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S AFFRON WAS TO MEET LEVAN OUTSIDE THE PORTARI GATE AT dusk the next night.

The gate was hidden deep in the belly of the mansion, only accessible by ascending to a dimly lit corridor on the third floor, tapping a marble statue of a dragon on each claw, and uttering the word tempavicissan .

The Bloodmoons truly worshipped the lost art of timeweaving, and it was almost embarrassing that the Silvercloaks had never picked up on it.

Then again, no Silvercloak had ever done what she had.

They’d never been this close, never slipped under the skin of the beast.

Saffron wondered what would happen if the Bloodmoons found out she was a hallowed Timeweaver—whether it would make her more valuable or more of a target, whether they would love her or hate her for possessing the power they had so doggedly sought for themselves.

Descending the spiral staircase—exposed once the marble dragon took flight down the corridor—Saffron heard voices. Rasso ground to a halt beside her.

Levan was not alone.

“—going?” asked the kingpin, glacially cold. “You think I’ll let you fly out of here, after all you’ve done?”

“The Havenwood,” Levan replied woodenly. “To retrieve the lox I stashed. And nothing I have ever done has been against the interests of the Bloodmoons. Your brand makes sure of that.”

“You think I trust you with bringing the lox back?” Lyrian snarled.

“I was capable of stashing the lox. I think I’m capable of unstashing it.”

Lyrian laughed cruelly. “Not before you pilfer some for yourself, hmm, dulgo ?”

A dark crimson flared behind Saffron’s eyes at the heinous word—the most derogatory word for “addict” in the Vallish language. A member of the King’s Cabinet had once been dishonorably discharged for uttering it.

Before she could stop herself, Saffron hurried forward. The staircase opened out into a dark, sparse chamber lit by goldencandles. “Don’t you dare call him—”

“Silver,” Levan uttered in warning, as Lyrian spun on his heel to face her.

The kingpin looked from his son’s worried expression to Saffron’s furiously curled fist, and a knowing smile spread slowly across his pinched face. “Interesting choice, son.”

Saff’s stomach clenched.

Never show what hurts. It’ll only be used against you.

Defending Levan was another misstep.

The loosening of her tongue, the fogging of her conscious thoughts, was becoming a problem.

All her life she had prided herself on her ability to bide time, to assess every threat before choosing a path, and yet here she was barreling into hostile situations, uttering the first misguided threat that came into her head.

Yet she loathed the kingpin for who he had forged his son into. She loathed him when she thought of the order he had given: for Vogolan to brand Levan’s heart. It took all her earthly willpower not to slay him where he stood.

“You shouldn’t come to the Havenwood.” Levan glared at his father. “There’s likely a warrant out for your arrest.”

“So we blast the Silvercloaks out of the sky if they so much as come near us.” Lyrian adjusted the long gold chain hanging round his neck.

An obelisk-shaped pendant of jade dangled at his navel—Saffron hadn’t seen it before.

Jade was famous for repelling something, but she couldn’t remember what.

“I’ll bring reinforcements. Segal and Castian, of course.

Shalion, Tas, Lindelan. Benvornan can cast a cloud formation around us, and Castian can gust it along on the wind.

You see, this is how you plan an operation.

You don’t just charge in wands blazing with no thought to defense.

You think. It was a mistake for me to ever trust you with things of such import, but it’s a mistake I will not make twice. ”

Saints, Levan, if you don’t seek retribution, I will.

Levan fixed a stony expression onto his face. “Fine. But if this goes wrong, the blood is on your hands.”

Soon the chamber echoed with overlapping voices.

Aviruna Castian looked like she’d been interrupted midway through a lox session.

Her eyes were glassy, her limbs languid, her voice slow as molasses.

Saffron vaguely recognized four other mages from the conclave after Vogolan’s death.

Benvornan had the same lank, hook-nosed appearance, and Saff wondered whether they might have been cousins.

Segal’s milky gaze was still clouded and wrong, a hypnotic quality to his movements, more languid and gliding than was natural.

The portari gate stood in the center of the room, as though propping up the ceiling.

The empty core of it pulsed with whorls of magic, and on all four sides were ascenite arches carved into the shapes of bucking axelmares—tall, skeletal steeds standing on hind legs, their broad spectral wings unfurled.

