This cannot be safe,” Cyrus told Thorda. The pair stood in a white pine gazebo built in the heart of a garden belonging to a mansion in the wealthy northwestern corner of Vallessau, amid the rows of houses built onto lips carved across the surrounding Emberfall Mountains. Rosebushes surrounded an empty pedestal behind them, and judging from the small chunk of broken stone atop it, there had once been a statue of either Endarius or Lycaena positioned there before imperial decree demanded its removal.

“Nothing we do is safe,” Thorda said. His hands brushed across Cyrus’s outfit, straightening the cloak and picking off stray hairs and bits of dust. He scratched his thumb at Cyrus’s mask, then changed his mind. “Leave the dried blood. It will impress.”

“And what am I to do? Walk around? Make speeches?”

“You are a prince of Thanet,” his master said, and he stepped back and crossed his arms. “Surely you have attended more than a few formal gatherings and were taught some rudimentary dances.”

Of course he had. He was a prince, after all. But most had been when he was a child, content to laugh and joke with family friends while eating far too many sweets coated in honey. As for his more recent attendances…

“Gordian paraded me around to remind the nobility I was still alive and in their custody,” Cyrus said. “There wasn’t much care that I knew how to dance.”

Thorda retrieved Cyrus’s swords and belt from where he’d placed them atop a bench.

“You need not speak a word if you desire,” he said as he handed the weapons over. “Rayan and Clarissa are currently inside spreading tales of your assassination attempt, preparing them for your momentous arrival. Let the people in attendance look upon you. Let them see your grinning skull and your silver crown. You must be real to them. That is all that currently matters.”

Cyrus buckled his swords to his waist and choked down a sigh.

“Will you be in there, too?”

A faint image of candlelight shone through the blurry glass carved into the back door, followed by a knock.

“In a manner,” Thorda said. He turned and opened the door. A stranger stood there, an older man based on his build. His clothes were garish, colorful, and no doubt ludicrously expensive. A red-and-green cloth mask covered much of his face, clashing hard with his blue trousers and finely fitted yellow vest.

“While within, you will address this man as the Coin,” Thorda explained. “And so far as any in attendance knows, this man is the true financier and mastermind of our rebellion.”

“Charmed to meet you,” the stranger said, and he bowed low to Cyrus. “You are as frightening and deadly looking as advertised, Vagrant.”

“I don’t understand,” Cyrus said, glancing at his master. “Will you not attend? Or is this imposter meant to go in your place?”