Darkness engulfed him. It coiled around his wrists, neck, legs. Like shackles, restraining him to the bed. All attempts to break their grip failed at the very first hurdle. His own muscles betrayed him, disconnected from his mind. The body he inhabited didn't belong to him. He had no authority to make it move.

And it was that thought that scared him most. The familiarity of it all… Bound to the point of immobility, helpless. His chest swelled with a scream he couldn't release.

Harsh breaths echoed in his ears, the sound somehow coming from both a great distance and from within. His eyes – the only part of him that was capable of movement – darted around in search of the source.

There, at the foot of his bed, a form took shape. Long, full headwings turned ashen in the darkened room, poised like shields. Her hair loose around a face she concealed with her hands. His mother. At the realization, his ears picked up another sound, almost too faint to hear over the ragged breathing.

She was crying.

He struggled against the shadow's hold, against his own tension. He had to get to her. But still, his body remained motionless.

Each word he couldn't force out added to the pressure in his chest. Until the discomfort became pain. There was something familiar about that too – the pain that struck like fists, beating erratically against his breastbone.

Even without speaking, without moving, his mother realized he was awake. Her sobs cut off. The bed creaked as she turned to him and she lowered her hands.

The skin of her face was loose, eye sockets empty. Like an ill-fitting mask. And her lips stretched thin and pale around a mouth overfull with needle teeth. He would've recoiled if he had any control over himself.

She smiled. "Darling," she said, the word garbled as if it caught around her teeth on the way out. Then she stood.

With a slow, lurching gait, she stalked along the side of his bed. A dreadful chill washed over him as she neared. It reminded him of summer, in a twisted way. When the temperatures rose to unbearable heights, he spent as much time as he could by his mother's side. Her mastery of ice ether kept them comfortable.

But this was different.

This was the cold at the edge of nothing. He'd stood there before, gazing into depths beyond comprehension, wondering if the fall would be worth it. Did it hurt to let go?

Oblivion formed her; they were the same, despite how she cloaked herself in his mother's skin. She beckoned to him. In the wake of such a gesture, everything became clear. The creature was a guide. Though, whether he wanted to follow – or, indeed, should – was another matter entirely. Her appearance made him wary. So many teeth… Thin and sharp and hungry.

She motioned again, urgently this time.

No, he wanted to say. He didn't know where the adamant refusal came from. Just a moment ago, he'd considered her invitation. Her power, ancient and dark as it was, intrigued him. The things he could do if she deigned to share it. An intoxicating promise. Yet he couldn't accept it. He would lose himself if he did.

The rejection registered on an instinctive level. She had no need for speech, not the common tongue, nor the ancestral language of the High Entia. Her existence long predated both.

Around them, the walls of his bedchamber vibrated, contorted by the force of her anger. Her hand shot forward like a bolt. And, in his paralyzed state, he could only watch as it plunged into his chest. Blood burst from the wound.

All at once, the spell of immobility lifted. Kallian threw himself into a sitting position, gasping for air. One hand grabbed for the creature's wrist. The other flung to the side and struck the switch of his bedside light.

She – it – was gone.

With the darkness banished, he could see the truth behind his waking dream. The shadows that bound him were no more than blankets, the blood only sweat. And the woman… He scanned the room several times and couldn't determine what had created her. His fingers pressed harder into his chest. Where her hand should have ripped through the flesh and bone.

Nothing.

As he calmed, as full awareness returned, pain stabbed through his temples. In his panic, the pain had avoided notice. Now, he'd have been hard pressed to feel anything beyond it.

He eased himself out of bed, unsteady on his feet. The floor swayed beneath him, ready to rush up at any moment. Gritting his teeth, he crossed to the wardrobe and threw open its door. His shaking fingers scrambled against a seam in the wood.

The panel popped out easily. Inside, a single bottle waited, tall and thin. Too tall to fit the compartment. It sat askew.

He didn't let himself feel guilty. In a single motion, he twisted off the cap and brought the bottle to his mouth. One gulp followed into the next. Swallowed so quickly that the liquor didn't leave behind its taste. He wanted the burn more than he wanted to contemplate flavor. It was a reassuring warmth in his chest, his stomach.

