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Lore stopped for a moment, studying the tapestry. It was strange to see all seven islands depicted. The smoke from the Godsfall obscured all but the first two from view, now, and the Golden Mount was functionally a myth, with countless voyagers lost as they searched for it in the smog. Five hundred years, and the ash still hadn’t cleared.

A soft touch on her elbow. Gabriel nodded forward, where Malcolm and Anton were about to turn a corner. Lore lurched forward to follow, tearing herself away from Apollius and Nyxara.

Around the corner, a huge set of double doors appeared, even more gilt-and-jewel-encrusted than the Citadel’s main entrance. Bloodcoat guards lined the hall, all of them inclining their heads in a bow when Anton appeared. The Priest Exalted paid them no mind, facing forward as the bloodcoats at the end of the line pushed the double doors open.

The throne room beyond was even more impressive than the rest of the Citadel, large enough to hold a ball. The walls were covered in sculpted golden friezes, curving up into graceful arches beneath a domed window. Those iron bars still covered the floor, but seemed more polished here, shining almost silver. They coalesced around the bottom of the throne in a sharp, cresting wave, their pointed ends mirroring the rays of the gilded heart set at the top of the throne, right over the head of the man sitting at its edge, deep in thought.

“Anton,” King August said, glancing up from his steepled hands. “You took longer than anticipated.”

“I had to inform the lady of our expectations. She took a bit of convincing.” For all his brother’s brusqueness, Anton seemed unruffled, though he toyed with his pendant again, one fingernail digging into the garnet. “Unless you’d rather I left that to you? You do excel at negotiation.”

His tone made it clear this was not a compliment.

“No need.” August stood up, stepping deftly over the iron bars bristling the base of the throne with the ease of practice. He and Anton were twins, but August wasn’t quite as good-looking—at least, he wouldn’t be if Anton weren’t so horribly scarred. Their hair was the same iron gray, their eyes the same deep brown. August kept a short, well-trimmed beard framing his sharp jaw, where Anton stayed clean-shaven.

For all the extravagance of his palace, the King was dressed rather simply. Dark pants, dark doublet over a creamy white shirt, supple leather boots, all of it clearly the best Auverraine had to offer. The understated clothing made August’s crown that much more ostentatious, the same design Lore had seen sold in the stalls on the dock roads yesterday—a band that rested on his brow, studded with winking rubies, and another band over the top of his head that supported thick golden sun rays, making him look like Apollius himself.

Lore supposed that was the point.

Maybe she should’ve felt some sort of awe at being in the presence of the Sainted King. But the day already felt so surreal, so difficult to hammer into the borders of the life she knew, that all she felt was annoyance and the distant thrum of dread.

“So,” the Sainted King said. “This is our deathwitch.”

Lore fidgeted a moment, wondering if she should curtsy, quickly deciding that it would only lead to falling on her ass. Instead she lifted her chin and clenched her hands in her skirt. “In the flesh.”

The corner of the King’s mouth flickered up and down again, a smile only in shape. “They tell me you’ve fallen in with poison runners. How did that happen to a woman of your prodigious talent?”

“Too mean to charge for my company, too clumsy for barkeeping, and I’m a terrible cook. That rules out most gainful employment.” She said it pleasantly enough, an answer that gave away nothing important. “My prodigious talent isn’t good for much, honestly.”

The King sniffed. “Your former employer tells us you’re an accomplished spy, in addition to your… less common qualities. Surely that’s a skill that can earn quite a lot of coin.”

The mention of Val made something twist in her chest. “Being a good spy mostly comes down to knowing when to lie and when to stay quiet,” she responded. “And there’s not much coin to go around out there, regardless of how good you are at what you do.”

“An unfortunate predicament,” August conceded with a nod. “Made worse by the threat of the Kirythean Empire at our doorstep. There are shortages all over the kingdom.”

It seemed no shortages of any kind were felt within the Citadel walls. Lore bit her tongue against that particular observation. She was a commodity that couldn’t be replaced, as far as she was aware, but she knew better than to press her luck.

“Since Anton has given you the broader picture of what we need from you,” August said, “I will give you the specifics.” He turned back to his throne and sat more gracefully than the iron spikes around it should allow. “We believe that Kirythea is attacking villages along our border, using some kind of lesser magic to kill our citizens in the night. Something left over from one of the minor gods.”

Her brow furrowed. “There’s still lesser magic to go around?” When the minor elemental gods died, Their bodies had leaked power, just like Nyxara’s still leaked Mortem. But all that power had dissipated long ago. At least, that’s what everyone assumed.

August’s lips flattened. “Jax is canny.”

Which wasn’t really an answer.

“Currently, it’s only been two small villages, and the timing is random—the second was eliminated two nights ago.” August crossed one leg over the other, nonchalant as he spoke of so much death. A chalice balanced on the arm of his throne; he took a long sip. “We need to neutralize the threat before Kirythea moves on to more profitable targets.”

More profitable targets. As though the lives lost in the outer villages were worth less than cattle. Lore’s eyes narrowed. “So you want to find out what’s happening before it kills someone that matters.”

The poison in her voice was apparently lost on the King. “Precisely.”

Gabriel stood behind her, but close enough that she could see his face from the corner of her eye. He looked like he was fighting a frown, as if the comment angered him as much as it angered her. She wondered how much dissent the Presque Mort were allowed to voice. The Church and the Crown were two legs of one government, but from the little Lore knew of court politics, it seemed they didn’t always walk in the same direction.

“If Kirythea is responsible,” August continued, “we need to identify the threat immediately, and take appropriate action.”

That could only mean war. Lore sneaked a glance at the waiting Presque Mort. Gabriel’s eye narrowed; Malcolm’s mouth pressed into a tense line. But if Anton was disturbed by the implication that war loomed close, he didn’t show it, his scarred face serene.

The Sainted King clasped his hands, eyes flashing beneath his heavy crown. “You will stay in the Citadel,” he said to Lore. “And in addition to using your… skills… to assist us in finding out what is happening to the outer villages, you will be my eyes and ears.”