Yultes had stepped into the Allastam Tower this morning desperate for one final chance to alleviate the diplomatic disaster of Diel’s last audience with Lord Allastam, only to be turned away by a condescending note from the family’s first steward. He should have returned to the Dathirii Tower after that. Should have abandoned everything and continued the well-deserved break Hellion had passionately advocated for. Instead, he lingered on, walking through the familiar halls one last time. Yultes knew with absolute certainty that Diel’s decision to ally with Arathiel would lead to the end of their House. He’d witnessed Lord Allastam’s bitter resourcefulness too often to hold any illusions.

How strange, to bid the Allastam Tower goodbye after all this time. Yultes had worked as the liaison to this House before they’d even climbed high in the hierarchy. He’d watched Lord Allastam grow from a turbulent child to a passionate adult, had witnessed the switch from an ambitious man to a bitter, grieving widower. In many ways, House Allastam had become a second family. He didn’t want to leave, not yet, and he couldn’t find anything useful to do. He couldn’t attend the Golden Table, he wasn’t welcome around Branwen and her expedition, and all his paperwork was up to date. It always was.

Lingering around was his break, then—his well-deserved pause from work. Better to stay here and suffer the occasional hostile stares from household staff than to lock himself in his quarters and wait for the axe to fall. Perhaps it wouldn’t—Hellion hadn’t expressed an inkling of worry—but Yultes had never been an optimist. To think that after all these years and all his mistakes, he would lose his title because of Diel’s unyielding morality.

His feet led him to the inner gardens, high in the Allastam Tower. Fake windows arched above the green space, shedding warm light and allowing for exotic and often alchemical plants to grow. Unlike the blue-leaved trees of Allastam’s audience chamber, these gardens’ flowers bloomed in pale and soothing colours. Yultes discovered that someone else had found refuge in the tranquil space.

Lady Mia Allastam bent over an iris, one hand on her cane and the other lifting the petals. She had tied her long blond hair into an intricate coiffure and taken pains—literal, in her case—to wear a flowing, open-back dress and a light white scarf across her shoulders. Mia’s affliction often kept her in bed or exhausted her too much for long conversations, but she seemed in high spirits today.

Yultes called out to her, hoping his presence wouldn’t ruin a good day for her. She lifted her head, and her smiled widened when she spotted him. As always, Mia proved herself the most agreeable company in House Allastam, and he hurried closer. He wondered if she even knew of the wedge between their families—her father and brother tended to keep her in the dark—but they’d barely exchanged pleasantries before she cleared that question away.

“I’m sorry for Father’s aggressive attacks,” she said before gesturing for him to sit on a nearby bench. “None of this will bring my mother back. Your family will be missed from Isandor’s politics.”

“We’re not gone yet.”

Mia’s blue eyes settled on him, her silence all the confirmation he needed. She didn’t believe Lord Dathirii would come out on top of the Golden Table meeting. Yultes wanted to argue further, both by pointing out it wouldn’t stop Diel from fighting, and by repeating Hellion’s reassurances that House Dathirii did not depend on his stepbrother. He’d had these debates with himself and others too often, however, and Mia hadn’t meant it as a challenge. Yultes would rather turn his mind to less stressful topics. He sat down, shoulders slumped, and she joined him with a sigh of relief, placing the cane beside her.

They spent the afternoon discussing unrelated events. Mia asked about news from the Dathirii family, while Yultes insisted on seeing more of the flowers she crafted as a hobby. It distracted him from everything else. No Myrians, no long rants from Hellion on Diel’s inadequacy, no worries concerning the information Brune would next demand from him, and not even any thoughts of Larryn. His son hadn’t tried to contact him since his requests about Hasryan. Too angry, probably. Perhaps it was better that way. Yultes only ever seemed to make their relationship worse.

The artificial light atop the garden eventually began to dim, however, and Yultes took his leave, bidding her farewell. Mia was tiring—slower to answer and more easily distracted—but she nevertheless thanked him for the afternoon. Her graciousness would never cease to amaze him, considering the rest of her family. He offered to help her back to her quarters, at which point she laughed. “I will manage fine, milord, and there are plenty of servants on my way there should I turn out wrong.”

