The Koravian castle looked like the Ivinscontian castle. Eerily so. Just as in Ivinscont, paintings lined the walls here, depicting scenes of military triumph. In them, Scratch could easily spot the Ivinscontians: bloody throngs of crimson fighters, teeth bared, weapons crude but efficient. There were axes and bludgeons alongside the broadswords and lances, poking through the churning metal and horseflesh that composed the undulating Ivinscontian force. The national crimson had looked so prim in Ivinscont’s pictures. Here in Koravia, it was a split vein. No, a disembowelment, visceral and gushing, offal and debris spewing forth in a wet, violent wave.

The rugs in Koravia were similar, too. And the paneling, the brass, the busts, the heavy doors lining halls wide enough to ride a chariot through. The differences were scant, the most prominent being the color: blue instead of red. Calming but impersonal, like the still surface of a sleeping lake. And speaking of lakes: there were nature scenes here. Every third painting or tapestry was meadow instead of war, or valley instead of war, or even small idyllic village instead of war. These pieces looked newer than their bloody brethren, the colors more vibrant and with fewer spots bleached pale by sunlight.

Scratch was admiring a particularly pretty tapestry of a dog resting among blue flowers when the guard stopped abruptly to rap on a shut door.

“Ursus,” he growled. “You’re here.”

James hesitated. “Where are you taking her?”

The guard didn’t answer, instead narrowing his eyes and curving his impressive body, casting a shadow over James’s slighter frame.

“Th-there, you said? Good show. I’ll just . . .”

The door swung open. “James!” Vel cried, ducking out into the hallway. His steps stuttered to a halt when he reached the guard. “Oh.”

“I’ll go in, shall I?” James swallowed, pointing toward the room. “Sorry, Scratch.”

There was movement from inside. “Scratch?”

And, oh, the voice made her ache. Its low, bassoon timbre lit by the hot coals of Brella’s tight, restrained anger. And the hope in it, a simple, golden thread that tugged at Scratch’s soft places. Maybe it was the blood bond. Maybe it was something else, something terrifying and needy. Scratch wanted to crawl inside the voice and sleep for a few days, wrapped in the overwhelming warmth of it.

“No, Brella.” Vel gripped James by the arm and dragged him into the room, James mouthing apologies until the door closed with a rug-deadened thunk.

“Well.” It took locking her knees and squeezing her fist to keep her from ripping open the door and flinging herself into Brella’s arms like the weak-willed idiot she felt herself becoming. Instead, she tried on a smile for the implacable guard. “Where are we off to?”

“To see the princess,” he muttered gruffly, striding down the hallway without waiting for a response. Scratch dashed after him, weary and bedraggled.

“Should I change?”

He didn’t slow. “Into what?”