CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Zaethan

“This better be good, Kumo, after making me wait three days for a single report,” Zaethan warned his cousin in a low voice, having already woken in a foul mood that morning.

“Owàamo to you too, Ahoté,” Kumo hailed as he approached. “Owàa met you with a vengeance today.”

“My temper has nothing to do with the sun or how he greets me. It does, however, have something to do with being incapable of providing the commander with an explanation for the haidren to Boreal’s delay. Report. Now.”

“Uni, Alpha Zà,” the beta acknowledged, lowering his chin as he wisely shifted to formal Darakaian address. “Zahra assigned Jabari to the guard rotation outside both the haidren and al’haidren apartments, hoping he’d pick up some information, but they speak mostly witch- tongue in passing. So, I had Takoda sweet-talk that Southern yaya in the kitchens, you know the one with the—”

“I don’t give two shtàkas how you acquired the information, Kumo, I just want to know what it entails.” Zaethan scratched the stubble along his jaw impatiently as he glowered at the brass doors ahead, which led to the Quadrennal chambers he was late entering.

“Apologies,” Kumo said hurriedly. “Jabari says the haidren’s party stopped in a port town…Tadeas, I think. Looked into some disappearance. The najjan found another corpse like we’ve seen here in the proper. Neither he nor Takoda caught much more, except the boy was butchered, not drained. I don’t know what the y’siti did with the body. Probably served it in a stew, yeah?” Kumo crinkled his nose. “Should we keep investigating?”

“Ano.” Zaethan shook his head. They’d already wasted enough time on the matter, and his father wouldn’t be pleased if he kept investigating the dead cross-castes against orders.

“Uni, Alpha Zà.” Kumo struck his right fist against his chest and retreated to relay the order to the pryde.

“Wait,” Zaethan called after him, reconsidering. “Keep Takoda posted near the younger witch. Just in case.”

His beta twisted mid-step and nodded once. “Shàla’maiamo, Ahoté.”

“Shàla’maiamo,” Zaethan uttered the Andwele farewell, requesting the moon watch over his cousin in turn.

He waited until Kumo rounded the corner before he gripped the byrnnzite door handles and heaved them open with authority. Zaethan had quickly learned from his time at court that one rarely needed to apologize for tardiness, when one arrived unapologetically. Besides, after he’d finally gathered the missing information to bring his father, Zaethan didn’t plan to make excuses for being late to the political version of a tea party.

“Zaethan, there you are! Come, come!” Dmitri exclaimed, eagerly waving him over.

“Why, Lord Darakai, how considerate of you to finally show up,” Sayuri droned from where she lounged next to their prince at the head of the immense pentagonal table. “Your belatedness was a gift, really. It offered the two of us some time to catch up. Our Prince Dmitri has been in high demand as of late.”

Sayuri’s dark, vulpine eyes flashed accusingly at the impassive y’siti seated across from her. The al’haidren to Boreal remained unruffled in her modest layers of crisp linen and linsilk. Their dissimilarity was tangible, when one compared her pallid, spectral manner against the vivid, serpentine woman who’d one day serve as a conduit for Pilar’s ever-evolving agenda. By the way Sayuri eased her ruby lips into a coy smirk, her personal agenda to position herself at Dmitri’s side had not changed.

Not that the House of Darakai would ever permit such a union, nor would the Ethnicam’s other elite. The only reason Zaethan’s House bowed before the line of Thoarne was the simple fact that a drop of ancient, Darakaian blood pulsed within Dmitri’s mixed, Unitarian veins. A blood which somehow contained everything Zaethan was, and yet everything he was not.

“My duties as alpha zà are more pressing than your list of social obligations, Lady Pilar,” Zaethan said with a sneer as he crossed the room and came to stand behind Ira Hastings, who’d seated himself to Dmitri’s right. “You’re in Darakai’s seat, Ira, or did you get lost on your way from the tavern this morning?”

“Ah, right you are.” The slightly disheveled al’haidren picked up his wine and moved to Bastiion’s seat beside the y’siti. “Hello, gosling, care for a drink?”

Ira reached to refill her untouched glass, only to find it was already full.

“I’ll be more inclined to converse with you, Lord Bastiion, if you refrain from using these crass monikers,” she corrected him, lifting a stiff, arrogant chin. “You may address me as Lady Luscia or, if you prefer, Lady Boreal, as is your right.”

