“Helkyris has fallen—”

“Naturally. If their western armada falls, Helkyris falls. That’s a given—”

“If the armada succumbed to the flying valkerax, then Avel’s spear-runners have no chance.”

“The Mist Continent is done for. The valkerax will move on to the Star Continent next, no doubt—it’s the closest.”

“Where are the beneathers at a time like this? Surely they’re not sitting on their thumbs in the Dark Below letting all this happen—”

“With the political anarchy they have no one to rendezvous with above—not Cavanos, not Helkyris. It takes more time than you’d think to deploy their forces up from the Dark Below, and their ancestral bureaucracy ensures a mired response to say the least—”

At our table, Malachite throws a very effective glare at the polymaths. They shut their mouths near instantly at his dangerous eyes, going back to their porridge and hushed discussions of whatever experiments they’re working on.

“I hate it here,” the beneather scoffs. “All this sun, and nasty sand. This whole place is basically one big barn for people who wanna act like they know everything.” He looks at me and shoves a scabbard across the table. “Here. I got a polymath to put it together.”

I quirk a brow up at him, the hilt so familiar, the grooves of it—

“You didn’t,” I breathe, pulling the blade out. Father’s blade, or the replica of it, the handle still the original but the blade remade by Lucien. Mal got the pieces I’d been carrying around for so long put back together. My heart swells at the feeling of it in my palm.

“I did.” Malachite grunts. “No mushy thanks needed.”

I immediately jump up from the table and pull him into a hug across it. “Thank you! Malachite, thank you so much.”

“What did I just say?” the beneather squawks awkwardly, freeing himself from my grip and sitting back down with the biggest flush on his cheeks. “No fuckin’ thanks. Just use it to defend Luc. That’s all I ask.”

I throw a smile at Lucien, and then back at Mal. “Understood.”

“When is Fione gonna be done, anyway?” The beneather tries to quickly change the subject. “I keep checking on ’em, but they just tell me to stop bothering them.”

“We should check on them together, then,” Lucien agrees. “Knowing Fione, she’s probably conveniently forgotten to eat or sleep this entire time.”

“Yorl’s the exact same,” I sigh. I slip one last liver in my mouth and stand, picking up the clay jar of honey tea on the table. “Right. Operation Rescue the Bookworms, begins!”