Sandree dragged herself through the corridors of the Royal Palace. The weight of the tortures she endured had destroyed her will, leaving behind a weary figure, a shell in which nothing of her pride and grace remained. As she got closer to her sister’s chambers, she pushed herself upright, summoning a facade of strength. As she crossed paths with two palace guards, they bowed slightly, offering her a respect not earned by her but her sister’s.

It struck her as curious, almost comical, that of all the harpy’s rough and quarrelsome sisters, the one no one would have bet a penny on was the one who had managed the best. Lustful parties and courtly life were certainly less cumbersome than delinquent hovels and gang battles, and as Sandree had experienced firsthand, less painful and humiliating. And as Damayana’s future had proved, more regarding.

Once arriving at the ornate gold door, she paused, stretching discreetly as the taut scars on her back pulled uncomfortably. Each movement was a painful reminder of the imprisonment she had endured. Gathering all remaining desire to move forward, she knocked.

The future royal bride of the Rajah’s uncle received her presence with a warm smile and a joyful beckoning. “Come in, sister! Come! It’s so nice to see you!”

Dama hurriedly ordered all her servants to leave them alone. Sandree stepped forward, little by little, a frightened little mouse pretending to be a stalker hunter. She met her sister’s eyes, and the realisation the weakest of the Harpy’s daughters had no fear of her anymore, struck deeply cold and sharp.

After shushing to a lingering servant, she tapped over the empty divan at her side. Hands painted with intricate designs and air meticulously brushed matched the elegance of silks and golds wrapping her up. Still, under the cover of luxuries, Sandree could see the uncouth, rough girl she’d met in the slums of Shok. She had lost a bit of weight, though for one of her once considerable size, it hardly seemed to make a difference. “Have a seat, Inisha! Don’t be shy. I’m so happy you have left the reds and blacks behind. It’s a life of misery.”

Damayana reached for a silver plate, selecting a ripe prune. She brought it to her lips, biting into the fruit with measured care, ensuring that none of the juices escaped to stain her garments. She failed. A purple streak bloomed across her chin and dripped onto her dress. “Parni port!” she hissed, the rough curse slipping out before she could stop it.

“Please, call me Sandree. Inisha is what Mother gave me.”

The hand squeeze lingered a moment longer than necessary. Then, Dama’s chubby fingers tilted Sandree’s face up with a gentle thumb, to give a kiss suspended in the air. Sandree hid a breath of relief, grateful her sister’s juicy lips hadn’t met her skin, though the sticky feeling on her chin, where Dama’s fingers had reached, betrayed the near miss.

With a grunt of exertion, Dama heaved her considerable bulk from the divan, the effort visibly straining her. She moved to the ornate mirror and toyed with an array of perfumes and creams. The scents mingled in the air, heavy and cloying, as she applied a touch of powder here, a dab of perfume there. Sandree remained seated, her posture rigid, expectant, as though she was nothing more than an emissary, a servant awaiting orders.

“You are lucky, you know?” Dama finally said. “I never had a name before that monster took me away.”

“Well, soon enough, you can call yourself Lady Sauhl’ur Ectur-Arin.” Sandree found herself smiling. A rare, genuine smile she didn’t expect. The title, despite everything, held a strange allure, a distant dream of stability and a position she hadn’t allowed herself to imagine. “I heard Indri has died. Is it true?”

Damayana hummed in response, the sound soft and dismissive as she lifted a massive golden ring to her ear. “As dead as Otoke and Lee, and supposedly as dead as Samalia.” As she spoke of their sister’s demise, her tone came indifferent, as if discussing the weather. “It’s only us and Lei now. But the new harpy will soon die as well. She is sailing with that hideous Hanan lord to Male. Have you heard about what happened there?”

Sandree nodded gently. Everyone had heard. The forces of the Blue and a coalition of pirates and mercenaries had taken the city. It was no secret, neither the counteroffensive was on its way. And she wondered what was her role amongst all those pieces moving frantically over the board of such a dangerous game.

“What happened to Samalia?” she said.

“Stories soaked in sailor’s superstition. The mermaid is said to have encountered a sea beast that swallowed her entire armada. How stupid that sounds, right?” Dama took a moment to reach for a coconut biscuit. “Anyway, whatever happened, her generals took the sudden loss as a black omen. Night’s knife for her. Way better than Indri’s fate, I must say.”

“Anything is better than being in the hands of that man.”

“Right?” Damayana’s eyes widened. “Heard she was still hanging from her guts in the king’s mizzen when the governor surrendered the city! Anyway, we should not think of them any longer. How’s your Dad? How did he take the death of his mate?”

The memory of Em brought another chilling bath over her skin. This one, filled with sadness and regret. She liked the man, and for a woman who despised almost everything and everyone, it meant a lot.

“He doesn’t remember him, and as sad as it sounds, it’s for the best, I suppose. Why did you summon me, sister?”

Damayana sucked her fingers and savoured a date, taking her time to flicker with a calculated sharpness around the room, almost as if daring any unseen listener to step forth. “My fiancé holds connections with certain agents within Bandanii. They are dispatching one of these men with some crucial information to save our nation, and I intend for you to serve as our intermediary.”

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“I don’t want to babysit a reddish man. I don’t like them.” The task felt annoying. Not because the man was from the red, but because she was tired of tribulations, tired of backstabbing and lies.

“Ease that brow, sis,” Damayana said, her tone teasing as she stuffed her mouth with honeyed sweets. “He’s Parni. And quite the charmer, I must say. Who knows, perhaps you’ll find love as I did.” A playful smile curved her lips. “Don’t misunderstand me; I genuinely believe you are the best suited for this task. And to tell the truth, it was one of his demands. The man knows about beauty for sure.

