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E XHAUSTED AND HEARTSORE , Kanthe rode alongside Rami around Kysalimri’s central freshwater lake. Its name, Hresh Me, translated as Silent Mouth. Though at the moment, it was anything but silent.

A massive encampment spread along its shores and into the neighboring streets. The cacophony of voices blurred into a din of life and verve. It ate and sweated and shat. Braziers smoked. Barkers hawked. Children ran amok in games whose rules changed on a whim. Some faces were bared, others cloaked. Tents had gained bricked walls, as if slowly calcifying into new corners of the sprawling city.

The number of people at this site alone would flood the entire city of Azantiia. And this was only one location of over a hundred. This monumental displacement of the city’s massive population—to regions considered less at risk due to their solid foundations—had saved millions of lives.

Though hundreds of thousands had still succumbed to the ravages of the massive quake. Even a fortnight later, the dead were being pulled from the wreckage. The entire imperial force—Sail, Wing, and Shield—worked throughout Kysalimri to bring order, haul supplies, guard shipments, repair harbors. The populace also worked with a level of pride that outshone even those forces.

One of the main reasons for this resurgence of heart in the beleaguered city shone on a wall that their horses clambered past. On its marble facade, someone had painted a pair of crossed gold swords, framing a stylized woman who sat astride a white mount. A man in silver lay draped in the figure’s arms.

Aalia and the body of Paladin Regar.

Reverent candles flickered below, along with fresh roses.

The same image had spread throughout the city, some richly detailed, others hastily graffitied, a few profanely raunchy. The tale of a grieving empress holding the body of her Paladin was also extolled in song, heard in taverns and on street corners, growing grander with every raised voice.

Rami noted this latest shrine to his sister. “Aalia had worried she would suffer the same fate as Emperor Gaius following his cataclysm. But she should worry more now about meeting the expectations of a god.”

Kanthe shrugged. “There are not many gods of late who, in one day, saved millions. She took a great risk to start moving that tide to safety. Most have come to believe such a precaution to be prophetic, as if the Klashean pantheon were whispering in Aalia’s ears and had warned her of the pending doom.”

“Versus the scholarship of Chaaen Hrash and others from the Bad’i Chaa. ”

“She still heeded them,” Kanthe reminded him.

“True.”

“Would you have done the same?”

Rami frowned, deeply considering this, then sighed. “I don’t know. All I do know is I’m happy not to wear the crown. The weight of it sounds too crushing.”

As they continued through the throngs, the second bell of Eventoll rang out. The pair had spent the entire day visiting the healers’ tents, which stretched a full league along a thoroughfare south of Hresh Me. They had moved from tent to tent, stopping often: to encourage, to listen, to pray, to offer as much comfort as two men in shining armor could to the suffering, the maimed, the grieving.

Kanthe had been impressed by Rami. Despite his cavalier attitude, he showed a compassion that shone brighter than his armor. As they passed along, he would gently cajole, never look away, listen to the pain, or kneel at a cot and hold a hand. He seemed to find the right way to bend his manner to each afflicted, and not insincerely, but with a genuineness that could not be mistaken.

Rami might not want to wear a crown, but he certainly was a prince.

Kanthe was glad to call him a friend.

Rami raised a question about another friend, one who had abandoned them back in Hálendii. “Any further word from Frell?”

Kanthe sighed. “Only that Azantiia, while not as strongly shaken, had suffered greater damage. Frell believes, with both kingdom and empire compromised, that there should be a period of relief from tensions.”

“What about Eligor? Any indication on his condition?”

“Still nothing. A blank cipher, as of yet.”

Rami’s worried cast to his eyes was well warranted. Back when they were imprisoned, Mikaen had mentioned that the Iflelen had devised some method to accelerate Eligor’s regeneration.

This was one of the reasons Frell had chosen to stay behind with Llyra and Symon. He believed his talents could be best put to use over there. He wanted to learn as much as he could about The Fist, where Eligor hid his key. The libraries of Hálendii had the most extensive texts pertaining to the volcanic peak.

“Speaking of alchymists,” Rami said, “has our new guest, Wryth, shown himself to be any more forthcoming?”

“Somewhat. He’s shared much about his fellow Iflelen. And about what he learned from the resurrection of Eligor’s bronze body. Still, he keeps much more hidden.”

“Then chains are still warranted.”

“The more, the better. Though, keeping him chaaen-bound to Pratik, and under the man’s constant watch, was a good idea. Wryth already seems to have grown to respect the man, which may serve us.”

Rami smiled. “Out of forced circumstances, some great friendships can arise.”

Kanthe reached over and tapped a fist on the prince’s knee. “Indeed.”

Rami stared toward the walls of the citadel. “I suppose we’d best head back. It grows late, and I promised to share a repast with the son and daughter of the Qaar Saur envoy. With all the rebuilding ahead, we will need to lean heavily upon their land’s resources.”

“Sounds like you have a long Eventoll ahead of you.”

“And a longer night, I expect.” Rami glanced to him with a raised brow and an amused glint in his eyes. “You’re welcome to join us. As they say, an extra pair of hands makes for lighter work.”

Kanthe bared a palm. “I’ve only got one, remember. And when we get back, all this hand is doing is finding the nearest bottle of wine.”

K ANTHE SAGGED CONTENTEDLY into a steaming bath, soaking the long day out of his bones. He had indeed found that bottle of wine. It rested on the edge of the wide bath, which was spring-fed and large enough to hold a dozen bathers, even deep enough to swim.

Steam pebbled the marble walls and dripped from statuary.

He leaned his head against a stone pillow and let his eyes slip closed, listening as Eventoll’s last bell rang out.

Finally…

As he drifted off, a voice cleared ahead of him.

Startled, he opened his eyes and sat straighter. A cloaked figure stood at the foot of the bath, face covered in a shadowy wrap. Last winter, someone in the same attire had accosted him in a bath. He had been drugged, kidnapped, and hauled back to Mikaen. It had been the Brotherhood of Asgia, the same ones who had set up the ambush inside the citadel a few months back.

They must have found another way inside.

The assassin took a threatening step forward.

Hard words pierced the cloth. “I believe I owe you a debt.”

A hand reached up and swept away the wrap, revealing the snowy skin and ice-blue eyes of Cassta. Before Kanthe could speak, the same hand undid a hook, and the cloak slithered from her shoulders to the floor. She stood naked, one leg slightly in front of the other, baring a shapely thigh. Curves led up to a rise of breasts and a long neck.

Cassta stepped from the folds of her robe and into the bath. “Kreshna,” she whispered from across the steam, naming that debt.

She shook out a fall of black hair, folded with a single braid that held five bells again—not a single one tinkled, not then, not when she dove smoothly into the bath.

She skimmed below the surface, a silvery flash under dark water. She swept over his sunken legs, then surged up before him. Water streamed and steamed from her features as if she were a dream. She lifted higher, the nipples of her breasts brushing his chest, her lips close to his.

“A Rhysian always pays her debts.”

He swallowed hard to find his voice. “Not to be a stickler, but you actually owe me two debts.”

Her eyes sparkled at the challenge.

“Though I might need a rest in between,” Kanthe admitted.

She touched her lips to his with a promise. “Yes, you will.”