Theyen lifts one elegant shoulder in a slight shrug. “Crafts aren’t strictly hereditary, but they can be more common within families, so when one was found, the entire house was executed to prevent the bloodline from producing more soulrenders. It was an effective, if archaic, solution.”

The fear of him and his legacy infected Thiy so deeply that every soulrender since has paid for his crimes. Generations of families massacred, all because of a single shaman.

“You don’t disapprove?” I ask.

He lifts his gaze from his plate. Those bright eyes are cold. “I don’t care how the shamans choose to kill one another. If they want to hunt their own, let them.”

I tap one finger against the edge of my plate and consider his words. Would that callousness extend to sending an assassin after me?

Saengo pokes her fork into her food, like she no longer wants to eat it. “I must say, Hlau Theyen. You’re not endearing me to the Nuvali.”

“Not at all deliberate, I assure you. But one positive thing that can be said for them,” he says, shredding a piece of succulent meat with his fork, “is that they know their culinary skills.”

“Not much variety in the mountains?” I ask.

“Some. From imports, mainly. The Kazan sleep during the morning hours, and they dislike daylight, so there aren’t enough people willing to till and plant the mountainsides.”

“You don’t seem to mind daylight.”

He casts a reproachful look at the window. “I’m trying to get used to it. If I’m to live in the Nuvalyn Empire, then there will be little shelter. The Nuvali worship Suryal, the sun god, creator of all spirits. Mirrim is filled with towers of glass and open roofs.”

“Don’t the Yalaeng royals have eight children? Lots of contenders.” I twirl my spoon in a frothy sauce that smells of lemongrass. “Maybe you’ll get lucky, and your intended will be killed before there’s even a wedding.”

“Sirscha,” Saengo says, incensed.

Theyen only laughs, low and quiet. “Unfortunately, barring outright war, I’m honor bound to unite our Houses, one way or another.”

My brows lift a fraction at the admission that only war would sever his engagement. A slip due to arrogance, or a deliberate remark?

“Is that so?” I ask. “And, in your opinion, how likely is outright war?”

“Are you worried?”

“Should I be?”

A beat passes between us, something indefinite and guarded.

But then it passes, and Theyen smiles mockingly. “No one welcomes war, but we must always be prepared for it.”

It’s a diplomatic answer, which annoys me. “So if the Ember Princess died, what would happen?”