The sound of rumbling wheels makes me turn. A palace attendant pushes a small cart with a pitcher of water and a few other odds and ends down a hallway and out of sight. The smell of a hot meal lingers in the air, drawing more curious looks than just mine.

“Where’s that attendant going?” I ask.

“That’s Sentinel Faera’s old quarters,” the trainee replies. “You know how she was a scholar first. She asked to remain in her old room when she became a sentinel.”

“But who’s in there now?” I ask, trying to keep a curious tone without being too obvious. The only thing this scholar has to believe is that I am a gossip-driven girl, nothing more.

The scholar shrugs, flexing out her writing hand in a stretch. “I’m not sure. I didn’t think anyone was there, if I’m being honest.”

“Weird,” I say, but I don’t take my eyes from the spot. I wave a hasty goodbye to the trainee, who reburies herself in her book without a second glance. Walking aimlessly over to the hallway, I pretend to inspect books while the attendant with a now-empty cart passes by me. When I’m sure no one is looking, I make my move. The short hall leads to a rounded door that’s been left ajar. Without wasting any more time, I knock and go in.

“Leonoden,” he says, using our word for countryman. “Can I help you?”

The deserter is somewhere around my mother’s age, maybe forty-five years old. He’s in what I suppose are human clothes—and I don’t know why I expected anything different. Given that he is wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt and vest and plain pants and boots, I may not have known who he was at just a glance. But the gold of his eyes is unmistakably Leonodai.

“Hello,” I reply. I pick a name at random. “I’m … Prena. I live here in the palace. My father is a general here. Can I come in?”

He indicates I can sit, and I take the chair across from him. The room still bears traces of Sentinel Faera’s stay. A bookcase holding dusty volumes sits in the corner, and I spot a white uniform hanging in the wardrobe. Other clues tell me Noam has made this room his own. The bed is pushed to the far corner, presumably so the table fits next to the window. The room faces southwest toward open sea, a shallow outcropping with a handful of potted plants just below the pane.

“So, Prena,” he says. “I will presume that you didn’t pay a visit to a deserter because you want to share this view. If you have questions, please ask.”

I sit back. “You’re very … forthcoming. You don’t even know who I am.”

“I have nothing to hide,” he says.