Pastries and pale-pink wedges of cake were whisked forward. Ranka reached for the nearest and someone made a disapproving tsk to her right. Two silver forks gleamed in front of her, one slightly smaller than the other, their handles carved into the shape of a bird in flight. She hesitated, hand hovering over the forks. They looked the same. Why would anyone in their right mind have rules about forks that looked the same?

Galen nudged her foot beneath the table. “Second one.”

Ranka snatched the second fork, face burning, and finally, blessedly, they seemed to forget about her, switching the conversation away. It was easier to focus on her food and listen, methodically cutting her cake into smaller and smaller pieces as the twins discussed the weather, an upcoming parade, and apparently endless Council meetings.

“Once I’m named king, I’m never going to another one of those meetings again,” Galen grumbled.

Aramis poked him in the ribs with the end of her butter knife. “Once you’re king, you need to lead the meetings.”

“Once I’m king, I’m banishing you.”

“Finally, a good idea,” the noble boy said. “She’s a pain in the a—ow.” He rubbed his forehead where Aramis had flicked him.

Galen may have been prince, but it was Aramis who led the conversation, steering the adults to whatever topic she pleased, inquiring about food shortages, the border conflicts, the silence from the Kerth coven.

Ranka froze midbite.

Had she heard that correctly?

“Still no word,” a palace official said, cutting into a honey-glazed pastry.

Aramis pressed her lips into a thin line. “Strange. They came for the funeral when Mother died. Send more scouts, would you?”

Ranka stared at the table. The scouts would do them no good. Ranka knew, because on the way here she’d passed right through Kerth territory, hoping they’d know something about the rotting witch in the woods. Instead she’d found cold firepits, unlocked cabins, and dishes of maggot-infested venison still set out on tables, as though they had vanished midbite. There were no bodies, no bloodshed. They were just gone.

But why? And how could the palace not know?

Aramis’s head snapped toward her. “Excuse me?”

Ranka blanched. She’d spoken the last part out loud.

“I…,” she said. “Um…”

Aramis’s eyes narrowed. “What don’t we know?”

Ranka hesitated, grasping for a way to change the subject.

The door banged open.

Foldrey hurried toward the dining table. Sweat gleamed at his temples. But instead of turning to Galen, it was Aramis he knelt beside with a whisper.

All Ranka caught was found and tunnels and a word she didn’t understand: winalin.

It was nonsense to her—but Aramis’s fingers curled around her knife until they were bloodless.

“You should wait,” Foldrey said. “I can arrange an escort—”