Picking up jobs at the docks and the ledger’s office had been more than just a way to keep themselves afloat in Tel Amot while they considered their next move. As a bookkeeper in the ledger’s office, Hassan had access to information about shipments coming to and from Pallas Athos. He’d been able to smuggle messages to the Archon Basileus in Pallas Athos via special ordered shipments of palm wine to the Archon’s estate. It had been a gamble, but Hassan had known in his gut that the Archon Basileus would oppose the Hierophant’s takeover of Pallas Athos and that he’d do what was in his power to stop him.

It had taken a month of smuggling messages back and forth for Hassan to convince the Archon that he was worth helping and to formulate their plan to get into Pallas Athos without being detected by the Hierophant. And now Hassan was just waiting for the final piece—a ship sent by the Archon that would get them safely into Pallas Athos’s harbor.

He’d been waiting on it for almost two weeks, and his patience was beginning to dwindle.

“About that.” Hector cleared his throat. “Something’s happened.”

Unease prickled over Hassan.

“There was a ship in today from Pallas Athos,” Hector said. “The crew said the Archon Basileus was arrested by Pallas’s men.”

Hassan’s stomach dropped like a stone. “What? That can’t—Tell me you’re joking.”

But by the grave expression on Hector’s face, it was clear he wasn’t.

Six weeks of planning down the drain. Hassan felt breathless with anger. The Archon was their only ally in Pallas Athos, knocked off the board by the power-hungry Hierophant. Hassan should’ve known the Archon wouldn’t be able to cling to power for much longer. They should have moved faster.

“We’ll figure it out,” Hector said feebly.

“How?” Hassan exploded. “Without the Archon’s help, we won’t even make it past the harbor. The Hierophant has the city too tightly controlled.”

They would have to start completely from scratch, this time with no help from anyone within Pallas Athos.

“I don’t know!” Irritation crackled through Hector’s voice. “There must be someone who can help us.”

Quietly, hesitantly, Hassan said, “Well. There is one other place we can turn.”

Hector groaned, heaving himself off the bed and scratching at the scruff of a beard he’d stopped bothering to shave. Six weeks of labor at the docks had thickened the cords of his muscles, but now he seemed to shrink in on himself. “Please don’t start with this again. Not until I’ve had more to drink.”

“We need allies,” Hassan said tersely. “And the Order of the Last Light, no matter your issues with them—”