“That’s great!” Zaccai grinned. He looked like he might hug her, which was not the sort of reaction anyone had given her to such a word. “We’ve lived with a reever in Gwydir for nearly ten years! The reevers have helped out Raascot for hundreds of years. He’s quite instrumental in our monster control.”

Gadriel remained unimpressed. He paid his friend’s enthusiasm no mind as he said, “I expect a citizen of Farehold to use words like ‘dark fae,’ but Uaimh Reev should know better than to speak without knowing the weight of your words.”

“Well, I’m a little late to Uaimh Reev, and forgive me if I don’t live up to your expectations.” She glared. Amaris turned to Zaccai, who’d maintained a smile over her title. She asked, “Cai, right?”

He nodded, as cheerful as ever.

“Is your reever red of hair?”

“That’s the one!” he said, unbothered by Gadriel’s mood.

She was almost sorry for them as she responded, “Yes, it’s his son who tried to kill you tonight.”

Gadriel’s mouth curved in amusement as he said, “Ah, well, that’s unfortunate. I’m sure Elil would be disappointed that we didn’t make a better first impression, though I can’t say I’m surprised. The man is rather singularly focused on his mission. The apple must not fall far from the tree.”

Amaris realized she’d never asked Ash of his father’s name. She wondered if that made her a bad friend, though she knew Ash didn’t particularly care for his father. Perhaps she could excuse her poor manners as an orphan, surrounded by other discarded children of dead or unwanted heritages, for failing to instruct herself on the polite ways of inquiring of lineages.

“Perhaps I can help you,” she began. The men perked, glittering at her words, but she mitigated their excitement before they got ahead of themselves. “But I don’t want to.”

Zaccai looked to his general while the warm, orange fire popped between them. The reddish firelight caught the black feathering of their wings in a way that made them seem more like the fabled phoenix than the crows they were. Gadriel’s face made it clear that, as a general, he was far more familiar with obedience. Amaris was somewhat certain that a defiant, silvery girl was beyond his realm of comfort.

The general leveled his gaze once more, unsure as to her sense of where her humor and impropriety intermingled. He asked, “Are you serious?”

“I find you disrespectful, invasive, and suspicious,” she said. Amaris crossed her arms firmly. “Why would I help northern spies? But even if I did want to help—and believe me, I do not—I’m on dispatch at the moment. My companions and I need to seek an audience with Queen Moirai.”

“Regarding?”