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He burst into the open air, the sudden brightness momentarily blinding after the dim interior. Drawing a deep breath, he sought the scent of home—the dry, clean smell of sand baking under twin suns. Instead, his nostrils filled with a cacophony of unfamiliar odors: the heavy sweetness of female perfumes, the savory aroma of meat cooking over coals, the musty scent of too many bodies pressed together in too small a space.

At least the formal Crestek attire he wore—slate blue tunic, dark pants, and long, hooded cloak he'd come to tolerate—allowed him to blend into the crowd. He may have been taller and broader than most Crestek males, his skin a shade more golden, but at a glance, he could pass as one of them.

Nevertheless, he felt eyes tracking his movement as he strode away from the tower and into the busy square that formed the heart of the city. Cresteks of all stations filled the wide space—nobles in elaborate robes discussing politics, merchants hawking their wares, children darting around adults in games of chase. On a normal day, he might have found it fascinating, this glimpse into the everyday life of a people he'd been taught to hate. Today, he barely noticed as he pushed through the throng, replaying his confrontation with Linnea in an endless, painful loop.

I don't need your protection! I am the chancellor of the Cresteks. I managed before you arrived, and I'll manage long after you've gone.

The market sprawled before him, stalls arranged in haphazard rows that somehow managed to form a navigable maze. A vendor offering grilled meat on skewers called out to him, the spices reminding him fleetingly of the communal meals in the Dothvek village. Another sold brightly colored fabric that shimmered in the sunlight, while a third displayed scrolls of parchment covered in the flowing script of Crestek writing.

He moved through them all, unseeing, his mind still in that council chamber with Linnea. Why had he expected her to believe him instantly? These were her advisors, Cresteks she'd worked with for years. Of course she would defend them. Of course she would question him.

But to suggest he would deliberately sabotage her...

The hurt flared anew, raw and searing. He had given her everything—his trust, his body, his heart. And in return, she had reminded him that he was nothing more than a foreign ambassador, a pawn in her political game.

And don't forget, Ambassador, that in this city, I am your superior.

The memory of those words drove him deeper into the city, away from the market square and into the warren of narrow alleys that wound between the tall stone buildings. Here, the sounds of the bustling crowds dimmed, replaced by the occasional drip of water, the scurrying of small creatures in the shadows, the distant echo of voices. The light faded too, the buildings pressed so close together that the suns' rays barely reached the street below.

The cool dimness suited his mood. He slowed his pace, letting his breathing settle, allowing the anger to ebb. In its wake came a hollow feeling, an emptiness that ached worse than the rage.

What now? Return to his quarters in the tower and pretend nothing had happened? Continue playing the role of ambassador while Linnea's advisors plotted against her? Leave the city entirely, returning to the sands where he belonged?

The thought of abandoning Linnea, even after their bitter exchange, sent a jolt of alarm through him. No, he couldn't leave—not with traitors in her inner circle, not with her safety at risk. Whatever she believed about him, whatever she felt, he could not simply walk away.

He would go back to her. He would try again, more calmly this time. He would present the evidence of what he'd heard, appeal to her intelligence rather than her emotions. And if she still rejected his warning...

He stopped, suddenly aware that he had wandered farther than intended. The alley had narrowed, the buildings pressing in on either side like the walls of a canyon. The sounds of the market had faded completely, replaced by an eerie silence broken only by his own breathing.

Where was he? He had paid little attention to his direction, too consumed by his thoughts to mark his path. The stone buildings all looked the same to him, and he could barely see the sky or locate the position of the suns. He could navigate easily on the sands, even when dunes stretched endlessly in all directions, but this unfamiliar city with looming walls was a different matter.

He turned, intending to retrace his steps, when a prickling sensation crept up his spine—the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

His warrior's instincts, dulled by weeks of diplomatic pretense, sharpened instantly. He kept his movements casual, as if he were merely a Crestek who had taken a wrong turn, while his senses strained to locate the observer.

Nothing moved in the shadowy alley. No footsteps echoed off the stone, no breathing disturbed the silence. Yet the feeling persisted, growing stronger with each heartbeat.

He was not alone.

Years of training on the sands had taught him to trust this instinct above all others. It had saved his life during sand serpent attacks, warned him of approaching sand storms, alerted him to the presence of fellow Dothveks sneaking up on him during battle practice.

Someone—or something—was watching him from the shadows.

He let his hand drift casually to his side, reaching for a blade that wasn't there. In his haste to leave the tower, he had forgotten that he no longer carried weapons as part of his diplomatic role. The realization sent a cold chill through him.

For the first time since arriving in the Crestek city, he was truly vulnerable—far from allies, unarmed, in an unfamiliar part of the city where few would hear a struggle.

And someone was definitely watching him.

ChapterTwenty-Seven

Linnea paced the length of her office, each step a sharp echo against the stone floor. The hot pulse of anger was already fading, leaving a throb of regret in its place.

Was Zexx trying to undermine her? Drive a wedge between her and her advisors? The thought made her stomach twist with a sick mixture of hurt and betrayal.

But even as the suspicion swirled, she knew it wasn't true.

When he'd stood before her, handsome face lined with concern, telling her what he'd overheard, she had felt the truth of his words. Not just heard them—felt them, as if they were her own memories rather than his recounting. The same inexplicable connection that let her sense his emotions, that tied them together in ways she couldn't begin to understand, had carried his honesty to her with undeniable clarity.