When Saldur had threatened to send Amilia away, Modina had seen the terrible fear in the girl’s eyes. She had recognized that fear. Saldur’s voice was the screech of the beast, and at that moment, she had awoken from her long dream. Her eyes had focused, seeing clearly for the first time since that night. She would not allow the beast to win again.

Somewhere in the chamber, out of sight of the dais, a door slammed. The sound echoed around the marbled hall. Loud footsteps followed with an even louder conversation.

“I don’t understand why I can’t launch an attack against Alric on my own.” The voice came from an agitated well-dressed man.

“Breckton’s army will dispatch the Nationalists in no time. Then he can return to Melengar, and you can have your prize, Archie,” replied the voice of an older man. “Melengar isn’t going anywhere, and it’s not worth the risk.”

The younger voice she did not recognize, but the older one she had heard many times before. They called him Regent Ethelred. The pair of nobles and their retinue came into view. Ethelred was dressed as she usually had seen him—in red velvet and gold silk. His thick mustache and beard betrayed his age, as both were steadily going gray.

The younger man walking beside him dressed in a stylish scarlet silk tunic with a high-ruffed collar, an elegant cape, and an extravagant plumed hat that matched the rest of his attire perfectly. He was taller than the regent, and his long auburn hair trailed down his back in a ponytail. They walked at the head of a group of six others: personal servants, stewards, and court officials. Four of the six Modina recognized, as she had seen the little parade before.

There was the court scribe, who went everywhere carrying a ledger. He was a plump man with long red cheeks and a balding head, and he always had a feathered quill behind each ear, making him look like a strange bird. His staunchly straight posture and odd strut reminded her of a quail parading through a field, and because she did not know the scribe’s name, in her mind she dubbed him simply The Quail.

There was also Ethelred’s valet, whom she labeled The White Mouse, as he was a thin, pale man with stark white hair, and his fastidious pampering seemed rodent-like. She never heard him speak except to say, “Of course, my lord.” He continuously flicked lint from Ethelred’s clothes and was always on hand to take a cloak or change the regent’s footwear.

Then there was The Candle, so named because he was a tall, thin man with wild red curly hair and a drooping mouth that sagged like tallow wax.

The last of the entourage was a soldier of some standing. He wore a uniform that had dozens of brightly colored ribbons pinned to it.