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K ANTHE RY M ASSIF —the high prince of Hálendii and consort to the empress of the Southern Klashe—heaved his belly’s contents over the edge of the ship’s rail. In all his eighteen years, he had never developed a stomach for sea travel. Or maybe his queasiness rose from the tension at this homecoming.

He wiped his lips and scowled at the approaching shoreline.

Though midday, a heavy fog masked Azantiia’s dockyards. Lanterns and firepots glowed through the gloom. Beyond the port, the city climbed a series of hills, leading to the Crown of Highmount, the palacio and citadel of its new king—Kanthe’s twin brother, Mikaen. The towering walls pierced the fogbank and shone brightly. Kanthe pictured the breadth of its encircling parapets. They formed a six-pointed sun, part of the Massif royal sigil.

My family’s crest.

Kanthe swallowed down bile as he gazed at his former home. He took deep breaths of the salty air to clear his head. His brother was not in residence at the moment, having retreated to his wife’s ranchhold in the rolling plains of the Brau e lands to the northeast. Lady Myella— Queen Myella—was rumored to be with child again. Her third. Kanthe could only imagine Mikaen’s joy. The king already doted upon his firstborn twins, a boy and a girl: Othan and Olia.

My niece and nephew…

The children were nine months old, but Kanthe had never set eyes upon them. A pang of regret ached through him. He prayed Mikaen did not pit one sibling against the other, as their father—King Toranth—had done with them, creating a painful chasm between the two brothers.

With Mikaen’s first breath, he had been declared the firstborn of the twins and destined for the throne. He certainly fit that illustrious mold. Though a twin to Kanthe, Mikaen looked as if sculpted from chalkstone, matching their father’s countenance, including his curled blond locks and sea-blue eyes.

Kanthe, on the other hand, took after their dead mother. His skin was burnished ebonwood, his hair as black as coal, his eyes a stormy gray. He was forever a shadow to his brother’s brightness. As such, tradition mandated that Kanthe be a “Prince in the Cupboard,” a spare should his older twin die. His lot was to sit on a shelf in case he was ever needed. Still, in order to serve a useful role, he had trained at the school of Kepenhill, in preparation as a future adviser to his brother.

But that will never be…

Kanthe looked down at the remains of his left arm, severed below the elbow. It had been fitted with a bronze replacement, sculpted by Tykhan using ta’wyn alchymy. It took a keen eye to discern the new limb from the real thing. With some attention and concentration, Kanthe could even open and close those fingers by working his arm muscles.

Many nights, he still woke to the pain and shock of Mikaen’s sword slicing through his arm. They had battled last winter, but it felt like yesterday. Mikaen had not intended the mutilation to be a mortal wound. Instead, he had meant to deny what had adorned Kanthe’s hand. During the fight, Kanthe’s finger had borne a ring belonging to their mother, who had died shortly after giving birth. The heraldic ring had come with a story—from the midwife who had witnessed their birth. While still in her bed, their mother had hurried the midwife off with the ring, along with the tale of the true firstborn of King Toranth. According to their mother, it had not been the bright son who had shouldered out of her womb first, but the darker twin.

During last winter’s fight, with brother pitted against brother, the ring had shone with the truth: Kanthe was the actual heir to the Hálendiian throne.

Not Mikaen.

Kanthe knew this very fear had long plagued his brother. Rumors had abounded throughout their young lives. The aspersions, mostly bandied in jest, had nonetheless found fertile soil in Mikaen’s heart.

To deny that ring, Mikaen had hacked off Kanthe’s forearm. But his brother had not stopped there. For another certainly knew the same truth: their father, King Toranth. With friction already growing between the father and son, Mikaen had taken a sword to the king, usurping the throne in one blow and silencing any threat to Mikaen’s birthright—and that of his children.

Kanthe reached down and rotated the cuff to seat it better over his stump.

“Does it need an adjustment?” a voice asked from behind, startling him.

Kanthe turned to find the limb’s sculptor standing there. Tykhan had approached with nary a creak of the ship’s planks, which was unnerving considering the sheer tonnage of this bronze figure—not that anyone would suspect such an unnatural physique by looking at him.

Tykhan had disguised his metal face and hands with paint and artifice. Dressed in a dark gray cloak, belted at the waist and sashed in crimson, he could pass as a pale-skinned merchant out of Delft—which was the story their group shrouded themselves in. To add to this conceit, Tykhan had leaned upon a talent unique to a Root.

