It was several hours past midnight by the time Safi reached Leopold’s ancient tower. Like before, attendants guided her in with wilting bows. Unlike before, though, Leopold still wore his evening clothes: evergreen and silver that made him glow like some forgotten forest prince from one of the old stories Mathew used to tell.

Safi also wore her same gown, a rich mustard and maroon.

After a heated embrace that—despite herself—made Safi’s head spin and heart pound, Leopold closed the curtains, dimmed the lights, and locked his bedroom door. Three taps upon the wall, the stones opened wide, and he and Safi once more descended.

They did not speak until the darkness was past and the stairs had ended. Even then, all Leopold said was “Does your thigh hurt?”

“No.”

Then he chuckled—though not at her. He was clearly amused by the circumstances, and no doubt guessed that her emergency trip to Hell-Bard Keep had been carefully arranged. Several more minutes passed in silence, with only the growing fog and their soft, slippered steps to fill Safi’s ears.

“No one seems to have heard of your escapade,” Leopold offered eventually, lifting his voice over the building churn of the baths. “I do not know how my uncle kept it secret, but he did.” Leopold glanced back, his eyes merry. “What, pray tell, happened, Safiya?”

Her lips twitched, and in broad strokes, she painted the picture of her day for him, beginning with the training session and Caden’s knife and ending with the carriage ride back to the palace. At some point in her story, Leopold stopped walking. He stared at her with hard intensity through the fog, and when she had finished, he said—so quietly she almost missed it—“You saw where Eron was, then.”

“I did.”

“A place like this?” He opened his arms.

“But with yellow shores and waters that boil.”

“The Solfatarra.” He ran a thoughtful thumb over his lower lip and resumed his march. “Henrick has a hunting lodge there, where Hell-Bards are stationed throughout the year because, unknown to anyone but a select few, there are dungeons beneath it. It is where the worst criminals are sent. The acid in the air slowly—painfully—kills them.”

Safi’s chest tightened. “Did it never occur to you that my uncle might be there?”

“Of course it did.” Leopold glared. “But my spies found only empty cells when I sent them.” Ahead, the fog and noise thickened. Three more long steps, and they rounded the final bend to the baths. The pillared pools stretched before them, unchanged from last night. Unchanged, Safi supposed, for a millennium.

As before, Leopold aimed for a bench—however, this time, he did not sit. Instead, he was the one to pace while Safi draped herself down.