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“He’s been many things. A tailor, a jeweller, a merchant. Always changing his name, always a new mask. Of course, men like him don’t survive without secrets.”

I meet his eye but he shakes his head, resolute. I won’t get those secrets from him.

I stare at the edge of riverpearl. Who exactly is the person who gifted me my heart’s desire?

The skriniaris smiles and pushes the soldad back into my hand. “I’m Evander, the cat is Taffy. You must be Master Amuletos.”

“Caelus. Cael.” I stare at all the potential the wooden badge holds. “Getting caught with this might bring trouble.”

“Then don’t get caught.”

Akilah whispers beside me, “That’s usually your line.”

Skriniaris Evander smiles and I slowly smile too. “Will it get me into Thinking Hall?” I ask.

Scholars from every region of the kingdom go there to share their thoughts on art and beauty and magic. Isn’t the last day of the week the day they recite newly penned poetry? Share their visions of an ideal kingdom?

He reads my determined expression and laughs. “You can head there right now.”

On a pent breath, I leave Akilah to some much-deserved time to herself, and head off.

Extravagantly dressed men flash their soldads and are ushered inside by stationed guards, and the guards usher me in too. It’s that easy.

What power.

But I swore by the spiritual power of the luminarium not to get my family in trouble...

I don’t even believe in the Arcane Sovereign.

I’ll do this carefully. Use an alias.

The aroma of polished oak and perfumed scholars hits me at once, and I gawp at the imposing elegance of the hall. Carved wooden beams support high-vaulted ceilings, flickering lamplight exaggerating their shadows and angles. There are two levels—the lower packed with scholars vying for a good spot around the stage, and curved balconies above filling with well-dressed spectators.

If I’d arrived earlier, I’d have been able to see the action from the floor.

I head up the staircase, hoping for a better view, but guards stop me. My soldad isn’t sufficient for this level. I try to catch a glimpse of the stage from the stairs, but the angle doesn’t allow it.

Disappointing.

I take a step down and stop at the sight of a familiar figure ascending.

A mantle of blue velvet, beautifully embroidered with metals and deep colours, wraps his shoulders and hangs to the tops of his shiny boots. His cane, carved with coiling wyverns, makes a smacking statement at each step. His hand tightens on the wood as he looks up, and his mouth lifts in a tight curve.

“Quin the haughty merchant,” I say.

He raises a hand, stopping the aklo three steps behind him from rushing forward to block my approach.

I bounce down a few steps. “At a poetry convention? You seem more the debate type.”

Quin’s dark gaze sharpens. “You’re mistaken.”

“Enjoy poetry, then?”

“The last of the month is politics. No poetry.” His lips curl faintly, but his tone is tight. “So if you’re here, it’s by mistake.”

“Or miracle.”

Quin arches a brow, and despite himself, his lips curve. A bell chimes through the hall. “That’s the unveiling of the first topic.” He winces and rises a step. When he reaches mine, he continues upward.