Kanthe studied Tykhan’s features, appreciating the new hawkish hook to his nose, the slight pinch to his eyes, all features of someone from the lands of Delft, at the twilight edge of the sunlit Crown.

As the lowest of the ta’wyn caste—creations designed for construction and scut work—Roots had been gifted with a fluidity of form, an ability to mold their bronze at will, to change bodily shape to match the varying needs of their work.

If only I could change my face and destiny with such ease…

Tykhan reached over and lifted Kanthe’s artificial limb to examine it. The bronze forearm had been painted to match the same pale complexion as Tykhan’s—as had all of Kanthe’s skin. His dark hair had also been cut short and dyed a rich auburn, all to further mask his countenance as a prince of this realm.

Tykhan squinted at his creation. “Is the limb causing you pain?”

Kanthe pulled the arm back and mumbled, “Not physically.”

Tykhan lifted a brow, plainly understanding. “Then it is best we shall make landfall while your brother is gone. At least for another fortnight. By drawing a portion of his legion with him, he’s left less of a force at Highmount.”

Kanthe scoffed at this. “Less is not none. From what Llyra’s spies reported, Mikaen took his Silvergard—his personal Vyrllian attendants—along with fifty knights. Highmount still bristles with plenty of swords, pikes, and spears.”

Tykhan shrugged. “Still, less is less. And we have no choice but to attempt this gambit.”

Kanthe frowned. “Nyx and the others could’ve given us more warning, more time to prepare.”

“We’ve already had half a year. We know what we must do.”

Kanthe cursed under his breath.

A fool’s course, if ever there was one.

Three days ago, Shiya had spoken through Tykhan’s lips—utilizing the strange means of ta’wyn messaging. She informed them that the Fyredragon had set off for the Barrens. Apparently, Nyx and her allies had drawn unwanted attention and had to depart quickly, ahead of their original plans. They had kept murky the reason behind such a rushed departure out of fear of who might be listening.

Still, this was the signal for Kanthe’s group to act.

A loud laugh cut through his melancholy. From the forecastle, two figures crossed out onto the deck. The bark of amusement had come from Rami im Haeshan, the fourth son of the former emperor of the Southern Klashe and brother to Aalia, the land’s current empress.

Rami’s dark hair hung loose to his shoulders. His complexion—the color of bitterroot steeped in honey—remained unblemished by paint or disguise. The only change from his usual countenance was that his cropped beard had been grown out bushy. In addition, Rami came garbed in a drab black robe belted in leather. A silver pendant hung from his neck. Its ornament depicted a man’s face with the lips sewn shut by a golden thread.

As the pair approached, Rami lifted an arm in greeting.

Kanthe barely acknowledged it. Instead, he focused his attention on Cassta, the lithe young woman who accompanied Rami. Kanthe swallowed hard at the sight of the youngest of the Rhysian assassins. Black leathers accentuated her comely shape and long legs. Her snowy skin needed no disguise of paint—not that anything could hide her nature. She hailed from the far-off Archipelago of Rhys, near the southernmost turn of the Crown. It was a matriarchal society renowned for its deadly skills. Like her sisters, Cassta carried silver bells braided into a tail of dark hair. It was said that the last sound many a victim heard was the single tinkle of a bell, marking the time of their death.

Such was not the case now. Cassta strode so smoothly across the deck that not a bell chimed. She wore five of them—one more than when they had first met—marking her rise from an acolyte to a position of full sisterhood.

She turned to whisper something in Rami’s ear, triggering another bright laugh from the man—and a pang of jealousy in Kanthe’s chest. Those two had grown closer over the past half year, while Kanthe had been sequestered in endless meetings and debates of strategy, allowing him to catch only rare glimpses of her.

I’m also married, he reminded himself.

Cassta’s gaze caught his as they reached Kanthe’s side. As if she could read his thoughts, the shadow of a smile ghosted across her lips, then vanished.

Rami stepped to the ship’s rail as Tykhan headed off again. Rami frowned at the fog. “It seems the weather is as gloomy as your mood, my brother.”

“Brother by marriage,” Kanthe reminded him. “Not that Aalia has ever considered such a union as anything more than a contract.” He glanced toward Cassta, making sure this was understood.

