Malachite’s eyes widen, his grin lopsided and more nervous than I’ve ever seen. “Lysulli,” he murmurs. “You… Look at you. Full ancestral regalia. Since when did you get good?”

“Shut your mouth!” Lysulli demands. “What are you doing here? How did you get through the Fog Gate?”

Malachite looks over at me and grins. “I had a little help.”

Lysulli makes a furious exhaling noise, grumbling. “What are those idiots thinking? Has the crowd made them lose their mind? Sending a group down into the Fog Gate. P’eqeq.”

“Madness,” Malachite translates under his breath, then speaks up. “Listen, this’ll sound p’eqeq, too, but you gotta let us talk to the council.”

“And why in the afterlife would I do that?” Lysulli snarls. “You’re a disgraced Malachite who didn’t even stick around to make an appeal. You just left. You abandoned us.”

“Abandoned you, you mean,” Malachite says softly. Lucien and I look at each other, and Fione’s brow furrows. Malachite being genuine? The world’s ending. Lysulli and Mal clearly know each other, but Lysulli plays the tough card.

“The council has no interest in unloyalists like you.” They sniff.

“You should let the council decide that,” Lucien says. “Considering you’re a guard, and not one of them.”

“Who is this human?” Lysulli’s fury rivets to the prince. “And why does he talk like he’s above it all?”

“Oh, that’s just Luc. You’ll get used to it.” Mal laughs.

“No, I won’t,” they snarl. “Because I’m throwing all of you in the cells.” Their hand moves for a whistle around their neck, but Malachite’s hand suddenly shoots out and encompasses Lysulli’s on the whistle gently.

“Lys, please,” he murmurs. “You gotta trust me.”

Lysulli’s wine-colored glare pierces up into his for a tense, drawn-out moment. And then they smack Malachite’s hand away, reaching up to take off their helmet. Their long white hair waterfalls out, revealing a fine, vulpine face with a high nose and thin lips with rouge on them. A sharp face, like a honed blade.

“What do you have?”they demand, but it’s less harsh this time.

“We’ve got a way to control the horde,” I say. “And it’s not the Bone Tree.”

Lysulli’s eyes slice over at me, suddenly rapt with interest. “Truly?”

“I don’t lie to gorgeous people.” I smile.

“You just flatter them thinking they’ll like you for it,” Lysulli scoffs. They remind me so much of Malachite when I first met him in Vetris; as thorny as a burr stuck in a tunic. Their eyes find Yorl. “You, that pelt color—Farspear-Ashwalker?”

Yorl makes a bow. “His grandson, Yorl.”

I watch Lysulli put something together in their head, and they look back at me, clearly ignoring Malachite.

“Fine. I’ll bring you to the council. But if they execute you, don’t come for me in the afterlife.”