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He rounded on the approaching Companions with a glare like living fire, black eyes bright in the dim hall. Like the Heir, he had ebony hair, wound back in a single braid, its tail held with a circle of blue lapis.

He looked down a long, elegant nose, one side of his mouth curling with distaste.

“You took your time, Commander,” he said, his gaze flickering to lin-Lira.

The leader of the Falcons dipped his brow, touching his forehead in a small salute. “Our guests were not accustomed to our...pace,” he answered, choosing his words carefully.

Still, he drew a barely veiled snarl from Sigil.

“I’ve not ridden so slowly since childhood,” she grumbled under her breath. Thankfully, the bounty hunter fell silent as the Heir stood, rising from the carpeted ground.

The Heir had the same coloring as the dragon guard, andthe same piercing glare.They must be siblings,Corayne thought, glancing between them. Both were furious in their bearing, not beautiful but striking, like living statues of bronze and jet. Gold glimmered on the Heir’s fingers, wrists, and neck. They wore no jewels, but countless chains thin as thread, all bright as the mirror.

Corayne knew others like the Heir, those who were neither man nor woman, or somewhere in between. Remembering her manners, Corayne dipped into a shaky bow, the best she could muster for an Ibalet royal.

“I saw your coming. I felt your presence in the shifting of the wind, in the disturbance of the sacred Shiran,” the Heir said, their voice firm. For a moment, their gaze passed over them all, taking in each Companion from head to toe. Then their coal-black eyes settled, staring directly into Corayne’s own.

“Corayne an-Amarat.”

The Heir of Ibal raised their chin.

Never had Corayne’s own name felt like a blow. She clenched her jaw, trying to look as fearsome as the rest of the Companions.

Sorasa stepped forward, arms crossed over her lean frame. At the Heir’s side, their brother’s hand strayed to his sword hilt. Like the Falcons, he noted her tattoos and her dagger, clear hallmarks of an Amhara assassin.

“Funny,” Sorasa replied, shrugging. “We must have missed the welcome party, Isadere.”

“Address my sibling by their rightful title or not at all, snake,” the dragon soldier barked. His fingers closed and he drew the first inches of his sword from its sheath, showing naked, flashing steel.

To Corayne’s right, Dom went for his own sword, faster thanthe mortals could fathom. He did not draw, but the giant Elder was menacing enough, and even the Heir’s brother fell back on his heels.

Sorasa’s eyelids barely fluttered. “You see the irony of that statement, don’t you, Sibrez?” She took another step. “And what title should I address you by? Royal Bastard?”

For a moment, Corayne thought Sibrez would draw on the Amhara. Until the Heir stepped between them, lips pursed. Isadere glared but said nothing. Instead they waved off their brother with a flap of their brown hands, their fingers long and elegant. Smooth. Unblemished by work or war.

Sibrez bowed, releasing his sword, though a muscle trembled in his cheek.

Isadere’s attention snapped back to Corayne, their eyes locking together.

“You have Corblood in your veins,” Isadere said, circling. Their feet were bare on the rich carpets, making no noise at all. The tent was shockingly quiet compared to the thunder of hooves across the desert.

Corayne bit her lip. Even though the proof of it lay behind them in the oasis, in the Spindleblade itself, she still felt uneasy with the knowledge of her father’s bloodline. With strangers, and in her own heart.

“Only half,” she forced out.

Each step brought Isadere closer, until they were only a yard away. Corayne smelled the perfumed oil they wore, jasmine and sandalwood.Imported from Rhashir,she knew, thinking of the long journey a priceless little bottle made before the oil came to rest on a royal’s wrist.

“But it is the Corblood that drives you, pushes you forward into the unknown,” Isadere said, their eyes wide and penetrating. Corayne tried not to fidget under their examination. “That’s what I learned in my lessons anyway. That the descendants of Old Cor are restless, children of different stars, wayward and always searching for a home they will never find.” The Heir looked to Dom next, angling their head. He did not move. “They say the same of the Elders too. I see Glorian in your eyes, Immortal.”

Dom pulled a miraculous face somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “I am Wardborn, Your Highness. My eyes have never seen Glorian.”

The Heir smiled, showing too many teeth. Like a shark. “But it lives in you,” they said, shrugging. “Same as the goddess lives in me.

“Lasreen’s light tells me many things—riddles, mostly,” Isadere continued, spreading their hands wide. Their long sleeves trailed, the threads glittering like stars in a royal blue sky. “Confusing until they are already past, and then the line can be traced backward. But on one thing, the goddess is infinitely clear.”

They held up a finger banded with gold. Behind them, the last rays of sunset glowed in the mirror. “The realm is in grave danger. The Ward is ready to fall.”

Corayne ground her teeth together.Is this what we wasted so much time on? Another royal who loves nothing more than the sound of their own voice telling us what we already know?