“And here I am, unable to admit to it because you taught me modesty above all things—”

“Forgive me, Lady Y’shennria,” Fione interrupts. “But where have you been?”

“The only place Old God families like me are safe anymore,” she answers swiftly. “Windonhigh.”

There’s a beat as the four of us share a look. Y’shennria obviously notices it—she’s a master of social cues, after all—but she pretends she doesn’t.

“I was planning on bringing Zera up to Windonhigh, should she come,” Y’shennria continues, glancing over at me. “Nightsinger’s there. And Crav and Peligli haven’t once stopped telling me how much they miss you.”

A sharp pang runs through the center of my chest. “They’re safe?”

“The safest place for them in Cavanos,” Y’shennria agrees. “Yes.”

It’s hard to know when you’ve been holding on to something until you finally let it go, or it leaves of its own accord. You can’t know how heavy it weighs on you until it vanishes, and all that weight is suddenly and wonderfully missing. I’d been carrying around so much worry for the three of them that only snowballed the more Vetris geared up for war, and now…

Now there’s room to breathe.

“Sometimes, the gods aren’t so bad after all.” I exhale.

“We’re searching for a way to destroy Varia’s hold over the valkerax,” Lucien starts. “Is there any way we could accompany you and Zera to Windonhigh?”

Y’shennria’s lips knit in a tight line. I know that look. It’s the “with conditions” look.

“A High Witch made this rose for me, as a favor. I was to bring back only Zera.”

“Y’shennria…please.” I turn to her. “I’ll beg if I have to.”

She thinks on this, the wind rustling through her high hair, and then she turns back to Lucien.

“You must understand, Your Highness. You may be a witch now, but you are still the prince of Cavanos. The enemy.”

“There is no enemy anymore,” Malachite cuts. “Vetris is gone.”

Fione and I both look to Lucien, but he’s completely still, even his hands slack.

“Not entirely gone,” Y’shennria starts softly.

“But debilitated enough they won’t be an issue for the witches,” the beneather presses. “Not for a long-arse time.”

“You’d be surprised at the human ability to bounce back.”

“And you’d be surprised, ma’am, at what little tolerance I have for pointless upworlder squabbling. The valkerax are here. And we have to stop them. Are your High Witches going to help or not?”

Y’shennria moves from one foot to the other, her lavender silk dress swaying uneasily with the movement. Malachite won’t give an inch, chin high and eyes red spears.

“I promise you,” he continues, hard, “that witch flesh and human flesh burn the same.”