Andar's sight proved to be less confining than Yalira had assumed. Though she hadn't been able to hide her blush when Rishi—with laughing wryness—guessed correctly that Andar had not offered to sleep elsewhere, the man was too busy with war-planning to keep track of each of her movements. He spent each dawn training his men and every moment after detailing each step in their preparations to address the northern rebellion. Supplies, routes, provisions, strategy. It followed, then, that he had assigned Gallus to serve as watchful eyes during those daylight hours.

Though the guard showed no interest in her maneuvering to better improve the city's public health, his lack of enthusiasm did not distract from his duties. As he had silently stood watch at her threshold in Antalis, the dark-eyed man tracked her. From the dawn during which Andar left, until the soft dusk that marked his king's return, Gallus did not let Yalira from his sight.

"Does Andar not need his most trusted lieutenant in the war room?" she asked, meeting his eye from the small mirror held by one of the maids Andar had allowed to attend her. "What threats shall you protect me from today? Sharp-tongued politicos or petty gossip?"

Her enormous new shadow hardly looked the part of warrior. Though dressed in a simple tunic and well-worn sandals, Gallus stood at ready attention, ever the practiced soldier. Even free from obvious weaponry, bronze plate, he posed a formidable figure the maids skirted in their morning routine. They were too busy outfitting Yalira in her own daily armor to find themselves intimidated by his presence. Hair intricately pinned in twisting braids, arranged in layers of fresh-pressed linen, she refused to laugh when Gallus had teased for the effort. Her head ached and her skin stung, but she could not have a thread out of place: not when her adversaries were looking for weaknesses.

"I am happy to go where my king asks," Gallus answered in a comfortable low rumble. Her teasing had yet to rile him. "Even if the threats are not those promised."

The windflower crown against her brow, Yalira waved off the attendants and turned to measure him with her kohl-shadowed gaze. The cup of tea in her hands had grown cool, and more bitter for it. She had hidden the silphium in a blend of aromatic herbs; she touted them for resilience when both men had asked after the new habit. They'd laughed off the answer and ignored the morning drink as another piece of feminine mystique in which women shrouded their routines. Though they hid its identity, her efforts did not improve the sharp edge of the contraceptive. She stubbornly finished each dose. Gallus might now watch her daylight hours, but in the secret veil of night, Andar was both king and conquered. Just as Yalira, adrift, could not ignore the anchoring force between them once darkness beckoned.

The thought was more bitter than the brew against her lips. With forced sweetness, she asked, "He did not mention my enemies were schemers and sycophants?"

"He said they are of the worst kind."

Gallus had coughed loudly when Valen sneered over breakfast; he'd flexed his hands when Lyroc challenged her request to divert physicians into the slums. Yalira smiled wryly. "Jealous queens and angry misogynists?"

"No, my queen." His brow lowered in fractions, but he did not elaborate. Andar had chosen his most trusted to guard her body from threat.

And guard me from knowing those threats.

Andar had mentioned small pieces. If there were larger workings at play, Yalira had but guesses. A city on the verge of class-warfare, a message from a shadowed resistance, and the promises of hidden enemies. She drained the cup, its swirling foul dregs, and donned the final piece to her wardrobe: a practiced serenity that mocked the growing discomfort at her core.

Yalira met her reflection. That dark gaze that had once seemed knowing now flickered with uncertainty and wariness. She swallowed, gathered the last traces of her resolve, and smiled.

If Gallus recognized her unrest, he did not mention it. He returned her smile with the bright flash of his teeth, an offer of his callused hand. The scars at his wrists—that gruesome cost of freedom—called sharp and loud. Yalira met his dark eyes as she stood.

"You have that same look, my lady."

"And which is that?"

"The one you wore among the camp," he said, offering his arm. "The night you nearly escaped Andar of Tyr."

Yalira's smile softened into something both wry and sincere as she accepted his lead. Faint and flickering, that breath of memory warmed her.

She sighed in mock sorrow. "Nearly is rarely ever mentioned in history."

"Is that your goal then," he said in his calm baritone. For all his strength, the physical might that flexed in each minute action, Gallus tempted her trust. "To be remembered by history?"

"My only goal," Yalira answered. The lie was tempered by the gentleness of her smile, the faint humor at her lips. "Is to be an easy ward for my noble guard."

Gallus laughed, low and rich, as she patted his hand. His laughter faded as he guided her from Andar's chambers. "Ah, my queen, I only wish my own daughters are half as charming as you."

