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walls to brave the wilds with the hope of rebuilding a new empire. I am unsure of their success. The only promise of

civilization are nomadic tribes who wander these lands. I overheard that they have already chosen a name for this

theoretical new country.

Respar.

"The Tragic History of Julra," by High Scholar Yuret Wend, Year 38 of Ber's First Reign

Asleek, black carriage pulled by two matching kisterals slowed to a stop on the street corner I’d indicated to Prince Irin, and the driver stepped down from his seat with a flick of his tailcoats. He bowed his head politely to my covered form and held a hand out silently for the parasol grasped lightly in my right hand. It didn't have much use in the waning light, but the tip was a concealed knife I planned to use if the prince decided to be wily. There was no way I was giving it up easily. "Please allow me to take that from you, my lady," he offered in a quiet tone.

Instead, I skirted him and walked up to the flank of the six-legged kisteral. With a light touch, I placed my hand on the soft fur at its back to keep from spooking it. It huffed and shook its shaggy head, but didn’t seem to mind me petting it. Slowly, I made my way up to its long neck—stretching taller than me by half—and gave it a good scratch at the bend of its shoulders. Kisterals were believed to have been a crossbreed of the long-necked kismes of Julra and their stockier cousins the hatrals from Golath. Many of Respar’s stock came from Julran refugees who’d brought them over during the Frigid War. Digging my gloved fingers deep into its silky fur brought back many memories of my childhood, grooming my own with my sister in the stables. The very stubborn kisteral I owned now was named after said sister, in honor of their similar dispositions, and lived in the stables out behind The Hanging Cat.

“Excuse me.” The driver cleared his throat slightly. “I’m afraid you may run late to the ball if we stay here much longer. Can I assist you inside?” He held his hand out again for the parasol.

My face was hidden behind a dark veil, but I gave a grateful smile regardless and folded it closed. "Apologies and thank you, but I will keep it for now. I appreciate the accommodation, meeting me here. I'm sure the request was odd."

"Not at all, please step inside." The driver bowed again and leaned to open the carriage door. It swung on silent hinges, the interior all lush with crushed velvet in the royal colors of deep blue and gold. I wasn't expecting the shined pair of black riding boots attached to legs clad in pants that clung enticingly to every muscle.

“Good evening, Your Highness.”

Irin’s face was half covered with a likeness of a black rinhound, the bottom half of his face visible beneath a lupine snout wrinkled in a snarl. He held a gloved hand out to take mine, and the pure white fabric was a comical contrast to my own outfit. I looked like I was a dark spirit come back to haunt him.

"Good evening, Haron. You look lovely tonight." His voice was warm and low, intimate in the small space as I laid my hand lightly on his.

"That wasn’t the intention but thank you all the same." I tried to keep my tone cordial, but there were still a couple of jagged edges. “You also look the perfect image of a prince.”

"You have me all figured out." The begrudging mirth in Irin's voice was obvious. I made sure to gather all my skirts around my legs tucked close so the driver could close the door. Irin took in the rest of my appearance with an appreciative smile. "I should have known you would hide your face with a veil instead of a mask. Not much of a rule follower, are you?"

“Maybe I’m in mourning.”

He scoffed. “Last I checked, mourning women don’t attend socials.”

“You’re right,” I answered casually. “But they attend wakes. It’s only appropriate, since Trisne never received one.”

Irin’s eyes widened in surprise behind his canine-looking mask. The way it was molded gave the impression of fur, without actually having fur attached to it. Whoever had made it was a master in the craft; the texture carved into its surface looked so real I wanted to reach out and touch it.

“Am I going to regret agreeing to bring you tonight?”

“Possibly. But I’m sure I can make it up to you later.”

Admittedly, the little princeling was looking delicious tonight. Except for the pure white of his gloves, he was clad entirely in deep vermillion with sparse gold accents, mainly the family crest pin on his chest and woven chords looped across his shoulders denoting his royal status. His overcoat had the light sheen of crushed velvet, and beneath it poked the high collar of a black tunic adorned with smooth, gold buttons down the front. His white-blonde hair was smoothed back from the rakish style before, exposing the bronzed olive skin and hazel eyes associated with the majority of the Resparian populace.

“Fair enough.” he reached over, slower this time to show his intentions, and pried my wrist away from where I pressed it on my lap over the parasol. “I do, however, have a little something I’d like you to wear. To show that you are my guest.”

Before I could balk, Irin slipped a wristlet of flowers—three full blooms bound together with sprigs of white buds nestled in between—over my fist and adjusted it to face upward. They weren’t just any flowers, though. A thread of trepidation tangled itself around my lungs and squeezed. “Wiranblood and haronhock? That’s a bold choice.”

He leaned back to his side of the carriage, a smug grin on his stupidly handsome face. “I thought it was fitting.” He tapped thematching pair pinned on his chest, a single wiranblood with its ruffled petals spread wide and almost blended into his overcoat. “Consider it a sign of good faith, at least for the duration of our… working relationship. I know to respect a strong spellcaster when I see one. Especially a necromancer.”

I hummed noncommittally. “Such a revolutionary thinker.”

“I think my respect is born more out of self-preservation.” Irin barked a laugh. The carriage jolted a bit, the sound clearly startling the kisterals that pulled it. “You’re not a very discreet person, Haron Val Toric, despite your best efforts. And I think you owe my general a sincere apology for traumatizing him the last time you met at Pid’s estate.”

I snorted. “You should have sent someone who could actually blend in instead of that bumbling giant. Even I knew he was an imposter. Which leads me to my other question. What business didyouhave, sending your oaf to go investigate?”

Irin scoffed, clearly amused by my low opinion of Beolf. "That's my childhood friend you speak of. Don't think I'll hold him back if he decides to knock your head off your shoulders for being rude." He folded his leg neatly, resting his ankle on the opposite knee and leaning back into the cushioned bench. "And as for my own investigation, I have reason to believe Jinon has been evading taxation to the crown for several years now. So it seems we both have reason to not trust him."

Trying to fold my arms again was difficult with this ridiculous little wrist decoration. It rankled me. “So it would seem. Knowing what you do now about Trisne, have you given any thought to detaining Jinon for interrogation?”