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“Good day,” she tells them, setting the crate down. “Why do I get the impression you three are off to burn bridges and torch castles?”

“Where can we find Adrik?” asks Dawsyn.

“Ah,” Tasheem nods. “Straight to the heart of it, then. Good for you. May I join?”

“Only if you lead us to him,” Dawsyn allows. She does not claim to know Tasheem well, but she suspects the female did not cast her vote against Ryon’s. Baltisse looks to Dawsyn warily.Relax,Dawsyn thinks at her.

“Tasheem? May I ask a favour?” Dawsyn asks as they walk.

Tasheem looks over to her, her head titled with curiosity. “Of course.”

“Will you fly me to the Ledge, this day?”

Tasheem does not halt, merely lowers her head, as though ashamed. “I can’t imagine why you would want me to, but if you truly wish it, it’s the least anyone of us can do.”

Tasheem leads them to the throne room, where many of the Izgoi sit to break their fast or converge in groups. It seems most have inhabited the palace in favour of the Pure Village. Amongst them, before the vacant throne, is the Pool of Iskra, churning with sluggish obligation, and surrounded by a makeshift fence of what appears to be iron gates. Dawsyn wonders briefly what doorways in the palace they took them from.

She does not get a moment to take in more, for at the entrance stands Ryon.

Her eyes find his as he turns, and the pair still momentarily.

Why must her mind stutter when he is near?

Ryon tears his eyes away from hers, and they fall on the rest of their group. Dawsyn watches him grow curious, and then wary. “Dawsyn,” he asks, looking at her again. “What do you plan?”

“What makes you think we plan?”

He frowns. “A hunch.”

She looks to the place where Adrik stands amongst a group of Izgoi, deep in discussion. “Some of us have come to speak with Adrik one last time, others have come only to listen,” she says, nodding to the mage. “And then Baltisse and Ruby will need to be flown back to Terrsaw. Tasheem will take me to the Ledge.”

Ryon’s eyes flit to Tasheem and harden. “Tasheem?” He murmurs, before facing Dawsyn again. “No.”

“It is not for you to decide.”

But Ryon steps forward. “I will see that you are safe.”

“Tasheem is perfectly capable,” Dawsyn argues. “She will take me home.”

Ryon comes close. Too close, his hand hovering dangerously over hers. “That place… is not yourhome,” he murmurs, his breath a little too rough, his voice a little too quiet.

She breathes in his scent, feels the cold radiate from his skin, heady and threatening. She hears what he wants to say and is grateful that he doesn’t voice it.

He is not her home anymore either.

She walks onward, and leaves him once more in her wake.

Adrik sees Dawsyn and the others approach, despite all the activity in the room. He steps away from his fellows, and approaches them, arms wide in welcome.

“Miss Sabar! I must apologise the vote did not fall in your favour. I assume Ryon has told you already.”

“He has,” she says, as Baltisse comes to stand beside her.

“There is much to rebuild, here in Glacia,” Adrik says. “We can reconsider at a later date, to be sure.”

“And while my people on the Ledge await your consideration,” Dawsyn mutters, irritation licking its way into her mouth, “will you ensure they are supplied, as your predecessor did?

“Predecessor? I am hardly a king, miss,” he says, chuckling lightly. “But of course, we will continue to provide for them. I do not, of course, wish them to suffer.”