The others subsided. All save Vorn, who gazed with resentment from a bloodied face. But the shadow behind his eyes had gone. Perhaps it had never been there. A hallucination conjured in a moment of panic, and one Melanna readily dismissed as such.

“See that you do.”

A tug on Vorn’s hair cast him to hands and knees, where he had the good sense to remain. Stooping, Melanna reclaimed her haversack and sheathed her dagger.

“You have my word.” Crovan offered a mirthless smile. “It’s every bit as good as your own.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Because you will hear from me again. And we’d both prefer that I speak with the voice of a friend.”

It was a good exit line. One to be proud of. And one underpinned by her own strength, not her father’s. Before shaking limbs could belie that purpose, Melanna strode up the worn stone stairs, and out into the afternoon sun.

Calenne stared out across the eastern valley. The breeze plucked at her hair and at her skirts. She wished it would pluck her from the ruined observatory and carry her far away. Nothing else would do so now. Kasamor was dead, her dreams of freedom alongside. A Trelan in a cage of glass, trapped for ever in Katya’s legacy.

She wasn’t proud of thinking thus. She knew it was selfishness of the highest order. But reason couldn’t change the sick emptiness in her stomach. Nor could it make the tears shed for herself a bounty offered up in sorrow for a man she’d far from hated, but had certainly not loved.

Clouds parted, setting the tower awash in brilliant sunshine. Arms outstretched, Calenne edged out along one of the balcony’s beams. The giddiness washed a little of her bleakness away. There was a joy to this, especially with the sun’s warmth tempered by the wind. There was danger, but danger was part of what made you feel alive. And she needed that, now more than ever.

The sun dipped beneath the clouds. Calenne stared down past the inches of aged timber to the terrace far below. Servants scurried in preparation for Ascension. Was this how Lumestra saw the world? A heaving ant’s nest of toil, impenetrable unless you were part of it? Did she even care about those who offered her worship?

Elda – the woman Calenne considered her true mother, for had she not raised her? – had always proclaimed Lumestra ignorant of the ephemeral world. Those who bent knee to her radiance did so like children seeking attention from an uncaring parent. But perhaps on Ascension, of all days, there was hope. Maybe the goddess would grant a boon.

Calenne turned her gaze heavenward and splayed her fingers wide. “Heavenly mother, I stand before you lost, and without purpose . . .”