Duke Etienne and Rocher found us in the corridor a few minutes ter. Lumiere still had a protective arm draped around my shoulders. I had mostly stopped shaking, but the evidence of my distress must have still clung to me, because Rocher froze the moment his eyes nded on my face.

  His jaw flexed, tight as a bowstring, as if someone had reached inside him and pulled a thread too taut. I quickly scrubbed a hand over my cheek.

  "It's nothing."

  Rocher did not look convinced. His eyes darkened. He took half a step toward me, then caught himself, checking the impulse as if unsure where the invisible boundaries between us y anymore.

  Etienne cleared his throat, brisk but gentle. "We should not remain out in the open. Come. There is a sitting chamber nearby."

  We moved as a small, ragged procession. Lumiere didn't let go of me until she was sure I was steady on my feet, then we slipped inside a narrow side room illuminated by a single ntern. Rocher hovered near the doorway, his hands clenched into fists he didn't seem aware of. Lumiere stood beside me like a shield disguised in silk.

  Etienne spoke first. "We need a pn."

  I looked up at him then.

  Duke Etienne Aurelio. The youngest and only surviving brother of the king. The only one to have lived through His Majesty's succession conflict, by simple fact of not having been born yet.

  He was shorter and slighter than either Rocher or Corveaux, though he carried the same raven-bck hair that marked the royal bloodline. His face was clean-shaven, almost boyish at first gnce, but a calm, measured serenity gave him an older, wiser cast.

  "We need a mission." Lumiere said. "Something immediate. Even His Highness cannot hold us if we are carrying out our duty."

  "A mission," Rocher repeated, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

  "Something that takes us far from the capital," Lumiere pressed. "Somewhere he cannot pull us back with a single order."

  Etienne folded his arms. "Going south would be ideal. If you passed through the Duchy, you could use my estate as a command point. I can provide letters, escorts, protection. The only issue is..."

  "It's too stable," I said, finishing the thought for him.

  Etienne nodded. "It's some of the best-fortified nd in the kingdom. His Majesty is unlikely to approve if he thinks the Hero is wasting time guarding its borders."

  "Then we need something to justify the route," Lumiere said.

  Etienne clicked his tongue.

  "I might have a way..." I chirped up.

  Three pairs of eyes settled on me.

  I drew in a deep breath.

  It was a leap in logic, I knew that. My conjecture was predicated on one simple fact: passing the Forest Guardian's trial had cured not only Seraphine's corruption but my injuries as well.

  And Velka was not the only Guardian Spirit.

  "The old capital," I said hesitantly. "Deep inside Ironspine. The Mountain Guardian holds a trial there. I have reason to believe it might recover Rocher's memories."

  Rocher turned to me, blinking in surprise.

  Was such a setting in the game? I racked my memory for it and came up short. But Guardian Spirit trials were long and arduous tasks. If good game design held, it made sense that finishing one would wipe the ste clean. Health, mana, and injuries.

  "Fascinating." Etienne's eyes sparkled. "Is that witch lore? The capital of the First Men is a sacred pilgrimage site, yet I'd never heard of this in any scripture—"

  Lumiere elbowed him in the ribs.

  "I read it in a book," I offered meekly, a beat too te.

  She nodded briskly and gred at him, daring him to say otherwise.

  "Ahem." Etienne cleared his throat, pretending he hadn't just accused me of witchcraft. "A quest to recover his memories would certainly justify the Hero's presence."

  "And it would take us far from Corveaux's reach," Lumiere added. Her gaze slid to me. "But that still leaves the question of you, Cire. You cannot remain here. Not another moment. Every second you stay, he tightens the noose."

  "I know." My voice sounded steadier than I felt. "I just need to come up with a reason. One he can't argue with."

  Rocher frowned. "And that reason is?"

  I tilted my head. "I have an idea."

  Lumiere opened her mouth to ask, but I was already moving, spilling out into the hall before she could stop me.

