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I T WAS TWO MORE DAYS BEFORE VOGOLAN’S DEATH CAME BACK to bite her.

Saffron spent that time attempting to learn when and where the next lox shipment was going to happen.

She bought an expensive invisibility tincture from Atherin’s finest apothecary—after visiting the bank to draw from her amassed gambling wealth, since the Bloodmoons did not exactly pay a salary—and roamed the mansion in the vague hope of overhearing something compelling.

Nothing.

When Segal summoned Levan to Lyrian’s office to discuss the influx of recent debtors in the gamehouse, Saffron hung at his heel and raked her gaze over the kingpin’s desk, aiming to identify a loose piece of parchment that might betray a time or date for the next shipment.

Nothing.

She tried to coax the information out of Levan on a trip to the Cherrymarket for potion supplies—Aspar had been there under the guise of her familiar, Bones the cat—but Levan had remained vague, and Saff didn’t want to push too hard in case he grew suspicious of her intentions.

Or the pissant of a feline on their tail.

Still nothing.

Speaking of Levan, she spent many hours memorizing the pattern of his movements, building a picture of his role in the Bloodmoons so that she might find the natural holes in it.

Each of his days followed the same blueprint.

His arrival at her chambers with breakfast and hot chocolate was as regular and reliable as clockwork—perhaps more so, in a world where time was not always as steadfast as it ought to be.

Outside of their interactions, he oversaw several operations, keeping tabs on the gamehouses and monitoring the docks.

He also disappeared for vast swaths of the day, reappearing with a sheen of sweat on his forehead and a raggedness to his breathing, and though Saffron was none the wiser as to what he got up to during these junctures, there was a fair chance the King’s Prophet was involved.

In his absence, Saffron took regular solitary trips into the city, heading down to the riverfront and scattering Vogolan’s remains into the water piece by piece until nothing incriminating remained in her chambers.

Soon, the time to meet Nissa at the Jaded Saint was upon them.

However, Saff and Levan didn’t even make it to the warded tunnels before their wand tips glowed green simultaneously.

Levan paled slightly, before explaining to Saff that this was his father’s means of widespread communication to the Bloodmoons in his employ.

It loosely meant “Proceed to my office at haste, lest I decapitate you for your tardiness.” Though she didn’t say as much, Saffron felt uneasy that the kingpin was able to commandeer her wand in such a manner.

If he could make it glow green, what else could he do?

“Do you know what this summons is about?” Saffron asked Levan, as they marched back up the sweeping ascenite staircase.

Though deep down, she already knew.

“Vogolan, I’d imagine. Still no sign of him.”

Saffron reluctantly followed, afraid to keep Nissa waiting.

What if, when Saffron didn’t show up on time, her former lover came looking, terrified that something horrible had befallen her?

The idea of Nissa walking willingly into Celadon Gamehouse was a disquieting one.

Not only was Nissa hotheaded and impulsive, but she also had an addictive personality.

She’d become hooked on achullah from her very first smoke, so Saints knew how deep loxlure could sink its claws.

All thoughts of Nissa vanished, however, as they entered Lyrian’s fire-lit office.

The space was rammed full of scarlet cloaks, with barely enough room for her and Levan to stand.

Shoving past Bloodmoons of all heights and ages, they pressed against the rear black wall where Saffron had been branded.

Rasso let out a yelp as an ungainly mage stepped on his paw with a careless foot, and Levan scooped the fallowwolf up into his arms, as though Rasso weighed nothing.

Rasso licked his cheek gratefully, and despite the tension of the situation, Levan smiled.

It was the same kind of boyish smile as when she’d asked him about Lost Dragonborn: a pure, fleeting joy before he remembered who and where he was.

Almost without forethought, Saff reached out a hand and stroked Rasso’s ridged head.

The fur was soft and supple, and rather than growling in warning, the fearsome animal twisted its head back and licked her palm.

She felt as though a formidable deity had blessed her, and partially regretted turning Vogolan’s heart to stone, since the fallowwolf might have liked to eat it.

As Saff scratched a spot behind Rasso’s ears, Levan looked over at her, surprise darting across his face.

Was he shocked that she’d willingly pet an animal who had fairly recently ripped the throat out of a Whitewing?

Or was he stunned that a beast as ferocious as Rasso appeared to have warmed to her so fast?