He counted each mouthful, calculating how much he needed. To calm his nerves, to dull the pain enough that he could sleep. The numbers kept his mind occupied, at least. Otherwise, he'd just replay the events of his dream again and again.

That was all it was. A dream. The eyeless creature that called to him in his mother's voice. He shuddered and took an extra sip. Then he replaced the cap, shoving the bottle back into the compartment.

The wood panel creaked as he slotted it into place. In the silence, the sound seemed infinitely louder. He wondered if the guards would hear. They were just beyond his door, waiting for him to harm himself again. All so they could play hero for a few minutes. Or perhaps, with the emperor's passing, they had no reason to. Perhaps they wanted to watch him die.

He was sorely tempted to try it.

His hand reached into his wardrobe by reflex. Before he could go for another drink, he came to his senses and pulled back. He'd had enough. Already, the liquor was taking effect, fuzzing his thoughts, the memories. And the pain – once a lance through his forehead – had eased.

Though it wasn't enough to sleep. Not yet.

"Your Highness?"

Slow, he turned around. One of his night guards stood in the doorway. He stared at the man for a moment, face blank but mind whirring. Did he know that face? No, he decided after a moment, he didn't.

Without bothering to respond, he shut the wardrobe and crossed to the window. His hands braced against the sill. Far below, the front lawn of the Villa lay undisturbed. He rested his forehead against the glass. Its chill eased the feverish heat of his skin, relieved the headache.

"I… uh… noticed the light come on," the man continued. "Are you alright?"

By sound alone, Kallian guessed that the guard hadn't crossed the threshold. He didn't care enough to check. "I'm fine."

His unwelcome companion hesitated. "Why are you up?"

The question sparked something in him, hotter than the burn of liquor. He whirled around. And the world spun with him. His arm flew backward, clutching the windowsill to remain upright. He barely managed it, but soon, his balance returned.

"Was I not meant to awaken?"

"What?"

Kallian's gaze shifted from the guard's face to the stretch of sitting room visible behind him. He couldn't see any other guards. But they were there. Ever since his fall into Eryth Sea, they'd surrounded him. No privacy, no escape. They knew every move he made, every conversation he had. Likely, they reported on it to—

At the thought of her, he lost all hope of controlling his anger.

"Perhaps I was unclear," he said, voice edged with annoyance. And something sharper. Something he didn't wish to acknowledge. "Did you hope I would die in my sleep? Is that what she wanted? I know she's the one who put you in place. Answer me." He punctuated his demand with a punch, knuckles catching on the edge of the windowsill.

"Your Highness…" The words dripped pity like juice from a rotted fruit. "I think you must be confused."

Kallian scoffed but didn't bother to reply. Anything he could say would only be used against him – further proof of his delusion. He was sure Minister Fannar had done enough damage to his reputation already. After all, he'd had to claim insanity to discredit his testimony, free his mother from her imprisonment.

A thorned smile flashed through his memory. The lips pulled taut around an overabundance of teeth until the corners tore.

He needed to see her, his true mother.

Returning to the wardrobe, he changed out of his nightclothes. He didn't care if the guard watched. Let him see, he thought. Maybe then the traitor would feel some remorse. The bruises and the places where talon-like nails left bright red scratches down his skin… All abuses that this guard – and the others – had enabled. They knew what she did to him.

When he turned around, dressed once more, he found the guard had averted his eyes. Fine. That was fine too, if he couldn't face the consequences of his own inaction. He noticed Kallian watching and shifted from one foot to the other. His armor clinked together like discordant windchimes. Unconsciously filling the silence.

Kallian snatched his cloak off the back of a rocking chair. He tossed it to the guard, who scrambled to catch it without letting any of the heavy fabric touch the floor.

"Come."

The guard hesitated. But, as Kallian swept past him and through the door, he had no other choice. He had to follow. Even if he cared nothing for duty, he still needed to pretend. It was the only way that their schemes continued to succeed. Kallian suspected that was also why the guards had never directly harmed him.

