“With all respect,” Qown replied, “my approval or disapproval is irrelevant. Once Morios surfaces from underneath Lake Jorat, he’ll attack Atrine. Thousands will die. Normally, the emperor would handle the problem, or the Eight Immortals themselves, but Emperor Sandus is dead, and the gods…” He held out his hands.

“The gods are busy battling demons,” Janel finished.

Kihrin looked around the room. Everything seemed normal, or what passed as such in this corner of the empire. Star and that old groom were at the bar. The crowd was making the best of the storm and had started a sing-along.

Kihrin turned back to the two reckless would-be heroes. Xaltorath clearly hadn’t set a trap here.

The demon prince wouldn’t have invented a scheme this implausible.

As far as Kihrin knew, the last dragon attack on a city in the Empire of Quur had taken place during the Age of God-Kings, thousands of years ago. Kihrin had always assumed dragons were nothing but a story: a myth the minstrels trotted out whenever they wanted to sing the first emperor’s praises. At least that’s what Kihrin had believed until he’d met a real dragon—the Old Man, Sharanakal. He had no desire to repeat the experience.

Kihrin scrubbed a hand over his face. “Do you two mind if I eat while we talk? I haven’t had food since west of the Dragonspires.”

Janel agreed with an aristocratic finger twirl.

Kihrin wondered if those red eyes meant she was Ogenra—the name the Royal Houses gave to bastards lucky enough to show the god-touched marks of their bloodlines.

For example, House D’Talus red eyes—or his own House D’Mon blue.

“Okay, so you … fine. You have my attention. At least until the storm clears.” He nudged around the food in the bowl. The rice appeared unflavored. The vegetables looked blanched. The thick paste on top seemed edible, but the white goo was a mystery.

Joratese cuisine had been all the rage back in the Capital. Kihrin’s heart sank at the prospect of eating more of what he remembered being flavorless garbage.

Brother Qown took pity on him. He walked over to a table, said a quick “Pardon, pardon,” and swiped a pot of bright red paste. “They have chili sauces.” The priest set the jar in front of Kihrin. “But they don’t bring them out for outsiders unless you ask. If you’re liberal with the peppers, it’s not bad.”

“Not bad?” Janel raised an eyebrow.

“It will never beat my vanoizi-spiced eggplant,” Qown said. “I’m sorry, but that’s a fact. You Joratese can’t be expected to compare your cuisine to perfection.”

Janel slapped Qown’s shoulder. “Stop it. Priests are supposed to be humble.”

“Humility is a virtue much to be desired by those who walk in the light,” Qown agreed, beaming. “But then, so is honesty.”