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Melodies spill from taverns, the amalgam of jaunty rhythms clashing together in a lively yet dissonant ensemble.

Sellers hawk their wares, even this late in the night, while others haggle over prices.

Horses trot over salt-smeared cobblestones.

Women lean over balconies, cat-calling sailors and passersby.

The smell of sweat, sea spray, and manure hangs thick in the air.

I almost have to run to keep pace with Anton, who strides ahead of me, shouldering through the crowd.

Only when he turns down an alley does he slow. “Stay close,” he says, placing a hand on my lower back. I pretend I don’t shiver from the contact.

I pretend, too, I didn’t hear the marvel in his voice, the respect, when he called me strong.

An array of saturated colors illuminates the walkway ahead. When we reach it, Anton turns, a smile curling the corner of his lips. “Welcome, Minnow, to the Heart of Philam.”

Canopies enshroud the moonlit sky, but light glows from every direction.

Craftsmen rotate metal pipes, shaping what looks like molten fire.

Behind them, large, concave furnaces spit sparks into the air.

Then there are the tents stacked with artifacts and trinkets, not to mention walkways that ramp upward toward more shops on different levels—

“The Glass Market,” I surmise. I’d heard of them, but this one is large, like a city in itself.

“One of many throughout my territory,” Anton says.

“See those men? They’re glassblowers and gaffers.

Each works for one of the many merchants.

While there are ready-made items available, a patron may commission something, too, whether it be decorative or useful—the possibilities are endless—and they can make it on the spot.

And this particular market uses recycled glass,” he says, redirecting my attention toward the furnaces.

“It’s heated in a tempering oven and then quickly cooled, which makes for stronger and more durable glass. ”

I slow, unable to keep my gaze from roaming about as we weave through the market. Anton points out some of the commissions: vases; windowpanes and doors with family crests or other unique stains; tabletops; chandeliers that look like hanging gardens.

“The colors,” I ask, speeding up again to match Anton’s stride. “How do they do it?”

“Minerals and salt,” he answers. “Copper turns it red, and adding iron or chromium stains it green, for example. Cobalt for blue, silver for red to yellow, depending. I promise to bring you back one day, but for now, we shouldn’t linger.”

I keep moving, not allowing those words to take root inside in my heart. I promise to bring you back one day.

We pass a small bunker at the back of the marketplace hidden by a copse of flowering jacarandas. Racks of weapons with metal hilts and glass blades glint in the torchlight, and I recall the halberds from Anton’s guard. They must be crafted here.

He must sense the gaze I press between his shoulders because he glances back, a half grin on his lips. He nudges me along.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I say as we stride down yet another alley, this one a flower market packed with rows of stalls.

“Mm?”

“Queen Sadira. What did you say to her to stop the war with Razam?”

“Nothing,” he says.

“So the story isn’t true, then?”

“What I mean is . . . I said nothing. Not one thing. I merely . . . listened,” he says, guiding me around a pothole. “That’s the problem with so many of us who hold privilege and power. We talk too much. We talk above others.”

The answer surprises me, coming from him. And I think that he’s . . . right.

“If only others saw it that way,” I say.

“It’s something I’m still working on, admittedly.

For so long, we’ve expected Razam to conform to our views, and the views largely held by the Syndicate.

But Queen Sadira has her own traditions, her own values—for trade, security, and so on.

Not to mention, her borders are constantly under threat by the southern lands.

She came to us, asked us for help, and Illian—among others—used her pleas to try to pressure her into reducing trade taxes, allowing Miridran a military stronghold on her land, and so much more.

We would suffocate her in exchange for our assistance.

At first, I didn’t see it that way, however; I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t compromise on some level.

But as tensions increased, she threatened to sever ties with Miridran and even break from the Crowns’ Syndicate altogether in response to that pressure—to which Illian responded with the threat of war.

It was during that escalation that I began to wonder if her stance wasn’t out of selfishness but for reasons we never bothered to understand.

So I went there to simply . . . listen. And once I understood her, I was able to advocate for her and leverage resources from the rest of the Syndicate. ”

I wonder if he knows just how much this shifts my opinion of him.

The streets are less congested the farther inland we go. We turn again, down an even thinner alleyway, this one empty and quiet, the back entrances of buildings crammed together in the dark. Anton tugs his cloak to cover his face before adjusting mine, his fingers brushing my cheeks as he does so.

Then he hesitates, his green eyes flitting to mine.

Just when I think he might say something, he pulls me along instead, up a set of stairs.

He raps twice on a nondescript door, then pauses.

He repeats the action, this time with four knocks.

The door cracks open at that, and a woman ushers us inside.

“Quickly,” she says.

The door squeaks shut behind us, and the inside is so dark I have to squint.

The woman, whom Anton introduces as Mistress Sezar, shows us down a long hall, then up another set of stairs.

She unlocks one of several doors along the narrow top floor.

“They’re in the next room, right wall,” she whispers.

“Be careful. Ring if you need anything.” She’s referring to a bell hung next to the door, and only then do I realize where we are.

“A brothel ?” I ask incredulously as Anton closes us inside.

“Many don’t trust my little seaside palace, so they come to Philam under the illusion of privacy. My brother believes he’s paid off Miss Sezar so that he might use her establishment discreetly—right under my nose,” Anton says, then slips on a smile. “He is, of course, mistaken.”

He moves to run his hands along the wooden boards that make up the right wall.

I take the moment to orient myself, to measure my surroundings.

Plush, amaranthine drapes shroud the window, and the bed is strung with a matching gossamer canopy.

Underneath, a red velvet duvet is neatly peeled back over matching sheets, a whisk of petals delicately strewn about.

Two full flutes of wine occupy the night table, along with a decanter. And the walls—

My blush deepens further. Risqué paintings line the left wall, each displaying a nude figure balanced in various poses, ribbons obscuring their eyes. Dizzy, I perch on the bed, trying to discern what Anton is looking for as his hands skim the wall near the floor.

He peeks over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t sit on that if I were you. You never know who was there last, or if they had time to clean up.”

I leap up as if I’d been burned, only to realize that it was a joke.

He chuckles and nods me over. “When I lift this,” he says, tapping a minuscule, nearly invisible knob in the wood, “it will open a spy hole in the wall. There’s one built into every room for such an occasion; the trouble is finding it. ”

“By the souls, do you have your entire territory rigged?”

“Only about half.”

“You can’t be serious.” Except . . . I think he is.

“Can you blame me for using every tool in my arsenal when someone enters my home and tries to murder my kin?”

“I cannot,” I agree. “I can’t imagine what your actual palace must be like, though.” I bet there isn’t a safe corner there.

“My palace is absolutely lovely,” he says as I settle beside him on the floor, “and you would enjoy yourself very much.”

But I only vaguely hear him, dread pooling in my chest at what I’m about to see.

“Vasalie,” Anton says, grinning. He’s always grinning, even at a time like this. “You can breathe, for Fate’s sake. Just keep silent.”

He tugs the knob, and a splinter-thin crack of wood slides open. Anton pulls me in by the waist so I can look through with him. I ignore the shiver that sweeps up my spine and turn my attention to the scene in the other room.

At first, I don’t understand what I am seeing. I must be mistaken in fact; surely this is a nightmare sent from the Fate of Morta to torment me, because this is too horrific to be real.

But then I hear my father’s gravelly voice, and I know I’m not asleep.