If they couldn't resort to physical force, what could they do to stop him from doing as he pleased? Nothing. Not without risking their access to him.

He took a detour to the bathroom to wash his face. The cold water pushed at the fog of alcohol that had settled over his mind, enough that he could focus. His resentment toward the guards had been sidetracking him. He needed to… focus.

His eyes snapped up to the mirror. To his face. His cheekbones were sharper than he remembered. He traced his fingers over their distorted shape as he rinsed off the soap. They didn't feel any different. But he could see— The change seemed so obvious to him that he wondered why no one had mentioned it before.

Some misguided attempt to spare his feelings, perhaps. He didn't deserve it.

Taking one last look at his reflection, he shut off the faucet and dried his face. The towel brought a relieving darkness. He turned away from the mirror before he let it drop.

The guard, who'd been watching from the bathroom doorway, stepped to the side so Kallian could pass. He followed to the front door before speaking again.

"Your Highness, please. You should rest."

Kallian ignored him and threw open the door. Another guard was stationed outside. He moved to follow but the original guard gave him a headshake. With a frown, he let the pair stride down the corridor.

The interior of the Villa blurred together. Meaningless colors and shapes. If he wasn't so accustomed to the layout, Kallian might've lost track of his destination. But he'd walked this same route countless times. He could gouge out his own eyes and still find his way.

Even when the halls twisted into nonsensical tangles, he managed to arrive at his mother's door with few setbacks.

There were no guards posted outside. He paused, glancing around as if he'd somehow missed them. Just his, trailing faithfully behind. His throat went dry and the warmth of the alcohol disappeared, left him cold. He tested the handle. Locked.

"Mother?" he called. The panic built up again, from a steady undercurrent to a crashing wave. He slammed his fist against the door until pain lanced up his arm. And even then, he didn't stop. "Mother!"

His knuckles smeared blood across the woodgrain.

He pulled away, stared down at the back of his hand. Bright red scrapes broke up the dark bruises. If it hurt, he couldn't feel it. His headache, too, had disappeared sometime between leaving his suite and now. That would be the alcohol then, finally taking full effect. Or something else? A numbing apathy. He didn't care what happened to him and he hadn't cared for at least a month. That's why he'd agreed to… all this.

Some part of him reasoned that he deserved it. A punishment for bitter thoughts and careless acts. His father often told him not to be selfish. Maybe he was right, if selfishness had led Kallian to this moment, this place. But wasn't that also the solution? Or, part of the solution, at least. To get out, he had to want better for himself.

"Your Highness."

He hadn't heard her approach. For a moment, he wished he hadn't left his room. But she would've found him there too. Whenever she wished to see him, she made it happen, regardless of any obstacle. He couldn't breathe enough to form a response. His chest ached as he turned to face her.

"I would like to speak to His Highness privately," she said to the guard.

"With all due respect, Minister, I'm not supposed to abandon my post."

She laughed and the sound twisted something in Kallian's stomach. "No need to worry. I'll take good care of him." Her features shifted into mock distress. "Or, perhaps… Does the Imperial Guard consider me a threat?"

"Er, no, of course not." The guard glanced toward his charge then back to her. "I'm just not— I suppose a few minutes won't hurt."

Kallian smothered a scowl before it could reach his lips. Why did they insist on pretending the guard wasn't just another one of her puppets? He already knew it. He knew the entire Ministry of Defense was saturated with her control. Likely the Ministry of Investigation too. Sometimes, he looked at Melia and wondered— No. No.

The door to his mother's suite swung open. He squinted into the dark, expecting her to be there, to rescue him from the plans of his tormentor. But the doorway remained empty. Just the two of them in the corridor.

She smirked, a key dangling from her fingertips. "In."

He didn't fight. Not that he had much opportunity to. He'd let himself get weak, hoping that his lies would be concealed beneath a sickly appearance.

The darkness of his mother's sitting room embraced him like the shadows in his dream. He staggered – half drunk, half blind – until he crashed into the hard wooden arm of a settee. Another bruise he would feel belatedly.

