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That is her pretty secret: Her sharp political mind had tempered her husband Esmail’s orthodoxy, for Esmail had been inclined toward warmongering like his great-great-great-grandmother Safiyah.

Of course, in Safiyah’s time the empire still had lands to conquer, while the constraints of the Holy Design kept Esmail from physically expanding the empire in any direction.

His tendencies had to be expunged via tightening his control over the edges of the empire, cracking down occasionally on outer cities that perhaps hadn’t done anything quite illegal, but would have—might have—soon.

It was under those terrible expectations that Lyric came of age and learned to maneuver.

If not for his mother’s influence, he might have grown up to be a psychopath.

(One day in the near future, Iriset overhears Sidoné complain she does not understand why Diaa holds so determined to be underestimated, even now, for the appearance of weakness or even nonchalance invites enemies, where obvious strength holds them at bay.

Amaranth replies that if an enemy sees your strengths, they can better invent weapons to tear you down, and Sidoné argues back there are always, always enemies fashioning weapons for use against the empire and especially the Vertex Seal.

But Iriset admires that Diaa finds balance in preserving part of herself only for herself.

None of them realize who Diaa’s true enemy is.)

If Iriset had a choice, it would not have been to meet the mother of the Vertex Seal wearing a little cat mask as a cheeky slight against the entire mirané council.

Technically, Amaranth approved her handmaidens’ accoutrement.

Sidoné, however, sneered and said their irreverence made it a good thing Lyric himself couldn’t seem to approve or disapprove of small king marriages and therefore would not be at the party.

That disappointed Iriset. How had she been living in his palace for thirteen days and not laid eyes on His Glory?

Amaranth and her group of four arrive in her mother’s petal early, sweeping in a colorful palette of pinks and red for the Vertex Seal and white for ecstatic force, the force that rules the Great Steeple in Sian méra Sayar’s precinct.

Diaa welcomes them with open arms, pink robes falling in long, wide sleeves, and belted around her ribs with glittering silver and mint green.

A netting mask woven of copper holds glass flowers—scarlet succulents and moon orchids with their sharp tongues—against her temple and left cheek.

Several glass flowers dot her twisted black hair.

Her eyes are painted in complementary pink and green swirls, with the light touch of a true artist who can smooth wrinkles without ruining them, turning Diaa’s age into part of her beauty.

She’s shorter than her daughter, but holds herself straighter than Amaranth’s constant lounge.

Something about the structure of how she leans lets Iriset guess she injured her right leg at some point, or her hip aches.

It’s good Iriset’s cat mask hides her expression entirely, but for her bottom lip and chin.

She stares with Silk’s attention all she likes.

Except, after kissing her daughter’s cheek, Diaa turns unerringly to Iriset. “You’re the new one.”

“Your Glory,” Iriset murmurs, lowering her head. Her mask is made of a stiff leather frame with painted cloth pulled over the skeleton, and sweeps up on either side into pointed ears, tufted with glittering fluff. She covers her eyes with one hand.

“Poor thing,” Diaa says, immediately taking hold of Iriset, looping an arm around her waist. “I’m glad my daughter has been taking care of you. Come have a nip of this mulled rockwine. It’s supposedly the favorite of Sayar’s, so we’re treating the whole family tonight.”

Iriset flicks her gaze to Amaranth, who smiles like an alliraptor and shrugs one shoulder.

Nielle waves, pushing her mask up over her hair to talk with a striking woman Iriset has never seen but who looks familiar in the way that she’s likely related to someone Iriset knows.

“Thank you,” Iriset says softly. Diaa pats her hip in a motherly fashion.

Iriset hasn’t had a mother in fourteen years and does not know how to react.

The strange kindness flees her mind when she sees who Diaa is leading her toward. General Bey méra Matsimet poses in a vivid green robe instead of his uniform—bearded, grizzled, as grim as Iriset remembers—at a sideboard stacked with ceramic cups and several steins and decanters of colorful drinks.

“Here is General Bey,” Diaa says once they’ve reached the miran.

“I believe you’ve met under less pleasant circumstances.

Now that you’re in the palace with Amaranth, here is what you need to know: Bey plays whatever role best serves the security of Moonshadow and the will of the Vertex Seal.

If he was cruel to you, it was on my son’s behalf, to get what he needed. ”

Bey tilts his head in a way that might be agreement but might also be ridicule. His eyes are hard to read through the thin gray cloth mask.

Diaa says, “We trust him because he loves my son as one loves a nephew or the child of a dear friend. They do not belong to you, and so you are not responsible for their everyday needs or survival.”

“It makes room for a different sort of loyalty,” Bey says, low and calm. “Like the edge of a knife, simple and never fraught with misunderstanding.”

Iriset keeps her eyes lowered. Her pulse is loud in her ears, too much ecstatic and rising force, inviting something akin to panic.

The two speak as if they always talk in this layered way, agree this much, and intend something for her that she just cannot quite grasp.

Except it feels like a threat from the Vertex Seal himself.

“Little Cat’s daughter, indeed,” General Bey says, then snorts. “She was like this in prison, too.”

Diaa’s arm tightens around Iriset. “Don’t be obnoxious.”

“Brother, who are your terrorizing now?”

Iriset looks toward the bright newcomer: It’s the striking woman Amaranth greeted, who’s left the Moon-Eater’s Mistress behind near the door to usher in new guests.

“Iriset,” Diaa says, “this is Lapis mé Matsimet, the other Mirror General. She proved herself decades ago on the western battlefields against the rebellious Bow in Lyric’s father’s time.

There was a crisis, as there always is, and Lapis lifted up the command mantle to reorganize a successful offensive out of a near-certain loss.

Her strategies have never failed outright.

And so we have the Mirror Generals, you see. ”

“What an impressive description,” Lapis says merrily.

“I don’t see,” Iriset says. It’s even true. Though the siblings look very alike in the shape of their skulls.

Bey knocks back his drink and holds the cup out for his sister to refill it.

Diaa lifts one elegant brow, shifting the colors of flowers painted to her eye.

“Bey and Lapis serve the army of the Vertex Seal in opposing capacities. Bey leads the central army, which reigns in the city as you have directly experienced. Lapis directs and oversees the workings of all four external branches. Her job is predominately administrative, while his allows for more hands-on action. His domain is Moonshadow, hers the farthest reaches of the empire. It was Lyric’s idea to put them in charge of the city and the empire, respectively.

Quite smart, positioning them so that their interests align but do not perfectly match.

Slight, constant friction hones their power and their principles. ”

It occurs to Iriset that Diaa is teaching her. Why, she has little idea. For her own reasons, no doubt. Just like everyone here.

“Sister,” Bey says, tapping his refilled cup to hers. “This is the prisoner I told you about. The daughter of Isidor the Little Cat.”

“Oh?” Lapis eyes Iriset, not quite rude enough to focus on her face behind the mask. “A handmaiden of Her Glory now? That is the strangest way of holding a prisoner of war I’ve ever heard.”

Bey drawls back, “How would you know? You never send home prisoners, sister, only slaves and orphans.”

“Which is Iriset?” Lapis asks, laughing at her own joke.

Neither yet, Iriset knows, feeling their disregard sink into her design.

But Diaa squeezes her hand and pushes a cup of mulled rockwine into it.

She is so kind, and Iriset can’t read ulterior motives into her touch as easily as she can with Amaranth.

Whatever Diaa wants or thinks, her pretense is so thorough Iriset has no idea where to even look for a crack.