My mind flashes to the splinter of glass in my heart bag. No. No—it can’t be that glass. But Varia said herself the splinters are what links me to her and gives me my immortality.

A tree of glass, like in my dream.

I have to find Gavik.

I don a simple brown cloak and race out of the palace. Varia’s carriage is gone, taking the princess and Fione to their breakfast, so I walk off the palace grounds myself. It’s probably for the better—I won’t be able to find Gavik in a carriage that can’t fit through tiny alleys. I comb the underbelly of Vetris, weaving through roads and side alleys, asking stall vendors and guards if they’ve seen a man in a gray robe. Nothing—they’ve seen him around, of course, but all the haunts they point me to are empty. The city is taut and wound around itself, King Sref’s declaration of war plastered on every pillar and empty space of wall. No matter where you turn, soldiers choke the streets, marching to the shouted orders of their superiors, their bright jade-green uniforms with silver trim gleaming in the sun.

I slump against the wall of a shop in Butcher’s Alley, clutching the diary close to my chest. Where would he be? I know he’s been ordered to pass out bread, but how hard can finding a hunched man with a big basket of bread be?

“You look lost.” A deep voice makes me look up. There, standing in front of me, is Lucien in his Whisper outfit, the leathers sleek against every angle of his body, his eyes weary and thick with dark circles though his cowl. His posture is a little worn but refusing to look anything less than strong. My unheart sings, begging me to run forward and ask him if he’s all right, inspect him to make sure he’s healed. That he’s real, alive, and not going anywhere. But I’m not his Spring Bride anymore. I gave that mantle to Tarroux yesterday.

I clench my fist, struggling to make my voice sound light.

“And you look terrible. Any particular reason why you’re out of bed and moving around against the wishes of your polymaths?”

“I made the mistake of telling him I saw you run out of the palace in a tizzy,” Malachite’s voice drawls as the pale beneather steps into the alley.

“Well, good morning to you, too.” I blink at Malachite.

“I’m fine,” Lucien insists to both of us.

“‘Fine’? You inhaled so much smoke, you were coughing up black!” Malachite argues.

“Could an injured person do this?” Lucien asks, promptly bracing his legs for what looks like a flip so quickly that he winces. He suddenly thinks better of it, and straightens. “All right. New plan—moving as little as possible.”