Sorasa did not dare another step closer. Her hands worked beneath her skirt, pulling out a small dagger. She cut quietly along the sides of her gown, giving herself more room to move.

Run her instincts howled again. She could already feel the palace closing in, stone and glass, silk and wine. Fuck the Elder and the girl and the squire. Fuck the Ward.

“She looks like me,” Taristan said sharply. He watched as Corayne disappeared from the hall, following the Queen and her knights through a side door. “Like my brother.”

At least Dom is with her, Sorasa thought again, her teeth clenching together. Six knights against an Elder. Good odds. He’s survived worse. Her heartbeat raced. Unless he doesn’t. And then it’s just the squire, a boy. She’s as good as dead.

And the Ward as good as destroyed.

Frustration ate at her fear, warring for dominance. This was not in the contract, she snarled to herself, wishing she could scream. Wishing she could flee. But where? Not home, not even to the citadel. What Waits will devour them both, with Taristan at his side, fists to his fangs.

“I must say, I’m still shocked she agreed to this.”

Taristan’s voice grew closer, his steps quiet, but thunderous to Sorasa’s ears. He tapped the hilt of his sword, clinking a single ring against the metal like a small, hateful bell.

She sank, bending her knees, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet. I can sprint for the stairs, vault over the gallery, break my fall on a nobleman’s head. Her options spun.

The Spindlerotten traitor and his pet wizard closed the distance at a steady, almost lazy pace. “Ambition is in her blood,” Ronin answered serenely.

His voice took on an odd quality: another layer of sound, as if someone else spoke with him, forming a deeper harmony. It echoed, even when the wizard fell silent.

“It’s good we reached her first, before the other could.”

“A choice we did not need to make,” Taristan scoffed. “I see no witch with my niece.”

The wizard’s robes hissed over the carpet like a snake. The double voice was gone, leaving only his own. “Even so, we have a strong ally in the Queen of Galland. Corayne of Old Cor will be dead soon, and of no consequence any longer.”

Sorasa took her chance, peering around her column with one narrowed eye. The pair stood at another stairwell, the steps leading down into the great hall. Taristan looked back at the chandeliers, light splaying across his hard features. She does look like him.

“If she has my brother’s blade, we need only take it and lock her away,” Taristan said, again tapping his sword. The sheath was silver-and-black leather, the steel hidden while jewels flared at the hilt, red as ticks swollen with blood.

Ronin shrugged. “To die when What Waits comes and sets this world to ash beneath your feet?” he said, guiding Taristan through the arch. “Trust me, my friend, dying now is a mercy to her. As for the Elder, let him live, let him watch . . .”

Their cruel laughter echoed with every step down the curling stairwell.

Run run run run.

Sorasa allowed herself five more seconds of fear and indecision. Five only.

Her breath hissed through her nose, coming out hard between her teeth. One. Taristan was the Queen’s chosen. Two. Her army would protect his Spindle, the passage spewing a sea of corpses. Three. No kingdom could stand against Taristan and Erida, not alone. Four. Sorasa Sarn was no one. There was nothing she could do about the great dealings of the world. Five.

She stood and moved quickly, a cat among the columns, before dropping to her knees at the end of the gallery. Below was the high table. Across was the doorway, set ajar, leading off to wherever the Queen and Corayne had gone.

There is something I can do.

The gown tore again as she cut a square from the wine-colored cloth. She’d exhausted her common powders back in Byllskos, but the black remained, tucked at her belt in its triple-wrapped packet, a square smaller than her palm. With careful hands, she tore it open, sprinkling small, dark grains onto the center of torn fabric. The writing on the packet was nearly worn away, the language of Isheida barely recognizable. Worth five times its weight in gold.

She made a pouch, tying the corners together tightly, but careful to leave one length of cloth free. She hoped it was long enough. She hoped it was short enough.

Below, she watched two knights emerge ahead of Corayne and the Queen, and then Dom and the lanky squire, flanked by the remaining four knights. Sorasa looked at Dom first, searching his face for any sign of worry, any indication he knew what was coming.

She nearly cursed aloud. Of course he doesn’t.

“I know my betrothal has been long in the making, perhaps too long for some of you,” Queen Erida said below, and her court laughed like hyenas.

There were no candles within reach, not even the chandeliers, so Sorasa made do with a corner of flint and the steel of her dagger, striking them together to produce a spray of sparks.

The cloth caught light, the edge burning.

She did not have time to fear losing a hand or worry about being seen. She thought only of her aim. The weight of the pouch, the flame traveling steadily up the dangling fabric. The thickness of the chain fixed to the wall beyond the balcony rail, a metal plate set deep into the smooth stone. The iron links traveled up at an angle, through the first great ring, then down to a chandelier, and up again. Again, again, again, the chain like a necklace strung with jewels.

She leaned and swung her arm, all her focus in the tips of her fingers as the cloth left her hand. She refused to imagine failure—the flame snuffing out, the powder spilling, the pouch missing its mark. Below, the Queen wheeled in her bloodred gown and she tossed the bundle. It moved in a slow arc, rising as falling until it hit the chain and the wall, tipping, the flaming lead trailing, fabric crumbling to smoke and ash. And then it stuck home, lodged perfectly, wedged between the links of the great chain and the stone wall.

Her steps were light and fast, carrying her back around the horseshoe of the gallery. When the knights tightened their formation, obscuring Dom and Corayne from view, she felt the familiar twist of defeat. Do they already know? Do they feel the noose around their necks? Corayne must. She’s not an idiot.

Erida’s voice echoed up the stairwell, rising to meet Sorasa as she spiraled down. “It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to my prince consort, my husband, a son of Old Cor, heir to the bloodlines of the ancient empire, and father to the new world before us.” More applause and congratulations rippled through the great hall, cresting like a wave. “Prince Taristan of Old Cor.”

Now, Sorasa thought, bending her will to the pouch lying in wait. As if she were a witch or wizard too, Spindletouched, and not just a mortal woman with a talent for killing things. Now, she pleaded, begging to Lasreen the Morning Star, to Syrek, to Immor, to Meira of the Waters, to every god and goddess worshipped upon the Ward.

They did not answer.

She slowed at the bottom of the stairs, easing her pace so as not to be noticed. Her eyes darted, drinking in the scene, hunting for any opportunity, no matter how small. All around, courtiers stood and clapped, calling out to their dear young queen. Sorasa grabbed a silver flagon of wine from the closest table, using it as a shield to move closer to the dais, never blinking.

Dom was on his knees, his fingers uncurling and curling into a shaking fist, as knights held his shoulders. The courtiers could not see that he was wounded, kneeling in pain, not in deference to the Queen or her betrothed. His expression had not changed, his face dour, lips pulled into their usual grimace, but Sorasa saw the tightness in him plain as day. He is in great pain. Corayne was equally trapped, a single knight too close to her, a gauntleted fist tucked up against her side, certainly holding a knife. The sunborn daughter of Siscaria was white as a ghost, her eyes wide, staring past the far side of the dais, past the high table, past the Queen.