Though he did not falter, a wavering longing called faintly as their steps echoed in the corridor, against the listening marble. Yalira frowned. "Do you not know them?"

"It has been nearly fourteen years since I was taken from my village."

"From Mala?" Yalira asked. "Or south further still?"

He did not answer at first, but as they stepped into sunlight and drank in the day's cool air, he melted into a fraction of acquiescence.

"I would not shame you with the tale, lady."

"Perhaps once we are better friends, then," Yalira offered, though it was an empty promise. Gallus might not know the extent of the strange balance she'd found with Andar, but the stalwart guard had made it clear he would never break loyalty to the man. And for that, Yalira would stave off any steps towards companionship.

She already had allowed too many ties to a world she once planned to escape.

"Have we kept them waiting long enough?"

He recognized the dismissal. Gallus released her hand to allow an appropriate distance for a ninth queen and her humble guard. Where he might be unnoticed in the busy streets of Semyra, the man was too well known to be anything less than a mark of Andar's protection within the palace walls. Yalira forced her chin higher: like the crown twisted into her hair, Gallus was a symbol she had every intention of using.

If they were to punish her for Andar's favor, Yalira would not let them forget that she held it.

Steps behind her, Gallus cleared his throat, drawing the clever eyes of her waiting audience. At a breakfast table arranged on the garden terrace sat annoyed gray, guarded bronze, her favorite mismatched set, and a pair of wickedly amused hazel that refused to be left out of anything.

Rishi had already poured herself wine and her reflected smile in the bright cup twisted the irritated Lyroc, son of Lyroc, into deeper annoyance. He bristled as Yalira joined the odd company.

Lyroc, Rodan, Oristos—three of the most powerful men in Semyra—and Rishi. The queen had not been formally invited, as it were, but she refused to miss any opportunity that might afford her a thread of mischief.

"I see you stack your allies against me!" Lyroc hissed as Yalira sat at the cushioned bench across from him. Rodan raised his eyebrows but did not comment.

"You're speaking to the queen."

But Lyroc continued as if he did not hear Oristos's disapproval and the veil of warning tied to it. "Expected, of course." His tone did not soften the sharp cut of his smirk, the loathing edge to his eyes. "A woman, playing politics."

Yalira countered with a serene smile of her own and accepted the wine Oristos poured for her. Over the rim of the glass, she answered, "It is said the former queen was a proficient and admired politica."

"You are no Vahelys."

"And you were no friend to my mother," Rodan said smoothly. Seated, he appeared taller, less crooked; and in his firm tone, his tawny eyes seemed more golden than dun. From behind her shoulder, Yalira heard Gallus shift his weight. Laughter, boredom, or irritation, Yalira could not gather without seeing his face. But the reaction, or perhaps Rodan's words, smothered Lyroc into silence.

As if Lyroc had not opened their meeting with rudeness, Oristos asked, "What is it you ask of us, Queen Yalira?"

Andar had charged her with resolving an uncontrolled, unknown epidemic, and she had no mind to come short of the task. Though her heart pulsed small in the void between her ribs, the familiar habit of challenging impossibility cut away the heaviest burden of doubt and sorrow. Its siren song called to that woman she was before, and Yalira fought to unite the halves she had become. It was strange to both hate and love Semyra. To have no desire to remain within its borders, and yet every desire to save it. Yalira forged herself with iron and serenity. "I aim to broaden our efforts."

Overlooking the city, the faint promise of autumn, bright in each breath of wind, nipped at the edges of summer storm clouds. Yalira could embrace change if it meant survival.

"Lyroc, I am requesting the immediate monetary support you've won from Soboa of Mala. In your position as emissary, you've spoken at length on his generosity and desire to cement his alliance to Tyr." His mouth twisted, but the son of Lyroc made no noise: perhaps he regretted those boasts now. To renege on that promise of funds would speak to powerlessness, but to aid the cause of the woman he so clearly despised? Yalira refused to meet Rishi's eye and the wicked humor she'd find in it.

"From Rodan, I would ask assistance in recruiting Semyra's elite in accepting a luxury tax."

Rodan's brow furrowed. "To what end? With Soboa's famed treasury, what does an additional tax buy you?"

