I turned away as if I hadn’t seen it, plucking a twig of grapes from the trellis. I popped one in my mouth to buy time, the sweet juice flooding my tongue. Did I dare press him further?

This was my one chance to figure out what he was up to. I couldn’t shy away now.

“It’s such a shame,” I sighed.

“What is?” He flexed the hand I’d avoided, as if testing a new glove.

“I’ve heard you came to the Serene City seeking a bride.” I rolled another grape between my fingers. “But in that case I don’t understand why Vaskandar would send troops to the Empire’s border. Is it marriage you want, or war?”

“Ah.” He chuckled. It was a hard sound, like spilled nails. “No, of course we don’t want war. Not now.”

I laughed, not sure what else to do. That now was not entirely reassuring.

“No, no.” A smile curled his lips, as if my misconception were the most delightful thing he’d heard all day. “We aren’t fools. The Witch Lords are mighty in our own lands, yes, but Vaskandar cannot project its greatest power beyond our borders at the moment. We have fought the Empire in the past, and no doubt we will again; but that time is not now.”

“Oh, good.” I swallowed my grape whole, out of sheer nerves. It made a painful path down my throat.

“Indeed, we have much to learn from you. I have great respect and admiration for Raverran power.” Ruven tilted his head, questioning permission, and reached out for one of my grapes. Without thinking, I offered him the bunch I held.

His fingertips brushed mine. A shock flashed through my skin, up my arm, and into my chest, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. My lungs simply stopped, halfway through an inhalation.

Ruven smiled insolently. “Vaskandran power is, as you can see, very different.”

I recoiled back a step, panic pulling at my frozen lungs. Instantly, I could breathe again.

My pulse drove at me, wild and furious, urging me to flee or strike or scream for help. But no. If I acknowledged him as a threat, he won. I understood that much.

I drew my dagger. “Give me one good reason,” I said coldly, “I shouldn’t have you killed.”

“Oh, that was just a little joke! See? You’re fine.” He spread his hands, laughing. “No one was hurt. A small jest; it is the Vaskandran way.”

I glared. “Your jest lacks humor.”

“Perhaps, perhaps.” His face sobered. “But now you know,” he said, “I truly do not want war.”

“How do I know that, exactly?”

“Because I could have killed you.” He held out his hand, palm up, as if waiting to catch rain. “Because I still could kill you with a touch, anytime. That would start a war, for certain, would it not?”