Somewhere behind, the door closed. It didn't make a sound, but he could sense it. Like the room could breathe and all its air rushed out in that one motion. An appropriate comparison. His own lungs still refused to function. Each passing moment, each uncertainty, struck precisely there. He was suffocating. No matter how desperately he gasped for air, his lungs remained empty.

He felt his way into a chair, grasping at the expensive upholstery. Just as he settled, a pair of ether lamps flickered into life. She released the switch, strolled across the room to sit at his side. Or, more accurately, above him. She perched on the arm of the chair and looked down on him. He fixed his gaze on the wall.

"I have a proposition for you."

In all their private interactions, she allotted time to gloat. To admire how low she'd brought him. But now, to cut right to the point… Against his will, he glanced toward her.

"Caught your interest? Good." Her hand snaked into his hair, stroking it in an easy rhythm. The sharp points of her nails scraped against the back of his skull. "The empire should have been yours. You trained from birth for it and yet, your father passed you over. For the daughter of a Second Consort. Did you mean nothing to him at all?"

There it was – the gloating. But he couldn't determine why or how it connected to the aforementioned proposition. He swallowed down his questions. If he spoke, he'd only provoke her.

"I love you, Kallian. I wonder if he could say the same."

Each word hit like an electric shock. Breaking down his resistance. He tried to jerk away from her touch but she gripped him harder. Revulsion stung his esophagus. Yet, in spite of his body's adamant rejection, he knew there was a measure of truth in what she'd said. The royal family avoided expressions of affection. Emotions were distracting, easily manipulated. And his father had taken full advantage any time Kallian showed such weakness.

The emperor wielded silence like a weapon. Failure to comply with his demands could result in days of neglect, depending on the severity of the offense. Days in which one questioned their worth, their very existence. Even the guards and servants were instructed not to interact during these periods.

Every attempt to cajole his father – or anyone, really – into responding only prolonged the punishment. He used to talk to himself. To remember that he was real. And, at the end, he ran right back to his father, desperate to prove himself.

But he wasn't a child anymore. It didn't hurt.

Even so, some small, rotten piece of his heart glowed beneath the revulsion. The piece that needed validation, no matter where it came from.

"Do you respond to every declaration of love with silence?" She pulled her hand away and dropped off the arm of the chair. The heels of her boots struck the tiled floor with all the solemnity of a mourning bell. Tolling away for lost souls, the ones they couldn't return to the Bionis. She stopped in front of him.

Her fingers curled around his chin, forcing him to look up at her. Into those blue eyes, dark like water at its deepest point. If he stared too long, he had the distinct feeling that he would drown. A chill seeped into his chest.

"The… the proposition?" His voice came out hoarse.

She bared her teeth in a monster's approximation of a smile. "Always so eager to be rid of me." But her attention wavered, splitting between him and the door. She released his chin then settled into the armchair across from him. "Very well. Let us get right to the point."

One long leg crossed over the other. She sat much like an emperor would upon a throne – authoritative and severe. The room was entirely hers.

"I can give you everything you want. Everything you're too ashamed to want." Her snarl morphed into a smirk. "Alcamoth – well, what remains of it. And all that was taken from you, you will have back. Your reputation, your power. Your life."

Kallian waited for her to continue, not trusting himself to speak without slurring his words. If she knew the extent of his intoxication…

"In return, I will only ask for one thing," she said. Her hand slid down to the sheath on her thigh, pulled free a dagger. Its jagged blade reflected the light of the etherlamps behind her. She twirled the weapon – added drama for her pause – then stopped with the hilt pointing at him. An offering. "Choose me."

"You said you wouldn't—"

"I intend to keep that promise. After all, you will be the one to kill her."

If he was sober, he wouldn't have considered it. He should slit the bitch's throat for even suggesting that he would agree. But… Something made him stand, stagger across the plush carpet. And he took the knife in hand.

"You needn't make your decision immediately."

