“Datu Gulod? Very well.” Luntok struggled to contain his surprise as he dismissed Huna with a flick of his hand. Datu Gulod was known across Maynara to be a smart, crafty fellow, but he was not Imeria Kulaw’s typical houseguest. Luntok wondered what he had done to earn an invitation.

At the top of the stairs, his mother’s door stood ajar. Dark shadows flitted in and out of the narrow opening. Imeria was pacing, as she often did when sleep evaded her. Usually, Luntok left her to her warring thoughts. But this night, curiosity caught the better of him. He raised his hand to the doorframe and gave it a gentle knock.

“Enter.” Imeria’s voice cut through the stillness, sharper than the edge of his blade. When he stepped into the room, she looked up from the stacks of paper strewn across her bed. Luntok recognized the brushstrokes, cross-sections, and carefully stenciled lines. These were the maps of the palace they’d collected over the years⁠—some stolen by hired thieves from the royal architect’s private chambers, others drawn by Imeria’s own hand.

“I hope you weren’t waiting up for me,” Luntok said as he shut the door behind him.

His mother’s expression softened. “My darling, clever boy. Come⁠—I’ve yet to congratulate you on your victory.” She opened her arms. Part of Luntok was ashamed of how eager he was to fall into them.

“Did the fight please you?” he asked, his voice cracking involuntarily.

“I’ve never been prouder to call you my son,” she said warmly.

Luntok closed his eyes, his nose filling with the scent of her jasmine perfume. A smell he still associated with safety, even after all these years. Now that he was home, the weight of the day’s trials⁠—from the aching muscles in his sword arm to the goblets of wine he’d consumed back at the inn⁠—dropped on top of him like a heavy stone.

“Could we speak more in the morning?” he asked, stifling a yawn. “I really ought to turn in.”

Imeria drew back, an unfamiliar spark in her gaze. “Of course, you must be exhausted. Let me show you something first.” From the pocket of her skirt, she withdrew a thin glass vial. Its contents gleamed in the moonlight filtering in through the open window. In her palm, the crystal substance looked like crushed starlight. Knowing his mother, it was anything but.

An uneasy feeling slithered down Luntok’s spine. “What in Mulayri’s name is that?”

His mother explained what he had already guessed. The finely ground substance was no ordinary crystal. It was a drug called precioso. Dread built deep inside Luntok’s gut as she told him how it could enhance her dangerous abilities⁠—and how the drug had landed in her possession.

“Datu Gulod,” Luntok echoed, incredulous. “Are you sure you can trust him?”