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A Matron from one of the northern spires congratulates House Obsidius on its expected line of succession. A Soz'garoth merchant asks whether my bonded human's remedies will be available for noble purchase. Two lesser lords speak warmly about stability while watching my broken horn for evidence that their words offend me.

None asks whether I wanted the bond.

Want has no recognized place in the arrangement. The court concerns itself with obedience, heirs, and the spectacle Beatrix created when she reduced the breeder's gift to silver dust.

The dust has become more politically valuable than the flower ever was.

Some interpret her act as proof that the Council chose a strong breeder. Others call it evidence that House Obsidius can no longer govern what belongs to it. Both judgments reduce Beatrix to a measure of my authority.

A Trolvor woman with copper feathers blocks my path before I can leave the central gathering. One wing bears the black edging of a house aligned with the second Prince.

"Does the human understand what protection from a lord requires?" she asks.

"She understands the Council's decree."

"Understanding and obedience are separate matters."

"For Beatrix, they frequently are."

Her beak opens in amusement. "Then the Council has given you a challenge worthy of the arena."

"The arena resolves challenges more quickly."

"And with less conversation."

"Its chief virtue."

She steps aside, satisfied that she has learned something. She has not. I gave her enough acknowledgment to prevent her from inventing insult, while offering nothing she can carry to her Prince as proof of division within my house.

Every greeting follows the same purpose. The court is not welcoming Beatrix through me. It is searching for the exact point where her resistance becomes my weakness.

I allow each speaker enough courtesy to expose which conclusion they favor.

Near the promenade's outer rail, a lord with green-black carapace offers me a cup of blue rirzed wine. I refuse it. The gathering is too crowded for poison to succeed, but accepting refreshment would invite conversation longer than his rank deserves.

"Arena-Master," he says, lowering the cup. "Will your human attend future court functions?"

"When her presence serves House Obsidius."

"Several houses would be interested in meeting her."

"They may submit a request."

His eyes move past me.

The interest in his face becomes caution.

The shift in the gathering warns me before I turn. Conversation thins near the outer rail. Nobles who had been eager for my attention discover sudden reasons to study the storm.

The neighboring lords withdraw far enough to claim they are granting us privacy while remaining close enough to hear every word.

Korgath stops beside me.

His ebony carapace gleams with the oily sheen he cultivates to hide its scars. Both horns end in jagged stumps above his temples. I broke them in the Grand Arena, along with the sight in his right eye. It has faded to milky yellow. The remaining left burns red. He has never forgiven the defeat, and he has never learned to hide where it wounded his pride.

He wears a black cloak threaded with metallic gold. Its hem drags through the dust, and he brushes it aside with visible irritation.

"Draxon," he says.