Either way, Rasso’s affection was a welcome distraction from what might be about to happen.

She reminded herself that there was no way the kingpin knew she’d killed Vogolan, otherwise she’d already be dead.

She just had to don her mask of detachment and get through this conclave without drawing undue attention.

Another smattering of Bloodmoons filtered into the room, including a haggard, wart-nosed woman shaped like a barrel. The double doors slammed shut so hard that the whole room rattled.

At once, the low mutterings fell into taut, hesitant silence.

Behind his desk, Lyrian spoke coldly, quietly, clearly. “I believe that one of my dearest and longest-standing servants has been murdered.”

“Murdered?” croaked the ancient crone with the wart-nose.

“The tracing charm upon him dropped two nights ago. He was somewhere in the mansion, and then suddenly he was not. One of you murdered him. I intend to find out who.”

“Or he used the portari gate,” suggested a tall, elegant mage with a twirly moustache and a monocle.

His dark skin had the distinctive purplish undertone of the Nomareans.

He leaned his weight on a gilded cane, a black marble macaw perched atop the handle.

“Often tracing charms drop off during transportation.”

The Bloodmoons had a working portari gate?

Saffron mentally filed this revelation away. She was almost positive Aspar didn’t know about it.

Lyrian shook his head fiercely. “No. I have a trusted set of eyes”—his gaze went to the bowl of roulette balls on his desk—“on the gate at all times. Vogolan never left this building. He must be dead. Killed. ”

“You think one of us could do this?” Segal all but grunted. He looked pale, with something resembling grief on his blotchy face. “Despite the brands?”

“It took place inside the wards, thus only a Bloodmoon could have done it. As for how it could have escaped the brand’s wrath … well. The full picture will emerge in due course. You will each come to me in turn to drink truth elixir. There’s enough left in Vogolan’s stash to go around.”

His tone was threaded with emotion, but rather than humanizing him, it only made him seem more dangerous, more prone to sudden and devastating action. He gestured to the row of pale tincture vials lined up on his desk, and then his gaze found Saffron. Her guts were clenched by an invisible fist.

“Perhaps our resident rat would like to go first,” Lyrian said, the calm words undercut by a low, dark hatred. He thought it was her, but he didn’t know. And he was not about to find out.

As Saffron stepped toward the desk, she could’ve sworn Levan’s stance tensed, as though bracing for impact. Did he believe she was guilty? Or did he still trust wholeheartedly in the brand?

Feeling the sear of a hundred eyes burning into her back, Saffron tried not to hear the sharp intake of collective breath as she lifted the vial to her lips. She gave Lyrian a confident, unworried look and then drank.

The elixir tasted sickly sweet and vaguely acrid, like burnt sugar.

“Did you murder Porrol Vogolan?” Lyrian asked, eyes gleaming with the need for revenge. His irises were the color of desert sand—his mother had been Eqoran, Saff remembered from his case file.

“I did not,” said Saffron evenly, wondering why she had ever resented her magical immunity. She was beginning to see why her father had always insisted it was such a gift.

There was a scattered muttering around the room.

Lyrian looked entirely wrong-footed. “I see. And do you know anything about the murder of Porrol Vogolan?”

“I do not.”

The kingpin stared at her, confused and perhaps, she thought, a little afraid. Because if the new recruit had not betrayed him, it meant that someone far closer had. Not a pleasant proposition, for someone who considered themselves all-seeing, all-knowing.

Satisfaction glittered between Saffron’s ribs. She was contributing to the rocking of Lyrian Celadon’s worldview, cracking the once solid ground beneath his feet. And she was enjoying it.

“Are you certain?” he asked, and it was such an innocuous question, to the outside ear, but Saffron relished in his newfound uncertainty. He was doubting the elixir. He was doubting everything.

She tilted her chin high and nodded. “I’m certain.”

A long, pregnant pause, in which she met his gaze without blinking.

Then, finally, “Very well. Segal.”

Saffron stepped back from the desk as Segal stepped obligingly forward, stuffing his wand into his cloak pocket and picking up a vial of truth elixir. He swallowed it in one.

Next to Saffron, Levan’s posture eased, the relief palpable in the negative space between them.

It seemed he had not wanted Saffron to have been responsible for Vogolan’s murder—likely because he didn’t want to lose such a fruitful resource.

She was his best chance of finding Zares, after all. Whatever that meant to him.