While the Council chamber settled Hardin's fate, far to the north, in a crumbling watchtower long abandoned by any bloodline willing to claim it, Jeanne paced a narrow stone floor while Gianna sharpened a blade she had no intention of using honestly. The tower had become their refuge these past months — cold, forgotten, exactly the sort of place no one would think to search for two women who had once commanded the comfort of a royal court.

"The parley failed," Jeanne said, more to herself than to her companion, turning a small, dark object over in her palm — a shard of obsidian, veined faintly with a red that...