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I turn back to the door, shaking my head as I push it open. The iron handle creaks, and the heavy wooden door swings inward.

The warmth of the kitchen greets me as I step inside and shut the door behind me. This is the only ground entrance to the tower, and I suppose that makes sense considering its usual inhabitants all have wings.

The hearth on the right side is lit, its embers casting flickering light across the benches and cupboards that line the curved marble walls. Clay jars and pots are neatly arranged on the shelves above, alongside bundles of dried herbs that hang from hooks, filling the room with an earthy scent.

The table in the center of the room is laden with supplies—there’s a knife resting on a cutting board, and a few vegetables are scattered across the table, half chopped—as if someone brought them all out in preparation for dinner but forgot to cook.

My gaze lingers on the table for a moment before shifting to the ice locker tucked in the far right corner. An idea starts to form, and I cross the room, pulling the ice locker open. The cold air rushes out, and I rummage through its contents until I find a hunk of salted meat, wrapped tightly in cloth.

I don’t know what kind of meat it is, but hopefully it will do.

Closing the ice locker, I turn and head back to the door, the meat still clutched in my hands. I only walk a few paces out from the tower before the sensation of being watched prickles at the back of my neck again, and this time, I smirk.

I crouch and place the meat on the ground, brushing snow away to make sure it’s visible. Straightening, I turn and head back inside, the door creaking shut behind me.

Passing through the kitchen, I head up the stairwell, the day’s exhaustion settling deeper into my limbs with every step.

When I finally reach my door, I stop short.

A wooden chest sits outside, its surface smooth and polished, with a folded note resting on top. My name is scrawled across the paper in precise, unfamiliar handwriting.

I pick up the note, my fingers brushing the edges as I unfold it.

I thought you might like something to wear other than the same three tunics from our travels.

—Xan

My heart flutters, a warmth blooming in my chest as I set the note aside and lift the lid of the chest. Inside, an assortment of clothes is neatly folded—tunics, trousers, a new pair of boots, and even a set of slippers. The fabrics are finer than anything I’ve worn in weeks, soft to the touch and dyed in jewel tones, but all the tunics are high-collared, just like the ones I purchased in Intana.

I drag the chest into my room and close the door behind me. For a moment, I stand there, staring at the contents, my heart still fluttering in a way I don’t want to consider too closely.

Then, with a deep breath, I kneel beside the chest and begin to unpack.

Chapter 23

Nyssa

I shrink deeper into the alcove, evading the light from the sconces lining the walls as I wait for Maxim to arrive. The marble figure beside me gazes down the corridor with blank, ancient serenity, her chipped mouth curved in an almost knowing smile. If stone could gossip, she’d outdo the palace’s sharpest tongues. Fortunately for me, she can’t.

Following the revelations at the Muse, I haven’t been able to get the handwriting out of my mind all week. If someone else other than the king is backing the Eagle’s plans and rise to power, then we need to find out who. Ideally before they realize we’re working to unravel their scheme.

Myna and Lucaz went back to the Aviary to discover where the Eagle is moving the nymphai captives. While we wait to check the drop site for anything they uncover, I can at least try to pry loose whatever information I can here. The only place I can think to start is the council archives. If there’s a match for that handwriting—an old record, a signature, anything—it might be buried there. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only lead I have.

The scrape of sandals—two sets, not one—rasps across the polished stone.

I press myself tighter into the statue’s shadow until familiar voices drift toward me. With a sigh, I step out from my hiding spot, crossing my arms as I raise a brow at the two approaching figures.

“Spying’s typically a solitary pursuit,” I say.

Maxim offers me a sheepish smile, but Kallias is harder to read. His kohl-lined eyes are shadowed, and there’s a tension in the way he carries himself.

“What can I say?” Kallias says, stepping closer. “Our last adventure was so thrilling, I simply couldn’t resist another.”

“Maybe you should run back to the grand hall. I’d hate for you to get bored.”

Kallias’s eyes flare, but Maxim cuts in before he can retort. “The council archives are kept in the vaults,” he says, his tone apologetic as his gaze flicks to me. “Since it’s always guarded, you’ll need Kal to take you in.”

“What’s the plan, then? The guards are just as liable to gossip as the servants, and the sight of me skulking through the palace with you both could raise some questions.”