“Tadöm, Aniell.”

Alone in the Other, Luscia opened her eyes and studied the glittering patterns. She cocked her head curiously. While most of the threads meandered through the openness with ease, a few shuddered away from the sooty spot by her feet, where Ambrose had withered to ash. In their flux, the light sputtered as the threads created a void of nothingness in the middle of the air.

Intrigued, Luscia peered into the abyss. The feel of winter blew against her cheeks, like an icy wind from the highlands. She brought her fingers to her flesh. It was cold to the touch.

“Shores of Aurynth,” she whispered. The steam of her breath turned to frost.

Her head whipped to the side when a canister rolled through the mouth of the alley. Fluidly, Luscia reeled behind the crates, melting into their silhouette. A man trailed the canister as its roll came to a halt. She timed her exhales with the breeze, soundless and measured. Her Sight intact, she stared between the slats in the crates. The threads bobbed around the man’s long locs as they swayed. Kasim knelt next to the pile of rubble and cradled his face in his hand. Then, in a sudden huff, Kasim hurled one of the bricks at the broken wall, shattering it to pieces.

Massaging his shoulder in the sling, he turned away and glanced toward the lamplight outside the mouth of the alley. Then down the backstreet, to the back door of the tavern. Palming his mouth, Kasim’s shoulders sagged as he headed deeper into the alley.

Luscia’s eyes widened. Playing at his heels, partnering threads of lumin illuminated his steps as he climbed the stairs to the back door. Lifting onto the balls of her feet, she soundlessly followed. Blinking out of the Sight, she refastened the inky veil, hiding the brightness of her skin. She tucked her hair into the folds of her hood and entered the rear of the establishment.

Luscia didn’t know what compelled her to nestle into the back corner of the boisterous tavern. Hidden in the shadows, she charted Kasim’s journey to the bar, where he slumped onto a stool and lifted his hand for a drink. She saw his features fall after the barkeep slid his order down the bar. Kasim stared blankly into the untouched glass. Luscia filtered the noise to listen as one of Nabhu’s night-callers slunk to his side.

“What is wrong, Alpha Zá?”

Leisurely, the woman draped an arm over Kasim’s leg. When he didn’t flinch, she crooked his chin tenderly. Candlelight glistened on her southern skin, similar to his own.

“Do you know how to make it better, Jaha?” she asked.

Slowly, Kasim shook his head, his expression unreadable.

“I do.” She retrieved his glass and summoned him off the stool. Through the parting of heavy, velvet curtains, she led Kasim down a darkened hall and into the belly of The Veiled Lady. With a swish, the fabric closed, sealing him inside.

Noiselessly, Luscia tightened the cowl around her face and crept through the shadows, retreating the way she’d come. Reentering the night, Aurynth’s watchman came into view once more. Under his eye, she disappeared into the secretive web of Marketown, just another player in Bastiion’s grid of decay.

For in the heart of Bastiion, no one was who they seemed.

Not even the Haidren to Boreal.

EPILOGUE

   On the rooftop, Alora’s lips compressed as they watched her niece follow Kasim’s heir into the tavern. It was obvious she was not pleased.

She was angry—and blaming herself more than anyone else, he knew, for sending him away the night of the solstice. He’d been assigned to investigate a petty brawl in the Bazaar, involving one of her Boreali merchants. All the while, her niece had charged into the torrent to face an unknown evil, alone and unprotected.

Upon the figure’s return to the Proper, she’d tasked him to root out where the monster was laid to rest, so she might inspect the remains. He reported there was nothing left to examine but ash and mire, but nevertheless, his mistress insisted she be escorted into the busiest district of Marketown. Disguised in the heights, they waited for the filthy alleyway to clear.

Apparently, her niece had shared the same intent that evening.

Amaranth’s claws anchored onto his shoulder. He felt the hawk shift her weight as she settled onto her favored perch, situated between her two masters. On the opposite side, Alora’s spine straightened as the door, stories below, closed behind her niece.

“He’s beginning to look like his father,” she remarked tersely.

The figure considered the young man’s lineage, but disagreed. “I still see Cyra in their son, Mistress. Others see her, too.”

Pensive, Alora angled her smooth neck. The darkness disguised the pearlescent hue of her skin, unique to her and her kinsmen. His blistered tongue swelled with need. Squeezing his eyes shut, he ignored the faithful beat of her veins. After his recent encounter on butcher’s row—after he’d given way to the hunger—it would take months to unhear the rhythm of her blood, calling out a promise it would never fulfill.

“Let us pray that is who their son sees in himself.” Alora tucked her chin determinedly. “Orynthia cannot afford to have Cyra’s son aspiring after his father’s control of the realm. The effects would be catastrophic.”

The figure adjusted his leather gloves, grating his scored flesh. Surveying her through the corner of his bloodshot eye, his lungs stilled. Freezing in place, he admired the way she tucked a wisp of fair hair behind an ear. It was the single blessing to his curse—the ability to see her beauty even when the light let it go. After their decades together, encompassing a host of secrets, his affection remained their most devasting secret of all.

He looked away with difficulty. “It was her captaen who assured you, Mistress.” The figure fixed his attention on the alley below. “The nobleman’s corpse indeed turned to dust.”

When she said nothing, he peered past the rim of his hood. Almost imperceptibly, her jaw quivered, and she spun her face aside. He thought he heard her sniffle, an uncharacteristic release of emotion.

“You are not permitted to turn to dust.”

The figure dropped his gaze. Stepping back from the busted ledge of the abandoned terrace, he lowered his head in retreat, adding to their separation.

“You know this was not the product of war-taint,” he whispered, embracing the agony of his sores. “This happened because of the offenses I committed in another life. Dust,” the figure rasped gravely, “would be a mercy.”

Alora stilled several paces away. Stubbornness tensed her limbs as she entwined her arms, something she’d done in their youth when he came close to winning an argument. Sighing, she breathed his name into the night.

“I will say it again, and again, and again, until I can speak no more,” she declared to the emptiness. “There is still hope for redemption.”