Taristan wiped at his face with his sleeve, scrubbing the poison away. “What is it?” he snarled, looking down on his wizard.

Ronin dropped his head, his hands raised like a priest begging forgiveness. “We’ve lost Meer,” he murmured. “We’ve lost a Spindle.”

The chalice, made of pure silver, cracked apart in Taristan’s hands.

Erida felt his rage. It mirrored her own.

“Lost,” she breathed. As if someone has simply misplaced it. Blood roared in her ears and she met Taristan’s eye, catching his wrists before he could tear the table into pieces. “Lost,” she said again, snarling.

He glared, the fire burning in his eyes, a dull red edged in gold. Somewhere, Erida smelled smoke. “I’ll kill her,” he hissed.

“I’ll help you,” she answered.