Underfoot, the rolling ground was covered with a fine layer of plushy, green blades, resembling grass but sending up a clean, lemony scent when she stepped on it. Boxy installations, each perhaps a cubic meter and covered with more ivy, held small trees, each in full blossom and covered with tiny flowers, some white while other trees sported pink and purple. Smaller planters scattered everywhere held hundreds of flowers. The moist, floral air fluttered against Atlanta’s cheek from a vent somewhere.

It was a luxurious, expensive space. It was a space designed to say, My pleasure is worth a great deal of money.

The interior awed her less than he might have predicted. Atlanta had seen plenty of magnificent architecture in her time. The nobles used the land around the palace in order to compete and find out who could create the most fabulous spectacle. As far as gardens went, this was not particularly impressive.

What did make it impressive was the fact that it existed in space, that all the materials within it had been brought from elsewhere, and a conspicuous amount of water and energy and work went into its maintenance.

Tubal Last towered in the middle of a clearing in the center, its circumference lined with more planters. He wore the same clothing as he had before. It struck her again what a gray man he was, and how it somehow made him stand out even more against these bright flowers.

Thorn knelt at his feet in human form, bruised and battered as though he had been fighting. Chains draped his hands and feet, looking impossibly solid. They managed to be rusty and ornate at the same time, as though created for a stage play, but the sound that they made against each other when he shifted his weight from one knee to another showed them quite real, and quite heavy.

Atlanta could see the shape of his bones under the tightly stretched skin of his back. He kept his gaze fixed on the grass in front of him and did not look up as she approached, though Tubal Last watched, smiling, as Turo gestured her to stand just before Last and forced her to her knees, as before.

“Little girl,” Tubal said. “You were not in any of the dossiers or reports. Niko insists you are an Imperial Heir.”

She raised her chin. “I am,” she said, trying to assume the haughtiness the Empress would have worn.

He studied her in silence. His lip curled, although she could not tell what emotion made it twitch, scorn or amusement. Even his expressions are gray, she thought.

“Perhaps,” he finally said. “Perhaps you are. Certainly Niko believes it.” He turned his attention down to the were-lion at his feet. “Are you prepared for my demonstration?”