The Ovia swallows her apprehension and resumes as instructed, voice held steady through the application of will. “I wish… I wish to claim my right to challenge you to a game of your design. If I win, return Iraline of the Ten Thousand Colors, Mother of the Dead and beloved brood-sister. If I lose—”

Ventricles strain against the onset of terror. Yavena’s pulse hammers like fists. The audacity of her coming revelation is not lost upon her, and like the wail of a wolf pack, it bleeds her spirit of courage.

“—return Iraline to the Ten Thousand Colors and let me take her place instead. She is soft. I am muscled. Larger, better suited for your banquet hall, my plumage more impressive. I—”

Shocked noises detonate in the hall. In between, a strange, shrill laugh. Hahvak.

The Dog-King maintains his genteel smile. “Correct us if we are mistaken. But do you not belong to the Court of the Living?”

“I do.” It is too late for retreat.

“And does not the duty of feeding the Gak belong to the Court of the Dead?”

“It does.”

The monarch leans forward, eyes hooded, lamplight-gold. “Tell us, then: why would you have us risk political unrest between our kingdoms? Do we not have a treaty? Do my packs not watch the mountains of your nests? Do we not feed you as you feed us? Do we not have a deal?”

Yavena can scarcely breathe. “We do.”

“Then tell us why we should grant you this boon.”

Because of love, Yavena thinks. But what she tells him is, “But you are the greatest mind among the Gak. You would win. I’m sure of it, and you would have stories to tell of my insolence. Is that not worth the infinitesimally small chance of loss?”

“Your confidence in your deliciousness is appreciated.” A slight, slow inclination of the head. The Dog-King shifts in his seat and rests his jaw atop steepled claws.

Yavena spreads her hands and advances a step, no longer willing to divide decorum from desire. After enduring so many trials, so many weeks of combat, has she not earned the liberty of uncensored expression? She is pleading now, openly. “Iraline deserves more years to her life. She is an accomplished artist, a masterful poet, a historian of unparalleled accuracy. I know there is no honor greater for one belonging to the Court of the Dead than to appear on your table, but give her back to me, Lord-General.

“Please.” Ragged, that final word, like a belly slit open. “Give my nest-sister back.”

The Dog-King says nothing for long minutes. Seconds lengthen, viscera thick, suturing together into a wait that might as well have been eternity. Around Yavena, silence descends in waves, until there is only the sound of a hundred lungs in harmonious palpitation.

Then at last: “We see merit in your suggestion.”