A wry smile coloured his last words – one Viktor mirrored, if darkly.

Finding no words to match the burden of his heart, Josiri rose and embraced Malachi. How strange to find a brother – an equal – in a place he’d hated so long. How gratifying to do so. If only his mother had lived to see it.

“Goodbye, First Councillor Reveque,” he said at last. “Don’t let the power go to your head. Ebigail was enough.”

“I doubt Lily will let that happen.”

With a final bow – a bow no duke or duchess of Eskavord had offered a northwealder in five generations – Josiri left the Council chamber.

Rosa took the last flight two stairs at a time and tugged her surcoat back into place. Unsteady with wine taken and yawning wide, Sevaka had left at midnight, bound for the Triumphal and the hope of a naval career renewed. For her part, Rosa felt neither aftermath of drink nor the burden of sleeplessness. The blessings of an eternal’s constitution.

The bruised sky promised at least an hour until dawn. Izack’s summons suggested her duties would begin sooner. Rosa was glad. It meant she was still a knight, and not some curiosity to be studied, or an abomination to be tested. More than she deserved, given how readily she’d allowed Ebigail Kiradin to lead her astray.

Returning the sentry’s salute, she passed beneath the escutcheoned arch and into the master’s quarters. Izack glanced up from the desk – soon to be his desk – and clambered to his feet. Dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of sleep lightly taken. It wasn’t a feeling Rosa missed.

He cracked a dour smile. “Well, well, well. Don’t you look disgustingly cheerful, sister?”

“Just glad to be alive.” And for the first time in weeks, it was true. She’d mistakes to atone for, but she’d all the time in the world in which to do so. “You’ve orders for me?”

“Not me.” He hooked a thumb towards the far end of the room. “Him.”

The shadows shifted, reforming around a battered man garbed in black and silver. A scarred face Rosa knew as well as her own. A friend she’d betrayed.

Viktor.

Her cheer, so carefully husbanded, slipped away. “Izack, I don’t . . .”

“Well, that’s me off,” Izack interrupted. “Apparently the Council reckons we’re not stretched thin enough as it is, so I’m away to drag that treacherous bastard Rother out of his bed and share the joy about a bit. She’s all yours.”

Retrieving his helmet from the desk he struck out for the door, a jaunty whistle trailing in his wake. The door slammed, cutting off both whistle and boot-treads.