He shrugs, but doesn’t meet my gaze for more than a second. “I told you I knew him,” he says, but that isn’t an answer and he knows it.

“You implied that he was a casual acquaintance. It’s more than that. He trained you. You respect him. You might even like him.”

At that, he does look at me, his eyes heavy. “What do you want me to say, Theo?” he asks. “That I spent a year at this estate four years ago, with the man and his wife and family, being treated like one of their sons? That I admired them, liked them? Of course I did. After growing up with my father, this place felt like paradise. But it doesn’t change anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” I ask. “You aren’t their surrogate son anymore, S?ren. No matter what agreement we come to with them, we are on opposite sides of this. I need to know that you know that.”

For a moment, he doesn’t speak, his eyes focused straight ahead. “Yana Crebesti,” he says finally. “I trust you, Theo. Do you trust me?”

The words do little to calm my mind, but I know he has a point. S?ren has had countless opportunities to turn his back on me, countless opportunities to take someone else’s side, countless opportunities to choose an easier path, but he never has. At the end of the day, he has always chosen to stand by me, and I have no reason to believe that this time will be any different.

I squeeze his arm before releasing it. “Yana Crebesti,” I tell him.

FROM FAR AWAY, THE ESTATE was a thing of beauty, but as our group approaches, it looms larger and darker. With the sun fully set, it no longer shines like gold. Instead it looks like a shadow, a ghost of what once was.

The Ovelgans are waiting just inside the manor, at the base of a sweeping marble staircase, joined by two of their daughters—neither older than ten. Both have golden hair and somber wide-eyed expressions; both are laced into stiff velvet gowns that look too tight for them to breathe in.

The younger one stares at the plush carpet at her feet, but her sister’s eyes survey us, taking in our large group of twenty-three crammed into the entryway. They catch on me for a second, then linger on Erik. With a little time and Heron’s healing, his swollen eye is open again, but he has a red scarf tied diagonally over the missing one. He keeps one hand on Heron’s arm for guidance. The girl stares unabashedly at Artemisia’s blue hair, her small mouth gaping. But when she sees S?ren, a smile stretches over her face and she can’t resist lifting her hand and waving at him.

“S?ren!” she says, rolling onto the balls of her feet in excitement, before her mother shushes her, taking hold of the hand she was waving and holding it tightly in her own.

For his part, S?ren gives her a smile, like everything is normal and we are just going to have a normal dinner together, discussing normal things like the weather.

“Welcome to our home, Prinz S?ren,” Lord Ovelgan says, inclining his head toward S?ren. He pauses, long and deliberate, before turning to me and adding, “Queen Theodosia.”

I smile, satisfied. Small a thing as it is, hearing my true name in the mouth of a Kalovaxian feels like a triumph all its own. Not Lady Thora, not Ash Princess, but Queen Theodosia. There is power in names, after all, and his calling me that would be nothing short of high treason in Cress’s eyes. It’s a good sign.

“Have you met Emperor Erik of Goraki?” I ask, motioning to Erik. He takes the cue and bows with more grace than I could manage even with my full sight. Somehow, the scarf tied around his missing eye doesn’t make him any less handsome, especially when he’s dressed in his Gorakian brocade robe. Instead it lends him an air of mystery and roguishness, like a tragic hero in a ballad. He doesn’t look at all like he did when I first met him, in his ill-fitting Kalovaxian clothes, an outsider who never felt comfortable in his own skin.

“Emperor,” Lord Ovelgan says, with some hesitation. “It is good to see you again.”

“I wish I could return the sentiment, my lord,” Erik says with a grim smile. “But as you can surmise, I can’t see very well these days.”

Lord Ovelgan shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting around as if he’s looking for help.

“I noticed,” he says carefully. “I’m sure it’s quite a story.”

