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Sorasa had her uses, this Domacridhan knew too well. They would have never escaped the dungeons without her knowledge, her wiles, or her simple endurance. To suffer long days without food or water, let alone after torture, and still fight. It was more than admirable. Immortal as he was, Dom could not fathom the pain she faced then, or the pain she ignored now.

But still he hated her.

For Corayne.

Sorasa’s plea was worse than a knife in the gut, worse than any betrayal he once believed her capable of. Because there was no fighting it. Her logic was sound, her reasoning inarguable. Stoic as he looked, Dom raged inside. He felt chained again, back in that infernal cell. Only now his bars were Sorasa Sarn. She alone kept him from leaving the storeroom and climbing up the servant stair, to wait in the Queen’s chambers for one last chance at redemption. Taristan was invincible still, but without his Spindleblade. Perhaps the loss of it was enough, a single chink in his otherwise demonic armor.

Even Dom knew it was a foolish hope.

Sorasa is right, he knew, cursing her for it.

Raging against Sarn was familiar, at least. An easy crutch to lean on, an easy fuel to burn.

But it didn’t make waiting any less torturous. Dom listened intently to the feast above, trying to pick familiar voices out from the scrape of plates and chairs. It was no use. Too many heartbeats, too many bodies. He suspected hundreds of courtiers sat above them, eager to welcome their ruinous queen home. He hated Erida too, little that he knew of her. Her marriage to Taristan was enough. She willingly tied herself to a beast in mortal skin, all for a few jewels in a crown.

He focused on footsteps instead, tracking the courtiers as they finished dinner and the servants in the halls nearby. The guards were easiest to pick out, their footsteps heavy with the weight of weapons and chain mail. A contingent of knights clanked overhead, marching out of the hall and up a grand stair. Dom bit his lip, listening hard. Lighter footsteps followed the knights up the tower, to the royal residence and a distant bedchamber high above.

Erida and Taristan, he knew. His stomach turned, skin crawling with every step they climbed. Until the sound of them faded away, even the clatter of the knights lost to his immortal ears.

It took all his will to stay put, to listen.

And to wait.

Sorasa and Sigil were right about the Temur. Even Dom could admit that. The Emperor was still the greatest obstacle in Erida and Taristan’s path.

Besides Corayne.

Dom’s heart clenched. He thought of Corayne, wherever she might be, alone and wandering through the wilderness. He knew little of sending magic but reached for a whisper of it anyway, letting the ache in hischest guide. He found only darkness in the corners of his mind, only fear and doubt. Corayne was beyond his protection.

For now, he told himself, growling low in his throat.For now.

Shouts echoed distantly, booted feet rushing overhead, and Dom grimaced.

“Fire!” one of them shouted.

“It’s time,” he said reluctantly, donning his helmet.

Across the storeroom, Sorasa squinted over the cache of liquor, each bottle a little glass jewel. She paused in her examination to survey Dom, her copper glare spearing him through his armor.

“Keep to the plan,” she warned. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Sigil nodded without hesitation.

After a long, excruciating moment, Dom did too. He did not doubt Sorasa Sarn, not anymore.

His faith flagged anyway. Not in the bounty hunter. Not in the assassin.

But in his own immortal heart.

The New Palace was mostly as he remembered it. Gilded and polished, fit for the wealthiest mortal kingdom in the Ward. But there were far more roses than before. Woven into tapestries, blooming from vases. Beneath his helmet, Dom sneered at them, the thorns winding around the paws of the Gallish lion, a rose in its roaring mouth. He wanted it all to burn, and Taristan with it.

Sigil ran alongside him, her steps swaying and off balance. She played the part of a drunk well, as Dom played the part of the knight.

Up ahead, the guards around the great hall were already in chaos, rushing back and forth.

“Fire in the old keep,” one of them shouted, pointing back along the passageways.

Another spotted Dom on the approach. His eyes swept past Sigil entirely and he dipped into a low bow. The other guards mirrored him quickly, deferential to a knight of the Lionguard.