Axelmares were to portari what fallowwolves were to timeweaving and velvines were to pleasure, though the winged steeds were sparsely populated in a country that had banned their favored magic.

Most of them had migrated to Bellandry and the Eastern Republics after the teleportation spell was outlawed in Vallin.

As the others filtered in, Levan took her by the hand for the briefest of moments, his brow lowered.

“Nobody’s ever defended me like that before,” he muttered, voice thick. “At least not since my mother died. It’s not worth your life, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

Saff nodded but found she couldn’t say anything in return. She cared about this man enough that she’d stick her neck above the para pet to defend him, and yet a dark, churning part of her still urged her to heed caution.

Levan could use magic on her. She was not as safe as she believed.

And while she doubted he’d ever willingly hurt her, she still had to stay vigilant.

Alert, without letting emotions cloud her judgment.

To reassure herself, she clasped her hands around the cool, smooth hourglass and the thrumming painmaker tucked in her cloak pocket—free of their velvet pouches and ready to deploy at a moment’s notice.

Once everyone had arrived, they filtered into the portari gate in pairs.

Lyrian insisted on accompanying his untrustworthy son, and so Saffron stepped through with Castian.

She’d only used portari gates a few times in her adult life—Atherin was an easily walkable city—but the sensation was the same as the spell itself.

A squeezing, a breathlessness, a starring of the vision at the other end.

They arrived in a forest glade.

A full moon illuminated the clearing, round and pearlescent as an ascen coin, the sky around it salted with stars.

The spindly trees were unmistakably wyrmwoods—a silver-leafed genus believed to be the preferred kindling of dragons—and the forest floor was hatched with roots, twigs, and dark blue saintmoss.

It reminded Saffron so intensely of childhood that her chest ached.

That smell —somehow earthy and crystalline, like the clearest of lakes and the richest of soils.

Combined with the echoing coo of havendoves, it was like a fishhook through her heart.

She hadn’t been back to these parts for so long.

Chatter rippled through the Bloodmoons as they arrived, but Lyrian held up a forefinger to urge silence.

They stood stock-still for several moments until Saffron realized he was listening for the sound of nearby pursuants.

Saffron knew it to be pointless, since any Silvercloak could muffle footsteps at the drop of a hat, but she understood the instinct.

Lyrian gestured for everyone to follow in a northerly direction.

The knotty wyrmwoods soon became so densely packed that they had to walk single file, the forest floor dark as the bottom of a well.

One by one, the Bloodmoons illuminated their wands with an echoed chant of et lustran.

Tiny balls of white light bobbed and flickered through the trees like fireflies.

The ground was uneven beneath Saffron’s feet, alter nating between snarled roots and blankets of saintmoss, but Rasso leapt and pattered over it with little effort, glancing at her as though to say, Come on, slowfeet, what are you waiting for?

The Bloodmoons walked in silence for a few hundred yards until the woods opened into another glade, sheltered from the sky by a thick canopy of interwoven branches and silver leaves.

A dozen shabby wooden shacks were arranged in a circle so perfect it was almost eerie—like a clock face with evenly spaced hour numbers.

The structures were uniform in size and shape, but languished in various states of decay and dilapidation, with several rotted roofs and one cabin bearing vicious black scorch marks up the front door.

In the middle of the shack village, like the perfect bull’s-eye of an archer’s target, was a stone well with a thick parapet wall and a wooden wellhead slick with saintmoss.

Surrounding the well were four stone fire pits for outdoor cooking, spaced perfectly in the north, east, south, and west positions.

Saff had the curious feeling of looking at a purposefully designed tactical village. Everything was so precise and symmetrical that it seemed like something a Silvercloak strategist would come up with for a final assessment.

For a moment, they all stood silently as they studied the site, respectful, reverent, as though the shacks were a dozen open graves.

Saffron’s gaze went from the unsettling clock-face pattern to Levan’s face, trying to parse any emotion she found there, but there was none.

His guards were up. Saff’s should be too.

Lyrian blew air through his lips, looking slightly winded. “I haven’t been here in so long.”

“It’s deserted?” Castian asked.

“The windows are enchanted to make every shack appear empty from the outside,” Levan explained. “So even if people still lived here, it would look deserted. But yes, it’s empty.”