But if he were awake, he would answer me. He doesn’t.

I try again.

Memnon?

No response.

My heart begins to gallop, and the unsettled feeling I woke with amplifies.

Perhaps my husband fell asleep somewhere else. He doesn’t usually do that, but it’s entirely plausible. He’s been overworking and undersleeping, his mind consumed with war.

At the foot of the bed, Ferox, my familiar, lifts his dark head, his form merely a deeper shadow among the rest. My anxiety must be loud if it’s roused him from sleep. I want to tell my panther to be at ease, but I cannot—not when I’m still trying to figure out what has set me on edge.

Out the palace window, I listen to the call of a starling as I steady my breath. Even the birdcall pricks at my skin. Damn this relentless unease.

Throwing my sheet off, I move to the window and rest my hands on the stone sill, drawing in a deep breath of the briny air. I gaze down at the royal harbor and the moonlit shores of the Black Sea.

Another starling call joins the first. If I had woken up less agitated or had I not woken up at all, I would’ve easily missed it.

Starlings come in the winter, not the apex of summer, and they come in swarms of millions, not in lonely pairs.

The groan and creak of wood has me glancing down at what I can see of the vessels moored at our docks.

I frown as my unease ratchets up.

Were those ships there earlier today? It’s too dark to be sure.

I strain my eyes in the darkness, making out a few figures on those docks. The longer I stare, the more figures amass, all of them silent as the grave.

Something’s wrong.

Deeply, deeply wrong.

Memnon? Why won’t you answer? I plead, more to myself than to him.

Does he know something is afoot? Could something have happened to him?

No. I refuse to believe that. I sense him on the other side of my bond, even if his end of it is subdued. He lives still.

Moving away from the window, I pad to the chest at the foot of my bed. I open it, and by feel alone, I grab a shirt and breeches. I don’t dare illuminate the room as I dress in case my worst fears have come to pass.

We have enemies. We have always had enemies. Never more so than now. Memnon has always made sure to be one step ahead of them, but I don’t believe he anticipated this.

As I finish pulling on my boots, there’s a soft rapping near the portiere, the curtained doorway to my room.

“Roxilana!” a masculine voice whispers urgently. It takes me a moment to recognize that it belongs to Zosines, Memnon’s closest and fiercest blood brother. Another insistent rap. “Roxilana! Wake up!”

I’m crossing the room to draw back the curtains when Ferox growls softly. I go still.

Very slowly, I glance at my panther, feeling that disquiet in my stomach. I can see little beyond my familiar’s general form, but as I stare at him, I can just make out that Ferox’s eyes are fixed on the portiere.

I follow his gaze. The wards that cling to the curtained doorway like cobwebs now shine faintly in the darkness, as though they’ve been activated. Zosines must be trying to get in—and he cannot. That threshold is warded against malevolent intent.

Chills skitter down my spine.

I glance back down at Ferox, my body still steeped in unease.

“Roxilana!” Zosines calls out again. His voice is louder, more panicked and insistent.

My familiar lets out another low growl, then drops soundlessly to the floor, prowling forward like he’s homing in on a kill, his belly low to the ground. I slip down our bond and into Ferox’s head, curious about what is alarming him.

I’m not even fully seated in his mind when I first scent blood. So much blood. The acrid tang of it is ripe enough to taste.

“Roxilana!” Zosines pleads. “We’re about to be under attack! We need to get you out now!”

I touch the closed curtains between us lightly, imagining the tall warrior in my mind’s eye. Zosines and Memnon have been fierce friends since they were children; the two are bound by a blood oath and many, many battles. My mate trusts him with his life.

But intuition and observation are telling me something else altogether.

“Asphyxiate,” I whisper.

I don’t see my magic wind around Zosines’s throat, but I hear his surprised chokes and then the clatter of something heavy, followed by the thump of his body hitting the floor. Only then, once he’s sufficiently distracted, do I dare push aside the curtained partition.

On the other side of it, Zosines claws at his throat, trying uselessly to pry away my power. Those who don’t wield magic cannot stop it. Next to him lies a wicked-looking dagger, one he must’ve been holding when he called for me.

Wordlessly, I command my magic to draw the blade to me. The weapon rattles against the ground for a moment before it streaks across the space and into my hand.

Stepping up to Zosines, I kneel next to him and indolently press the blade to his throat.

His dark eyes glare up at me.

“What are you doing?” he rasps.

I honestly don’t have the faintest clue, but panic still laces my blood, and my intuition has never steered me wrong.

I command more of my power to wrap around him, tethering him in place. The last thing I want is for Zosines to get away now that I have him in a vulnerable position.

“Where is my husband?” I demand as Ferox comes to my side, his gaze unerringly trained on the warrior.

“Can’t breathe.” Zosines’s eyes are starting to bulge.

I ease up on the spell. “Where?” I press.

Zosines gasps in a few lungfuls of air. “Safe,” he hisses out. “But you are not. The palace is about to be breached, my queen. There is not much time. We need to go.”

Distress is contagious, and I want to agree, I do.

The faint scent of blood catches in my nostrils, and I remember all over again how even sequestered in our room, Ferox could smell the iron tang of it. Zosines said the palace was about to be breached, but violence has already happened here.

My gaze roves over him, and I notice then the fresh speckles of blood on his clothes. Violence he must’ve partaken in.

I lift my eyes. The rest of the hallway is eerily silent, save for the soft hiss of torches in their sconces. In the distance, I can hear something else. Voices?

Refocusing on Zosines, I gather my magic and force it down his throat. “Only the truth shall cross your lips,” I incant.

Zosines jerks and fidgets against the magic holding him in place. He’s seen enough of my power to fear it.

“What is happening?” I demand. As I ask it, I retract my magic completely from his throat.

He presses his lips together.

“Speak.” My magic bears down on him. “Now.”

“A coup, you cunt,” he bites out.

My blood runs cold. A coup.

“Where is Memnon?” The question is more pressing than ever, now that I know there’s a price on his head.

Zosines laughs. “Wherever the fuck that crazy bitch Eislyn took him.”

Eislyn…took him? During a coup? To hide him? He wouldn’t have allowed that. Not when his closest family and friends are here in the palace under attack. But then again, I haven’t heard from him since I woke.

“Is he alive?” I ask.

Zosines snickers, and I focus on that callous reaction. “I doubt for long.”

I can’t breathe. Not when I’m drowning in panic.

Later. I can be sad later. He’s apparently alive for now. With Eislyn. Probably in that land beyond the land.

My fingers twitch a little as I fight the urge to hunt my soul mate down.

“Why is this happening?” I demand.

“The Romans held this territory for a century before Memnon took it. They want it back.”

There are enough clues sprinkled about. “Who made a deal with them?”

Zosines’s throat works as he fights against the words. He pulls futilely against the magic binding him in place.