We stopped outside two ornate oak doors, the dark wood carved with a pair of rearing horses. A Vykryn soldier stood on either side.

One soldier inclined her head, saying tightly, “Your Highness.”

“I need to speak with the queen,” I said.

“The queen is in council. No one may disturb her prayers.”

“Too bad.” I surged forward, but the guards closed the space between them, blocking the door.

The other Vykryn’s hand went to his sword, and Kiva’s went to Sinvarra. “Give me a reason,” the soldier growled.

Before I could respond, the door swung open. Auma appeared in the doorway, a fresh mark reddening her right eye. Kiva’s lips parted with surprise, then curled into a snarl worthy of a Korovi ice bear.

Auma hesitated, meeting Kiva’s gaze, before she bolted down the hall. One of the guards caught the door, holding it open as Razel stepped into view. Her lips twitched into a smile. “Thia dear, do come in.”

The two Vykryn stepped aside to let me pass but blocked Kiva once I was through. The door slammed shut.

Razel’s rooms dwarfed Kiva’s and mine. The lounge consisted of a single large square room of dark wood and golden metal. The left side of the floor had a shallow indentation in it, with two short, carpeted steps leading down to where a massive black desk stood before a hearth roaring with a fire taller than me.

Above the mantel hung a portrait of a young girl with golden hair and a beautiful black horse in an open field of long grass and wildflowers. The girl’s arms hung about the horse’s neck, a smile on her lips so warm, I almost didn’t recognize the young Razel.

A life-sized black stone sculpture of a rearing horse occupied the left-hand corner of the room. Several golden dishes lined the base, a small prayer cushion sitting before it.

My eyes narrowed. Was that blood in the dishes?

The queen glided up to me, her icy eyes outlined in kohl. She wore a beautiful black dress with a golden bodice, the hilts of her moonblades resting like wings on her back. My gaze snagged on a series of thin slices on the backs of her forearms. They’d stopped bleeding but still shone red in the firelight like bloody smiles.

My stomach turned as I realized what they were: sacrificial cuts. Illucians believed praying to Rhett gave you strength. The more you prayed, the stronger and more skilled you would become. But first you had to offer that strength to Rhett. The strength of your blood.

“Did you need something?” Razel’s tone twisted dangerously.

I forced my gaze away from her cuts. “Where did Auma get that mark?” It wasn’t the question I’d come to ask, but it spilled out nonetheless.