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“I should’ve known you were picky with your partners,” she said, scoffing.

Dom sneered back at her, his annoyance palpable, all but rolling off his shoulders. He seemed more animal than immortal again, his teeth too sharp in the candlelight.

“I won’t even try to count how many would eagerly join you this evening,” he bit out, his eyes on the crowd.

“That isn’t a compliment,” she answered. “Half these men would fuck a tree stump without a second thought.”

Sorasa watched him wince, his lip curling with distaste. It rankled something in her, and her grip tightened on her drink, the glass threatening to shatter.

“I’ve seen you cut people in half, Domacridhan,” she snapped. “Don’t tell me a few curse words and a few inches of skin have you so rattled.”

“I am hardly rattled,” he said neatly, his face going blank as if to prove a point. But like Corayne, he had little practice with masks. His cheeks were still flushed, pale pink blooming around his scars.

“Be careful with the gorzka.” Sorasa took a step back, curtsying better than any courtier. Then she swallowed down the liquor in a single motion. “It sneaks up on you.”

He growled in her wake, but did not follow her, content to letthe crowd close between them as she stalked away. The gorzka blazed down her throat, stinging and soothing in equal measure. Sorasa yearned for another but ignored the many glasses around the hall, grabbing a corner of bread instead. She choked it down as she navigated the crowd. Like Dom, a mouth full of food was just as useful in keeping away conversation.

Brawling soldiers barreled past, forcing her to weave between the tables. Two Treckish nobles clasped hands, their elbows braced, each trying to force the other’s hand over. Another Treckish tradition.

She almost jumped when Charlie crossed her path, a glass of wine in hand. Her stomach twisted. Looking at him was like looking backward in time.

Charlie was done up in the finest clothes the castle of Volaska had to offer—a gold brocade vest over pale orange silk, fur-lined boots, and a fine pendant dangling from his neck. His brown hair was loose and freshly washed, curling past his shoulder blades, his face clean-shaven again after weeks of travel.

This was the Charlon Armont she remembered meeting two years ago. A fugitive already, a legend in the making. Barely twenty years old, and somehow the best forger in half the Ward, both respected for and dangerous with his gift.

Part of her expected Garion to slink out of the crowd, his thin dueling sword at his belt, his half grin reserved for Charlie and Charlie alone. The Amhara assassin and the fallen priest made a formidable pair, deadly with blade and ink. But Garion was not here.At least he isn’t dead with the others, his corpse left to feed the crows.

For that Sorasa was grateful. And she knew Charlie was too.

Charlie furrowed his brow, meeting her gaze. “Something wrong?” he asked, his voice bringing her back to the world around them. The easy smile on his lips fell a little.

She shook her head, chasing off the memories. “Nothing.”

But Charlie leaned closer. He nudged her shoulder with his glass. “No drink?”

“Not yet. I must stay sharp.” Sorasa’s eyes roved the chamber again, each shadow a potential danger. Nothing escaped her attention. “If another Amhara comes, I want to be ready.”

Charlie’s smile dropped entirely. His round brown eyes went impossibly dark, even in the torchlight. Slowly, he sipped his wine. Not to savor the taste, but to collect himself.

“And if Garion steps out of the shadows?” he said, his voice too low, strangled with emotion. “What then?”

Sorasa wanted to take the glass from his hand and drain it down. She kept still instead, holding his black stare.

“I don’t think that’s my choice to make,” she murmured. In her heart, she prayed such a thing would not come to pass. “It’s yours.”

The fallen priest finished his wine. He studied the empty glass, letting the facets catch the flickering light. A rainbow played between his fingers, and his eyes went far away. To where, Sorasa knew.

A different place, in a different life.

He gritted his teeth. “I suppose that’s the best I can hope for.”

“Hope,” Sorasa scoffed. She forced a grin and knocked him with her shoulder. “You’re starting to sound like Corayne and Andry.”

Charlie’s smile returned, sharper and smaller. But still there.He clutched at his heart, rolling his eyes. “How you wound me, Sarn.”

It took some shouldering and well-placed elbows, but Sorasa finally slipped through the throng around the prince’s table. Tonight Oscovko wore his crown, a braided band of old iron and copper across his brow. His wolf fur was gone, replaced by a black overcoat and leather breeches. White wolves ran the length of his sleeves, his collar unlaced to show the top of his chest, his collarbone, and a thick gold chain. He sat on the tabletop, his heavy boots on the bench, the fawning soldiers of his war camp ringed around him. Sigil was still at his table, a massive tankard of ale in her hand, but she sipped it slowly and quietly. Far from her usual behavior.

“Everything all right?” Sorasa said, drawing up beside her. She eyed the ale with worry.