Forty-one days after the imperial ambassador's murder.

Mansion of House Mannock, Tower of Gardens in the oversurface of Radaar, 3423 AA

A soft breeze rustled the leaves in the stretch of gardens behind the mansion. Sitting on the ground, Seyleen ran her fingers through the grass, its cold, dewy blades a contrast to the warm, midday sun. The sweet scent of cherry and lavender lulled her into serenity, the background huffs of exertion barely registering.

“You’ve been at it since morning,” she said, her eyes still on the viridescent expanse she sat on.

Despite the perfect form Wicker maintained during his exercises, there was a nervous air about him. She could tell from the few ill-concealed scowls, the muttered curses and the way his head hung an inch lower during breaks that it would have from normal fatigue.

Wicker paused and turned to her. “I will take a break in a little while.”

“Really? You said the same thing” – she looked at her watch – “two hours ago.”

“They’ve been a very fruitful two hours.”

She snorted, the smile falling off her face a moment later, bringing back her grim expression. Wicker continued training and more time passed, the silence of the area only perturbed by his rough breaths.

Seyleen bit her lip. “Do you think you can beat him?”

“That’s – why I’m training – isn’t it?” He spoke whenever he caught a breath.

Snapping her head to the side to face him, Seyleen slapped her hand on the ground. The sound was muffled but still loud enough to reach her bodyguard. “Bullshit. There’s just over a week until the duel. How much can training even do at this point?”

Wicker let go of the branch he’d been hanging on, landing on his feet with a soft thud. When he walked out of the shade, his sweat-drenched body glistened in the sun. He shrugged. “The way you’re looking suggests all the exercising is doing something.”

She blinked, then turned away from him, unable to utter a single word. The initial shock gave way to disbelief, which suffocated anything sensible that could have left her mouth. Wicker never joked like this. Which meant things were every bit as bad as she had feared.

“I apologise, ma’am,” he said, the embarrassment clear in his voice despite his effort to mask it. “I was hoping it would lift the mood.”

“Is there really no chance of winning?”

He hesitated. “It will be difficult.”

Lying down on the grass, Seyleen placed her forearm over her eyes, blocking the sight of wispy clouds rolling across the sky. “If you were part of the White Guard, you could have wiped the floor with him.”

“You know that’s impossible.” His voice sounded closer. The grass rustled close by. He’d probably sat down.

“They disowned you.”

“The White Guard cannot accept those of highborn blood. Even if they stripped me of my name, I am still a Lendrin.”

“It’s bullshit.”

“I know.”

She moved her arm and rested it by her side. Swivelling her head to look at Wicker, she drank in the details: his damp hair was plastered to his face, which was still flushed from the strain; his freckles mingled with the redness, almost invisible now; his eyes were still as deep and as kind as always, but they looked weary – his expression was impassive, but there was a semblance of a smile buried there.

Pressure welled up in her eyes. She sank her canine tooth into the flesh of her lip, distracting herself from the thought of losing Wicker, if barely. It didn’t last. Eight days separated them from the duel. Eight days until either he or Kiel died, and his odds were terrible. Eight days for her to see his face, talk to him, and maybe never have the chance afterwards.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Have you asked the White Guard here in the mansion to teach you?” she asked.

“As soon as we got back yesterday.”

“And?”

Wicker shook his head. “Disregarding the fact that it would be breaking several rules, the captain couldn’t teach me anything in so little time. Nothing that would make a difference, that is.”

She couldn’t give up with just that much. “The others?”

“The captain’s the most experienced one. If he doesn’t know, the others won’t either.”

“But did you ask?”

He sighed. “I did.”

A pause. “What about Bale? You said he was from the military.”

His eyes clouded over in thought. “It would still be a week of training. We would need a miracle.” Seeing her gaze, he relented. “I can ask but if I do that, the investigation may need to stop. Sir Mannock’s killer could slip through our grasp in that time.”

Seyleen clenched her fist. Ever since she came to Radaar, she had been focused on revenge and finding the killer. She had remained steadfast in her goals, but now there was only one thought in her mind: I want Wicker to live. It was astonishing how easy it had been to turn her focus elsewhere.

“Ask him,” she said. Even if it was a false hope, she’d grab onto it. “If it doesn’t work, we can hide in the undersurface.”

Wicker shook his head. “No.”

“What?”

“If we run from this,” he said, clenching his fist, “we’ll be hunted not just by your enemies but every highborn on Radaar. We won’t have more than a week at best.”

“I’ll worry about that when we cross that bridge.” Wicker tried to protest, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Go back to training.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded and left.

***

Time passed and evening came, the cerulean sky tinging yellow and orange and red where the sun hung low over the horizon. The trees obstructed some of the view, but Seyleen was content to lie in her tranquil gardens and wait for the stars to appear. The sky was unmarred by clouds, and the breeze was not strong enough to bring them quickly, serving instead to slowly bleed warmth out of the ground and plants. Over by the nearest maple, Wicker had been meditating under the growing shade for close to an hour now.

Seyleen took out her phone and glared at the empty notification bar. She’d requested her father’s autopsy report over a week ago, and it had yet to arrive. Either City Security was growing far bolder than they had any right to, or they were simply fools not to recognise a request and threat when they heard them. What in the Ascendants’ names were they doing? She paused, then nearly leapt up, propping herself on her elbows as realisation came. There was no way someone from City Security would be blocking her. Was it one of the highborn? Chills raced down her spine. Was it Trianos?