She ignored him, staring at the approaching coastline.

Rami shrugged. “It’s best my sister never bedded you, or you would’ve found yourself equally poked—only by Tazar’s dagger in your back.”

Kanthe knew this to be true. While Aalia and Kanthe had been married, uniting a bloodline between the empire of the Southern Klashe and the Kingdom of Hálendii, her heart belonged to Tazar hy Maar, the head of the Shayn’ra, a clan of militant rebels who now fought alongside the Klashean armies.

Kanthe sighed. “A dagger in the back might be better than what awaits me ashore if our ruse fails to work.”

“Delft has signed a pact with Hálendii,” Cassta reminded them. “They’ve agreed to supply iron to the kingdom, sailing in shiploads to smelt into weapons of war. If we’re careful, none should cast us more than a glancing eye.”

Rami nodded. “Commandeering one of their freighters, flying their flag, should get us to shore safely. Still, we’d best not tarry. Our disguises will not likely survive more than that glancing eye.”

“Especially if you insist on talking,” Kanthe warned. “Your Klashean accent will ruin us all. Best you stay as quiet as the man on your pendant.” He pointed to the sewn lips on the embossed face. “You’re supposed to be a Gjoan scribe, someone hired by us Delftans to be a silent witness to transactions and negotiations.”

Rami scowled in disdain at this role. The Dominion of Gjoa notoriously cut out the tongues of scribes—as they did to disciples of their mystic orders. It seemed knowledge needed as much safeguarding from errant tongues as matters of coin.

Luckily for their group, additional protection came in a shape far more appealing.

Kanthe eyed Cassta. Her duty was to play a Rhysian bodyguard, one hired to guard their Delftan leader—a role best suited to Tykhan. The ta’wyn had stridden the Crown for millennia and had grown fluent in every language. Tykhan’s Delftan accent was indeed flawless.

As the winds off the Bay of Promise pushed their vessel toward a fog-shrouded shore, a heavy silence settled over the trio. The ship aimed for a darker section of coastline, where eyes would be less likely to spy upon them. As the fog slowly parted, the view opened onto a patchwork of ragged docks, sucking siltfields, and crumbling buildings. Birds swept in languid circles, looking as listless as the setting. The smell of algal rot and spoiled sewage carried to them.

“No wonder you fled from here,” Rami whispered. “Not exactly a welcoming expanse. Especially for a homecoming.”

“This is the Nethers,” Kanthe explained. “Not the main city.”

He took a deep breath, not shying from the stink. A pang of wistfulness swept through him as he inhaled the breath of this region. He had spent many a debauched night in this section of the city, back when he had lived in his brother’s shadow.

Kanthe pointed to a towering bulwark farther from shore. “That’s Stormwall, a furlong-thick fortification. It encloses the city proper and has never been breached.” He nodded closer at hand. “Everything below the wall forms the Nethers.”

While a student at Kepenhill, Kanthe had been taught the city’s history. As centuries passed and the populace grew, Azantiia could no longer be constrained by the Stormwall. It spread in all directions, even out into the bay where siltfields were dredged and packed, requiring the dockworks to be extended farther and farther out, forming the Nethers.

Outside the protection of the Stormwall, this region was prone to sudden floods, with large swaths often drowned or blown away. It was said the Nethers were as variable as the weather. Maps of the place were drawn more with hope than on any reading of a sexton—and certainly never with the permanency of ink.

“Here is the perfect place to lose oneself,” Kanthe assured them.

As I did so often in the past.

He stared at the approaching coastline.

Let’s hope the same holds true today.

A S THE FIRST bell of Eventoll rang through the misty air, the Delftan ship reached the shore. The hull ground against a storm-broken stone quay, its rocks coated thickly with black barnacles and slippery with dark green algae. Crewmen tossed ropes and fought to hold the craft steady. They would not be tying off. The ship would depart as soon as Kanthe’s group departed.

Overhead, a squadron of gulls screamed and shat in complaint at their arrival, likely not accustomed to trespassers to this lonely corner of the Nethers’ docks.

Kanthe ducked from the assault and headed for the gangway. Rami and Cassta followed.

“Where’s Tykhan?” Rami asked, searching the deck. “We don’t want to tarry too long, even cloaked in fog.”

