“Tor-arn faldinis cet,” Malachite sighs back. “Now, pretty please tell your adjudicator to get these people processed and inside the road as soon as you can. And if he asks who’s being bossy, it was me.”

The guard nods and whirls on his heel, ushering the people of the crowd forward and into the massive mouth of a distant cavern with more fervor. I’ve never seen beneather armor before—I thought it was all chainmail like Mal—but their native design seems a lot more organic. Ivory, but of what? Every piece of their armor is made of smoothed bone, ribbed at the joints with a rubbery substance for what must be great mobility.

“Valkerax, in case you were wondering,” Malachite answers my lingering gaze. “That Bone Tree’s a pain in the arse, but it’s got the right idea—nothing stronger than valkerax bone. And it pulls double duty in disguising our scent from them.”

“It isn’t easy to shape,” Yorl chimes in beside me. “It requires years of precise acid-soaking to make it bend even the slightest bit. And to remove the glow it incurs in the dark.”

“So it’s sturdy, but hard to replace or repair,” I muse.

“Exactly.” Yorl’s green shining eyes look almost…proud of me?

“Are we going to ignore the part where you hold considerable sway around here, Malachite?” Fione asks innocently. “Did he forget to mention something, Lucien?”

Lucien looks over at his bodyguard. “Should I tell them?”

“What does ‘second son’ mean, anyway?” I frown.

Yorl is practically vibrating, gaze a little less hostile toward Mal all of a sudden. “Each house has a hereditary hierarchy. Tourmalines are the first sons of a house. Malachites are the second sons of a house. You’re…Malachite Olt’reya. I thought the name was ironic—no second son would leave Pala Amna.”

“Kept it out of sentimentality, I guess.” Malachite massages between his feathery white eyebrows. “It’s not even a big deal. I’m technically disowned in all the chronicles.”

“Thankfully, beneather politics are quite petty, and branches hoard information from other branches for years hoping to gain political edge in the ancestral council,” Yorl murmurs.

Malachite’s ruby gaze softens at the celeon for once. “Yeah. Can’t get past the bloodpriests or the orators, but the advocates and adjudicators apparently still don’t know shit.”

I nod like it all makes sense when it absolutely doesn’t. “We move quick like bunnies, then, before anybody catches on.”