He heard the smile in her voice more than he saw it. Everything around him blurred and tilted. Lurching to the side like a building on the verge of collapse. But the Villa was structurally sound. Inspectors from the Ministry of Public Works visited the palace every few decades to check in. He'd walked with them on their last visit, learned all sorts— He was rambling, in his head. The point of his reflection lost somewhere there.

Her hands came into focus first. The nails – almost sharper than the dagger's blade – scraped down his wrist, dragging against the bandages. A twinge of pain raced up his arm, pierced through the mind fog. He pulled away.

"I fear I am not capable of…" He glanced around as if the sitting room's decorations might jump to his defense. His fist clenched around the knife's hilt. For a moment, he longed to turn it around, let the blade bite into the palm of his hand. "I failed to kill myself. More than once. What makes you so sure I would find success killing someone else?"

She stared up at him for a moment. Then a laugh cut its way through her lips like broken glass. "I see your memory has yet to return."

The implication of her words hit belatedly. But when they landed, he stumbled away from her. Like ice water splashed across his face, the horror bought him another few minutes of lucidity. He tore through his most recent memories. Waking from the nightmare, searching for Yumea. But before that… It was the afternoon, he was outside. With two of Melia's friends.

So many gaps, he realized. Hours upon hours of lost time.

"You're lying."

"Am I?"

He didn't wait for her to say anything else, to taunt him with hints of memories he couldn't access. The dagger slipped from his grasp. There was no point in stooping to retrieve it. He wouldn't kill anyone; he couldn't. And yet, a pressure formed in the back of his mind, a shadow of a moment. The harder he struggled to remember, the more it eluded him.

As he slammed open the door, he came face to face with his guard. The man was pale and sweating. But when he recognized Kallian, the distressed expression broke.

"Your Highness! I was so—" The guard coughed, forcing himself into a clumsy mask of diplomatic calmness. "In the future, please refrain from leaving my sight."

Kallian barely heard him. Entirely too caught in his mind, desperate to untangle the flashes of colorless, half-formed memory. His headache returned full force. The pain crashed into him and he stumbled under its weight, clutching at his temples.

If what she'd suggested was true…

He wasn't naïve. Once his father decided that Melia would be named heir, he expected that certain unpleasant tasks would fall to him. Let the empress's hands stay clean. And he didn't mind. If he could protect her peace – even at the cost of his own – he would do so without hesitation. Advisor, brother, executioner. Any role she needed.

But it was easier to make a promise than it was to keep one. He couldn't guarantee that he could kill on command. Even for Melia. Though he had to admit that this request weighed heavier than his responsibility to the empire.

With his freedom back, he could do more for Alcamoth, for his people. That had to be worth something. More than the life of someone he loved? He didn't know the answer to that.

His father would have said it was an easy choice. Love had no place in politics. It was a weakness to be exploited, a distraction. He couldn't say he disagreed.

And he grew tired of being powerless.

"What do you think she wants?" Dunban asked as he and Melia made their way to the Villa's dining hall.

The invitation had come in just after the change of the guard. Although, Melia supposed 'invitation' didn't quite fit. It was more of a summons – the kind one received when they were scheduled for execution. Her stomach had dropped when Lucio relayed the information to her. Breakfast with Yumea in an hour.

"I'm not sure," she said, keeping her voice low. "We were due to meet this evening to discuss Father's funeral rites, but… I can't imagine she would ask you to be a part of that. She doesn't trust you."

Dunban laughed. "I don't think trust has anything to do with it."

"She has her reasons." Melia didn't know why she was defending her stepmother's dislike of Homs. After the assassination plot in the Tomb, she should be wary of Yumea. Hate her, even. But she didn't. How could she hate the woman who'd raised her?

Something lodged in her throat. A thick mass of confusion and pain and fear. The air whistled through its tangles, unsatisfying in her lungs. If she coughed, she wondered if she would taste it. The thought soured her stomach.

Dunban frowned at the implications of her half-hearted defense. Or, so she assumed. He never voiced a response. But she knew he'd thought one. She could see it in the furrow of his brow, the way his eyes shifted away from her. And it reminded her of the previous day, in the armory. How he'd retreated back behind his walls when all she wanted was connection.

