“What did Pangil promise you? Safe harbor in Maynara?” Duja asked. “I don’t know what he told you, Orfelian, but I am the only one who can grant you that.” She raised her chin to give the alchemist the impression that she was looking down at him. Her mother did not teach her this; despite the blood of Mulayri that had run in her veins, the old queen had been softer than wool. No, Duja had learned the move from Imeria⁠—another memory that came with the bitter sting of regret.

The alchemist’s mouth flattened into a line. His body language shifted. He slid his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, which made him look taller. Duja observed him, fascinated. This was a man who was accustomed to conducting negotiations.

“You are correct, Your Majesty. I do seek safety in Maynara. And I understand I am in no position to make demands of a queen. However . . .” He trailed off. His eyes flitted to General Ojas, who was standing behind Duja’s shoulder, no doubt with one hand on the hilt of his sword. The alchemist swallowed hard and met Duja’s gaze. “I would not have come if I did not have something to offer in exchange.”

Duja’s heartbeat quickened. She remembered the promise Pangil made in his letter. “The key to abiding glory,” she echoed.

The alchemist let out a surprised chuckle. “Yes,” he said, nodding slowly. “Or something to that effect.”

Hope fluttered without warning in her chest. She shoved it down. The alchemist looked harmless, but Duja knew nothing about him⁠—what he offered, why he needed to leave Orfelia. For all she knew, he came to Duja on her brother’s orders to lay some elaborate trap. She studied him closely. “If we’re going to strike a deal, I can’t go on calling you Orfelian,” she said. “Tell me, young man. What is your name?”

The alchemist opened his mouth just as a violent tremor shot through Duja’s hand. She fisted the silk of her sash and spun around.

“Your Majesty!” Ojas gasped.

Duja shook her head to hold him back. The vibrations rocked up her arm to the stiff muscles at the base of her neck. She bit back a hiss of pain, cradling her hand until the shaking dissipated.

“You⁠—yes. Of course.” The alchemist’s voice rang out across the room’s vaulted ceiling, awestruck.

Duja looked up. Her hand fell limply to her side. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“The tremors. I’ve seen them before. Do you see now? This is why he sent me.” The alchemist’s eyes lit up in excitement. He spoke in rapid Orfelian. With his accent, Duja found him hard to understand.

“Are you talking about Pangil?” she asked incredulously.