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“Lord Elder,” he ground out, his voice heavily accented with sharp Treckish. “I challenge you to the table.”

Sorasa fought a barking laugh, biting her lip shut.

Beside her, Dom went pale. Instead of preening like the lord, he looked like he wanted to jump out the nearest window.

“Oh yes, Lord Elder,” the redheaded lady said, jumping to his side. He flinched when she took his arm, her green eyes going starry. “We have all heard legends of your immortal strength. Show us.”

Sorasa bit harder, nearly drawing blood.

“I beg your pardon,” Dom said, stumbling over his words. He looked between the lord and the woman, both of them gesturing to the match table. More than a few heads rose, eager to see the immortal prince in action. Gingerly, he removed himself from the lady’s grasp, peeling her fingers off his arm.

“It is not my way,” he finally offered, bowing his head to the lord. “The Vedera do not take part in”—he eyed the table, pointing vaguely—“this.”

“But it isourway, Elder,” the lord said gruffly, pressing forward, his voice a little more firm. Far harder than Sorasa liked.

“It is the way of the Temur too,” she said neatly, slipping between them. Her mask rose, easy to don, even after so many years. With a soft smile and a bat of her eyelashes, Sorasa took the lord’s arm, her movements quick and deliberate. “Sigil of the Temurijon has bested all upon the table. Has she bested you, my lord?”

The Treckish man looked down at Sorasa, going doe-eyed. Then he grinned, forcing down his wine. “No, she has not,” he ground out, stomping off with Sorasa still on his arm.

She caught a flash of gold out of the corner of her eye as Dom followed, close as the folds of a cloak.

“May I have this dance, Temur?” the lord said, pulling another man off the bench in front of Sigil. He sat without invitation, hugging Sorasa close with one arm while bracing the other for the match.

Sigil eyed Sorasa first, her expression unreadable. Sorasa could only smirk.

“Don’t break his hand,” she said in Ibalet, and Sigil grinned.

Thirty seconds later the lord limped away, cradling his wrist. Sigil could only shrug.

“We can’t fight an army if you cripple our own soldiers,” Sorasa hissed.

“You didn’t say anything about the wrist,” she protested, forcing out an apology.

It was Oscovko who answered, coming up behind the Amhara with his oddly quiet steps. He took the bench.

“Shall we settle this, Sigil of the Temurijon?” he said, planting his elbow. “It seems you and I are the last ones upon the table.”

Indeed, the benches had emptied, leaving only the Temur bounty hunter and the Prince of Trec.

The rest of the great hall looked on, the crowd dizzy with competition and heat and wine. Most cheered for their prince, slapping their hands on the table or their thighs, beating out the rhythm of a war drum. It spread through the feast, thumping like a rush of blood, until even Sorasa wanted to join in. But she refrained, stepping back from the table to watch with the rest of them.

Corayne shouted above the noise, collecting a few last bets for Charlie, with Andry acting as go-between. Valtik had reappeared at some point during the evening. She crouched in the corner, barely a blue-eyed shadow, cracking bones between her teeth. And Dom deflated, glad to be ignored.

A muscle worked in Sigil’s jaw, her face thrown into sharp relief by the many torches. Her bronze skin seemed to glow, her eyes dancing with the light. She pushed back the usual lock of hair from her eye and set her elbow, her palm offered to the prince. If she felt the pressure of the moment, she didn’t show it. Her grin returned, half-wild.

The prince matched her smile and took her hand, his fingers closing over her own, their palms pressed together. The rough edge of his stubbled cheek lifted, one corner of his mouth curling into a half smirk.

“For Trec!” he bellowed, to the delight of the hall.

“For the Ward!” she answered, to another resounding cheer.

Both grunted, and the match began, their faces going red in unison, their brows set into deep, unyielding lines. Oscovko puffed out a breath, his knuckles white beneath his skin, as the muscles stood out in Sigil’s forearm, her own breath coming hard. She gritted her teeth, their hands trembling together, neither side budging an inch.

“Oscovko! Oscovko!” the Treckish shouted around the room, clanging cups and slamming tables. Sorasa was reminded of the tavern brawl in Adira. “The White Wolf of Trec!”

“Sigil!” Sorasa felt herself cheer in reply, raising her voice so it carried. “Sigaalbeta Bhur Bhar!”

At the sound of her full Temur name, Sigil’s eyes flashed, her teeth wearing at the edge of her lip. She blew out another steadying breath and kept fighting, throwing her full weight into her fist. Oscovko let out a groan of pain, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. His face was beet red now, brighter than a swath of fresh blood. His muscles worked at his collar, tight beneath his skin.