Lord Ovelgan gestures around the entryway. The room is only lit by the chandelier overhead, and it’s just bright enough for me to make out the ornate stairway, the deep red carpet, the walls painted in gray and gold. “Welcome to our home. Your guards are welcome to wait here in the foyer, but dinner will just be us,” he says before looking at his daughters, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “Karolina, Elfriede, off to bed with you. Say good night to our guests.”

“But, Father,” the older one says, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “It isn’t fair. I’m ten years old now, and that’s old enough to stay up. I want to talk to S?ren.”

“The Prinz,” Lady Ovelgan corrects gently, taking hold of her daughters’ hands and passing them to a waiting Kalovaxian servant woman—their nanny, I would imagine. “And there will be time for that another day. But we need you to be good girls and go straight to bed. All right?”

In a huff of protest, the girls let their nanny lead them off.

“Where is Fritz?” S?ren asks, watching them go. “He was only a baby the last time I saw him, but he must be almost five now—”

“He’s ill,” Lord Ovelgan interrupts brusquely. “Shall we adjourn to the dining room and settle this matter?”

S?ren takes a step back, as if Lord Ovelgan physically struck him. He nods. “I apologize, my lord. You’re right. We have much to discuss.”

“Wilhelmina, you should check on Fritz. There’s no need for you to join us,” Lord Ovelgan says to his wife.

Lady Ovelgan glances at the stairs, a hint of longing in her otherwise stoic expression, before she turns back to us. “No, I’ll stay,” she says quietly. “Come, before the meal gets cold.”

She leads the way down the hall, giving the rest of us no choice but to follow.

“If we need help,” I say to the guards before we leave, “I’ll scream. Otherwise, you know what to do.”

Heron nods, unlatching Erik’s fingers from his arm and helping him lean on S?ren instead. His eyes are heavy on mine.

“Be careful,” he says to me.

“And you as well,” I reply.

* * *

—

The dining table has been set with golden plates and utensils and crystal goblets studded with Water Gems. The candlesticks are covered in Fire Gems. Lady Ovelgan’s blond braid is threaded with Air and Water Gems, and even Lord Ovelgan’s jacket has Earth Gems instead of buttons. Just stepping into the room with so many Spiritgems is overwhelming. I feel the weight of them pressing down on my shoulders, on my chest, calling to my blood and making it difficult to breathe.

No one else seems to be as affected, so I try to keep my expression neutral as the Ovelgans’ servants usher us to our seats. I find myself between S?ren and Erik, directly across from Lord Ovelgan.

As soon as everyone is settled, a slave girl approaches with a carafe of red wine and pours some into each of our goblets. I watch her pour the wine, her eyes downcast. It’s the same wine going into each goblet, so it can’t be poisoned, but the goblets…

“Will you switch glasses with me?” I ask Lady Ovelgan, holding my goblet toward her.

“I beg your pardon?” she asks, taken aback.

“I don’t mean to offend,” I tell her with a smile. “But I’ve learned the hard way to be wary of drinks offered by those whose motivations I’m not sure of.”

Lady Ovelgan frowns, glancing toward her husband, who nods, keeping his eyes fixed on me.

“Ridiculous,” Lady Ovelgan says with a huff, though she takes my goblet and offers me hers. “As if I would ever poison a guest.”

“One can’t be too careful these days,” I say. “S?ren, Erik, Lord Ovelgan—if you don’t mind doing the same.”

There’s some shuffling as the three trade glasses. In the end, no one has their original glass of wine, though Erik has S?ren’s because he seems to be the only one of us the Ovelgans would like to keep alive. All of us take a hesitant sip.

The wine is fruity with a good dose of spice, and I can’t discern any poison. I set the glass down again. That doesn’t mean much, though—I couldn’t taste the bolenza poison that Coltania slipped into my tea in Sta’Crivero, either.

Perhaps I will always be wary of strangers offering me drinks now, but I would rather be too wary than even slightly careless.

“So,” I say, looking to Lord Ovelgan. “You know what we want from you, and I can’t imagine you would have agreed to host us tonight if you didn’t want something from us in turn. What is it?”