The sweep of a forecastle door answered him. The ta’wyn strode out, leading the final member of their small party—one critical to this endeavor.

Frell hy Mhlaghifor crossed to join them. The lanky alchymist had shed his usual belted black robe and came outfitted in Delftan clothing. He adjusted the matching cap over his ruddy hair, tied into a tail at the back. His pale features needed no paint to complete his disguise—though at the moment, anger darkened his features. His eyes, always wrinkled at the corners from squinting at faded ink, narrowed as his gaze fell upon Kanthe.

Frell blocked the way to the gangway and pointed a finger at Kanthe. “You should not have come. I urge you to leave with this ship when it departs. You risk much by returning here so soon.”

Kanthe faced the man, not shirking from his hard gaze. “So soon? I’ve been gone a full year.”

He meant to keep his tone light, but it came out bitter. This matter had already been settled back in Kysalimri. Kanthe did not wish to rehash his decision to accompany the party. But clearly Frell intended one last attempt to persuade him to retreat.

“I refuse to sit idle any longer,” Kanthe argued. “As consort to the empress, my role is no more than that of a puppet, dangled on strings both political and practical.”

Frell opened his mouth to protest, but Kanthe lifted a palm—something he would’ve never risked when the alchymist had been his tutor at Kepenhill.

“When I left these shores, I was a falsely accused traitor. Now I return as a true turncoat. We don’t know what difficulties will lie ahead, but having a prince—even one from a cupboard—may prove useful.”

Rami added his support. “Before we departed from the Southern Klashe, our spymaster—the Eye of the Hidden—reported that a small but determined faction of the city rankles under the fist of their new king. Not only against his ever-stricter dictates and taxes, but also against the drums of war.”

“Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?” Frell asked, the flush receding from his cheeks.

“You missed the last meeting. You were down with Pratik in the Abyssal Codex, overseeing the repairs to our librarie.”

Kanthe knew Frell and the Klashean scholar had taken upon themselves to overhaul the fiery ruins of that great archive, to try to salvage what had been lost.

“What you also failed to hear,” Rami continued, “is that Kanthe’s name has been whispered in dark corners of the city, as a possible remedy to the harsh new king. Maybe not in great numbers or enthusiasm—but perhaps that sentiment could be stoked higher and spread wider.”

“And we’ll have a better chance of doing that if I’m here in the city,” Kanthe added, “not atop a throne in Kysalimri.”

“Or you’ll end up dead,” Frell said sourly. “With your head on a pike.”

“That must not happen,” Tykhan said.

Kanthe nodded. “I’m in full agreement with that.”

Tykhan rubbed his chin, a casual mannerism so human that it was unnerving. “If we hope to avoid moonfall, the Hálendiian kingdom and Klashean empire must be united. It’s why I took such pains to bring Kanthe and Aalia together. If we fail in this effort, all will be lost.”

Kanthe frowned at the ta’wyn, knowing how much their group leaned on Tykhan’s predictions of the future. Even stranger, his oracular statements were based not on mystical guidance, but on knowledge gained over millennia of experience.

Kanthe studied Tykhan, trying to fathom the ancientness of this figure. The ta’wyn had been prematurely woken from his slumber as a Sleeper and had been forced to wander the Crown for millennia, watching kingdoms rise and fall. He had observed the lives of untold millions and retained it all. Over such a span, he had come to recognize the threads—the trends and variables—that formed history. He had also learned to pull and weave those strings. He had become so skilled at reading those paths that he took on the role of the Augury of Qazen, becoming a revered oracle of the Klashean people.

Kanthe remembered Tykhan’s explanation for this skill: While I might not be able to predict the outcome of the fall of a single coin, I know after thousands of tosses that the two sides must eventually fall an equal number of times. Time is like that on a grander scale. There are tides that flow, where the accumulation of past trends points to future events.

Those words still haunted him. Kanthe had considered himself a puppet in Kysalimri, but Tykhan was far more adept at pulling his strings—and those of countless others over the centuries—all in an attempt to bolster the chances of avoiding moonfall.

Frell also seemed to bristle at Tykhan’s control. “Whether what you say is true or not, we did not come to these shores to install Kanthe on the throne of Hálendii. Our goal is to verify another of your claims. That the Iflelen possess the decapitated head of the Revn-kree leader, Kryst Eligor. Nothing more.”

