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My stomach dropped. This was his price, then. I would take the fall for his dullroot stash and he wouldn’t expose me.

The guard emerged from the tent. “The minister will deal with them,” she said.

The minister. We only used that title in Daradon for religious leaders, but that couldn’t be the case here. The reminder that I knew nothing of the Ansoran hierarchy—or how to manipulate it—tied a new knot of nerves inside me as we stepped into the tent.

I blinked, adjusting to the brightness. Enclosed glass lanterns crowded the space, spilling their glow across a sleek wooden desk and the sheepskin rug cushioning my steps.

A tall, lean man stood beside the desk, dressed in a more embellished version of what I recognized from Tari’s household as Bormian formalwear: burgundy silk trousers and a knee-length tunic, embroidered in gold filigree. He couldn’t have been older than thirty-five, his brown skin smooth and radiant, his hair coiffed and parted in one dark sweep. But judging by how the guards bowed to him and shuffled out—as though leaving a meal for a venomous snake—he must’ve held a great deal of authority.

I raised my chin. Minister had to be a title given to nobles. And I knew how to deal with nobles.

“My lord,” I began, respectful but steady, “there has been a misunderstanding.”

“There certainly has.” His eyes narrowed, his voice lilting with a slight Bormian accent. “You will address me as Your Excellency.”

I frowned; this was an honorific we never used in Daradon. “I apologize . . . Your Excellency. But your guards’ misunderstanding has led to unnecessarily rough treatment. No Wielder who journeyed from Daradon deserves to be handled like a criminal.”

The man tilted his head, his expression cool and neutral. “Who are you to decide what any Wielder deserves?”

“Who are you?”

I immediately knew the retort was a mistake. But I held myself upright as he looked me over. Then he said, smiling faintly, “I am Arun Nahalan. The Imperial Minister of Intelligence.”

My pulse lurched. Ansora’s surveillance notoriously extended across continents . . . and every branch must have fed back to this man.

So what was he doing here?

I was inhaling to speak again when I heard urgent footsteps from behind, then a sharp swoosh as the entrance opened.

I whirled around to find Valeria storming inside, her expression set in hard lines.

“You should’ve waited for me, Arun,” she said, striding around the desk.

I didn’t know if I was more startled by her casual use of the minister’s name or the way she openly glared at him, looking far more imposing now than when she’d welcomed us.

“You seemed rather busy,” Arun said.

“I should certainly hope so, seeing as this is my operation.” She crossed her arms. “You needn’t remain. I’m sure you have business to attend to.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve had the pleasure of questioning dullroot smugglers. I’m quite content to stay and oversee the search.” Arun’s voice dropped with dark amusement. “If it suits Your Highness.”

Shock straightened my spine. And I suddenly saw in this young woman everything I’d missed before: the strong features, the bronze hair, the caramel eyes—a shade darker than the ones I knew, yet just as impossibly bright against her honey-gold skin.

Your Highness, Arun had called her.

This was Keil’s sister.

The sister who’d been stationed in Daradon, helping to locate these vulnerable Wielders with Carmen. Who’d been captured by the Hunters and tortured for a month before Keil had ransomed me to ensure her release.

As the light caught the scar across her face, a darker realization chased the first, the sensation running like ice water down my back.

The Hunters must have given her that scar.

“As you like,” she said tightly, then shifted toward me and Zeke. “Your full names, please.”

“Zeke Cromwell,” Zeke said. He side-eyed me for a moment, probably considering his options, before he sighed and added, “She’s Dinah Summers.”

Valeria nodded to the chairs before the desk. “Take a seat.”