  I knew she would object. Involve herself further. Risk herself more. I was grateful for what she'd done, but this was my problem to solve.

  Everything I had seen of Corveaux told me the same thing: he valued polish. Control. Narrative. He could cage me quietly. He could keep me close, groomed and compliant, and call it protection.

  But he hated disorder. Especially the kind that reflected poorly on him.

  The corners of my mouth twitched. Disorder had always followed me, whether I wanted it to or not. If he wanted to keep me, he would have to keep this.

  My shoulders trembled from having held them too tight for too long. I peered over the crowd until finally I spotted one.

  A footman, carrying a ptter of drinks.

  Lumiere watched Cire's figure disappear down the corridor. Her lips pressed together—half in relief, half in consternation.

  She recognized that look.

  Rocher shifted uneasily beside her. "Your Holiness," he said, low. "I need to know something. About Cire..."

  She turned to him, instantly alert.

  "Who... is she?" His voice contained a hint of awe.

  "There are many answers to that." She paused, studying him for a moment. "But that's not what you're asking, is it?"

  He hesitated, then nodded. "What were we? To each other."

  Lumiere's expression softened with a flicker of unexpected grief. Somewhere in the haze, she could tell he was in there.

  "I'm sorry," she sighed. "It's been a while since we'd st spoken. But I can tell you this: you were close."

  We were close too once, she thought, but kept it to herself. "The rest, you'll have to hear from her."

  Rocher closed his eyes, tension rippling through him like a storm surfacing beneath his skin.

  "I've never felt this before," he whispered. "I don't know what it means. Every time she looks away from me, it hurts. Every time he touches her, I feel like I'm going to do something stupid."

  Lumiere reached out and put a hand on his arm. "Then you need to ask her. Directly."

  Rocher nodded, once. He looked both terrified and determined.

  Etienne gnced down the hall toward the ballroom entrance, the muffled sound of a song winding down. "You should head back before you're missed."

  Corveaux stood near a marble pilr, entertaining two foreign dignitaries with the zy ease of a man who already owned the board they thought they were pying on. A faint, practiced smile touched his lips. The dignitaries mistook it for encouragement and pressed on, voices warming, offers growing more generous.

  But their empty words had nothing to do with his satisfaction.

  Everything he'd staged was proceeding perfectly.

  Rocher's memory loss was an unexpected gift; he could move more freely than he'd anticipated, unfettered by the Hero's watchful eye.

  With Evelyn, he'd barely had to lift a finger. She isoted herself of her own volition, stricken by guilt and grief—as reliable as always.

  Seraphine was now elevated beyond Cire's reach, working hand-in-hand with the man who'd once signed off on Cire's torture.

  And as for Cire herself—his brother certainly had an eye. With great care, Corveaux had polished her into a symbol the court admired, one he controlled. And the rumors already whispered that she could become something more.

  It was all according to pn. Soon he would recim every inch of ground she'd taken from him—and remind her to whom she belonged. He could feel it. Just one more push. One final concession—

  The thought fled him when he heard something shatter.

  A sharp, crystalline crack cut across the music. A sharper gasp followed. Heads turned. His eyes followed theirs.

  Corveaux's smile thinned.

  Cire stood at the center of a small chaos: cheeks flushed, braid loose and messy, hiccuping. At her feet y a ptter, gss shattered, champagne creeping across the marble in an unmistakable, glittering tide. Servants were trying to steer her away, but she was resisting, swaying like a sapling in a gale.

  "What are you looking at?" she decred loudly, her words lopsided and slurring. "I only had a few!"

  Corveaux's eyes cooled to polished steel. He approached with measured steps, radiating a composed concern for the crowd's benefit, but his hands were curled tight at his sides.

  She blinked up at him, eyes gssy, unsteady on her feet.

  "I fear my companion has indulged rather too freely this evening," he said smoothly. "It would be best if you retired for the night, my dear."