They hadn't discussed what happened. She didn't think they ever would.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, they arrived at the dining hall's grand door. The hammered metal towered over them. Two guards stood on either side and they welcomed the royal couple with stiff bows.

Their spears crossed in front of Lucio as he attempted to follow Melia through the door.

"Family only. Her Highness's orders."

Melia turned in time to meet Lucio's gaze. A wordless question.

When she nodded, he turned back to the door guards with a deceptively easy grin. "I suppose I'll wait out here then. In compliance with Her Majesty's orders."

She rejoined Dunban in the dining hall before Lucio's subtle jab landed. It was for the best. One didn't keep Yumea waiting. But some small part of her twinged with a longing to see how the confrontation played out. She was beginning to suspect Lucio's sexuality wasn't the only reason he found himself at odds with the other guards. Perhaps he hadn't realized that yet. Unfortunate and inconvenient, but terribly amusing.

All of her good humor dissipated once she noticed that her stepmother wasn't alone at the table. She'd nearly missed the stranger during her first pass of the dining room. The dark clothes melded into the shadows.

She didn't recognize the young woman's face. As far as she knew, they'd never met before. But her entire body lit up in warning.

The stranger watched her approach with narrowed eyes, her long headwings ruffled.

"Melia, darling, come sit beside me." Yumea waved toward the chair to her left. Directly across from the unfamiliar High Entia.

Her hand tingled with the urge to reach for Dunban. When had she become so dependent on his support? She… didn't like the feeling. Especially since she was certain it wasn't mutual. He appreciated the resources of her empire, resources that were now at his disposal. But he didn't need her.

She sank into the chair, only just managing to hold back a sigh. There was no space in her mind to think such things. And yet, she couldn't help herself. Her thoughts kept cycling back to their interaction in the armory even when she should've been focused on the present. Underneath the table, her fingers dug into her thighs.

"You look well," Yumea said, sitting up a little straighter.

She'd taken the emperor's chair for herself – the head of the table – and she seemed determined to pretend she belonged. Perfect, silky hair coiled beneath her mourning veil. The fabric had been pushed away from her face, cascading down her back instead. And her makeup would have been more appropriate for an evening ball than a breakfast. Only the strip of bandaging that peeked out from the collar of her dress broke the illusion.

This wasn't a matriarch in complete control. This was a woman on the edge of a cliff, scrabbling for purchase. Melia needed to remember that. People were always at their most dangerous when desperate.

The mysterious guest caught her attention again, though she couldn't say why. She hadn't moved, hadn't spoken; Melia's eyes were drawn to her anyway.

"I'm glad you think so." She forced her gaze back to her stepmother. "How are you?"

Yumea pursed her lips for a moment before responding. "We all must continue to live after loss. There is no other choice."

"I agree," Dunban said. His voice stood out like blood against snow.

Panic gripped Melia's heart. She should have briefed him on how to behave, how to communicate with Yumea in a productive way. As much as she tried to convince herself it didn't matter, she knew that it did. Somewhere within, she still cared about her stepmother's approval. She wanted her to like him. A childish desire, but one she couldn't deny.

"Such a sentiment must be even more poignant for Homs. Your lives are so short; it would be a shame to waste them."

"Being stuck in the past is a waste regardless of hypothetical lifespan. No one's time is guaranteed." He spoke confidently, as if he didn't realize just how lucky he'd been to avoid Yumea's ire.

Melia's anxiety eased somewhat. At least enough that her thoughts slowed down. No longer a torrential downpour of negativity, she could analyze the situation more accurately. Yumea hadn't ignored or insulted him. In fact, she'd almost acknowledged the value of Homs lives in her reply.

Perhaps it was mere misdirection, a single step in a larger scheme. Or perhaps a real connection had developed. Melia didn't dare hope.

The idle chatter continued until the final guest arrived. Nearly an hour late. Kallian hesitated as he reached the end of the table, red-rimmed eyes flitting from Dunban to the stranger beside Yumea. Even after an hour, the woman hadn't introduced herself. Nor had Yumea introduced her. She hadn't been included in the conversation either.