Yalira did not let his searching eyes bristle her, but her stomach twisted. Without the influence of oleander, she had little insight to read him, but she remembered their previous conversations and the smooth cleverness of his liar's tongue. "I do not wish to become reliant on Mala. Nor have I forgotten the nature of his offer."

"A queen." Oristos frowned. He had not forgotten either. A tenth queen.

"A marriage none of the current nine will accept, I'm afraid," Rishi answered, her voice deceptively sweet. For all her play at pretending to enjoy the table's spread, her ear was tied to each word said and unsaid.

Lyroc's fists clenched. "Andar can have a hundred queens, if he so desires—"

"If he so desires?" Rishi laughed and its bright volley showered them in ringing mockery. Her eyes, held sharp to a flinching Lyroc, glowed with the anticipation of his retort.

As entertaining the response might be—as much as Yalira felt the man deserved feminine retaliation—the conversation threatened to diverge from purpose.

"This leads to my other ask of you, Rodan." Yalira fought the urge to smile as understanding bloomed in sour, knowing discomfort on his face.

"I have no need for a bride," Rodan said immediately. Reaction met consideration. "But what is your goal in this proposed alliance?"

Before Yalira could answer, Oristos laughed in strained incredulity. "Soboa has begged ties with Tyr ever since the wedding to Rishi was announced. He's likely desperate enough to accept any merger—even if it is to a prince, and not the king."

Though Oristos held no traces of insult in his words, Rodan stiffened. The crippled brother, bronze instead of gold, cleverer than given credit. Yalira watched carefully, hungry for the bitter herb that might have let her know more, but any deeper truth was trapped behind practiced stoicism.

"Soboa will never allow it," Lyroc said, palm falling to the table. His mouth was an ugly line. "He'd sooner march on Tyr, than take such an insult."

"Mala seeks to meet Lytvia in every manner," Rishi drawled. Her cat's smile pushed against the tenuous thread of Lyroc's composure. "And in the fashion of history, Soboa will not rise fully to my father's precedent."

The man sputtered, but before he could retaliate, Rodan interrupted.

"If this princess accepts the arrangement," he said. The slant of his mouth twitched as entertaining the agreement was an impossibility. "I will acquiesce."

"Then we plan for another wedding." Rishi raised her glass towards Rodan. "For what fool would refuse such a bridegroom?"

Compliment or slight, it was impossible to tell, but Rodan returned her toast with a taut smile. Oristos sipped at his own wine, watching and weighing in uncharacteristic silence. The pause left room for Lyroc, who had regained his tongue with Rishi's attention diverted. The man, ever hungry for more punishment, leaned forward to reengage the queen.

"And Queen Rishi?" Lyroc sneered. "What is her purpose here?"

"I came for the wine, of course." Quick as a whip and just as biting. The sleek shine of her wig gleamed as she bowed her head in a mocking frown. "A pity, though, about the company."

If not for the dark promise of Gallus's shadow, Lyroc might have jumped across the table, but it was Oristos who bought truce.

"Calm yourself, Lyroc," he said. "Your contribution will not be without recognition."

With that hint of reward, simple as it was, Lyroc settled, and the discussion truly began. Numbers and timelines, supplies, and personnel. Oristos recorded all details of the proposal in a neat hand. Absent from his notes were Lyroc's sharp counterarguments, Rishi's sly commentary. It was Rodan who fought to lower the margin of the levy against the wealthy, Yalira who railed against his efforts. And it was Oristos—and perhaps the reminder of the unsmiling Gallus—who kept the peace.

"I think that went rather well for you," Rishi said. The table empty of targets for her vicious wit, Rishi's vicious tones returned to friendly mischief.

Yalira loosed a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding; the muscles in her forehead relaxed. In the resolution, though on paper spelled victory, she felt vaguely dissatisfied.

"I wish Rodan fought for the slums as he did the elite." Yalira refilled her glass. With the noon sun upon them and her stomach no longer in coils, the careful wines and fruits she'd chosen tempted. As sweet as the delicacies offered, she could not keep the shadow of bitterness from her words. "But I cannot explain how to care about other people."

"Don't you find it exhausting?" Rishi asked. Her smile widened, sly and knowing. It promised another lesson in kindness that Yalira had no patience to hear. "Being outraged all the time?"

Smothering her irritation in sharp humor, Yalira met her hazel eyes with fierce determination. "Fortunately, I find it invigorating."

"Then hold fast to your anger, little sister," Rishi said. "And know that I stand behind you."