“I’ll help her,” Lev said, moving in to brace an arm behind Safi’s back while Safi smiled tightly at the healer. Yet before Lev could walk Safi toward the door, Safi grabbed for both the healer and Zander. They had helped her, no questions asked. They had risked punishment, and the healer had briefly endured Henrick’s wrath. All so Safi could get a look at a device that—as far as they knew—held no answers and only pain.

She wasn’t entirely sure she had the right to invoke the Hell-Bard words, but she didn’t know a better way to show them how much their help had meant to her. So as her fingers gripped their hands, a brief squeeze of human contact, she murmured, “Toward death with wide eyes.”

“All clear, all clear,” they replied, and Safi didn’t think she imagined the appreciation on their faces.

“Thank you,” she added before releasing them. Then she leaned into Lev and let the Hell-Bard half carry, half drag her back through the Keep and once more into the world of the living.

The return journey to the imperial palace felt longer than the trip to reach Hell-Bard Keep had. Perhaps because Safi was conscious, or perhaps because the entire day had been sucked away by her time at the Keep … Or most likely because her companion was Emperor Henrick, and he was quite displeased.

She had never seen this part of Praga before—the slums. Lev’s childhood home. Buildings leaned and sagged, while people clustered along the narrow streets to watch the Emperor’s procession clatter past. No one begged, no one cheered, no one tried to get close to the Hell-Bards surrounding the carriage. They simply watched, faces of all ages, all genders, all colors, unified by their gaunt skeletons, hollowed-out eyes, and clothes that did nothing to protect against the night’s cold.

If Merik Nihar could see this …

“You host lavish feasts and dancing every night yet people starve in your slums?” Safi sank back from the window to find Henrick watching her. A calculating look with subtle undertones of ire—though most of his rage had, to her surprise, dissipated once they’d left the Keep. He was a man skilled at finding his calm.

“Pomp and celebration matter as much as food.” Henrick spoke gruffly, though not cruelly. “Particularly in times of war.”

Safi motioned to the window. “Tell that to them.”

“I will,” he replied. “When I join my people to deliver the biweekly wagon of rations, I will make sure your words are conveyed.”

Biweekly wagon. Safi frowned.

And Henrick smiled. “This empire, Safiya, can feed its poor and host celebrations that raise morale. We are strong enough and wealthy enough to do both.”

Safi’s frown only deepened. Cartorra has its flaws, Caden had once told her, but it also has safety. Food too, as well as wealth, roads, and education.