“Lucien?” the king demands of Malachite, searching the beneather’s face as my struggling lungs collapse on themselves. Lucien was by South Gate. I just saw him there—

dying. The hunger laughs. he’s burning alive without ever knowing how you feel about him—

“Not in the palace,” Malachite responds. “I’m going.”

The king nods, the whole exchange clipped and with much unsaid. Malachite immediately turns on his heel, sprinting with his long gait out of the cavern.

“W-Witchfire?” Sarcomel stammers.

The Minister of the Blood and the Minister of the Brick share a tense look. Gavik’s witchfire around the temple of Kavar two weeks ago was fake. But this? Gavik isn’t able to orchestrate such a thing anymore, and the Ministers look too shocked to have done it. Varia would never let Gavik do it again, and she would never do it herself and draw all that attention.

Which means the likelihood it’s real witchfire is…

I turn to King Sref. “Your Majesty, I’m going, too. I’ll come back for the inquiry, but Lucien—”

“As long as I draw breath, Lady Zera, I will never allow one such as you to be his bride,” King Sref murmurs, so close I can see the crow’s feet wrinkling his serious eyes. “Even so, you would protect him?”

“Yes,” I blurt. The king burrows his gaze into me, like a burr stuck beneath skin. I can feel every movement of his eyes like a polymath’s scalpel slicing inside my body. And then, when he’s torn me to pieces, he nods.

“Then go. Do not let my son come to harm, or it will be the last mistake you make.”

I spin and leave his cold threat lingering behind in the colder throne room.

I hear the chaos before I see it.

The footsteps of servants rush about frantically, all of them gathering to press themselves against the north-facing windows of the palace. Their chittering is hushed and wobbly, the words witches and the war dancing frantically in the air. The crowds are so dense and tightly packed along the hall windows that I couldn’t worm my way into any of them even if I wanted to.

I can’t afford to stop and gawk, regardless. Lucien is down there.

Was it Varia? Or have the witches launched the first attack of the war? The lawguards of the palace seem to believe the latter, and we brusquely sidestep one another as they rush to arm themselves and establish a perimeter. It’s been thirty years since any Cavanosian has fought Heartless, and only the elder ones seem to be able to keep their heads, walking calmly.

I hear several younger guards in passing as I race down the hall.

“—barricade the doors and windows?”

“Barricades don’t stop witches, fool, they teleport right in—”

“—the full army hasn’t arrived yet. If they brought enough Heartless, they could overrun us—”