“You cannot ascend the Gray Wolf throne if you are dead,” Elena retorted. “We cannot protect you if you wade into a crowd. I know you are eager to prove that you are not a coward, but—”

“I’m not doing this to prove anything except my presence and intention to ascend to the throne,” Raisa said. “I am doing this to honor my mother.”

“If you live to be crowned, I hope that obstinacy will serve you well as queen,” Elena growled.

“Han Alister is pledged to secure my safety—that was your doing, remember?” Raisa said. “And Fire Dancer has agreed to help. We’ve worked out a plan, and we need to follow it.”

All eyes turned to Han, who stood, feet slightly apart, arms folded across his chest, his brilliant hair feathered by the downslope breeze. His hunter amulet glowed against the sober black of his tunic.

Fire Dancer had left the group to fetch the panniers he’d been carrying all day. Unstrapping the lids, he lifted out a glittering steel breastplate and gauntlets with the Gray Wolf emblem emblazoned on them.

“Armor?” Elena said. “You’re wearing armor? That’s the plan? You think that will protect you against wizard flame?”

“No, Grandmother, but it will protect me against other kinds of assassins,” Raisa said. “Remember, Queen Marianna died in a fall from a tower. Captain Byrne was shot through with arrows. This way, wizards won’t be able to hire others to do their dirty work for them. They’ll have to come out into the open if they want to take me on.”

Elena fingered the breastplate, running her worn fingers over the beading at the neck and the faint runes etched into the sides. She looked up at Raisa, eyes glittering. “This is Demonai work. Who made this, Briar Rose, and when? There’s considerable power in it.”

“I made it,” Dancer said, setting the panniers aside. He stood and turned to face her. “It’s my work.”

An angry murmur arose among the Demonai warriors.

“You?” Elena stared at him. “But that’s impossible. You’re a—”

“I’m a flashcrafter, Elena Cennestre,” Dancer said, lifting his chin. “Or mean to be.”

“Who’s teaching you?” Elena demanded. “Because whoever it is plays a dangerous game.”

“Just stop it!” Raisa said. “How can we expect to win against our enemies when we keep bickering among ourselves?”

This is my life from now on, she thought. Sorting out squabbles among wizards, clan, and Valefolk.

“Wizards are not allowed to craft magical weaponry, Your Highness,” Elena said. “It concentrates too much power in their hands.”

“That’s not part of the Nǽming,” Dancer said, setting his feet stubbornly. “That’s not written.”

“It’s not written because no one ever expected that a jinxflinger would be born into the camps,” Nightwalker said. “Or would live long enough to—”