“Well, I do apologize, Lady Gosling.” Ira rakishly tipped his drink to salute her. “Boreali women have my utmost admiration, I assure you.”

“And here I always considered you an elitist, Ira.” Sayuri lifted a brow. “My, how your palate has changed.”

Zaethan couldn’t fathom why his friend insisted they convene. Restrictions were still in place around Dmitri’s power, and this juvenile bickering was the only foreseeable outcome of their assembly. Already annoyed, Zaethan watched the y’siti control her breathing, slowly inhaling and exhaling, as the other two al’haidrens exchanged words about her. She draped a pale arm over the side of her chair to methodically stroke the muzzle of her uncommonly large wolx, though to keep which of them calm, Zaethan couldn’t tell.

Dmitri cleared his throat and stood, using his cane for support. “I would like to officially call this Quadren to session,” he said formally. “I know it may seem a bit…silly, I suppose, us meeting like this. My Quadren is politically dormant, and we are bound by countless constraints, but I’ve decided to proceed unorthodoxly and deviate from Orynthian tradition.

“Over the last year, I’ve spent a great deal of time delving into the journals of my predecessors, specifically the entries recounting the dealings of their Quadrens through each generation of haidrens. From my grandfather, King Aquila Thoarne, to his mother, Queen Roma Thoarne, and as far back as the ledgers allow. The single commonality between them is one I find rather unfortunate.” Here Dmitri paused, glancing at each of them for emphasis. “Not one generation has managed to fulfill the true purpose of the Quadren, which is, by the way, to work together for the good of the realm. While each of us are divided by House, we are united under the banner of Orynthia, and it is as Orynthians that we will lead.”

“Bridging the gap between our peoples starts at this table, Highness, and I for one am devoted to the cause,” Ira pledged. He winked at the y’siti and lazily ran a hand that had never known labor through his shining mahogany hair.

“We all thank you, Lord Bastiion, for your personal support,” Zaethan said with enough sarcasm to satisfy even Zahra, his third, had she been present.

“I’m so pleased to hear our union has become your passion, as well,” Sayuri swiftly added, letting her fingertips brush Dmitri’s hand as she regarded him through her dense lashes.

Zaethan audibly laughed, earning him a deadly scowl from his friend. He couldn’t believe he was obligated to sit here and listen to this kakk. Dmitri had always been an idealist, but this discussion was absurd. Did Dmitri think the Houses would simply come together and abandon centuries-old ambitions and rivalries? That a noble like Ira would put his liquor aside for a cause beyond his own debauchery. Or that the y’siti sorceress would cease sharpening her witchiron while they slept? The notion that the four of them could set aside generations of strife was about as likely as one day referring to Sayuri Naborū-Zuo as Her Highness.

“Some of you may scoff at this proposition.” Dmitri’s eyes targeted Zaethan. “However, I still propose that we open this Quadren privately, be it prematurely. None of you serve your House as haidren until I serve Orynthia as king. I’m aware it will likely be years before that becomes our reality, but we have an opportunity before us. This is the first and only Quadren to ever be born into an era of peace. So many of these journals, journals like this one,” he passionately urged, lifting a tattered book off the tabletop, “were scribbled inside a tent on a scorched battlefield. But that is not how we begin, and it is not how we will end.

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“We are going to use this time, these years ahead, to forge our solidarity. Over time, I can find ways to impose our influence within the bureaucratic realms. The Peerage and the Ethnicam will have to allow it when they see how united we’ve become. And because of that, we can dedicate our youth to something that matters—to the betterment of our people.”

Not since childhood had Zaethan seen his friend speak so zealously about anything. He’d noticed the papers piling up in every corner of Dmitri’s great room and study, but he had just assumed it was the king’s way of preparing the prince for his future responsibilities. And on a day like this, when Dmitri’s color waned and his cheeks shone hollow from exhaustion, his hazel eyes were brighter than ever.

“The Hastings family has always shown friendship to the different members of the Ethnicam. In fact, my father has purchased every type of cross-caste you can imagine for our manor in Arune. Quite an exotic collection, actually,” Ira stated casually, as if Unitarian supremacy was welcome at the table. “Although he lost one just the other night. Rabid coyotes, I think? Anyway, she was exquisite—”

“Ira…” Dmitri nervously said, sensing the ire emanating from the other three.