Ever since the party, she couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he was responsible, but the mere thought of it made her nauseous. She’d considered him family at one point. He’d been her father’s closest friend. Could he really have aided the assassination?

“Ma’am?” Wicker said.

Although his voice didn’t startle her, she felt irritated at herself for neglecting to pay attention to her surroundings. She had no idea when he had approached. He stood several feet away, fully dressed, with his hands behind his back. “What is it?” she asked.

“Shall we head for a walk around the gardens? It will clear your mind.”

Had he asked a little earlier, she might have rejected him. Now, however, she was eager for a distraction, one that would bring with it a semblance of calm. She was growing weary from unnerving thoughts. Rising to her feet, she patted down her dress and turned to him. “Lead the way.”

By the time they reached the mansion’s entrance, the sun had fully set, leaving behind only a blotch of red and violet in the darkening sky. Through the windows, she saw the servants bustling about. The two White Guards at the gate remained perfectly motionless in their vigilance. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and breathed in deeply. If she was heading out, she might as well go down the familiar paths, evoking some of the happier memories from her childhood.

Wicker eyed the guards stationed by the gate thoughtfully, standing completely still but for a frown that appeared every few seconds. “We should take them with us.”

The seriousness of his voice made her bristle with irritation. She was not a child, but the overprotectiveness made her out to be one. To the highborn, having an entourage of White Guards was a symbol of strength only if their position was stable. Hers wasn’t. In her case, it would only display paranoia and weakness. She held the frustration in, settling for only rolling her eyes at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is the oversurface. No one is foolish enough to try anything here.”

“Still, caution won’t hurt,” he said, raising his hands in a placating manner. “One additional guard won’t change—” He frowned.

She gave him a concerned look. “Is something wrong?”

He stayed quiet for a long moment, then said, “The pressure’s gone.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “The wards shielding the Towers are like a weight on adepts.” He rolled his shoulders and stood up on his toes. “I don’t recall there being a maintenance…” He trailed off.

Wicker’s gaze slowly headed upwards, his expression morphing into that of shock. Reflected in his irises, Seyleen saw a growing dot of fiery red, and moments later, the courtyard around them, the pavement and the trees and hedges were all bathed in the same light.

He tackled her to the ground. They fell, and everything was engulfed in flames.

Shielding her face from the billowing waves of heat, Seyleen rose to her feet with Wicker’s help. The mansion was a blazing ruin of its former self. A massive hollow stood at the centre, between the two wings. Fires raced through the hallways and up the walls, eating at the foundation and up the curtains to the ceiling of each floor. Wails drifted out to the gardens, what little could get past the roaring inferno that wreathed the mansion. Shadowy silhouettes darted through the hallways, but Seyleen could barely discern them through the pillars of smoke.

She stared at it all numbly, as if it were a movie or a dream. Her thoughts plodded through the pathways in her mind, slow as syrup, lost in thick fog. Yet, despite acceptance never coming, the sight of the burning mansion branded itself upon her memory, sharp as a knife, until she could visualise every detail with perfect clarity.

Wicker pulled her arm and led her through the gates, his arm raised protectively above her head. She followed him mutely, turning her head back whenever she could manage, some small part of her wishing that the sight would change if she did so. Wicker spoke to her, but his words came muffled, indistinct from the furious crackle of the flames. He bellowed to the guards by the gate, and they followed.

The four of them ran.

The gardens blurred past them: the trees, the verdant fields, the statues and fountains, and the little pockets where benches stood in circles. Tinged in fiery orange, they felt unfamiliar, distant from the memories she had of those places. Gone were the years of a happy childhood, the picnics with her parents, the times she’d spent with Dal’wan, Vahlin, and Gavin. Only the flames were left: the fires tearing down her home.

They ran.

A number of figures stood further down the path. They were close enough for her to notice the details, but her reeling mind couldn’t put names to their faces, or even their designation. Again, Wicker said something, sounded surprised or angry, and the guards echoed the emotion. He spoke to her next, his voice gentle this time. She didn’t hear. The meaning of his words came and went like the wind.

They stopped running.

The guards moved to stand in front of Seyleen, while Wicker took something out of her pocket and tucked it into her hands. Then he turned as well, and the nearby trees were painted by flashes of cyan and orange. The wind gusted back and forth, carrying sounds of crashing and crunching. Destruction tore through the tranquil gardens.

Wicker grunted and stepped back, clutching his bleeding arm. A growing sense of alarm broke through the haze shrouding Seyleen’s thoughts. She typed frantically on her phone’s keyboard, sending a message to the only people she was certain weren’t behind the attack.

One of her guards fell. There was a hole in his chest, an incandescent ring of melted armour around it. The sounds of battle became clear, and Seyleen recognised the six – five now – enemies as members of the White Guard, those belonging to House Hessinor. Deep in her pounding heart, she swore to give Karn Hessinor the most painful death she could conceive if she were to live through this.

The air distorted around her. Wicker lunged and pushed her out of it just as transparent blades materialised and darted towards her. The one that had been aimed at her neck missed, cutting her cheek instead, but another managed to rend the side of her abdomen. She placed her hand over the wound, but the bleeding was too severe to stop it entirely. Wicker tried to get up but collapsed instead. Blood pooled beneath his chest.

Nausea welled up in her stomach; light-headedness turned her arms to jelly. Her vision darkened, and the last sight she saw was the five approaching men and a distortion in the air two steps away, different this time. There was a ripple, and the air was mottled with greys and browns. Within a fraction of a second, the colours grew into the shapes of two men. She smiled, then fainted.