, though decades older than her own Najjan, gave no hint of his movements as he glided into the domed space. Emiere offered Luscia a somber nod. The silver stubble blanketing his grimace was the only indication of his unrest—she could not recall the last time Emiere had gone unshaven. A spindle of dread spun as she traded places with the impassive Najjan and entered her aunt’s chambers.

The late afternoon sun blanketed Alora’s bedroom, warming the cold bareness within. Seated on a modest bench near the windowsill, Luscia was greeted by her aunt’s back as Amaranth chirped her welcome. The lavender hawk preened herself, perched on a hook beside her mistress while she worked. Alora’s unbound hair rustled as she ground a fragrant assembly of herbs under her pestle.

“Ana’Mere,” Luscia tested, taking the corner of Alora’s bed.

“I’d invite you to sit with me,” her aunt muttered, engrossed in the mortar, “but it seems you don’t want my instruction anymore.”

Luscia felt heat rush into her cheeks. “Meh fyreon, Ana’Mere, I never intended to give that impression.” She awaited a response, but was only met with silence. “I am trying my best, for Aniell and for Boreal. I need you to know that.”

The air hung stalely between them. Alora rose slightly from the workbench to kiss Amaranth tenderly, stroking her feathers. Lusica bit down a familiar bitterness. It was silly to envy a bird, especially now.

“Your best is subject to your own judgment, Luscia,” Alora posed evenly. “After all you’ve accomplished in Bastiion, have you found it to be true?”

The question fell heavily, inferring Luscia’s judgment was not wise at all. She smoothed the front of her bodice, grateful her aunt’s eyes were otherwise directed, although experience guaranteed her ears were tuned to Luscia’s body language, listening for anomaly.

“I’ve found my judgment to be…commanding.”

“Not as commanding as your Haidren, I’ve surmised,” Alora added, reaching for a dropper of glistening liquid. Traces of lumin shimmered within the glass channel. “I trust your rebellion through the streets was fruitful, at least?”

“Wem. Boreali cross-castes will no longer be hunted like wild game, if that’s to what you’re referring.” Luscia stiffened defensively before promptly deflating, out of habit. “The killer was war-tainted. Some yancy from the Province of Agoston, I’ve been told.” Her words slowed as she pushed away the memory of his rotting skin, how the stench swam through her nose, suffocating and awful.

“I gathered as much from the bite on your arm,” her aunt commented, plucking fresh leaves of gilead from a pot. “What your wounds didn’t express, I compelled from Captaen Bailefore. He is fine, by the way, in case you were concerned that your escapade might have caused him injury.”

Luscia flinched, surprised by the suggestion that she didn’t care for Marek’s well-being. Or the well-being of her entire guard, for that matter.

“I see,” Luscia replied squarely.

“Tadöm to Aniell that bite was your only keepsake from an altercation with the infected.” Her aunt lit a match to a dried drössara leaf, tossing it into the mortar. “And praise the High One for kissing our veins, rendering war-taint ineffective.”

Suddenly, Luscia realized her rightness in sending Mila to Boreal. They’d assumed Ambrose merely wanted what all men want, when he must have craved so much more. Luscia sat taller and let out a breath. Her judgement had proven true in that respect after all.

“He was ravenous, nearly unstoppable,” Luscia whispered. “I remember the old stories of war-taint, from our childhood. Phalen loved when Fappa would tell the tales to terrify us before bed. I just never imagined such…depravity.” Luscia caressed the radials over her knuckles, missing her brother. “There are a few things I can’t make sense of, though. The nobleman’s rate of decay for instance.”

Voicing her query, she then understood that Ambrose did seem to have made an effort to conceal the initial signs of his illness. The gloves, perhaps his overuse of pipe-marrow to ease his pain. There was no telling now long he’d been sickened. Did the ancient disease consume one’s body steadily, or expedite deterioration at a certain stage?

“Little was recorded about the behavior of war-taint, Luscia. Our ancestors were much more focused on trying to be rid of it at the time,” Alora chirped in response.

Luscia supposed that to be true, given the threat war-taint posed to humanity’s survival in the early ages. “Well, then secondly, if someone war-tainted harbors no restraint, how could he have executed all those precise incisions used to drain the bodies?”

The pestle in Alora’s grasp slowed to a calculated swirl. “Perhaps the infection took time to mature, delaying his madness.”

Nodding, Luscia’s brows tightened as she countered, “Then what of the outliers—the few who were found torn apart? They bore the wounds expected of a war-taint attack. Could the sickness exist elsewhere in Orynthia?”

“That nobleman lost his humanity to an ancient plague, Luscia.” Alora wiped her tools with a scrap of linen. “You cannot seek rational rhythm in the clamor of chaos. Perhaps his urges came in waves. Perhaps he tried to hide the affliction with his neatness, only to surrender to a more visceral nature once it overthrew his mind. We cannot know, and it is a distraction to even try, when at this very hour the state of the realm hinges on the precarious allegiance of men.”

Her aunt gathered her linsilk skirt and stood. She walked to the center of the room, commanding it despite her slender frame. Her hands gathered behind her back as she looked out the vaulted windows. A glare glinted off her solrahs, identical to the luxiron piece in Luscia’s septum.

“You must put away these thoughts. Your future lies at a pentagonal table, beside your king, not in the streets like some breakaway vigilante. The honor bestowed to you, Luscia Darragh Tiergan, is greater than the others at that table.” Alora’s thumb grazed the veins at her wrist. Faint indigo feathered under her nearly translucent skin. “History written, as history rings.”

“Ana’Mere?”

“Think, Lusica.” Alora released her wrist and gathered her hands behind her back once more. “Think. How has the line of Thoarne survived centuries of war, endless bloodshed, countless deaths? You sing your history in Thoarne’s own Hall, yet you refuse to believe it.”

Her aunt’s words stung. Luscia wished for once Alora would speak plainly, instead of seeking another opportunity to critique her. This wasn’t the time for correction, but rather for answers. Answers Luscia felt she more than deserved to hear.

“But that’s simply poetry,” she rebutted. “You don’t actually mean—”