“No, truly. It’s really a compliment to your kind, gosling,” he said, turning to address the y’siti. “Boreali cross-castes are priced steeply for a reason.”

The y’siti seized Ira’s forearm forcefully, startling him. “What did you just say?”

“Begging your pardon.” Ira nervously grinned. “Lady Gosling, that is—”

“Ira, are you saying there was another attack?” Zaethan grabbed the noble’s shoulder and interrogated him from the opposite side. His pryde had reported nothing of the sort since before the witch’s reception. It was unlikely Zahra or Kumo knew anything—a painful reminder that his father had cut their force in Bastiion by three-quarters.

“What do you mean by another attack, Lord Darakai?” The y’siti pushed away from the table and loomed over Ira. She fixed her unnerving stare upon Zaethan.

The witch did not raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Zaethan felt a series of pricks along the base of his neck. He didn’t lift his hand to touch it, not even when the skin seemed to boil. The sensation vanished when she finally blinked. Wordlessly, she’d seared the truth of what she was into his flesh.

You aren’t human, he suddenly understood. You’re a daughter of demons.

“I’d like to invite you all to attend a hunt,” Dmitri interrupted, anxiety creasing his forehead. “Zaethan and I were planning on an outing to the outer proper tomorrow with some of his men. I’d like to extend the invitation. Lady Boreal, would you grace us with your company?”

Zaethan’s head swung violently toward the worried prince. “Unbelievable!”

“Lower your voice at this table,” Dmitri warned through strained lips.

Zaethan seethed incredulously. That hunt was the only promise of freedom he’d had to cling to during the last weeks. He was not about to roll over and let Dmitri ransom it for political pacification. Not for the sake of this…creature. But before he could open his mouth to protest, the witch was already accepting Dmitri’s invitation.

“I’d be delighted.” The y’siti’s icy tone defied her smile. “My Aksel has grown anxious and could use the fresh air. It’s been ages since he ran with a pack of animals.”

Zaethan gripped the smooth edge of the table as he witnessed this precious escape being traded away, like a measly handful of copper crupas for Marketown’s most prized jewel. There was now no polite way for him to object to Dmitri’s decision, and certainly not in front of the other al’haidrens.

“Splendid!” Dmitri said, beaming at her. “Sayuri, Ira, I hope to see you both in the morning as well. I think that’s enough for today. You are all dismissed,” he hurriedly concluded, grabbing his cane.

“Your Highness, a moment of your time, please?” the y’siti requested coolly.

Zaethan glared at her as he rose to his feet. Her ashen hair was worn in a mess of twists, resembling a vengeful ghost in the way she stared down Orynthia’s crown prince. As he strode toward the door, Zaethan’s restless palms itched to crush her, for bit by bit, this single creature would poison everything he held dear.

Tomorrow’s loss was just the beginning.

“Actually, Luscia, would you give us the room? I’d like a word with my al’haidren to Darakai.”

Zaethan halted at Dmitri’s words, struggling to compose himself before turning around. After a brief pause, he overheard a submissive, “Of course,” before the y’siti stepped around him, leaving the two men in privacy. Zaethan took a deep breath and twisted to face Dmitri, allowing the doors to close at his back.

“What is wrong with you?” Dmitri hissed at him. “This is our legacy, Zaeth. My legacy! How dare you act like it’s all some joke? Or do you believe I’m the joke?” His brows scrunched together. “This isn’t like you, Zaeth.”

“Ano zà! All of that,” Zaethan yelled, thrashing his arms toward her seat at the pentagonal table, “is not you, Dmitri! Depths, you know what tomorrow means to me. A friend who calls himself my brother would never steal my few precious hours of freedom, and proposition them like a steppingstone for his own advancement!”

“Zaeth…” Dmitri’s lean shoulders fell. “I just—”

“Save it for your next forum…Your Highness.”

Whatever Dmitri tried to say in defense of himself, Zaethan never heard. He rammed the brass doors open and charged down the hall, the deafening echo masking any rebuttal to his exit.

Consumed with rage, Zaethan eventually turned a corner to the wing of Darakaian suites. In a concentrated haze, he barely registered the ominous presence of the very man who fueled his urge to escape. From the clenching of his pitted jaw to the way his thick, scarred arms crossed over his chest, Zaethan’s father appeared to have been waiting outside the apartment for some time.

