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The plan to enter the palace feels, to Dawsyn at least, patched with luck and risk.

There is no time to rest, to wait. Word will eventually reach the palace that a sentry is missing, and it will not take them long before they begin razing the Colony in search of Ryon. The window in which they must strike is narrow and closing quickly.

Adrik leaves the tent to raise the other elders from their sleep. Somehow, eight of them, as well as Ryon and Dawsyn, manage to cram into the tight space. Some are forced to sit on Adrik’s sleeping pallet.

The mixed Glacians are startling in their differences. A woman enters with black hair braided to her waist, her skin as deep as Ryon’s. Another has spotted constellations of freckles and curled blond hair, his beard auburn. Some, she learns, do not have wings at all. The only thing that they share, Dawsyn supposes, is their size. But even with it, she imagines they would pass easily as humans in the valley.

“Take the north side. The walls are always in shadow.”

“There is a weakened gate not a yard from the guard post. It won’t be too trying to bring it down.”

They argue back and forth and refine plans that, Dawsyn knows, were made long before she was ever hauled off the Ledge. She listens to the growing rumble of their excitement. A shared fervor exists here, in this sagging tent. She imagines its walls must know their plotting well. The fabric must have absorbed the sounds of their strategy for years. Longer. She sees the comfort with which each member here sits and speaks and recognizes that this singular place has held their hope for freedom, for liberation, for longer than she has lived.

And she is an intruder to it.

“Your human can stay in my tent until the fray is over,” the woman named Tasheem says suddenly, drawing Dawsyn from her contemplation. The woman nods to her, a gesture of propriety.

“Thank you,” Ryon tells her. “But Dawsyn will come. She will fight.”

Immediate silence greets his words. Tasheem’s eyes narrow momentarily, and then a slow smile appears along her swarthy cheek. She takes stock of Dawsyn with new understanding, and winks.

One of the mixed gawks openly at Ryon, a sound of contempt leaving him.

“Mesrich, my friend, surely, you see the disadvantage in having her amid the fray? It is best if you are not worrying for her safety.”

“I will worry, but I needn’t. Dawsyn is well trained. She killed Glacians to reach the valley and then even more once we were there. I assure you, she will be valuable.”

“But should she be condemned to a fight not her own? We have enough bodies here stronger than hers, with advantages that she does not possess.” Adrik turns to Dawsyn then. “I mean no offense, girl. Only to spare you.”

“She is the last living descendant of the human royals. The ones Vasteel killed and threw to the Ledge. This fight is as much hers as it is ours.”

As one, the council elders turn to look at her, new curiosity widening their eyes.

“A princess?” Adrik asks.

“No,” Dawsyn returns, her voice stony. “The crown was overthrown in Terrsaw when a woman made a deal with your king.”

At that, Adrik’s complexion turns red with ire. “He is notourking, girl. Such claims will have you thrown out on your ass.”

A dark grin forms on Dawsyn’s face. “I beg you to try.”

Ryon’s fists clench in suppressed rage. Several of the councilmen stand, the call of pending violence stirring them. But Adrik, after an immeasurable moment, chuckles. The sound serves to break the tension.

“She has a certain spirit about her, no?” he asks of Ryon.

Ryon still looks as though he might level him with his fists. “I’d call it aggression.”

Dawsyn eyes the men and women each in turn, their shoulders touching in the small space. “Both of our people share a common enemy. I won’t ask your permission to join the revolt, but I can promise not to spoil it,” she says. “There is no life for me until he is dead.”

“And what of your people?” asks Tasheem, her black eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“I won’t ask for your concern on their part,” she says. “If Vasteel’s court falls, I will do what I must to ensure they are freed.”

“I’m glad,” Adrik tells her. “I’m afraid the Izgoi will not be at your disposal to remove your friends from their camp.”

“Theirprison,” Dawsyn clarifies. “And I wouldn’t trust you not to drop them into the Chasm.”

“Morning is coming,” Tasheem interjects. “We haven’t time for this.”