Those of us who formed the delegation wore woolen cloaks despite the hot day. Councilor Ludvig, the previous adviser to Istera’s King Rendorvik, was garbed in Isteran colors—blue and silver, in a deftly embroidered long coat he called a gákti. Likh, lovely as ever, was in an eye-catching cerulean hua, tasteful crewels skimming up his sleeves. Althy’s garb was plainer, with white doves sewn over a sky-blue fabric. Rahim, as always, was dressed to kill. His sherwani was a magnificent display of beadwork waves stitched along the edges of his shirt, with a collar of pewter threads surrounding his thick neck, which was half-hidden by his long, angularly trimmed beard. He wore no cloak himself—the man claimed to have shrugged off Tresean winters and was as invulnerable to the Isteran cold. In contrast, Khalad looked like a merchant in his rough, brown čūqā.

At Rahim’s insistence, I had worn his latest creation—a beautiful mahogany hua, stitched with a jewel-eyed, three-headed dragon, which was partly concealed by my waist wrap. My mastery of the azi was no secret, he pointed out, and it was important for me to command such narratives in subtle ways. I slipped a small knife into my sleeve, a growing habit of mine.

My brother wore a huge grin on his face when we approached. “Have a good rest?” His voice was mild enough, but I knew Fox. We had perfected our Veiling rune and rarely stumbled into each other’s minds whenever one of us wanted privacy—but we knew anyway.

“As if you spent the night alone,” I grumbled at him with a sideways glance at Inessa. As usual, the princess looked stunning. The way they snuck adoring glances at each other was almost oversweet. Three months ago, Inessa had been engaged to both Prince Kance of Odalia and Emperor Shifang of Daanoris. My brother had fought her and both engagements nearly every step of the way.

How much things change in a short time, I thought with another pang of sadness.

“You’re late.” Zoya’s presence was suspicious. Mykaela, Inessa, and Fox were there to see us off, but Zoya wasn’t the type for such sentiments.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

She shrugged. “Mistress Parmina sold tickets for an azi viewing. They are to be summoned by none other than Lady Tea of the Embers herself.”

I groaned. That particular moniker had spread quickly, a not-so-subtle reference to my connection with the daeva.

“She’s dispatched me here,” Zoya continued, “to ensure your pet dragon actually arrives and her guests receive their money’s worth.”

“An azi viewing?”