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Even so, the more merciful Fates found ways to relay warnings amid tribulation to their dedicated servants through cosmic visions—from the movement of the very stars themselves—she had told me.

Prophets and acolytes spent their lives learning how to translate the sky for this reason.

And it’s never an isolated event, meaning that if more than one transcribes such a message, it’s likely the translation is correct.

But there still lies room for error. So it was rumored that, long ago—when the very first prophets were established and when a prophecy was at its most urgent—a coil of flame like an adder’s tongue would spit from the mouth of the prophet who read it aloud.

“There hasn’t been, meaning it’s no small thing. What’s more, guess where the prophets are being held?”

I shake my head, stomach turning.

“A Brisendali ship,” he says. “Princess Aesir’s, to be exact, and that ship is no longer here.

And this isn’t the first time King Illian and the princess have conspired, either.

A dockhand overheard something about that ship being loaded with Brisendali weapons—ones that came from the princess’s ship.

Some bargain has been struck between them—something King Illian is trying to hide—and I believe the prophets were trying to warn the Crowns about it. ”

A bargain, between Aesir and Illian? I twist my fingers, pull at my knuckles. He had never spoken of her during my time as the Jewel. I hadn’t known they were friends. Or maybe it’s more than friendship.

Maybe it’s only a matter of time before we learn of an engagement. But I’d heard that Aesir had been engaged multiple times before, only for her to spoil it in some manner—throwing fits, offending her betrothed—almost as if she were doing it deliberately.

Perhaps she and Illian deserve each other. But I let my mind retrace Laurent’s words. The ships, the weapons . . .

“You suspect war,” I say, tucking my hands underneath my thighs.

“I think,” Laurent says, lowering his voice even more, “that Illian is funding a Brisendali war against Razam. He can’t do it in the open; his brothers would never support such an allocation of Miridranian assets.

But if a war begins”—he pauses, taking a breath—“all of Miridran will be forced to take sides. And King Estienne, as withdrawn as he may be, will never side with Razam. Not if it means going against the Beast of the North.”

“Does Anton know of this?” Even if Laurent finds the youngest Miridranian king an enigma, he seems loyal to him all the same.

“Of course, though he can do little without proof. Even admitting such suspicions would provoke turmoil among the Crowns. Trying to save the world from war is the very thing that could start one.”

But this doesn’t add up. Brisendale might be built to withstand war, but they have never initiated it. King Rurik, for all his faults, is concerned only for himself and his land. He’s too guarded, too greedy, to disrupt his coddled life. Unless . . .

My pulse goes cold.

Unless my father is influencing him.

Even so, Illian refuses to trust his own courtiers, let alone his brothers’. How could he deign to trust a foreign nation with such a plot as this?

But then I recall the way Princess Aesir leaned into him, a red smirk fixed on her lips like a bloodstain.

I think of King Rurik and his sapphire eye, the way he watched Anton and me.

I think of what I’ve seen so far: Illian poisoning Gustav, but not with the intent to kill.

Illian demanding I sneak Annais into the palace.

I try to fit together the pieces, to no avail.

At the banquet, Anton mentioned a new era of friendship and wealth between Razam and East Miridran, thanks to Gustav. Was that what Illian wanted to stop? If so, why not kill him?

Then my mind snags on something else, something that has been bothering me even more after last night.

What do I have to do with all this?

It’s time I find out, because whatever it is, he’s dragging me into it with him.

And I’m so very tired of being left in the dark.

After leaving Laurent, I seek out Copelan in the Dance Hall.

He’s watching the triplets rehearse, and I can’t help but observe for a moment, too.

Threads of harmony intertwine, accented by their swift, lithe movements.

He appraises them with a knuckle under his chin, stopping to correct their posture once or twice.

I often find myself wanting to learn their names, to interact—and the same with the other performers—but my proximity to any-one puts them at risk.

When finally Copelan notices me, he tells them to continue without him. “We’ll rehearse again this evening.” With that, he guides me into a nearby empty room, a soft wind whistling past the open window.

“Our signature performance,” I say, lacing my fingers together. I missed three days of practice, thanks to the poison. “We need to practice.”

But he merely turns away, swiping a hand through his hair.

I brace myself. I thought we had made peace. The other night . . . was it only a tonic-induced dream?

Abruptly, he spins on his heel. “I’ve had constant requests for your presence,” he says. “Constant, Vasalie. They beg me for the girl who sparked the first night with magic. ”

Magic. Or dust, rather. Mere millen. So simple a thing.

I open my mouth, but he whips up a hand, pacing now.

“I reassigned others to your post during your recovery, during which my performers were asked—no, harassed—about our upcoming performance. They want to know what big spectacle we have planned. You set a precedent that night, and they crave more. The artistry, the atmosphere, and Fates help me, the controversy. They ate it up.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this would—”

He silences me with a wave. “Last year, I kept it safe. They were bored. Apparently, it’s a wonder I’ve been invited back. I’ve been considering what you said about risks. And as bruised as my ego might be, you were right.”

“I . . . don’t understand.”

He faces me then, bouncing on his heels, a gleam in his eye I haven’t yet seen. “Let’s give it to them. Let’s make this a Gathering to remember.”

I blink back my surprise. A part of me stirs with anticipation, but I can’t forget Laurent’s warnings. Illian’s plans, whatever they might be. And then my father . . .

The last thing I need to do is draw more attention to myself.

“I don’t know, Copelan. I think you were right. The wrong spark could start a fire—one we might not be able to douse.”

He surprises me further, collecting my hands in his own.

“I’m telling you that I was wrong, Vas. I judged you too quickly.

” He rubs his thumbs across my knuckles, and it’s hard not to get caught up in his excitement.

It’s a new side to him. “It’s too late for the signature dance in two days, considering the time we’ve lost; but for the one after . . . let’s do something bold.”

Dread coils within me. “How bold, exactly?”

He tugs me toward him. “Trust me, Vas, you will love it. What do you say?”

The tightness in my chest has an iron grip; any tighter, and my lungs could collapse from the pressure. But Copelan looks like a little boy who’s just been handed a flint and tinder.

And I still need this position. This, whatever this is . . . it’s miles better than his anger.

So I don’t let him see the fear weighing me down. I shove it behind me and force down a breath, letting a smile tease the edge of my lips. “Who are you, and what have you done with Copelan?”

“He just woke up,” he says, and swings me into the air.