All of this, grand as it was, remained secondary. The room was dominated by the stone throne. Across from the entrance, the grand chair formed much of the far wall. The back of the imperial seat rose up and spread out into the underside of the dome like the tendrils of a great tree or the many appendages of a disturbing polymelia creature. To Farilane, the sculpted branches—intended to symbolize how the imperial throne was connected to the farthest reaches of the empire—always appeared like the veiny surface of old skin. Her brother once admitted he thought it looked like a spiderweb. Neither impression struck Farilane as wholesome or comforting—but maybe that wasn’t the aim.

Just as white and cold as the marble version, the real Estermon the Second stood talking to the First Minister beside the great chair. Both halted their conversation and looked up the moment the three entered. The princess expected a tirade from the ruler of the world and for once was happy to be last in line to greet him.

“So it’s happened, then,” the emperor said. Not at all a question, the words were as perfunctory as a greeting but as morbid as if he inquired about the terminally ill.

“That’s what I’ve been told,” Nyrian said, without so much as a bent knee, a bow, or a “Grand” or “Serene” anything.

If Farilane weren’t already aware something serious was transpiring, this lack of formality would have terrified her. Even so, there was a massive gulf between suspecting and seeing one’s parents panic. And while neither Estermon nor her father had begun wailing, this was as close as she had ever seen them come.

So the dispensable daughter was kept in the dark after all.

As the group approached, the emperor looked at Farilane and remained focused on her. She saw an intensity in that stare, yet she was unable to classify the expression. Powerful, certainly, but she couldn’t claim its source as hate, or fear—not with any confidence. All she could determine for certain was that he fixated on her with a single-minded obsession that suggested she was not an extra in this play.

For Farilane’s part, she searched for and spotted the chain and the little key that still hung around Estermon’s neck. That’s what Mawyndulë is after, and he’ll stop at nothing to get it.

The idea that anyone could breach the palace and murder the emperor felt preposterous, and yet the ancient Miralyith had killed an emperor before, as well as two—no, three—legends. Oddly, but perhaps most disturbing to Farilane, was his masterful acting in the role of Sheldon the carpenter for days while they traveled together, without her ever suspecting. I had a blind spot, she consoled herself. I didn’t know magic was real.

Magic is real! The idea made her woozy, the way any earthquake might.