Phaut opens her mouth, like she means to argue. But then she glimpses Saengo over my shoulder, and her jaw tightens. “Very well. What about you?”

My body thrums with restless frustration. I want to flee this instant for Spinner’s End. Saengo’s life is not less important, and the longer I delay, the less time she has.

But she’s right that something has to be done first. “I need to find a prince.”

As soon as I’m outside, the draining effect of the manor’s walls begins to fade. My strength returns with every step.

A servant brings me a drake. I secure my satchel to the saddle and leave through the gate. Coming up the path in single file are a group of armored warriors. In the fading sunlight, I make out the symbols emblazoned on their breast-plates: two crossed swords over a sun.

I suck in my breath. Although I’ve never seen Nuvali sun warriors, there’s nothing else they could be.

Sisters, does this mean Kendara had been a sun warrior? But that would mean she’s Nuvali. Was my mother Nuvali as well? I’d assumed I was shamanborn.

The sun warriors ride a species of drakonys I’ve only read about—dragokin, native to the Empire. Dragokin are taller and larger than drakes, more suitable for bearing the weight of their riders’ armor. The first one’s scales are a slick crimson. Four black horns curl from its head. The sun warrior riding it wears black armor so exquisitely detailed that my eyes don’t know where to rest.

Whorls and panels of complex filigree ornament the metal—a forger’s skill. Gorgets rise like tiered fans around her neck. Her sash is a vivid yellow, tied around her waist in a series of knots I’m not familiar with, presumably a Nuvali style that denotes her rank. Her hair is as black as her dragokin’s horns, but her eyes are a bright, hard ruby. They catch my scrutiny, and a smirk paints her lips. What I wouldn’t give to test my skill against a sun warrior.

The path emerges onto the grasslands. I follow the perimeter of several camps, searching until I spot the familiar silver moon against a white banner. To reach the Evewynian camp, I cut through what appears to be a makeshift market.

Merchants have set up tables offering the usual fare—pottery, charms, bejeweled mirrors. There are also less common wares I wouldn’t find in Vos Talwyn’s market, like powdered zaj scales and bottled storms. The merchant waves one at us, claiming they’re good to have on hand during the dry season.

I don’t even know if Prince Meilek is here. Maybe he’s with his sister. Though after what happened in Vos Gillis, I’d like to believe he wouldn’t sit idly by if he knew his sister was planning something dangerous.