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Does collecting mementos run in the family, or is this purely a trait the siblings share? Aella used to do the same—hoarding pieces of the world until her walls told a story. I once tried my hand at poetry—gods-awful chaos—but she kept every scrap and pinned them up like they mattered.

Kallias stands by the windows along the far wall. A single lantern exudes a soft halo that doesn’t quite reach him. His hawk, Cinder, perches on a stand to the right, pausing his preening to fix me with one beady eye.

When the prince finally turns toward me, I blink. He looks so different from the last time I saw him. Perfectly composed, every detail of his appearance meticulously arranged. It’s as if the prince I saw before—hazy-eyed, with smudged kohl streaking his face—was nothing more than a fever dream.

He slowly lowers himself into the chair. His fingers toy with the rings on his hand, spinning one idly, before his gaze lifts to meet mine.

“I think we can both agree that our earlier interactions were…less than ideal,” he says at last.

“You think so?” I ask, my voice carefully even.

He gestures toward the armchairs before me, his fingers flicking lazily in invitation.

My instincts scream at me to stay on my feet, but I force myself to move, sinking into the seat on the right. If he wants to play at being gracious, I’ll let him.

Maxim leans against the bookshelves along the left wall. I narrow my eyes on the corner of his mouth as his lips strain, as though he is attempting to stifle a laugh.

“Good,” the prince says, drawing my attention back to him. “I’d hate for you to think I’m incapable of civility.”

“Civility,” I echo. “Is that what this is?”

The temperature in the room heats, and his fingers pause on one of the rings, spinning it idly before he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “That depends. Are you planning to question everything I say, or will you let me speak without interruption?”

“Go on, then. I’m listening.”

He leans back in his chair, his fingers still toying with the rings on his hand. “I’m sure you recall the missive my father received from the Eastern prince following your return from your mission.”

“I remember,” I say carefully.

“Another missive arrived.”

Unease curls through me. “What did it say?”

He looks briefly to Maxim, who leans silently against the shelves, before shifting his attention back to me.

Kallias reaches into the drawer of the desk. When his hand emerges, it holds a scrap of parchment, its edges blackened and curling as if it had barely escaped the flames.

“See for yourself,” he says mockingly.

My eyes flick between the burned scrap and his face, searching for some hint of his game. But curiosity wins out, and I lean forward to take it.

Our fingers brush as I grasp the parchment, and I startle at the contact. His touch is scorching, a heat that seems to sear straight through my skin and into my bones. I pull back quickly, clutching the scrap in my hand.

The message is incomplete, but the fragments that remain send a chill down my spine.

…you can understand I’m not satisfied with the outcome of my request. However, I find myself intrigued by your proposal.

I look forward to seeing you at the Empyrieos Games. Until then, let us see which kingdom is better at the hunt.

Keres Selmonious

King of Eretria

I scan the letter again, and my gaze stutters over the signature.

My stomach twists. A sharp, nauseating ache spreads through me.

King of Eretria.