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Prince Torach, a man not much older than I am, who possesses the arrogant bearing of inherited importance, flashes a sardonic smirk. Then he yanks out a chair at the table as if he’s been asked to the most casual breakfast. “Your Majesty.” He nods to King Mihel, but it’s hardly polite. The slight incline of his head mocks the gesture it’s meant to represent. Insulting. Presumptive.

I scan the room, cataloguing escape routes, noting which windows would shatter easiest, which of the soldiers look most ready to draw weapons. Three by the door seem particularly twitchy. Trained, but young. Eager.

The most threatening kind.

“Why are you here?” King Mihel’s hospitality has clearly been stretched to its limit.

Torach sprawls out in his stolen seat. “You were meeting with the magic-killers.” He grabs a piece of bread from a nearby basket, ripping into it without ceremony. “We took it upon ourselves to arrive early. Wouldn’t want to miss anything important.”

Sterling regards him with the clinical detachment of a man assessing whether someone is worth killing. “You are the son of Aldrin, the King of Kamor.”

The man nods.

“So as the Kamorian prince, you understand what it means to insult a monarch in their own home.” Sterling’s tone adopts a menacing edge, like a dagger wrapped in velvet.

I suppress a smile. Sterling’s dangerous voice. The one that sounds polite while promising consequences. That’s what I need to learn to mimic. Not Rafe’s formalities.

Torach’s smile falters, the bread suspended halfway to his mouth. He says nothing.

“And I’m sure you know what could happen if word reached your father that you’d endangered Kamor’s trade agreements with both Tirene and Tír Ríoga through,” Sterling pauses, allowing the silence to stretch uncomfortably before finishing, “undiplomatic behavior.”

A muscle twitches in Torach’s jaw. His soldiers start scanning the room, no longer quite so confident. One swallows hard.

I lean close to Sterling, muttering so no one hears but him. “Forget trade. Let’s talk about how fast his soldiers can run.”

The tiniest flicker of humor touches the corner of Sterling’s mouth, though his eyes remain fixed on the offending prince. “No matter, Prince Torach. I know you came to discuss solutions, not to create problems. I’m sure it was merely the…excitement of the moment.” His eyebrows lift, offering the young man a graceful exit from his own lack of manners.

Torach sets down the bread and straightens his shoulders as if trying to recapture his dignity. “Indeed…Your Majesty. Peaceful solutions are always preferable.”

But setting the dragon fucker on fire would be so much more fun.

Sterling’s gaze flicks to me for a heartbeat, causing me to question whether I voiced my thought.

Torach’s jaw clenches as he addresses me. “Queen Lark of Tirene. Your…reputation precedes you.”

He says “reputation” like it’s a disease. I offer him my most tactful smile, which probably looks more like I’m baring my teeth.

Sterling turns to King Mihel. “Your Majesty, shall we all talk?”

Awe fills me at how easily Sterling defused what could have been a bloody situation and put the arrogant Kamorian prince in his place.

I sink back into my chair, arranging the damned formal dress so it doesn’t get too wrinkled.

King Mihel nods, the tight lines around his eyes betraying his displeasure even as he offers the gesture of peace. He motions for Sterling to take a seat again, and they sit at the same time. It’s a subtle dance of equal respect that doesn’t escape my notice.

Or Torach’s, judging by the other royal’s not-so-subtle scowl. “Tirene destroyed magic deliberately. You’ve stolen what makes us equal.”

Wow, guess he isn’t interested in diplomacy. He doesn’t even pretend to be.

“Not only is that incorrect, it’s also impossible.” Sterling’s voice hardens, his polite veneer thinning. “We only did what the gods asked of us. To destroy the corrupted remains of a dead and forsaken god. It was eyril fertilized with dragon blood that grew the plants used to control human minds. And everyone knows what happened to people who ingested too much eyril even before the drachen rose and started slaughtering or corrupting every living thing.”

“It seems everything is changing.” King Mihel hesitates, as if measuring his words. “Including the gods themselves.”

Torach leans back, something unpleasant flickering across his features. “Maybe the Devoted are onto something. Maybe we should be asking for the gods’ aid in regaining magic.”

Queen Maeve reacts with horror, her regal composure cracking for the first time. I can’t blame her. The Devoted have been causing violent unrest throughout the kingdoms, stirring hatred and division. Their brand of faith demands blood and submission, not healing.

I can’t maintain my tactful silence any longer. The mention of the Devoted churns my stomach. “The gods have nothing to do with magic. Magic was always ours.”