Yavena waits, shoulders knitting, knotting. The Dog-King’s easy acquiescence inspires suspicion. Triumph is never this faultless, this clean. Something is amiss. A heartbeat’s worth of quiet, then Yavena cautiously supplies, “My lord.”

Neither agreement nor displeasure, a neutral postponement of opinion.

“Mm.” Equally ambiguous the Dog-King’s response. “We agree to your terms, but we will set the structure of the game.”

“I would desire nothing more.”

The Dog-King’s muzzle wrenches into something like a grin, feral in timbre. “So pliable. We would almost think you were born into the wrong court. Very well. This is our decision. This is what we require. Ask Iraline to leave of her own free will. Fail, and you shall have a fortnight to help prepare your own feast.”

Confusion yields a thoughtless exclamation. “M-my lord? I don’t understand. How is that even a game? That doesn’t—”

Yavena’s protest is slaughtered like a lamb, dismissed by a wave of the Dog-King’s hand. “It makes every iota of sense if you have the right scales to weigh it. You simply need to adopt the correct perspective. Iraline is in the kitchens. We will have someone escort you. Our game begins now.”

“My lord.” There is nothing else she can say.

“Wrong, Scahul.” A gentle rebuke, feather soft as it floats down the shadowed corridor. “It’s a basic error, however. Many presume that the Ten Thousand Colors have a united physiology, a uniformed distribution of collagen in their muscle fibres. But we do not. Our muscular composition differs from—”

Yavena accelerates. Her steps lengthen. It is all she can do to resist breaking into a lope. She crosses the threshold into the kitchen, her voice hoarse when it escapes. “Iraline?”

She interrupts the scene: a kitchen vast enough to contain hundreds, a fragrant landscape of gleaming steel, threaded with spice and carnivore predilections. An Ovia stretched provocatively over a broad wooden table, posture relaxed, expression inviting. She is tattooed with ink, limbs separated by lines, her most delectable regions marked for easy identification. A quill—lime-green; it is from her own person—dangles from her claws.

Around her, a battalion of Gak, their hands crowded with notepads. One clutches an inkwell.

“Yavena?” The Ovia rights herself. Her manner is delicate, fertile with confidence. Every motion is an expression of art. “Yavena! What are you doing here?”

“Iraline—” Now Yavena’s voice weakens, pales to a whisper. An avalanche of memories—Iraline at her Naming; Iraline’s exhausted mien as she clutches her firstborn; Iraline and she as nestlings; Iraline, her sister of the spirit, her saviour, her sacrifice—chokes Yavena. Her knees sag. “Ira—”

“You’ve said my name twice already, you know?” A fluting laugh. “No need for the third, little sister.”

“I’m sorry.” Yavena’s head lowers for an instant before she adopts a semblance of propriety, her smile ambassadorial smooth. “It’s just been—I’ve—”