The guard frowned. “He’d like to see you now, miss.”

The hair on the back of Ranka’s neck stood on end. She rose and followed the guard out of the garden, toward the back of the palace, where intricate mosaics faded to plain white tile and the air buzzed with the murmur of servants. Barracks loomed ahead, an outcrop of squat brown buildings. One bore the sigil of an exploding sun with a sword behind it.

Foldrey’s office.

Ranka’s heartbeat quickened as she stepped inside. She looked around, half expecting to see the blade of a sword pointed at her—and met the eyes of a little girl.

The child couldn’t have been older than eight. She sat with her pale legs stretched out on the floor, a book open on her lap, red curls hanging over her face.

“Um,” said Ranka. “Hi.”

The little girl looked up and scrunched her nose in a way that made her freckles dance. “Daaaaaad!” the girl called, eyeing Ranka suspiciously. “There’s some lady here. She’s tall.”

“I’ll be right there! Ranka, make yourself comfortable. Moira, be nice.”

Moira narrowed her eyes at Ranka and went back to her book.

Ranka waited, shifting her weight from foot to foot, eyes sweeping Foldrey’s office. Everything was worn and well loved, polished by time and the captains who had come before. Framed battle stars sat in a velvet case amid books with cracked spines. The only portraits in the room were several different pictures of the twins.

Ranka attempted a smile at Moira. “What are you reading?”

“The Star Isles: From World Traders to Isolationist Foreign Policy,” Moira recited in a monotone.

“Isn’t that a little dense for a kid?”

The little girl looked up at her, plainly annoyed. “I wouldn’t know. I keep getting interrupted.”

“Moira, what did we say about manners?” Foldrey entered the room, buttoning his uniform over a threadbare white undershirt. He pressed a kiss to the top of Moira’s head and swung her up to her feet. “Go get a practice sword and terrorize Damon. His ego needs bruising.”

Moira leapt to her feet and tore from the room. Foldrey closed the door after her, his expression soft and melted. He glanced at Ranka, and the warmth left his eyes. “Please, sit.”

From his desk he pulled out two glasses and a slender bottle filled with dark liquor.

Ranka blinked. “It’s not even noon.”

Foldrey raised an eyebrow and poured them both a drink. The gray threaded through his hair and beard seemed more abundant in the bright light of day.

Ranka sat, every muscle in her body rigid.

“I miss it still,” Foldrey said finally. “The north. All these years, and I still dream of snow.”

Ranka eyed him. Surely, he hadn’t called her all the way here to reminiscence. “Where are you from?”

“Kravist—do you know it?”

“Not well. But we traded there once.”