“Apologies.” His frown deepened. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I had a—I’m sorry, what’s going on?”

“Oh,” Galen said dully, wrinkling his nose as a servant stretched a measuring tape across his chest. “There’s a parade today. Aramis didn’t tell you? Of course not. She manages to get out of them. I, however, get to spend an hour in the middle of Seaswept in the sun, waving until my hand falls off.”

“Can I come?” Ranka blurted.

If it had been awkward before, the silence that filled the room now was so deafening, she could have heard a pin drop. The maids openly gaped. Foldrey’s mouth turned downward at the corners. Ranka turned to Galen with what she hoped was a somewhat friendly smile. “I’ve barely seen the city. And this is meant to be my home, is it not? I’d like to go—if you don’t mind the company, of course.”

She’d been coming to speak to Foldrey—but maybe Galen wasn’t a completely lost cause. Perhaps there were answers to be found here yet.

At the very least, if he proved to be insufferable, she’d feel better about sticking a knife in his ribs in a few months.

“I’m good company,” Ranka added awkwardly. “And I’ve never been to a parade before.”

Foldrey was already shaking his head. “Perhaps next quarter. Unfortunately, we’d have to prepare another carriage—”

“She can ride with me,” Galen interrupted. He lifted a brow, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I wouldn’t mind the company. Ranka, how soon can you be ready?”

A slow smile spread across Ranka’s face. “I already am.”

Parades, it turned out, were awful.

Ranka sweated like a sinner in a Solomei temple. They’d been out for only an hour, and her leg bounced incessantly. Every few minutes her fingers twitched to her hip, seeking the comforting weight of her axe. Humans gathered along the streets, waving tattered flags and tossing hibiscus petals already wilted by the heat. All Ranka saw was the shine of their rings, the fine cut of their clothes, the soft, clean hands. Guards walked among the crowd in civilian dress, handing out bouquets of flowers. In the alleys, others lingered—citizens with gaunt cheeks, dirty faces, and glassy eyes. When they pushed forward, hoping to catch the eye of their prince, they were shoved back by the city patrol.

The farther they went, the more her unease built.

She tried to focus on the world around her—the perfume clinging to the women waving from the streets, the sweet rolls rising around the corner, the sickly saccharine scent of petals crushed under carriage wheels.

But above all, she scented rot.