Neither man took any notice of her, distracted as the rest of the palace by the mystery about to unfold. They filled her with an icy touch of dread and gut instinct. They didn’t speak, though the soldier shifted, and his fingers clenched and unclenched on his sword hilt. Impatient. Not like the priest, who was a statue in scarlet, his face bone-white beneath his hood.

The dedicant orders serve their gods and their high priests, not kings or queens. He listens for another, gathering word to be passed on, Sorasa surmised, looking over the priest again. But the soldier? Who does he serve?

He did not have the bearing of a noble. He was not a knight or a great lord, and no diplomat would spend a feast hidden away. But he wasn’t a palace guard either, not in those clothes, without armor or the lion emblazoned on his chest.

She kept her eyes on him as she moved, careful in the shadows, her steps muffled by the rich carpet along the gallery floor. Perhaps he is a spy, she thought. An assassin from the Amhara, or from another guild. Her eyes dragged over him again. He was tall and lean, with wiry muscles standing out at his neck, the kind earned hard, through necessity. He could be a simple cutthroat, hired in some gutter. A mad dog set loose.

Her concentration snapped away at a commotion below, three figures striding between the long banquet tables, set shoulder to shoulder. Two she recognized.

So they found their squire.

The Queen waved her knights off, allowing the three to approach her table. Sorasa wished she could hear their plea, absurd as it would be. Dom the walking storm cloud, Corayne and her flickering courage. “Your Majesty, we need your help to defeat an army of demons led by my mad uncle. Yes, I’m the only one who can stop him. Yes, I’m a seventeen-year-old girl. Yes, I’m perfectly serious.”

But Erida did not turn them away. Instead the Queen beckoned, her face gentle and open, so they could speak privately of the Ward’s fate. Tell her of the corpses on the hill, Sorasa thought, remembering her blade as it passed through them. Tell her of the slaughter. Tell her of your scars, Domacridhan.

“Domacridhan.”

The soldier hissed, the sound carrying down the gallery. His voice was venom.

Sorasa pressed back against a column, folding herself into the shadows.

The soldier was glaring down at the Elder, and then at Corayne, before raising his face to the light. His eyes, black and familiar, seemed to glint red, a trick of the chandeliers.

Bits of thread joined in her mind, weaving a picture and a realization. Reality slotted together like plates in a good suit of armor.

Every instinct Sorasa Sarn had ever earned lit on fire, scorching her with warning.

The first, the strongest, screamed.

RUN.

“Look at his face, Ronin,” the soldier murmured to the priest, who did not move. He is no priest, at least not to any god of the Ward. “I thought Elders were supposed to heal.”

“They do. When cut by weapons of the Ward,” Red Ronin replied. The wizard folded his hands into his robes. “But a Spindleblade? The weapons of the Ashlands, of Asunder, blessed by What Waits? Those wounds are not so easily closed. It’s why the Elders remain in their enclaves, cowering, even when the prince survived to tell the tale of us. They see what we can do. They fear us more than any mortal army upon the Ward.”

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.