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And then he started walking across the room.

Directly toward Kiva.

She stopped breathing as he approached, terrified to make any sound that might give her away. He halted right in front of the cabinet, blocking her line of sight. All he had to do was bend down and open the doors, and she would be —

“We’ve received a letter from the King of Mirraven,” Horeth said, and Kiva nearly whimpered with relief when she heard the rustle of parchment. Her view cleared when he strode back to his seat with the missive in his hands.

Groaning, Jaren asked, “What’s Arakkis threatening this time? Let me guess: if we surrender Evalon to him, he won’t kill us all? Maybe one day he’ll find some creativity.”

A wary silence fell, before Queen Ariana turned to her son and slowly said, “Arakkis is dead.”

Jaren visibly jolted. “What?”

“I wrote to you,” Ariana said, a crease in her brow. “Right after you left Vallenia for the winter palace.”

Jaren was shaking his head. “The only notes I received were about Tilda being captured in Mirraven and you negotiating to have her sent to Zalindov.”

“That happened after Arakkis was gone. Those negotiations were all with —”

“Don’t say it,” Jaren whispered, his face paling.

“Navok is king now,” Ariana said quietly. Regretfully, even. “As you know, Mirraven laws state that if anyone of royal blood challenges the ruling monarch and defeats them in combat, they can claim the throne as their own. Navok challenged Arakkis. And he won.”

“He killed his own father,” Jaren said in a flat voice.

“Arakkis was no saint,” the Grand Master pointed out.

“He was in comparison to his son.”

The weight of Jaren’s harsh declaration filled the room until Horeth cleared his throat and gestured to the parchment. “This arrived last night. Until now, Mirraven hasn’t been responding to any of our recent missives. Nor has Caramor, for that matter.”

Jaren reached for the letter and began scanning it immediately.

“As you can see,” Horeth said, “unlike his father, Navok isn’t threatening to attack.”

“He’s smarter than that,” Jaren murmured, a look of concentration on his face as he translated the Mirravish words. His eyes narrowed at one point and his head jerked up. “Serafine is marrying Voshell?”

“One of Navok’s first edicts as king was to betroth his sister to Caramor’s crown prince,” Horeth confirmed. Sourly, he added, “As if the two territories need to be any closer.”

“They don’t,” Jaren said, his brow furrowed. “They’re already joined at the hip — a marriage isn’t going to strengthen them further, especially since we all know Serafine would rather die than wed Voshell. What’s Navok playing at? This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Perhaps he’s getting her out of the way so she doesn’t think to challenge him?” Yisari suggested, brushing at a tendril of dark hair that had escaped her strict bun.

“Serafine Kildarion wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Jaren argued. “If she didn’t look so much like her brother and father, I’d swear she was adopted. She’s nothing like them.”

“She must take after her mother in personality, then,” Zerra mused.

“Let’s just hope she doesn’t meet the same end,” Feldor said darkly.

Kiva’s brows rose, wondering if perhaps the ex-queen hadn’t fled in the night after all.

Or maybe she’d tried, and her cruel husband had caught up to her.

“Poor Serafine,” Jaren said, his words genuine. “Navok is obviously using her for some kind of bargaining power. She doesn’t deserve that — she was the only one of them who I could ever stand to be around during our northern diplomatic missions. Mirryn enjoyed her company as well — they became fast friends. And Caldon — well, obviously Cal liked her. Though she was always clever enough to spurn his advances.”

Jaren rolled his eyes, prompting chuckles from around the table. But then they all sobered as he lowered the parchment and exhaled loudly.

“This letter doesn’t really tell us anything, does it? Navok’s just taunting us with pleasantries, wanting us on edge and worried about what he’s planning.” Jaren drummed his fingers on the table. “But regardless, send word to Ashlyn. If the armies of Mirraven and Caramor are stirring, we need our own to be ready.”