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Zosines drops his eyes and dips his head. “My apologies, my king,” he says.

“Queen,” Memnon corrects him, and the room seems to go quieter still. “The slight was against her. She’s whom the apology is owed to.”

“I’m sorry, my queen,” Zosines says, his gaze reluctantly returning to mine. A muscle in his jaw tics. “Good night—sleep well.” As he speaks, some emotion flashes in his dark eyes, one that prickles the back of my neck.

But I’m sure it’s nothing.

“Good night,” I say to the room. And then I leave.

CHAPTER 42

ROXILANA 23, YEARS OLD

59 AD, Panticapaeum, Tauris

Roxi…

My eyes snap open, and I stare at the dark ceiling of the palace bedroom, Memnon’s voice ringing in my ears. A deep, inexplicable sense of dread has lodged itself in my marrow. Was it a bad dream that I dragged with me from sleep? Something else?

I take several shallow breaths, trying to get my bearings, and then I reach for Memnon. The other side of the bed, where my soul mate should be, is empty.

Memnon?I call down our bond.

All that comes back to me is silence.

He woke me, I’m sure of it, so where is he?

“Memnon?” I call out softly, thinking maybe he’s somewhere in this dark room. But the space feels empty, and no one answers me.

Did he stay up late to strategize future battles with his warriors and other high-ranking officials? It wouldn’t be the first time.

But if he were awake, he would answer me. He doesn’t.

I try again.

Memnon?

No response.

My heart begins to gallop, and the unsettled feeling I woke with amplifies.

Perhaps my husband fell asleep somewhere else. He doesn’t usually do that, but it’s entirely plausible. He’s been overworking and undersleeping, his mind consumed with war.

At the foot of the bed, Ferox lifts his dark head, his form merely a deeper shadow among the rest. My anxiety must be loud if it roused him from sleep. I want to tell my panther to be at ease, but I cannot—not when I’m still trying to figure out what has set me on edge.

Out the palace window, I listen to the call of a starling as I steady my breath. Even the birdcall pricks at my skin. Damn this relentless unease.

Throwing my sheet off, I move to the window and rest my hands on the stone sill, drawing in a deep breath of the briny air. I gaze down at the royal harbor and the moonlit shores of the Black Sea.

Another starling call joins the first. If I had woken up less agitated or had I not woken up at all, I would’ve easily missed it.

Starlings come in the winter, not now, in the summer, and they come in swarms of millions, not in lonely pairs.

The groans and creaks of wood have me glancing down at what I can see of the vessels moored at our docks.

I frown as my unease ratchets up.

Were those ships there earlier today? It’s too dark to be sure.