"Was my invitation unclear?" Yumea made no attempt to dilute her venom.

"No, Mother."

"Then perhaps you meant to insult me?"

Kallian didn't reply, which was likely the safest choice to make. Any attempt to apologize or explain could enrage Yumea further. Instead, he bowed his head, ready to take any insult she flung at him.

He used to fight back. Melia had never agreed with it; oftentimes, it was easier to simply surrender to Yumea's chastisement. But now, the absence of his protests gnawed at her. She wished he would speak up, defend himself. She didn't care if he ruined breakfast. All that mattered was catching that glimpse of the person he once was.

Nothing. No spark of defiance, no clever words.

Yumea must have felt it too. The tension fled from her shoulders and, when she spoke again, she did so quietly. Resigned. "Sit down."

Kallian obeyed the command, dropping into the seat beside the stranger.

As if drawn by the awkward air, a servant appeared from a side door. She swept around the table to take drink orders. When she got to Melia, Yumea cut in.

"The empress will have tea. I left a recipe with the kitchen staff."

All the color drained out of Melia's face. Her stomach twisted with an unease like nausea. She was almost certain that anything Yumea offered to feed her would be poisoned. Not that she could prevent it now. Her stepmother weaponized her polite nature; she knew Melia would never cause a scene with an audience. Even if that audience only consisted of her husband and her brother.

But then, there was the stranger too. Perhaps that was why she was in attendance. Extra insurance that Melia would behave the way Yumea wanted.

As the servant moved on, Melia leaned a little closer to Yumea. Her voice lowered to a murmur. "I appreciate your recommendation, of course. However, I would prefer to order for myself."

Yumea waved away the concern. "Be more gracious, darling. No one likes a woman who can't accept a gesture of goodwill."

Across the table, the stranger snickered. Melia shifted to glower at her, but found her gaze focused on Kallian instead.

"It's 8 AM," Dunban said, horrified.

Kallian rolled his eyes. "Fine. A coffee, then."

After the servant retreated to the kitchens, no one spoke. Yumea came closest to disturbing the stillness, the quiet. She stared at Kallian, fingers fidgeting with the silverware in front of her. The fake affection melted out of her expression. Her face seemed almost naked without it. All the pain she tried to hide put on display.

If Melia was a worse person, she could take advantage of that. Somewhere, she'd always known that Kallian was Yumea's weakness. She just never wanted to use him like that. But with the assassination attempt in the Tomb – and now the suspicious tea – she wasn't sure there was another option.

The servant returned a few minutes later with the drinks. She updated them on the status of the food before disappearing again.

A floral fragrance wafted up from the cup that had been placed in front of Melia. She turned her head to the side, the threat of a sneeze itching within her nose. A scent so overpowering could conceal anything. And the color, too, seemed wrong. Scarlet. Her warning bells rang louder, pitched higher.

"You suspect I would poison you?" Yumea said, voice dripping with insincere outrage. Then she smirked. "It is always wise to be cautious. Perhaps your husband would be so kind as to test it for you?"

Beside her, Dunban tensed. But his hesitation only lasted a moment. He reached for the teacup, its spindly handle almost too small for his fingers.

Melia rested her hand on his wrist and shook her head. "She's joking."

"Is she?" The question was directed at Melia, but Kallian's gaze fixed firmly on his mother. "Give it here. I'll test it."

Yumea grabbed a small pot of honey and stirred a spoonful into her drink, maintaining eye contact with Kallian all the while. "I would prefer you didn't waste the empress's tea, but do as you must."

Kallian grimaced as he took a sip, his features twisting. After a pause, he smoothed out the expression and passed the cup back to Melia.

"So it's not poisoned then? Shame."

It was the first time the stranger across from her had spoken since they'd arrived in the dining hall. The dread hit like a spear through her chest. A searing hot pain that radiated outward, utterly consuming. She wanted to run. Or scream or blast the woman with fire ether. But the horror rendered her motionless.

She knew that voice. The assassin from the Tomb.