“Doru, control yourself. Your brooding embarrasses my entire House, like a weak hatchling whining for its mother,” his father said scathingly, sucking his front teeth. “Rumor says the prince initiated his Quadren prematurely today. What was discussed in this little gathering?”

“I was under the impression that the dealings of a regent’s Quadren were of the utmost secrecy,” Zaethan tested, more out of defiance than over actual principle.

His father brought his face dangerously close. His hot breath threatened Zaethan’s cheeks.

“But you were not meeting with a regent,” the commander warned. “You sit in that seat to serve Darakai’s benefit. Lest you forget, I am Darakai. And because you’ve proven ineffective at the most elementary assignments, you will do exactly as I say. Is that clear?”

“Uni. Uni zà,” Zaethan breathed, voicing his absolute yes.

“Good,” his father growled, pulling back a fraction. “Now, we can use this prematurity to our advantage. The y’siti can’t be trusted, of course. Keep her segregated from the others, just as I enlisted Tetsu and Gregor in alienating her aunt years ago. The Hastings brat is a fool, so it would be better to align yourself with Tetsu’s niece. Pilar’s and Darakai’s goals are mutual for the time being. The Pilarese girl could be an asset to us.”

“I agree the witch should be watched, but I doubt Dmitri would turn to her completely. Not over the friend he was raised with—and not enough to require aid from Pilar,” Zaethan reassured his father.

“Meaning you?” The commander snorted his contempt. “That vile abomination is still female. Unless there’s an aspect of your relationship with Korbin’s son that you’ve made a point to conceal from me, then uni zà, he would. You may have given the prince a prized Andwele mount, but you are not the one he is mounting. Or are you?”

Blood swelled Zaethan’s cheeks, warming them. “We’re taking it slow,” he bit out sarcastically.

Instantly, his father snatched Zaethan’s collar, twisting his grip so it tightened around his windpipe. His cold, black eyes narrowed as Zaethan tried to not give him the satisfaction of wheezing. “Mind her,” he said, letting go. “Y’siti are deceitful by nature, and history has proven that Thoarne men do not hesitate to taste whatever they desire.”

Rather than commenting that Dmitri was not the type, Zaethan cleared his throat and prudently switched topics. “Did you come for my report?”

“Is it even worth hearing?”

“One of Gregor’s Boreali cross-castes was murdered this week in Arune. It may be related to the killings in the proper or part of the reason the haidren to Boreal was delayed in Tadeas—” Zaethan began, eager to redeem himself.

“I am your haidren, chief warlord of Darakai, and commander of all Orynthia,” his father said coldly. “Did you think I would wait around for you to drag these petty scraps of gossip back to me? Your old friend Wekesa is alpha of the pryde stationed in the Valley of Fahime. He does what you cannot and keeps me sufficiently informed.”

The corner of his father’s mouth twitched. He was enjoying this turn of conversation, Zaethan realized. In claiming the position of alpha zà, Zaethan had thought he’d finally be free of his long-standing rivalry with Wekesa—a rivalry that had earned him enough scars in failed attempts to earn his father’s approval. Yet even without greatness in his line, and no family name to support his own, Wekesa still somehow maintained his hold on Zaethan’s heels.

“Then perhaps I can continue to investigate the deaths within the proper,” Zaethan suggested, trying to keep any hint of desperation from his tone.

“Wekesa is steadily proving to be jwona rapiki, a fate writer for Darakai. Your victories are disappointing, and Wekesa’s have written over them. He will lead the investigation throughout the plains as well as within the proper,” his father and commander declared. He crossed his arms, rolling back his shoulders and awaited Zaethan’s admission of defeat.

Zaethan lowered his head, inwardly chafing at the gesture. “Uni zà, Fhàd—Commander Zà.”

He held his breath until the sound of his father’s boots could no longer be heard, treading into the distance. Then Zaethan spun and threw open his apartment door, causing the walls to shake. Locking himself inside, he screamed until his throat became hoarse and collapsed against the wooden entrance, burying his head between his palms.

Kwihila rapiki mu jwona.

Victory did write over fate. And so, as his rival Wekesa, the bastard fate writer, had erased him, Zaethan vowed to erase the witch from Boreal.

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