  She frowned, swaying dangerously close to him. "I'm fine. You're the one who looks like you swallowed a broom."

  Several nobles choked back ughter. Some whispered, horrified and delighted.

  Corveaux inhaled slowly, the sound barely a whisper. The air around him seemed to thin.

  "Dear guests," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "it appears the distinction of such august company has overwhelmed her. It is only natural that a first appearance at court might prompt an ill-advised reliance on music and wine."

  He turned his head—and found Rocher already moving toward her, instinct pulling him like a tide.

  Rocher reached her just as she stumbled. His hand closed around her waist.

  "Cire," he said sharply. "What are you doing?"

  She looked up at him, leaning ever so slightly into the contact. "Rocher?"

  Corveaux frowned. His hand closed over Rocher's shoulder, sharp and predatory.

  "Sir Hero," he said, voice soft but unmistakably final. "That will not be necessary."

  Rocher froze, eyes flicking from Cire to Corveaux with a fsh of something stubborn and confused.

  Corveaux lifted his hand, and servants materialized almost instantly—two attending maids and a pace steward.

  "You three," he said crisply. "Escort Miss Cire to her chamber. Ensure she is settled comfortably."

  Rocher bristled. "I can—"

  Corveaux cut him off with a single raised hand, his patience snapping like a wire. "The Hero has more pressing matters than to py chaperone for a woman who's overindulged. A great many people are looking for you. I hear you've been x in your introductions."

  Rocher's mouth tightened. He looked one heartbeat away from trying something reckless.

  A muscle in Corveaux's cheek twitched. He was this close to losing it.

  But a scoff tore his attention away.

  Cire swayed and pointed at his chest. "You know, you're very bossy for someone who dances like furniture."

  The ughter rippled through the crowd louder this time—uncontainable.

  Corveaux stopped breathing. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped entirely, leaving something cold and exposed staring out of his eyes. He looked at her not with concern, but with the ft, dead gaze of a man who was imagining how much easier his life would be if she simply ceased to exist.

  He exhaled, forcing the mask back into pce, though it sat crookedly now.

  For a fleeting instant, he considered Lumiere. The precision of the disruption, the way it struck at optics rather than authority, bore her fingerprints.

  He dismissed it just as quickly. Lumiere would never humiliate Cire so openly. She and Duke Etienne pyed long games, and she protected her friends.

  This, then, was Cire. Untidy. Emotional. A fre of resistance mistaken for defiance.

  The na?veté of it made him ugh.

  "Have a restful night, my dear," he said, the words clipped and brittle. "We will discuss this in the morning."

  He'd intended to make it comfortable, pleasant even.

  Fine. If that's how she wanted to do things, he'd oblige her.

  The servants bowed, then took her away by the arms.

  For a moment, Cire looked back, her hazel eyes pleading.

  Rocher took a single step as if to follow.

  Corveaux pced a hand ft against his chest.

  Rocher flinched—not from pain, but from recognition. His muscles bunched on instinct, the urge to shove that hand away sharp and immediate. He forced himself to hold still.

  "Where are you going, Hero?" Corveaux murmured, his voice stripped of all warmth.

  Rocher's jaw clenched.

  Corveaux smiled, all silk and knives. "I just said you had obligations to fulfill, did I not?"

  Rocher drew a shallow breath. His hands curled hard at his sides before he could stop them. It took effort to loosen them again.

  "If you're concerned about Miss Cire's pse in etiquette," Corveaux said with venom, "rest assured. I'll see to it that she's corrected."

  Corveaux released him and turned away, already smoothing the room back into order, directing nobles with a prince's effortless authority. But Rocher caught the tension in his shoulders, the strain in his hands. The same tension burned through Rocher's own body, with nowhere to go.

  Every instinct in him pulled after her, loud and unrelenting. He looked over at the door where they'd taken Cire.

  But she was gone. The answers he'd been seeking all night were slipping away.