In truth, her refusal relieved him. He didn’t want to be in the Allastam Tower when the Golden Table truly ended. He’d rather learn the bad news from his family than from a smug Lord Allastam. Yultes tried to cling to the future satisfaction of pointing out to Diel he’d been right about angering Allastam, but his heart wasn’t in it. He had fought too hard to prove his worth and validate his acceptance into House Dathirii, and the looming loss of his title left only a bitter taste in his mouth.

Yultes headed toward the closest exit, near the base of the Allastam Tower, where another large courtyard occupied two whole levels. Vines climbed up the flight of stairs spiralling around the area, clinging to the railing and outer walls. They kept clear of the ground, as it often served for training soldiers. Anyone could watch from the steps or one of the several balconies they led to.

A significant group of guards occupied the space today, and Yultes frowned as he grew nearer. The troops stood in formation—two rectangles of forty warriors each—and it didn’t look like an exercise. They were at ease, chatting with one another, the murmur of conversations echoing in the large area. A strange unease crept up Yultes’ spine. He buttoned his winter coat, hurrying down the steps, questions bouncing through his mind. Why had Lord Allastam gathered soldiers? Had they finally found Hasryan? Perhaps he ought to stay out of it, but Yultes’ curiosity pushed him into investigating and he approached.

The moment their captain spotted him, he yelled an order and the entire squad saluted. Yultes’ breath caught at the powerful synchronicity of the group. He studied the soldiers’ serious expressions, hiding his confusion behind his genuine awe before turning to the captain.

“Good evening, Lord Dathirii!” the Allastam officer called. The title jolted him. He was Lord Yultes Dathirii—the title of Lord Dathirii, without first name, was reserved for the Head of the House, who embodied the rest of the family. An instinct held him back from correcting the officer, a deep-seated wrongness about this situation. Better to let the soldier talk while he found his footing, so to speak. “We’re ready for the assault and await your orders.”

The assault. What was this even about? Yultes’ mind rushed for a plausible explanation. Had the officer mistaken him for Diel? But why would he ever speak of an assault? Surely, his cousin hadn’t managed to convince the Golden Table to attack the Myrian enclave! He and Garith had headed to the meeting uncertain if they would even keep their seats of power. And either way, the Golden Table should not be over yet.

“The assault, yes.” Yultes felt like his tongue was swollen and clumsy, yet his tone remained surprisingly smooth. He smiled at the Allastam captain, who still obviously awaited orders. From whom, though? Who was this “Lord Dathirii,” if not Diel or himself? Yultes hated how confused and lost this left him, but he kept a calm mask. Better to appear in control. House Allastam could no longer be considered an ally despite his pleasant afternoon with Mia, and Yultes preferred to show no weaknesses. “I’m afraid I am not quite ready, however. There is a last thing I must take care of.”

What exactly, he had no idea. He’d come up with a lie, given himself time to understand what was going on. After all, he’d managed to hide Larryn’s birth from even the closest members of the Dathirii family, and he met with Brune without anyone wising up to it. Duplicity had become second nature as the years passed.

“Very well, milord.” The captain pinched his lips. “Please do keep in mind that it would be best to have their tower under our control before the Golden Table is over.”

“Of course.” Yultes infused a measure of annoyance into his tone, as if he couldn’t believe the soldier would question him. His insides, on the other hand, tightened painfully, as if a claw squeezed them hard. Their tower? The Golden Table? Yultes forced a sharp farewell, turned on his heel, and hurried out of the Allastam Tower.

The cold hit him in full force, but it didn’t ease his panic. Allastam soldiers were waiting for a Dathirii to lead them into a tower assault. Deep down, Yultes knew there could be only one target: his home. But why would this officer so casually tell a Dathirii about an assault on their tower? Why, if not that he had expected Yultes to lead it? He didn’t understand how it all tied together, only how violent these men’s instructions could be. Lord Allastam wouldn’t stop at ripping their titles away. He meant to wipe them out from Isandor’s scene once and for all. Yultes broke into a run, desperate to reach the Dathirii Tower in time, yet uncertain he could do anything to stop the onslaught.