“That’s not nothing,” Rami said. “That alone will be challenging enough.”

Frell pointed at Tykhan. “You’ve tasked us with acquiring this relic. But first we must know if it truly exists and where it might be hidden. Only then can we conspire to secure it.”

Tykhan bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“I can accomplish such a task as readily on my own,” Frell said. “I still have allies in Kepenhill, even in the Shrivenkeep below it, where the Iflelen maintain their abhorrent lair. With discreet inquiries, I can get the answers we need.”

“Perhaps.” Tykhan shrugged. “But fate weaves an ever-changing tapestry. I’ve learned never to trust a lone thread. What you claim you can do alone is not certainty. You’ve been gone a year from these shores, just like Kanthe. You assume that all is as you left it. But with a king slain and a son raised to the throne, nothing can be certain.”

“Still, I believe—”

“Belief is no more than a frayed thread,” Tykhan interrupted, shaking his head. “Only a fool hangs his fate upon such a feeble support.” Frell’s face darkened at this insult.

“There are many strings—other unknowns—that must be considered.” Tykhan ticked them off on his fingers. “Friends could be dead. Allies turned into traitors. Doors sealed that were once open.”

Frell sighed, clearly finding no argument against this.

Tykhan waved an arm to encompass their group. “Over time, I’ve found it best to have many threads at hand, so when the warp and weft of fate unfolds, I have plenty of material to weave into it.”

Kanthe appreciated the support from the Augury of Qazen, but those words unsettled him. Tykhan was correct.

So much could go wrong.

The pounding of boots on rock drew their attention to the quay. A trio of shadowy figures rushed down its length toward the ship.

A thin blade flashed into Cassta’s fingers.

Rami dropped a hand to a short sword sheathed under a fold of his robe.

Frell pushed Kanthe behind him.

A shout rose, scolding and rushed. “Get your arses off that damned boat!”

Out of the fog, the speaker appeared. The woman’s short stature and biting tongue left no doubt as to her identity. Llyra hy March scowled up at those lined along the rail. She was dressed in linens and leathers, corseted so tight that her leggings looked painted on.

She swept a fall of blond hair from her eyes. “Move!”

Confused and concerned, Kanthe hurried to the gangway with the others. He struggled to understand Llyra’s alarm. The woman was the guildmaster of a den of thieves out of the city of Anvil in the Guld’guhl territories. She had been aiding their cause, rousing as many of her ilk as possible to forge a secret army in case they were needed, one that was spread across whorehouses, thieveries, low taverns, and dark dens.

Llyra’s two companions finally caught up with her, having neither her speed nor her litheness. Kanthe recognized Jester and Mead. The two Guld’guhlian thieves huffed and panted. The pair had the same squat height as Llyra, only with stockier builds and more brutish exteriors—forged of gristle and scars. Additionally, Jester had suffered a blow much like Kanthe’s. The thief had lost half a leg to an ax, with the stump now pegged with wood.

Kanthe lifted an arm in greeting as he reached the quay.

Jester returned the gesture in an obscene manner.

Llyra stepped to meet the group, her eyes glinting a hard copper. “I’ve just heard word. Unfortunately, it’s come later than I would’ve wished.”

“What word?” Frell asked.

Llyra levied her gaze on Kanthe. “This one’s brother. He’s headed back to Azantiia.”

“Wh… Why?” Kanthe stammered in dismay. “I thought he was staying away for a full fortnight.”

“It seems there was a problem with his unborn child. Rumors hint at a possible poisoning. The king rushes in a fury to bring his queen to the city’s physiks. They’ll be here by the morning. His legions are already locking down Highmount.”

“Then we must hurry,” Frell said. “We must finish our task before Mikaen returns.”

Llyra swung around. “Come with me. I’ve gathered everything you asked for.”

They set off down the quay.

Once onto sand—stepping upon Hálendiian soil for the first time in a year—Kanthe cast a glance back. The Delftan ship was already sailing away, fading into the fog.

Maybe I should’ve heeded Frell’s warning…

As he turned around, he found Tykhan staring at him. In the gloom, his eyes glowed with the inner fire of the ta’wyn.

Still, it wasn’t only fire that blazed there.

But also certainty.

Just as Tykhan had warned moments ago, fate often wove a fickle tapestry.

Kanthe stared up at the breadth of the city.

And now I’m trapped in it.