“Oh, not till tomorrow eve,” Mora’lee responds as her mouth ticks up in a private smile, seeming a bit flustered. Visibly collecting herself, she beams at me. “You good with pastry, Ny’laea?”

I nod, feeling like the whole situation is surreal. “I’m well trained in kitchen work.”

And slaying demonic scorpios, wraith bats, and kraken.

Guilt descends over the world-shattering secret that we’re keeping from this kind and welcoming woman. It’s only for a day, I justify uncomfortably.

“We’ll have lots of help with the Xishlon prep,” Mora says brightly, glancing toward the rune ship’s partially open kitchen door. “Could you join us, Olilly?”

Tension shoots down my spine at the same moment a band of six Vu Trin emerge from the street traffic and sweep into the restaurant’s outdoor seating area. And not just the usual Vu Trin.

Gray-garbed Kin Hoang. The Vu Trin’s deadliest forces.

My heart leaps into my throat as I reach for the Ash’rion blade, forcing measured breaths as lavender Olilly slips out of the kitchen. I angle my gaze down and let my gray hair create a curtain around my face, keenly aware of the Black Witch figurines on the table.

Olilly pauses to brush flour from her hands as the Kin Hoang advance, a hunter’s glint in the lead assassin’s golden eyes, her garnet hair cut into axe-sharp angles.

I spare an anxious glance toward Olilly.

One word from her...one, single word, and your fate is sealed.

It’s obvious that Olilly doesn’t recognize me when she glances my way, then worriedly toward the soldiers as Bleddyn shoots me a dire look.

“We seek Mora’lee Starr’lyrion,” the lead assassin states with no preamble.

Mora straightens, teapot in hand. “I am Mora’lee.”

The assassin’s knife-sharp gaze fixes on her. “We’ve received word that you’re sheltering a Gardnerian.”

My hand tenses around my blade’s hilt as I get ready to break into a run.

Mora’lee frowns. “She’s part Mage,” she says with a defiant lift of her chin as confusion grips hold of me.

“We need to speak with the girl,” the soldier insists.

Frowning, Mora sets down her teapot and strides to her ship’s narrow wraparound walkway, stopping at the door just past the kitchen then knocking on it. “Nym’ellia?” she asks in a tone of forced calm. “Some soldiers need to speak with you.”

Nym’ellia? Surprise rolls through me, Bleddyn seeming equally thrown.

The door opens, and the teen I traveled through the Dyoi Forest with steps cautiously out, her green eyes widening with alarm at the sight of the soldiers. She turns, her gaze meeting mine.

“Ny’laea,” she breathes out in obvious astonishment.