The hours soar by on easy wings made of his smile and his laugh. We make it easy on each other, because we both know: after this walk, after this time together, the real battle begins.

The one to stop his sister.

The one to, maybe, save the world from her. And her from herself.

But where do we even begin? Who even has the answers for us?

Sunset marks the end. Malachite finally comes to fetch us, but knowing him, he was watching all along. Politely, of course, he insists. With his back turned every time we decided to touch mouths. Lucien is fifteen different shades of red, helpless against the onslaught of Malachite and me teasing him together.

“You had no right to watch, Mal,” Lucien insists.

“Luc, I spent nine years watching you be boring. The least you could do is let me watch when you decide to be interesting.”

“You can’t lurk forever.” I slap Malachite’s shoulder playfully.

“Watch me,” he shoots back. “Just kidding. You can’t. Because I’m very good at hiding.”

“You’re going to get very good at jail shortly,” Lucien mutters.

“Throw me in if you have to.” Malachite sighs. “But know I can expertly digest most forms of substratum stone.”

“Sky jail,” Lucien adds. “Where you can’t eat your way out.”

“Well,” Malachite faux huffs. “That seems a little excessive.”

My laugh scares nightdoves off a nearby tower, all of them flooding into the sky on indigo wings, their white breasts flashing in the first starlight. A real laugh. Gods, how long has it been since I laughed without a weight on my chest? Years, it feels like.

…

Dinner is, of course, also a tad bit different for me than it is for everyone else.

My plate on the long oakwood table of the old sage’s house-tower dining room is piled high with the fattiest livers I’ve ever seen, garnished with a gooey pool of grapefruit-red pig blood. Everyone else has perfectly seared pheasant with gleaming sugar-roasted yams and vivid green wyrmfruit compote. Absolutely grotesque.

Helkyris and Cavanos share few things, but one of them is the stuffy meal seating tradition. Lucien sits at the first right, as is custom for the highest-ranking guest, and Malachite tries to lean on the wall, but the sage won’t have any of it, guiding him to sit next to Lucien and offering him a beneather spirit of some sort. I smirk and take a seat across from the prince, but one seat down. The chair next to mine is Fione’s. The old sage finally sits at the head of the table. Y’shennria’s teachings whisper I’m supposed to refer to him as “Elder.” And here I thought her lessons on Helkyrisian titles were utterly pointless. I’ll have to apologize, next I see her.

if we ever see her alive again.

I put my napkin in my lap. No ifs. Only whens.