“Then we wait,” Kyla said simply. She stared intently at the revelers below. “Make sure your filters are secure. He’ll give us the signal if he needs us.”

More people arrived in a steady stream; from up there, Clo could feel the heat of bodies close together. If that contagion were released, everyone in this damn ballroom was a goner.

God of Survival, Salutem, don’t let me die, she thought.

Clo and Kyla camped out. Clo’s bad leg ached, but she’d rather be up in the vents than down in the ballroom rubbing shoulders with the top dipwells of the Empire, smiling at them and pretending they were in any way on the same side.

The dais, where the Archon and the Ascendant would sign the treaty, was still empty. The thrones for the leaders were raised high enough to look down on their combined people.

In the ballroom, the Evoli kept a physical distance from Tholosians, and the two sides didn’t speak or mingle more than they had to. In contrast to the music, the decorations, and the grandeur, these were enemies who had been fighting bitterly for hundreds of years. Generals from both sides—all present—had ordered countless deaths.

Beneath the glitter and perfume was the memory of smoke and blood, the sound of battle hidden behind the fake smiles and gentle laughter. Hands kept straying to where weapons would be. A hip, the small of the back.

Clo shifted, grunting softly with effort. Her knee was holding up as well as could be expected, but the skin was rubbing badly. If she wasn’t careful, she’d have to keep the prosthetic off the next few days while her sores healed. But she’d take that over the alternative.

The music grew into a proper fanfare. The Tholosian royals and higher-ups of the Empire and the Evoli Ascended and Oversouls made their way to the dais.

Where the Tholosians sparkled and glimmered over every inch of their bodies, the Evoli were sleeker. They wore billowing robes in pastels, belted tight about their waists. Yet while their garb was simple, the Oversouls wore ornate, elaborate headpieces that resembled woven antlers, encrusted with jewels and delicate chains of precious metals. They were taller than the Archon’s crown, which must have salted him off no end.

“Oh, gods,” Kyla breathed. “Eris.”

Clo peered down, her nose pressed to the grate of the vent, but she couldn’t see the small, dark-haired infuriating woman that had gotten herself kidnapped. Kyla’s hand lay heavy on Clo’s shoulder. “Behind Damocles.”

A jolt went through Clo. They’d changed Eris’s face back to Discordia’s: the pale blond hair, her golden eyes almost luminous beneath the lights. Small, doll-like features that gave the false impression of being delicate, vulnerable. Her headdress was an echo of the Evoli’s but darker, flaming opals glittering along the wicked points.