Threads tickle Iseult’s senses, stronger by the heartbeat. Brilliant Threads with a crackling core. She turns as Leopold steps onto her balcony. He has changed into dancing slippers and fitted silver velvet. Silver always suits him best, and he knows it.

“Dark-Giver,” he says with a bow.

And Iseult frowns. A real frown she does not have to fake. Perhaps, given a few more weeks of practice, she will wear emotions easily. Then again, if all goes according to plan, after tonight it will no longer matter if she is expressive or not.

“You mock me.”

“No.” Leopold lifts his face, eyes and Threads twinkling. “I revere you.”

“Empty words.” She turns back to the crowd. Back to the dais where Safi and Henrick now sit upon their thrones.

“What makes you think they are empty?” Leopold leans on the balustrade beside her.

“You are a prince.”

“And?”

“You have been trained since birth to tell people what they want to hear.”

He chuckles. His Threads flare pink. “I would think that you, of all people, would sense my sincerity.”

Iseult’s lips sink deeper. “I am not a Truthwitch.”

“No.” He taps his lips, gaze sliding to meet hers. In this warm, Firewitched light, his eyes are the same shade as her gown: seafoam green. “You are much more dangerous, Iseult. You see emotions.”

“And Safi sees truth.”

Leopold twirls his hands, conceding. “But how often do people make choices based on truth? Based on facts or what their logic tells them?” His mouth twists with a smile. “Not nearly as often as they should. People start wars based on what they feel.”

Iseult holds her silence. Leopold is in one of his trickier moods—they come more and more often these days. He prods her with words, testing just how much he can say before she rises. It is her least favorite version of him.

Stasis, she tells herself. Do not react.

But he is not done yet. “You are far more powerful than she.” He motions vaguely toward the thrones. “Yet she is the one they all desire.”

Stasis, stasis, stasis. “Do you say this to hurt me? Is your intent to cause me pain?”

“No.” He frowns. Red frustration shimmers across his Threads. “I simply … You must realize you are more powerful. Yet you have been relegated to a servants’ balcony while she—”

“I chose this servants’ balcony.” Somehow, her voice is smooth as snow. “I wish to observe the dancing, Leopold, but I have no wish for the stares.”

“And that is exactly it.” He spins about so his back is against the railing, elbows braced. “You are the witch in the shadows, Iseult, while Safi lives in the light.”