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Watched it catch the desert winds on wings spread wide. Effortlessly floating toward the Silver City without bothering to flap. A beast free of any burden heavier than a bit of rolled parchment sealed with Sinadim’s royal insignia.

Something sour splashed into his gut, then. A slippery, twisty thing the prince had never tasted before. One he couldn’t name, despite its distinct flavor.

“We’re ready,” Balkazar murmured, drawing Sinadim from his pissy, nebulous mood.

“It might be easier to burn Tengit,” Sinadim replied. “Simpler.”

Balkazar snorted. “Easier for who? You?” The war chief laughed, outright mocking his brother in the privacy of these stolen chambers. “You’d get to swan off into the sands, dressed in poncy, fine silks, leaving me behind to clean up the mess. An’ don’t think I don’t know you’d do it with a smile on your face, too.”

Grinning now, Sinadim added, “A smile on my face and my knot buried in a pretty little Hathorian cunt.”

Balkazar sobered, pausing to stare after the falcon for a moment as desert winds teased them with a dry kiss. “Twelve of them will live,” the war chief murmured at length. “I’m told another five have a decent enough chance, so long as they can last to see the next moonrise.”

Eleven.

Eleven Hathorians had been utterly beyond saving. Sinadim had personally fed them wine laced with too much opium. Promising a life of luxury and safety as cherished jewels of a Karahmet prince. A promise of relief that could only be granted through death.

A terrible mercy.

One Veli would never be able to properly atone for.

“I’ve half a mind to dig that spineless cur up and sew him back together, just so I can string him up and let them deal out their own punishment.”

With a careless shrug, Balkazar sniffed. His opinion clear before he said, “If Omegas are actually capable of enough fight to overcome impossible odds, making a gift of Veli’s corpse might light a fire.” The war chief made a face. “Varjim’s head on a pike will help, too, I’m sure.”

Sinadim squinted into the sinking desert sun. Tracking the raptor disappearing into the distance, where he longed to be—not this moist city of corpses. “You’ve a plan?”

“A direction,” Balkazar corrected, pulling him away from the balcony. Brushing away stray grains of sand, Balkazar rolled a map across the surface of Veli’s desk, and said, “This is Tengit.” He pointed, letting one claw dimple the parchment. “And this,” he said, dragging that claw East, “is the Zaganos Summer Palace. Varjim was seen fleeing the city at dawn. If those accounts are correct, he’s dragging a handful of Omegas through the desert with a small force of city guards. If they intend to keep to the roads, they’ll have to take this pass or brave the sands. Coastal mutts are slow enough in the desert to begin with, but…”

Sinadim snorted. “With a clutch of sickly Hathorians trailing along behind him, he’ll be lucky to make it to the Summer Palace at all.”

“Right,” Balkazar said. “And my reports say they’re traveling by carriage. Cumbersome and slow. Ripe for an ambush.”

Letting his claws drum across the tabletop, the prince took a moment to consider. A moment more to let the fog of vengeance burn itself out so he might see the correct path forward.

And then, “We travel light,” he said. “Cut through the heart of the desert and shave a week’s travel off our time. Occupy the palace before he can hunker down like the burrowing parasite he is.”

Balkazar shook his head. “Storm season approaches. If we stick to his flank, we can easily outpace him⁠—”

“Even if we lose our lead time beneath the sands,” Sinadim countered, “we’ll still retain the advantage of speed and surprise. Meet him at the gates of the Summer Palace and save any Hathorians who might be saved without risking hostages.”

For a moment, the war chief held his tongue. Keeping his counsel quiet as he weighed his response. Silent, until the prince shot him a nasty look and commanded him to speak without bothering to do so himself.

“Why the rush?” Balkazar asked at last. Quiet, despite the intimacy. “Even without the bulk of your forces, we’ll have him scattered across the sands before the month is out. Chances are,” he said, and it was gentle, “those Omegas are all doomed anyway. Taking the road behind them eliminates the risk of weathering a sandstorm or surviving the desert with no supplies.”

Sinadim’s tongue was looser than he’d thought, when without an instant of hesitation, he said, “The Silver City will not approve of my methods in Tengit. Even with the irrefutable proof of Veli’s treachery, the Sultan commanded me to make amends.” His mane flared, broadcasting his violent opinion on the matter. “I took liberties with the definition of what he might be owed.”

Clearing his throat, Balkazar nodded. “The Zaganos were long-time trading partners. Rotten but valuable, nevertheless.”

“If I am permitted to return,” Sinadim said, “I will need far more than a few damaged Hathorians to show for what I’ve done here.”

“More than a Kesh manufacturing plant?” Balkazar drawled, icy blue eyes twinkling.

“Flying Karahmet colors over Tengit will make the other clans uneasy.” Tail flicking, Sinadim adjusted his shirt collar. “The Silver City can be given no chance to intervene before Varjim is caught. His crimes, and those of his father, must be brought to light for all to see.”

“Then we travel light,” the war chief agreed. “Fast. Cutting through the heart of the desert, to either head Varjim off or catch his tail going in.”

Sinadim sighed, working to force his mane flat, to disguise the heated scent rising from his skin. And then, “Let’s get this over with.”