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Tasheem guides them to a gentle incline, until the glow of sconces can be seen ahead, and then she stops.

“There you go,” she says, gesturing to the open archway into the palace halls. “Adrik will be in the old King’s chambers, I’d imagine. You would know where those are, Ryon?”

Ryon frowns at Tasheem, who is already retracing her steps away from the entrance. “You won’t accompany us?”

“Not I,” she says, and Ryon detects a note of sourness. “I’ve been tasked with duties elsewhere.”

His frown deepens. “Tasked by who?”

“Adrik, of course,” Tasheem answers. It is difficult to see her expression, though Ryon knows her well enough to read her tone. He imagines her eyes dulling, her jaw tense. Fighting to hide her frustration.

“I need you here,” Ryon argues. “We have matters to discuss.” Adrik might be considered the highest elder of the Council, but Ryon is the leader of the Izgoi rebellion. It counts for something.

Tasheem hesitates only a moment before her grin returns. “Oh, fearless leader, our good fortune that you’ve returned.”

“Shut it,” Ryon mutters, shoving her ahead of him.

“Although we hardly expected your return to take this long,” Tasheem adds, leading them through the palace’s stone halls. “I take it the Queens were not interested in your deal?”

Dawsyn laughs bitterly behind Ryon, and it seems to tell Tasheem all she needs to know. She smirks and walks ahead, sparing Ryon further questions.

A sense of dread befalls him as they continue through the palace, entering King Vasteel’s old living quarters and coming closer and closer to the receiving room. Ryon has walked this path a thousand times as a servant to the fallen king – delivering messages, accepting demands, no matter how heinous. Now he walks it freely, not heeding the summons of his enemy. It should feel liberating, satisfying; and yet, it only feels… wrong.

They turn the last corner to find a human – thin, pallid, and dressed in the garb of the slaves – shutting a door behind him. He meets Ryon’s eye and, frightened, diverts his gaze to the ground instead, shuffling past the group with a tray in his hands.

Like nothing has changed at all.

“Gerrot?” Dawsyn calls suddenly, her hand outstretched as though she means to stop him.

The man hesitates, his frail arms unsteady beneath the tray. Dawsyn wears a look of confusion. “What are you doing? Whom do you serve?”

There is a loud clatter, then riotous groans and cheers alike from beyond the door. At the sound, Gerrot hastens away.

Dawsyn makes as though she would follow him, but then looks back to Ryon instead, and penetrates him with a glare that promises blood.

Mother above, help the one who puts that look on her face,he thinks.

Ryon hesitates before entering the receiving room, Adrik presumedly on the other side, in the old king’s living quarters.

As though a new king now claims it.

“Ryon?” Baltisse queries, perhaps gleaning pieces of his mind. He pulls away from the tumble of his thoughts, and realises that his companions are staring at him, waiting on him. Most of all, Dawsyn, whose gaze is not only curious, but concerned. Wary. He can almost hear her voice, read her mind.What is happening?

Ryon straightens his shoulders, lifts his chin, and nods to Tasheem, who knocks upon the receiving room door, as though she needs permission to enter.

Ryon’s skin grows cold.

Within, the room is as Ryon remembers. There is a drawing desk, high-backed chairs. The shelves that once contained old Glacian weapons and relics now contain only dust and the occasional abandoned chalice. The receiving room is full. At least a dozen members of the Council and Izgoi lounge on the furniture, drinking ale and laughing. A casual scene, one of merriment, and yet it draws attention to Tasheem’s stark discomfort.

She remains by the door, straight-backed and tight-lipped. She looks purposefully away from the men within. These are her comrades, herfriends. She has drunk and celebrated with this lot for years, alongside Ryon. What could cause her such stress to see them here?

“Mesrich!” comes a voice. It booms above the raucous laughter of the others, halting their conversations, and all turn to Ryon, their faces ruddy with drink.

Adrik rises from his seat behind the desk – the king’s seat. He strides to Ryon, great feet clunking across the floor, arms wide. “You’re alive! You elusive son of a brute!” He turns to another man. “You owe me that drink, Sailus. I told you he’d return.”

Adrik clasps Ryon’s shoulders. He huffs as the weight of Adrik’s hands fall on him, heavy with drunken carelessness. At the contact, there is a small tendril of awareness that raises its head – the last remnants of Ryon’s fading iskra, perhaps. Why it stirs now, Ryon cannot understand.

“Are you well, Mesrich? What’s the matter? Did the Queens extend their hand in friendship and welcome you and our lot into Terrsaw?” He chuckles soundly.