“You can’t refuse, but before you do, let me tell you he’s agreed to add a payment of twice of what we’ll pay you. And he’s offering you a mansion in Himse and a cottage in Pitali. A generous offer, if you ask me. You could bring your father there. The fresh air would do him good.”

The image of his father in the hovel he had to live now turned her stomach almost as much as the sudden tightening of frustration. Adding to the sting of anger, her jaw clenched and her frown deepened.

“Come on, sis.” Damayana chuckled. “Dust off that pirate pride. You’re not the Lady of Cards anymore. You’ve got nothing to lose. All you have to do is inform us and keep the Count happy. How far you want to go in that regard will depend on how much you fancy him. If it’s a lot, enjoy. If it’s a little, you have plenty of experience dealing with pests.”

Her sister’s words felt like needles pricking at her patience, threatening to unravel her composure. Of all her siblings, she had always been the one with the kindest heart, the one whose sweetness was as undeniable as it was often dismissed. The others had long seen her as the weakest among them; too naïve, too unskilled, too much of a dreamer to bear the weight of anything truly significant, much less the weight of a country. And of all of that, Sandree could not agree more.

“Dear!” The Rajah’s uncle's booming voice echoed through the room as he entered with the force of a storm, his broad frame shaking the floorboards and causing the furniture to tremble. He offered a brief, cursory glance in Sandree’s direction, his eyes quickly shifting back to Damayana. “Ah, your younger sister is here, excellent. I’ve brought someone with me, you know... my friend from Red Island! The one, you know… who is an expert in Heriike games!”

As Kuraban kissed his fiancée, Sandree clenched her fists, her patience wearing thin. Every word he uttered dripped with forced casualness, completely betraying any sort of real concealment. The absurdity of how he spoke was almost laughable, if the magnitude of its stakes weren’t so huge.

Kuraban leaned against the Damayana cabinet, causing the bottles to rattle. “We will propose to my nephew to give him control of the plantations instead of the squid. What do you think?” he said with joyful ease.

He reached for a sweet, biting into it with the same fervour as his future wife’s. Kuraban, unlike his scrawny brother, was the very image of a bear. Broad-shouldered and towering, with an unruly mane, a thick beard, and body hair peeking through the rich silks he wore. He carried a rugged air of untamed wilderness wrapped in the trappings of royalty. Boisterous, and brimming with cheerfulness, Sandree couldn’t help but think he was perfectly suited for her sister.

“It will infuriate Vega greatly.” Damayana gazed through the mirror in a precise, calculating way Sandree had seen hundreds of times in others, but never in her. “We don’t want him to make a move yet. But I like the idea. Prepare everything necessary, but let’s not make it official yet.”

Sandree felt as alone as she truly was. The mighty force she once commanded had been decimated. Her vast fortune, which had once granted her luxury and respect, had vanished like a puff of smoke. Her body, once a canvas adorned with the finest dresses shamelessly revealing every corner of her skin, was now a tapestry of horrendous scars. Had it not been for the help of her naïve, unskilled, and weak sister, Sandree knew well she’d been already selling her body for a mere morsel of rotting bread. Yet, her mind, ravaged by sleepless nights and endless nightmares, could not connect what he had just witnessed. The unskilled and weak sister giving advice and orders as if she herself were the one playing the war games.

“You seem surprised, dear,” Dama said, giving a subtle elbow to her fiancé’s leg. “I told you, my sisters think I’m a loser.”

“A thousand times, darling.” Kuraban said. “But with the trust you put in her, I assumed she already knew you well.”

Dama’s eyes seemed sharp, calculating and full of strength. ”No. When I do something, I do it well. She was not ready until now. Tell me about Male."

“Oh, bad news. Vega has promised forces to blockade the city as we expected, but his forces are still in port. He requested to keep his squids in Tampra due to a shortage of personnel. Then, pulled from his sleeve an alliance with the last two fingers of piracy. How he got them to sail south, I do not know, but my stupid brother was delighted with the idea.”

“He’s not low on men,” Dama said. “He has an enormous army in the north, ready to move. We need to dig deeper into that. And talking about digging, we need to introduce our asset from Bandanii to my newly appointed liaison.”

Kuraban clapped his hands, and a caller yelled from the other side of the door. “The Count of Odishee!”

The man who entered moved with a deliberate grace, each step slow yet imbued with confidence. The long leather boots clapping to the sound of his strides were freshly polished, catching the light with each measured stride. Tailored pants and colourful vest on a white pristine shirt were all immaculate, without a single stain or wrinkle to mar its custom made perfection.

“Count, this is Damayana’s sister, Sandree.”

“Izan, your Highness, just Izan,” he said, with a smile too effortless, too practised. He bowed to the couple, and then towards Sandree.

Still not recovered from the shock of knowing Dama may have been after all the most cunning of her sister’s, Sandree received another blow as her gaze locked over the Count’s face. Suppressing a gasp, her mind frantically searched for a memory, though fog of time. Standing before her, smirk and gaze piercing, as if he could see right through the veil of her thoughts, was a man who she had met. His body had grown stronger, his features etched with hardship. Yet she remembered him clearly. Em’s mate in the Black Geckos hovel. The same kid who had drooled at the sight of her glorious times. A rascal from the rabbit holes who had no other name than the one they gave to all their petty thieves: Macha. A rat the lizards once wanted dead and now a Count, an agent, and the person she was tasked to follow.